What have they done with Ōkami? Is he … dead?
She was not foolish enough to think she would ever receive an answer. Especially not from him. Not from this boy who gazed on her with such mistrust.
Standing at the entrance to one of the corridors branching off the main thoroughfare stood a silent figure, waiting for them to pass. His features were solemn, his posture rigid. His dark silk hakama was crisp and unwrinkled. He was a young man for whom such things appeared as natural and unstudied as herons in flight. Only his eyes were at odds with his demeanor—a shadow Mariko could not place darkened their depths.
Kenshin.
Her brother. Her twin.
The blood crept up her neck, heating her skin. Mariko stopped her fists from clenching, then let her gaze rest on her brother in what she hoped was an expression of affection.
Be water. Move with the current.
He watched her. Carefully. Even from this short distance, Mariko knew her twin well enough to see that he did not believe a single word she said. It cut at something deep within Mariko’s chest. Threatened to sever a bond that had existed between them since their birth. The night they’d left Jukai forest, he’d studied her with the same look, as though he were gazing upon a riddle he could not solve. Though the Dragon of Kai said very little, it was clear Kenshin questioned every move Mariko made, both in the past and in the present. Wondered if duplicity lay at its root. Each time she locked eyes with her brother, Mariko beheld mistrust and uncertainty.
Two things that had never crossed their paths before.
She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She’d wager it was something different, yet the same. Something tinged in pain.
“Mariko,” Kenshin began softly.
Her retinue paused before him. Shizuko and the servants at their flank bowed low. After all, Hattori Kenshin was the Dragon of Kai—one of the most famed warriors in the entire empire. The son of an honored daimyō. A samurai held in high esteem amongst the members of the imperial court.
Mariko coaxed herself to smile. Forced her eyes to mean it.
“Did you … rest well these last two nights?” Kenshin asked.
“Very well.” She nodded. “It’s the first restful sleep I’ve had in weeks.”
Yet another lie.
She’d already lost count of how many she’d told him.
“I’m glad to hear it. You look … better. More like yourself.” The Dragon of Kai chose his words carefully, as though he were picking fruit from a tree. It was just like him to behave in such a manner. Exacting to a fault.
But Kenshin’s principles would not serve him well today. His unspoken questions hung in the air like spiderwebs, waiting to catch their victim unawares. And Mariko knew it best to avoid any traps of spun silk, at all cost. Her voice needed to match her face. She let her shoulders fall in relaxation. Made her neck lengthen as though she were confident.
I am speaking to my brother, as I have done for nearly every day of my life. Nothing more.
She smiled at him, allowing her mind drift to memories of a fonder time. An easier life. One in which the truth of her family’s wealth and privilege still remained shamefully beyond her notice. “I have not had a chance to thank you properly—for saving me.”
It was not a lie, in a manner of speaking. He’d brought her to Inako, as Mariko had wished, and she did feel a sense of gratitude for it.
Kenshin nodded, his eyes narrowing at the corners. “You would do the same for me.”
“Of course.” Mariko breathed deeply. “But—now that I’ve had a moment to recover—there are matters I wish to discuss with you.”
He nodded again. “I’m … glad to hear it. I, too, have things I—I wish to tell you.” Kenshin winced as though he were in pain. A part of Mariko wanted to press him for details, but it seemed odd to expect frankness from him when she herself would not give it. “When you’ve had a chance to recuperate fully, let us make time to speak with each other,” he finished.
“I would like nothing more than that,” she said. “After all that has happened, it will be a comfort to speak with someone I love and respect, rather than listen to idle men who prey on the efforts of those above their station.” Mariko continued smiling as she spoke, in a sad attempt to dispel the awkwardness. “I appreciate your patience with me, Kenshin.”
Her brother nodded, then glanced once more at the silken collar of her kimono. As he took in the long sleeves laden with intricate embroidery, his eyes grew wide. Even a warrior with little understanding of women’s clothing knew it to be a kimono without parallel. “Are you meeting with Prince Raiden?”
Her smile faltered. “I … have not yet been informed as to where it is I am going.”
Mariko watched her brother stop himself from reacting in plain view of the servants surrounding them. Servants who were likely in place to report anything suspicious. Again this attempt to deny his instincts—however poorly—was so unlike Hattori Kenshin. It was the kind of behavior that had undoubtedly been learned during his short tenure in the imperial city.
Kenshin took a step forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his wakizashi. Mariko could not tell if he wished to protect her or if he wished to offer her a warning. His lips remained poised between sound and speech. Then Kenshin stepped back, nodding to himself in decision. “Be a tribute to our family, Mariko.” His words were echoes of their father’s final admonition, that fateful morning she had left on her journey for Inako.
They only strengthened her resolve.
She would earn herself a place of trust in the imperial court. Forge alliances wherever possible. Undermine the cause of the emperor at all turns.
And do whatever it took to free Ōkami, the boy she loved.
Never mind that it sounded foolish—like the dreams of a small child with ambitions far beyond her ken.
Everything in life began with an idea.
Shizuko bowed beside Mariko and Kenshin, offering an end to the odd silence that had settled between them. Her sudden deference did not seem in keeping with the servant’s demeanor for the last two days. “I beg pardon for the intrusion, my lord, but we must proceed on our path toward the empress’s pavilion.”
Kenshin glanced at the servant as though he’d only just noticed her presence. “The empress?”
“Yes, my lord.” Shizuko turned toward Mariko, a frown tugging at her lips.
“I’ve been instructed to bring Lady Hattori to the Lotus Pavilion. The empress would like to see her now.”
Gilded Petals and Dripping Wounds
As they neared a set of sliding doors adorned with carved lotus blossoms, Shizuko slowed, Mariko still trailing in the servant’s wake. The guards standing on either side moved apart to let them pass. Mariko crossed the threshold and bowed low, her feet resting just beyond the raised wooden sill. Her forehead touched the newly woven tatami mats, their fresh scent curling into her nose, clean and piney and inviting.
When she and Shizuko took to their feet once more at the far end of a vast receiving room, something caught her eye, and a new realization settled upon Mariko. One she’d managed to miss for the last two days, consumed as she was with her own worries. Shizuko had proven beyond capable and efficient, if somewhat thorny. Just this morning, Mariko had wondered why the older woman—with seniority over many of the other servants—had been relegated to assist with the bastard prince’s bride, rather than serve in a more venerated position within the imperial family’s personal retinue. It was only when Mariko watched Shizuko struggle to her feet that she understood the reason. The grimace and the momentary imbalance gave her away.
Shizuko had an injury to her neck—perhaps even to her spine—that gave her movements an impermissible flaw, likely beyond her control. A servant in the imperial court could not distract from anything. They needed to move about like flitting shadows, and shadows did not sport their flaws before the emperor.
Anger coiled through Mariko’s throat, making it difficult to swallow. She chastised herself for not noticing Shizuko’s condition earlier. Wondered what could have been the cause. How could Mariko ever attempt to champion those less fortunate—to claim to care for someone besides herself—while mired in her own concerns? If Mariko wished to see beyond her own experience, it was clear from this misstep that she was doing an abysmal job of it.