Tsuneoki. If he is the son of Asano Naganori—as Ranmaru revealed that night beside the jubokko—then ōkami’s real name is Asano Tsuneoki.
“We were separated in a skirmish.” Though ōkami kept his voice level, Mariko could hear the undercurrent of irritation in his words.
One side of the woman’s mouth dipped lower as she peered closely at the dark stain on his haori. Close enough to notice the telltale signs of blood.
“I see.”
ōkami ignored her frown of concern. “I wanted to apologize in person, Korin-san.” He reached into the folds of his white kosode and drew out a drawstring pouch. With both hands, ōkami passed it to the woman. “This is all I can give you now, as a result of this evening’s . . . events. The rest of the funds have been waylaid for now.”
The lines on her already weathered brow deepened. “What happened? Have we been . . . betrayed?” Her voice nearly broke on the last word.
Which answered the first of Mariko’s many unuttered questions. This woman was not affiliated with the teahouse. ōkami had not brought her money as restitution for tonight’s damages.
“No.” The smallest of sighs passed ōkami’s lips. “It’s only that we’ve been faced with a few complications.”
“By members of the nobility? Or by imperial soldiers?”
He almost smiled. “Both, actually. It appears we’re in high demand this evening.”
The elderly woman leaned against the door frame, steadying her weary body. “You did not have to come tonight, Tsuneoki-sama.” Korin’s voice was gentle. Kind. “If you were involved in any sort of skirmish, it was a risk for you to remain in the city. Your enemies are always searching for you.”
ōkami shook his head. “You were expecting us, Korin-san. And I would not have those in your care wanting for anything.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “The gold you provided last week will buy the children enough clothing and food for the rest of the month. If we are frugal, there may be some left over for next month as well. Do not trouble yourself, Tsuneoki-sama. The Black Clan does so much for us. You protect us. Watch over us as no one else does. Many here in the Iwakura ward owe you debts of thanks for all you do. None among us would ever question your actions. Or your intentions.”
The Black Clan protects her? Helps to supply the people in this ward?
Mariko could not prevent a flicker of confusion from passing across her face. ōkami’s body tensed. As he fought to relax, his gaze slid to her, his features remaining tight.
He’s irritated that I’ve been privy to all this information.
“Very well.” ōkami nodded. “I shall return next week with the rest of the funds.”
When Korin reached to take his hands in her own, Mariko was gripped by a strange sensation. An odd kind of envy. The wish to be cherished with the same kind of open affection. One without agenda. “May the old gods keep you safe.” Korin turned to Mariko. The way the elderly woman studied her made Mariko shrink back into the shadows.
Finally Korin offered her a smile. “And may the new gods keep your young friend safe.”
“He is not my friend.” Though ōkami’s pronouncement was true for them both, his words still stung.
Mariko thought to say something. To respond to either Korin or ōkami with something equally blithe. Equally biting.
Blessedly the night watchman strolled by at that exact moment, ringing his bell to signify the hour.
“He . . . is what?” Korin blinked, clearly confused, the bell behind them tolling into a purpled sky.
He.
The blood drained from Mariko’s face.
Korin-san knows I am not a boy. How could she possibly know that?
As the elderly woman’s attention shifted from ōkami to Mariko, her features softened. Her gaze settled on Mariko again. This time with a deeper meaning. “Of—of course he isn’t your friend.” Korin recovered with a smile. “My apologies.” She bowed to Mariko, though her eyes were filled with a knowing light.
Does she think ōkami and I are—
Mariko almost spluttered aloud.
Before she could react—before she could even think beyond such ridiculousness—her thoughts were swallowed by Okami and Korin-san’s continued conversation. A hushed conversation she was no longer meant to partake in. Bracing his arm against the battered gate, ōkami positioned his back between Mariko and the elderly woman, eliminating the unwanted presence from the rest of his discussion.
Mariko was left to ruminate on all that had occurred.
All she had learned.
The only conclusion she was left to consider was this:
There was far more to the Black Clan than she’d first thought.
—
Kenshin sat in a corner of the teahouse, wearing a murderous expression. The young servant girl tending to the wounds on his head and hands was careful. Meticulous.
Her efforts were futile.
At the moment, nothing would settle well on his skin.
“You’re quite lucky you were not injured further,” Minamoto Roku commented as he took a neat swallow of sake from a glazed porcelain cup.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Raiden interjected. “Kenshin-sama was quick to react.” He nodded in approval. “In battle, that is among the most important of things.”
“Forgive me, but I was not quicker than my attacker, my lord,” Kenshin replied curtly. “In battle, that is all that matters.”
Raiden studied him for a time, his expression perplexed. “The greater question is why did they attack you? I thought they were trying to assassinate my brother. But it was clear at least one of the masked men was aiming for you.” He brushed a hand across his jaw. “Or was the boy who jumped from the roof not wearing a mask? I could not be certain.”
“I . . . do not know, my lord.” Kenshin frowned as he recalled the flurry of movement above him. The crash of a body against his back. The wash of sudden darkness.
Compounded by another, far more pressing concern:
Why had his assailant not finished him off when given the chance? Especially when he’d been afforded the advantage of higher ground?
“These men were far too organized to have been mere drunkards,” Raiden continued. “It’s clear they were positioned at the teahouse intentionally. But to what end?”
The crown prince smiled as he took another sip of sake. “The true matter of import, brother, is that these masked men were present on the same night we were. They attacked us before we could even get inside the teahouse. Which means someone plotted to lie in wait for us and catch us unawares. I would like to know who it was.”
Kenshin said nothing as the attendant—a young girl wearing a kimono that briefly brought to mind the color of Amaya’s grey eyes—removed a curved bone needle and a spiral of thread. She began to stitch shut the wound on Kenshin’s forehead. Each time the needle passed through his skin, his thoughts wove through his mind.
Consumed with worry for his sister.
Why were these men waiting for them? Did they have anything to do with Mariko’s disappearance?
His sister’s face washed across his vision again.
But it was not possible. It could not be possible.