by Ann Angel
Time spilled past. Other dancers came and went, sweeping around me in tides of perfume and silk. Their music, played with exquisite skill by the royal musicians, drifted back through the curtains that hid the stage like ragged mist. Sometimes I sat, trying to school my nerves to silence. Sometimes I walked, stretched, warming my tense muscles.
At last, when each dancer had taken her turn, the deep brass voice of the gong rang out once more beyond the curtains. The other girls, sweating and untidy and in varying states of undress, froze, their eyes turning to me as silence fell. A voice cried, “Lord Minamoto’s Gift!”
I forced my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and moved unhurriedly up the steps to the edge of the curtains. Whispers of good fortune, half-completed blessings, fleeting touches on my back and arms, propelled me forward on legs that shook like the last leaves in an autumn gale.
I stepped through the curtains onto the small stage.
And froze.
I did not hear the court musicians begin the piece of music to which I was to dance. I barely noticed the hundreds upon hundreds of faces — every wealthy and influential nobleman and -woman in the Moonlit Lands — that turned expectantly in my direction, or their carefully schooled expressions of weariness and apathy. All I saw was the throne, placed directly before the stage. The towering black throne with its gleaming silver moon crest. Tsuki no Ouji-sama’s throne.
It was empty.
On the left, a slight, nondescript person stood to attention. A guard, a servant, perhaps an adviser. On the right there was another, smaller throne. A woman sat here, clothed severely and expensively in black. My eyes could not rest upon her long, for this was — could only be — the Moon Princess. Famed for her stringent morals and her vicious jealousy over her husband.
But of the Moon Prince himself, there was no sign.
Fury and despair broke loose within me and surged up with a roar, filling my body with fire. I, Kano Akira, the greatest dancer the Moonlit Lands had ever seen, risked my own life to dance before my ruler. And he could not even be bothered to watch.
My music swelled: the high, plaintive cry of the flute, the low melancholy murmur of the stringed biwa. Only one thought remained in my head.
If this is to be my last dance, by the Moon, I will make him regret missing it.
Later, I remember little of that performance. The music and my own rage buoyed me until I felt as if my limbs were wings. I did not dance on a stage but moved, weightless, through the air itself. My shadow-weaving billowed around me like storm clouds fleeing the wind. I flew.
I do recall the spellbound stillness of the Moon Prince’s guests. The astonished affront in the Moon Princess’s eyes. The soundless gasp of admiration that parted the lips of that nondescript man who guarded the empty throne. The singing triumph of the silence when the music stopped and my dance ended, leaving the audience so rapt that they had forgotten how to breathe, let alone clap.
And then the deafening, rushing roar of their applause as I bowed to that hateful, unoccupied throne and stalked from the stage.
They will never forget me now, I told myself defiantly.
No, and they will kill me for it. Stupid, stupid girl. What have I done?
I stare into the fire in the Moon Prince’s chamber and cry.
I cry because I have been granted the fondest wish of every woman and girl in the palace tonight. I cry because I am not like those other women and girls. I cry because what should be a dream come true is a nightmare for me. All my skill as a shadow-weaver and illusionist cannot save me. No shadow-weaver alive has the power to conceal what I am.
This is all a terrible mistake.
I have been chosen. I am the Shadow Bride. But the Shadow Bride cannot, can never, be one such as me. She is a noble virgin girl. When the Moon Prince discovers that I am none of these things, I will be executed. I have cursed my life, my contract with the Owner, and my beautiful doomed face for years. Now all I wish to do is cling to them for a little while longer.
I do not want to die.
The door to the chamber slides open with a quiet click.
My body tightens into a shuddering rictus of fear. Like the doe who stares helplessly at the glint of the hunter’s spear, I gaze at the slight, simply dressed man who slips into the room.
For a long heart-still moment, I do not understand. I watch, bewildered, as he takes in my unmasked expression of fear and my tearstained cheeks. His own expression undergoes an almost comical transformation — from glad anticipation to chagrin, and from there to sadness.
Only then does the realization of my own error slam home. This is no mere guard, no servant or adviser. He stood beside the Moon Prince’s throne because the throne belonged to him. Young and plainly clad as he is, this man is the Moon Prince. I danced all my defiance and passion to his throne, and he thought it was for him. No wonder he chose me. I fooled him. I fooled him as I have fooled everyone all my life.
The deception will cost me my life.
Desperately I try to claw the threads of my shadow-weaving back into place, seeking any kind of camouflage or protection. For the first time in four years, the illusions will not obey me. My shock and fear are too great. The fingers of my mind tear through the wispy fabric of shadows even as they attempt to pull it into place. All I can do is fling my real hands down onto the tatami mat and press my forehead to the backs of them, entering the deepest possible bow.
Barely audible footsteps cross the mat. There is a faint pause, and my heartbeat drowns out all other sound. Then, I realize that Tsuki no Ouji-sama has fallen to one knee beside me. His hand — long fingered and gentle — touches my shoulder and urges me upright again. My spine seems to have turned to iron inside me, and it takes me forever to force it straight. He gives no sign of impatience, but I cannot meet his eyes. Should not. I stare down at the subtle, intricate pattern of dark gray woven into the fabric of the robe that stretches tight against the Moon Prince’s knee. The prince’s hand leaves my shoulder.
“Why are you crying?”
My breath catches at the sound of his voice. It is soft in tone but surprisingly deep for one so young, seemingly only a few years older than I. I close my eyes, and the tears squeeze out from beneath my lashes and trickle warmly down my chilled face. He is kind. He is so kind. More kind than I deserve . . .
I sense a quick movement and flinch, eyes snapping open to catch the prince’s hand as it drops down again to lie upon his knee. Did he mean to touch me again?
“I am sorry, Ouji-sama,” I whisper. My voice is a rough croak. “I am sorry.”
“Why? What is the matter, Ohime-sama?”
I flinch again at the sound of the title. Princess. Kage no Ohime — the official title of the Shadow Bride. “Forgive me.” I force the words out like stones from my throat. “There has been a mistake, Ouji-sama. I should not be here. You cannot choose me.”
“But I have,” he says, and the sadness is plain in his voice now. “I am only sorry that it seems to cause you such distress. I had not . . . If this is distasteful to you, it can be undone. It shall be undone.”
And now I begin to think that the fear has truly driven me mad, for no sooner has an escape — the escape I had been longing for!— been offered to me, than everything inside me rises up in rejection. No. Don’t send me back. Don’t send me away. . . .
It is impossible! He does not know who I am! What I am!
“What you are?” The Moon Prince repeats, as if puzzled. I realize to my horror that I have spoken the words out loud.
Would I not rather die than go back to the life I have now? What if I throw my fate into the Moon’s arms? Let go. Speak the truth. This is the only chance I will have!
I reach out and seize his hand in both of mine. His long, sensitive fingers are soft. My own hands shake so much that I wonder if I imagine the faint tremble in his as I guide it into the opening at the breast of my kimono. As I lay his fingers on the bare skin over my heart, where my breast would be. Should be
.
But is not.
“I am oyama,” I say, speaking the name of the beautiful young boys who play the female roles in Kabuki theater. I press his palm to the flat, muscled plane of my chest. “My parents . . . they had many children and little money. When I was born with this face, they decided to make the best of me and raised me as a girl. I hardly knew that I was any different from my sisters. I dance the female parts better than anyone else because inside, I am a woman. Yet my body does not match my soul.” I love my body, as all dancers do. I love its strength and its flexibility. But there are times when I hate it, too, as much as I hate my parents and my beautiful face. As much as I hate my entire life. “My beauty — everything about me — is illusion. Nothing about me is real. You could not know — and you will hate me now —”
“No,” he interrupts, and his other hand suddenly cups my cheek, turning my face up to his. For the first time, I meet his gaze, and in the flickering firelight see the brilliance of those long, dark eyes, the fire of intelligence and the soft kindness there. His face comes closer, closer, and then his lips touch mine. Tentatively, sweetly, asking for permission. The hand that is in my kimono shifts, trailing along my neck, and I shiver convulsively. I have never been kissed like this before. As if I was precious — no! As if I was . . . important.
He speaks against my mouth.
“Love comes like storm clouds,
Fleeing from the wind, and casts
Shadows on the moon. . . .”
“I do not understand,” I whisper, and the words are a plea.
His thumb gently traces the lines the tears have left on my cheek. “You are more real than anyone I have ever met. From the moment that I saw you, all I wanted was —”
To possess me?
“— to know you. Learn the secrets that lie behind those eyes. To understand the passion and strength that flame out of you when you dance. You are amazing.”
Can it be true? How can it be true? Oh, please, let it be true. . . .
“Your wife hates us. She calls oyama unnatural and disgusting, and calls for us to be banned.”
“My wife says many things,” he says, sadness gleaming in his eyes again. “But though I try not to correct her in public, she does not speak for me. I often walk my city at night. Hooded and disguised, I go among my people, trying to understand them and their lives beyond the palace walls. I first saw you dance over a year ago. I have returned to the theater many times since. I yearned to speak with you. But I never dared to approach, for to do so would have been to disrupt and destroy your life in the name of my own selfishness. When you came here tonight, came to me, to dance for me, it seemed as if the Moon herself had read my heart and granted my wish. I know who you are. It was never a secret from me. I know what you are, Kano Akira Ohime-sama.”
I draw a swift, awed breath. “Then what . . . Ouji-sama, what am I?”
He takes my hand and lays it upon his own chest, as I held his to mine a moment before. “You are the Shadow Bride. My chosen. You are the woman I love.”
What have I done? Oh, what have I done?
I have fallen in love.
Jake nosed his pickup onto the narrow road shoulder, parking behind a maroon Honda with a “Camden High Cheers!” decal in the back window — his cousin Sylvie’s car. Someone else wanted to be the last in and first out of the Campbell family Easter reunion.
Knowing Sylvie, she was probably going to party at her boyfriend Brad’s lake house. In fact, most of the Camden High football team and their girlfriends would be partying at Brad’s. Jake could be there right now if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be here, either, but he’d promised.
He hiked up the crumbling blacktop, wishing he wasn’t wearing church clothes. Wishing he could just vaporize and disappear. However, short of coming down with the plague, there was no escaping the hordes of dressed-up Campbells sprawled over Granddaddy’s wide porches and acres of lawn. That’s what happened when your family reunion was on Easter Sunday.
“If we let you take the truck to church, can we trust you to show up afterward?” Mom had asked, dangling his truck keys between her fingers. “Or do you need to ride with Daddy and me?”
“No, ma’am, I’ll be there,” Jake had promised. The only thing worse than coming to this family free-for-all would be to arrive in the backseat of his parents’ car, like a little kid. He was seventeen, damn it.
Jake’s hard-soled shoes crunched up the long gravel drive, past SUVs and pickups, convertibles and a couple of ancient Cadillacs that screamed “old people’s car.” Some Cobb and Fulton County license plates. Atlanta kin. As he passed each vehicle, he grew more and more relieved. Nope, that wasn’t his car. Not Chad’s. Maybe he and Jessica had decided not to come. Not with a new baby and all.
Up by the front porch, little kids charged around the azalea bushes, screaming and waving Easter baskets. Good. That meant lunch was over. He would scarf down some leftovers, hug a few great-aunts, mumble something about homework, and split.
The gravel gave way to the circular cement drive. And there it was. The orange Jeep Wrangler with the big Georgia Tech T sticker in the back window. Under the T, one of those stupid-ass “Baby on Board” signs.
Chad’s car.
So they were here. Chad, Jessica, and little what’shisname. Robert. Cousin Chad, the first Campbell grandchild to be a parent.
But Chad wasn’t the first. Jake was.
No one knew, except Mom and Daddy. Brynn, of course. And those tennis-playing a-holes from Atlanta — the Blakelys — who had adopted their baby. Jake’s baby.
Brynn didn’t give a shit. Right this minute, she was probably studying seventeenth-century French literature in her apartment near Emory. Didn’t matter to her that she gave birth to the real first Campbell great-grandchild three weeks ago. Three weeks and five days ago.
Did he look any different? Older? Jake could practically feel his hair graying. He already had the creaky knees. Well, knee.
Closer now, the sounds of a family party. Screaming kids. Men, voices rumbling in a low, slow stream. Women calling to children, to one another.
Chad’s hyena laugh from the backyard.
Not Chad. Not now. Jake pivot-turned through the garage into the kitchen. And smack into Mom, clearing dishes from the countertop.
“Thank you for showing up, sweetie.” She pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “I know it’s hard.”
“It’s okay.” Jake stared at his feet, afraid to look up.
Mom read his mind. She nodded toward the closed door off the den.
“Jessica’s nursing the baby back in Gran’s room,” she said, patting his arm. “Fix yourself a plate.” Mom plunked the stack of dishes in the sink. “Then come on out in the yard and see everyone.” She paused at the door. “Chad and the guys are watching old Camden ball games on the porch TV.”
Nursing. As far as Jake knew, Brynn never had.
That day in Brynn’s hospital room, Jake had watched the nurse bring in the baby and look uncertainly from Brynn in bed, to the Atlanta a-holes (aka the Blakelys), to Jake. “Do you want to feed him?” she asked.
“I will.” Mrs. Blakely took the blanketed bundle and a bottle from the nurse. In her creased khakis, polo shirt, and a cardigan knotted over her shoulders, she looked like a sorority girl, until you moved closer. The crinkles at the corners of her eyes. The silver hairs sprinkled in her blond salon-streak job.
“Here, Cam,” said Mr. Blakely, helping his wife into a chair.
Brynn looked away, channel-surfing the TV. She settled on a movie where everybody spoke French. Without subtitles. She clutched a blue teddy bear to her chest. Where had that come from? Did the hospital give them to all the new mothers? Why wasn’t she holding her baby instead of a dumb bear?
“I wish I could truly nurse him.” Mrs. Blakely sighed. “Oh, look at my big boy. Is he hungry? Yes, he is.”
Jake clenched his fists. Not your boy! Mine.
Brynn gr
imaced.
“You okay?” Jake asked.
“Yeah.” She shifted the bear. “My boobs hurt. They’re giving me something to dry up the milk, but it hasn’t kicked in yet.”
“Oh.” Jake hadn’t considered that Brynn would produce milk whether she kept the baby or not.
Mrs. Blakely looked up, beaming. “Did Brynn tell you we’ve picked a name?”
So had Jake. Andrew Robert, after Granddaddy Campbell. Drew for short.
“Aidan Alexander,” said Mrs. Blakely. “When he’s older, he might prefer Alex.”
Aidan? What kind of name was Aidan? Or Alex? His name was Drew.
Back in his grandparents’ house, Jake gazed around the kitchen. Eating was the last thing on his mind. Without looking, he plopped a spoonful of each dish until his paper plate buckled. Lunch in hand, he elbowed open the porch door.
“And there’s Camden quarterback, junior Jake Campbell, going back for a pass. Back, back,” drawled a sportscaster.
The male Campbells clustered in a corner of the porch, watching a video of the Jefferson County game. Jake caught a glimpse of Chad leaning over Granddaddy’s shoulder. No! No Chad. No football. Not today. He spied an Adirondack chair as far from the porch as possible, almost behind the garage, and headed for it.
“Got enough Jell-O salad there, dude?” Sylvie flopped, uninvited, into a neighboring Adirondack and sipped a canned Diet Coke. She smelled like cigarettes.
Jake looked down. Besides the two slices of ham and the yam casserole, there were at least five different mutations of Jell-O mounded on his plate.
“I like Jell-O.” He forked up a big hunk of something pink and pecan studded to prove it.
Sylvie took a long pull on her soda. “Where’ve you been lately? I never see you outside of school anymore.”
Jake swallowed. “Y’know. Homework. Physical therapy. Stuff.” Another mouthful, lime Jell-O with chopped apples.
“Oh, yeah, your knee,” Sylvie said. “Sorry. How’s it doing?”
“Okay.” Good. He could talk about his knee.
“So I guess you aren’t playing baseball, are you?”
