Daishi would’ve slapped her if she could have—but they both knew she couldn’t. That only made Shizuka more bold. “If I tell them to change colors, then they have to do that, too,” she boasted, and as she spoke, she reached for a pink one.
But then—ah, it was as if the rose fell into a bowl of golden ink, for the color spread through its petals before their eyes.
Daishi fell backwards, gasping, her hair flying out of its neat bun. Shizuka stood staring at the gilt leaves. She reached out to touch them again, only to find that they were as soft as any other rose’s—yet when the light hit them, they shone like her aunt’s hair ornaments.
“What did you do?” Daishi said. “How did you—? That isn’t something people can just do!”
And though Shizuka’s heart was a hummingbird, though her mouth was dry and her fingers trembled, she could not let herself be afraid.
“Don’t doubt me, Aki-lun,” she said.
Daishi wiped her nose and frowned. After getting to her feet, she, too, touched the flower.
Shizuka yanked it out of her hand. “It’s mine,” she said, and tucked it behind her ear as her father did. Daishi could hardly argue the point.
But she did smile. “You’ve got to make me one, too,” she said.
And so Shizuka did.
By the start of Seventh Bell, when court finished, Shizuka had changed half the Eastern Garden. O-Shizuru found them laughing, rolling along a patch of golden grass.
But O-Shizuru did not laugh, not at all.
When Shizuka pictures her mother, she sees that look: jaw clenched, thick brows nearly meeting, a look of fear and fury in her eyes.
The moment they saw her, the girls froze, their smiles scattered like dandelion seeds to the wind.
“Daishi-lun,” said O-Shizuru, “go to your father.”
Daishi swallowed. She bowed to Shizuka, apologized under her breath, and ran as fast as her legs could take her.
And so they were alone, mother and daughter. Shizuka’s face felt hot. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was her mother so upset?
O-Shizuru thumbed her nose. She looked away for a moment, thinking of something her daughter couldn’t fathom. Then she shook her head. “Who told you about the daffodil, Shizuka?” she said.
Shizuka paused. “No one,” she says. “These are roses, Mother, they’re different—”
“I’m well past the age of knowing what a rose looks like,” Shizuru cut in.
Shizuka winced. Her mother’s warm voice was a sword when she was upset.
O-Shizuru must’ve realized she was too severe, for she sighed and took her daughter’s hand. “Come with me,” she said. “I suppose it’s time you heard the story.”
At the time, that walk had seemed eternal. Frightening, too. Her father never took her to that part of the garden. The farther in they went, the more Shizuka saw random objects sticking up out of the ground—a statue of the Daughter, jade coins. Was that a bamboo mat? What were these things doing in the garden?
But then she saw it, standing alone.
A single golden daffodil.
Shizuru sniffed. “When your father and I were wishing for you,” she said, “an old scholar told me I had to bury something I loved.” She gestured vaguely at all the detritus around the garden. “I tried, and tried, with all sorts of things. But when I buried my short sword—that’s when the flower showed up, gold as the sword’s pommel. And then you did, not long after that. It’s been here ever since.”
And Shizuka remembers the breeze through the garden, remembers the daffodil’s quiet dance to unseen music.
She reached out for the flower, but her mother touched her hand.
“Don’t touch it,” she said sharply. “The scholar said—Shizuka.” She took a deep breath. “The day you touch that flower is your last day in the Empire. That’s what he said. Do you know what that means?”
“That I’d be going to live with Shefali and the Qorin,” Shizuka said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Shizuru palmed her face. “Shizuka,” she said. “You and that girl. Like two pine needles.”
At the time, Shizuka had no idea what it meant. After all, she hadn’t seen Shefali in years, and when she spoke of running off to join the Qorin, it was just something that popped into her head.
But she knew it sounded right.
“I don’t like this,” said Shizuru, more to herself than to her daughter. “Changing the colors of things. Priests telling me they can’t read your fortune, flowers following you around. You should have a good life. A nice, quiet life, with none of my foolishness and too much of your father’s.”
A pause. And then.
“Whatever happens,” said O-Shizuru, “keep Shefali with you. Whatever is going on with you will also be going on with her. Now, come on. Your uncle’s not going to like this, and the Mother knows we’ll hear about it tomorrow.”
Years later, Shizuka can say that her mother was right. The next morning, in full view of the court, the Emperor railed against the perils of hubris, against the ungodly affront to His Divine Power in his garden. His thundering reprimands rained down on O-Shizuru—but she remained kneeling, and if she wanted to gut her brother-in-law like a catfish, she had the good sense not to show it.
Shizuka did not attend court that day. Instead, her parents swamped her with tutors. Calligraphy, poetry, zither, dance. One of them had to catch her interest. One of them would teach her calm, and caution, and to consider her actions.
One did, of course. Calligraphy. But Shizuka had never needed a tutor for that, beyond her brush and inkwell.
But once all that was through—once she made her way home—that was when she heard the words for the first time.
Her mother’s voice near to breaking, her father’s smooth and comforting. They had not yet noticed her.
“What if that Qorin woman was right, Itsuki, what if our girl is—?”
“Then who better to mother her, Zuru? Who better to keep her humble and noble? Better we raise her than Iori. And she will have Shefali, and the two of them will be like two pine needles. She will never be alone.”
Iori. Had that been the Emperor’s name, before the throne? It matched Itsuki, as was traditional for Imperial children. This was the first time she’d ever heard it, but the sad venom in her father’s voice left little room for doubt.
Shizuka’s breath caught. What were they talking about? Was this about her birthday? For she was born on the eighth day of Ji-Dao, the eighth month, at eight minutes into Last Bell in the Daughter’s year. All the palace soothsayers told her it was a good omen.
Though they didn’t use those words.
They just said she was destined for greatness. They said the Daughter had been born on the same day, at the same time.
Is that what her mother meant, in the garden?
A crow’s creaking startled her parents. They saw her then, and their faces softened.
“Shizuka,” said Itsuki, first to rise. He did not wear his normal smile that day. “Shizuka, how were your lessons today?”
Did you mean what you said? Shizuka wanted to ask him. “Boring.”
“Better boring than difficult!” said Itsuki. “What I would give to have a boring day, my dear.”