Smoke in the Sun
Page 13
In that moment, a sense of awareness descended on her. The kind that crept over Mariko with surprising frequency of late. It had first struck her when she’d witnessed the family partake of their meager evening meal on her father’s land, the night the Black Clan raided the Hattori granary. That night, she watched a small child don the mantle of a much older soul. There—hovering in the darkness, with kami by her side—Mariko realized that every person she’d ever met, from the smallest of children to the most notorious of thieves, had a life as intricate and significant as that of an emperor or a samurai or an elegant lady of the court. Not once in her seventeen years had she heard a member of the nobility discuss this. Those who served them had been born beneath unlucky stars and could never share the same sky, no matter how hard they might wish for it.
“Men cannot change their stars, just as cats cannot change their stripes,” her father had often said with a shrewd smile.
The remembrance caught in her chest, its bitterness clawing at her tongue.
She looked to the right as one of the young servants—the same girl with the round face and button nose from the day before—rearranged Mariko’s skirts. While the girl worked to ensure that her mistress appeared nothing less than perfect, Mariko studied her face, taking note of the small scars along her jaw, likely from a childhood illness.
“What is your name?” Mariko whispered to the girl, her lips barely moving as she spoke. They were too far away for those at the opposite end of the chamber to overhear their exchange. Nevertheless Shizuko startled beside her, proceeding to chuff with irritation.
Color mottled the young servant’s skin. “Isa.”
“Thank you, Isa.” Mariko committed the name to memory. Then she lifted her gaze to take in the sight of a long receiving room with a low ceiling constructed of polished acacia wood. The walls were papered in thin silk, adorned with elegantly gilded paintings—scenes from spring gardens, replete with flowers and arched bridges framed in the amber glow of an afternoon sun. Fresh tatami mats arranged in a perfect grid lined the floor, which was warmed from beneath by slow-burning charcoal braziers.
Young women knelt on either side of the space, their garments fanning about them becomingly. They were likely courtiers or daughters of the empire’s most important families. The women murmured among themselves at the sight of Mariko, their beautiful kimono rustling as they struggled to seek better vantage points. If Mariko were to squint, the chamber before her would greatly resemble its own elegant garden, its blossoms swaying in a dainty breeze—splashes of pink and purple and pale green petals dyed to resemble jade, arranged as though every color had been chosen in an effort to bring to life the artwork gilding the walls.
At the opposite end of the chamber sat an elegant woman on a silk cushion positioned before a low throne, with a wooden back lacquered to look as though the teak wood gleamed from within.
Mariko did not meet the eyes of the stately figure awaiting her arrival. After gliding to the foot of the slightly raised platform, she knelt with great care, slipping the front of her kimono beneath her shins to keep the delicate material from wrinkling. The brush of the silk across the tatami mats was like the whisper of a sword being drawn.
She bowed once more, careful to avert her gaze until addressed.
“Hattori Mariko.” The empress spoke in a high-pitched tone, almost girlish in its lilt. “Welcome to the Lotus Pavilion.”
Inhaling through her nose, Mariko lifted her gaze.
Her Imperial Majesty Yamoto Genmei, Empress of Wa, rose to her feet in a seamless motion, a warm smile spreading across her features. She appeared small and delicate, swathed in a peach kimono. But her presence was nevertheless commanding, especially for a woman who had just lost her husband. Mariko had first thought she might find the empress in mourning, but it did not appear to be the case. She seemed determined and at ease in her station. Perhaps it was because within the same breath, the empress had lost her husband and also gained a son in the seat of power.
It appeared that fear and sadness did not suit the occasion.
Mariko concealed her surprise at the unabashed kindness in the empress’s expression. After all, Mariko was betrothed to the son of the previous emperor’s beloved consort, and everyone in the land had heard the rumors of the empress’s distaste on the matter.
“It is an honor to meet you, my lady.” Mariko lent her voice the delicate melody of a songbird, just as she remembered Yumi doing in the presence of those the maiko had wished to impress.
“And it is my honor to meet the future wife of Prince Raiden.” The empress motioned with her hand to an empty space beside her. “Will you join me for refreshments?”
Mariko was led onto the low platform, a silken cushion positioned to the empress’s left. With Shizuko’s assistance, Mariko knelt upon the cushion as two small tables were brought forth. An array of food was placed upon each tray: rounds of colorful daifuku encircled by edible flowers in an inviting arrangement, a bowl of iced persimmons garnished with gold flakes, azuki beans covered in sugar, and tiny squares of pastel steam cakes. To one side sat a flawless white egg in a porcelain dish, still ensconced in its shell.
The sight almost brought a smile to Mariko’s face.
I wonder what the empress would do if I were to remove the shell as Yoshi taught me to do it.
In silence, similar trays were brought forth for all the ladies present. All the while, Mariko kept her eyes lowered, letting her gaze flit about the space covertly, trying her best to appear demure and at ease all at once.
An impossible feat.
Soft laughter danced around the room.
“You are quite a little doe, are you not?” the empress said with another warm smile.
Uncertainty took shape within Mariko. She had never been gifted at the art of conversation. Was the empress’s comment a compliment or a criticism? Or worse, was it a criticism veiled as a compliment? How best should she respond? Hand-wringing did not seem to be an adequate reply, nor did outright churlishness.
This was why Mariko had floundered around other women, especially girls her own age.
“If it pleases my lady, I am happy to be a doe.” Mariko bowed her head.
The empress laughed. “And if it displeases me?”
Mariko hesitated. She looked to the left, as though she were seeking assistance. Many of the other young women gazed upon her with pointed interest, even as they took dainty sips of their tea. And offered nothing by way of help. Several of them even tittered behind their hands.
Mariko took in a steadying breath. “If it displeases the empress, I am happy not to be a doe.”
Another ripple of amusement passed the empress’s lips. “How did you ever live for so long amidst a group of heathenish men, with such pristine manners? It appears you are relatively unscathed after your ordeal”—she paused to sip her tea—“or are appearances as deceiving as they all say?”
Mariko squeezed her eyes shut, steeling herself. Then she met the empress’s gaze, willing her countenance to appear earnest. Trustworthy. “They did not touch me,” she said firmly. “Their leader forbade it. I believe he meant to barter with my father to return me unscathed for a higher profit.”
“How very fortunate for you.” The empress quirked her head, the motion causing the jewels in her hair to flash as though in warning. “And rather fortunate for Prince Raiden as well.”
It appeared the rumors being passed through the nobility were correct. The empress did not have fond feelings for the son of her husband’s consort. Mariko knew the correct thing to do in this case would be to remain quiet and offer little in the way of opinion. It would not do for her to speak ill of her betrothed in an attempt to ingratiate herself to the empress. Were Mariko’s mother present, she would have urged her daughter to comport herself as all the other young ladies did at court—with nods and smiles and murmurs of agreement.
Mariko tried to smile. The empress did not return the gesture. Any suggestion of kindness on her features had vanished.
What does she want? What is she trying to do?
As though she could hear Mariko’s thoughts, the empress answered. “I’m sure you are curious as to why I asked to see you even before you were brought before my son. The emperor is keen to meet you, of course. He has great affection for his brother.” Her jewels flashed once more, like bladed mirrors.
“Men cannot change their stars, just as cats cannot change their stripes,” her father had often said with a shrewd smile.
The remembrance caught in her chest, its bitterness clawing at her tongue.
She looked to the right as one of the young servants—the same girl with the round face and button nose from the day before—rearranged Mariko’s skirts. While the girl worked to ensure that her mistress appeared nothing less than perfect, Mariko studied her face, taking note of the small scars along her jaw, likely from a childhood illness.
“What is your name?” Mariko whispered to the girl, her lips barely moving as she spoke. They were too far away for those at the opposite end of the chamber to overhear their exchange. Nevertheless Shizuko startled beside her, proceeding to chuff with irritation.
Color mottled the young servant’s skin. “Isa.”
“Thank you, Isa.” Mariko committed the name to memory. Then she lifted her gaze to take in the sight of a long receiving room with a low ceiling constructed of polished acacia wood. The walls were papered in thin silk, adorned with elegantly gilded paintings—scenes from spring gardens, replete with flowers and arched bridges framed in the amber glow of an afternoon sun. Fresh tatami mats arranged in a perfect grid lined the floor, which was warmed from beneath by slow-burning charcoal braziers.
Young women knelt on either side of the space, their garments fanning about them becomingly. They were likely courtiers or daughters of the empire’s most important families. The women murmured among themselves at the sight of Mariko, their beautiful kimono rustling as they struggled to seek better vantage points. If Mariko were to squint, the chamber before her would greatly resemble its own elegant garden, its blossoms swaying in a dainty breeze—splashes of pink and purple and pale green petals dyed to resemble jade, arranged as though every color had been chosen in an effort to bring to life the artwork gilding the walls.
At the opposite end of the chamber sat an elegant woman on a silk cushion positioned before a low throne, with a wooden back lacquered to look as though the teak wood gleamed from within.
Mariko did not meet the eyes of the stately figure awaiting her arrival. After gliding to the foot of the slightly raised platform, she knelt with great care, slipping the front of her kimono beneath her shins to keep the delicate material from wrinkling. The brush of the silk across the tatami mats was like the whisper of a sword being drawn.
She bowed once more, careful to avert her gaze until addressed.
“Hattori Mariko.” The empress spoke in a high-pitched tone, almost girlish in its lilt. “Welcome to the Lotus Pavilion.”
Inhaling through her nose, Mariko lifted her gaze.
Her Imperial Majesty Yamoto Genmei, Empress of Wa, rose to her feet in a seamless motion, a warm smile spreading across her features. She appeared small and delicate, swathed in a peach kimono. But her presence was nevertheless commanding, especially for a woman who had just lost her husband. Mariko had first thought she might find the empress in mourning, but it did not appear to be the case. She seemed determined and at ease in her station. Perhaps it was because within the same breath, the empress had lost her husband and also gained a son in the seat of power.
It appeared that fear and sadness did not suit the occasion.
Mariko concealed her surprise at the unabashed kindness in the empress’s expression. After all, Mariko was betrothed to the son of the previous emperor’s beloved consort, and everyone in the land had heard the rumors of the empress’s distaste on the matter.
“It is an honor to meet you, my lady.” Mariko lent her voice the delicate melody of a songbird, just as she remembered Yumi doing in the presence of those the maiko had wished to impress.
“And it is my honor to meet the future wife of Prince Raiden.” The empress motioned with her hand to an empty space beside her. “Will you join me for refreshments?”
Mariko was led onto the low platform, a silken cushion positioned to the empress’s left. With Shizuko’s assistance, Mariko knelt upon the cushion as two small tables were brought forth. An array of food was placed upon each tray: rounds of colorful daifuku encircled by edible flowers in an inviting arrangement, a bowl of iced persimmons garnished with gold flakes, azuki beans covered in sugar, and tiny squares of pastel steam cakes. To one side sat a flawless white egg in a porcelain dish, still ensconced in its shell.
The sight almost brought a smile to Mariko’s face.
I wonder what the empress would do if I were to remove the shell as Yoshi taught me to do it.
In silence, similar trays were brought forth for all the ladies present. All the while, Mariko kept her eyes lowered, letting her gaze flit about the space covertly, trying her best to appear demure and at ease all at once.
An impossible feat.
Soft laughter danced around the room.
“You are quite a little doe, are you not?” the empress said with another warm smile.
Uncertainty took shape within Mariko. She had never been gifted at the art of conversation. Was the empress’s comment a compliment or a criticism? Or worse, was it a criticism veiled as a compliment? How best should she respond? Hand-wringing did not seem to be an adequate reply, nor did outright churlishness.
This was why Mariko had floundered around other women, especially girls her own age.
“If it pleases my lady, I am happy to be a doe.” Mariko bowed her head.
The empress laughed. “And if it displeases me?”
Mariko hesitated. She looked to the left, as though she were seeking assistance. Many of the other young women gazed upon her with pointed interest, even as they took dainty sips of their tea. And offered nothing by way of help. Several of them even tittered behind their hands.
Mariko took in a steadying breath. “If it displeases the empress, I am happy not to be a doe.”
Another ripple of amusement passed the empress’s lips. “How did you ever live for so long amidst a group of heathenish men, with such pristine manners? It appears you are relatively unscathed after your ordeal”—she paused to sip her tea—“or are appearances as deceiving as they all say?”
Mariko squeezed her eyes shut, steeling herself. Then she met the empress’s gaze, willing her countenance to appear earnest. Trustworthy. “They did not touch me,” she said firmly. “Their leader forbade it. I believe he meant to barter with my father to return me unscathed for a higher profit.”
“How very fortunate for you.” The empress quirked her head, the motion causing the jewels in her hair to flash as though in warning. “And rather fortunate for Prince Raiden as well.”
It appeared the rumors being passed through the nobility were correct. The empress did not have fond feelings for the son of her husband’s consort. Mariko knew the correct thing to do in this case would be to remain quiet and offer little in the way of opinion. It would not do for her to speak ill of her betrothed in an attempt to ingratiate herself to the empress. Were Mariko’s mother present, she would have urged her daughter to comport herself as all the other young ladies did at court—with nods and smiles and murmurs of agreement.
Mariko tried to smile. The empress did not return the gesture. Any suggestion of kindness on her features had vanished.
What does she want? What is she trying to do?
As though she could hear Mariko’s thoughts, the empress answered. “I’m sure you are curious as to why I asked to see you even before you were brought before my son. The emperor is keen to meet you, of course. He has great affection for his brother.” Her jewels flashed once more, like bladed mirrors.
