by Emiko Jean
Hiro snorted. His hand drifted to the swords at his left hip. The tips of Mari’s fingers itched, her talons threatening to burst forth.
Hiro glowered at the lamp. “Throughout the journey, I questioned myself. Could it really be her? I’ve waited for this day a long time. I wondered what I would do if I ever saw you again. I figured it was impossible. The chances of finding you . . .” He shook his head.
Mari stepped back, her calves pressed against her trunk, blocking any farther retreat. Her brain fired as it tried to make connections and missed them.
Hiro squinted, appraising her. “I never imagined you were an Animal Wife. I’ve looked year after year, trek after wretched trek, for that shed. I trained as a samurai, became a rōnin, took any job that involved the mountains. I’d almost given up. Imagine my surprise when I saw you, my latest commission.” Hiro’s eyes locked with Mari’s. “I still limp because of the broken knee you inflicted on me.”
Mari’s breath caught. Hiro had been her first. The boy she was sentenced to kill. She never would have recognized him. Of all those she’d injured, she thought of him the most. How he’d trembled. His jagged breaths. The slick tears on his cheeks. “What is it you want?” she asked. Her hands flexed; talons sprouted from her fingertips. Hiro’s height put him at an advantage. She wouldn’t be able to reach his neck or throat with much precision. She’d have to swing low, slice open the abdomen. Did I save this boy’s life only to kill him ten years later? What a shame. Despite her mother’s order, she had never killed. But she could if she had to.
Hiro inhaled. His mouth twitched. But he did not draw his swords. Hiro flicked his hand. “I fear no death but death with dishonor,” he said, repeating the samurai code. “You saved Masa. You are not the evil I believed you to be. I—I am in your debt.” He swept his body into a bow. “A life for a life, Mari-san. Someday I will repay the favor. I vow it.”
At Hiro’s words, Mari’s claws retracted. She swallowed against her waning fear. By all rights, her life should be forfeit. This man had spent his life hating her. The whole journey, she’d been vulnerable. Every minute she slept, Hiro could have reaped his revenge. She may have been strong and able to wield a naginata, but she bled like everyone else. And now, not only did he forgive her; he felt in her debt. It was too much to process.
A soft knock at the door, and Mari’s eyes darted to the intruder. A girl stood in the frame. She bowed low, splotches of pink washing over her cheeks. “My name is Sei. My master bade me to help you unpack. But I see you are engaged. I will return at another time.” Sei turned to go.
“No. Stay,” Mari said a bit too loudly. “I’ll just be a moment.” She stepped closer to Hiro. Her blood ran like honey, thick and slow. She whispered so only he could hear. “I won’t insult you by providing all the reasons I had to do what I did. Nor should you be compelled to feel sympathy for me. So, silly as it may sound, I’ll offer you the only thing I can: an apology. I’m sorry. I’m so very, deeply sorry.” Mari bowed.
Hiro nodded, his gaze steely. “A life for a life. Someday our scales will be even.” He grinned, and it was a terrifying thing, ferocious and toothy. Like a wolf. Her mother loved to hunt the wild packs near Tsuma. Wolves never give up. They fight until the death, her mother had said. “I will return to the mountains. But if you should ever need me, find the red cliff daisy,” said Hiro. Mari frowned. She was familiar with the flower. It grew in sunny patches on the mountain. Its garnet petals were sticky and stained the skin. “When burned, it turns the smoke red. I’ll find you.” Then the rōnin left, his shoulders filling the width of the door frame, forcing Sei into the hall.
As Hiro’s footsteps disappeared, Sei reentered, head bent so that Mari could see only the crown of her dark hair.
Mari exhaled, trying to calm her jangled nerves. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Once the tremors in her hands subsided, Mari said, “Sei? That’s your name, correct?”
The servant’s head popped up. A metal collar peeked out from under the top of her stiff brown kimono. She was yōkai. But what species? She looked human. “Yes, my lady. Would you like me to help you unpack?”
Mari looked about the bare room. “There’s really nowhere to unpack.”
Sei hesitated. “Perhaps you would like a bath after your journey? The communal bath is down the hall. I know for a fact that it’s empty right now.”
Mari regarded her fingers, her nails caked in dirt. She hadn’t bathed the entire journey. “Okay,” she said, giving Sei a decisive nod.
The servant led Mari down the windowless hall. Oil lamps lit the way. All around were pleasant odors. Candle wax. Rice paper. Sesame oil from the inn’s restaurant. Homey smells. It would be just after dinner in Tsuma. The Animal Wives would be retiring after their day’s work. She already missed the rhythm of the consistency she had thought a constraint.
Their village acted as a small city. Yuka ran an apothecary out of her cottage. Ayumi sewed and mended clothes. There were cooks, weavers, and healers. Hissa had a special skill in patching roofs. In every way but one, the Animal Wives had evolved past their need for men. But still they had to continue their traditions. Duty and home. The whole before the self.
Chapter 12
Taro
Taro’s mechanical bird was ready to fly. Last night, he’d placed the final copper feather in its tail. He’d slept restlessly, imagining how the bird would look with its wings spread for the first time, how its metal chest would glint in the light. Soon the bird would be free, and so would Taro.
The prince dressed with care in simple hakama and a surcoat, peasant garb. He didn’t bother to pack anything, only stuffed his pockets full of coins. Money would buy the essentials. He conjured thoughts of a storefront, a place in a market in a different city where he would sell his creations, where mothers with their children would stop and gaze with wonder at the creatures he’d built.
Tonight, he’d make his escape.
With the metal bird and coins heavy in his pockets, he slipped into the palace tunnels. This time, instead of veering toward the Main Hall, Taro took a series of eight rights and sixteen lefts. In this portion of the tunnels, the samurai patrolled only every sixty-four minutes. Deeper and deeper he went, until the smell of wet grass clung to his nostrils. He’d reached the outer tunnels, those under the gardens.
A set of stairs led him to a trapdoor located in the dragon-shaped maze. He alighted from the underground, hair slipping from his topknot and ruffling in the breeze. The night had grown darker, and fog clung to his ankles. He navigated the maze. The key was to walk counterclockwise alongside the dragon’s coiling back. His steps slowed as a green wooden door set in a stone wall came into view. He’d reached the outer hedge. He fished a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. The door opened with a groan. Taro stepped over the threshold and locked it behind him.
When he was alone, something inside Taro uncoiled, released. No one—no servant, samurai, priest, or courtier—would dare enter this long-abandoned garden. And freedom was just a few feet away. Earthwork walls rose up in front of him, and, just beyond those, Tokkaido. Soon, he’d be gone.
Dead pine needles and twigs crunched under his feet as he walked the wild terrain, overgrown with shrubs and weeds and kudzu, a creeping vine where snakes often hid. The tea garden was a shell of its former glory. He’d heard that, once, it had bloomed with fiery maple trees and glowed with lanterns, the air alive with laugher. In the center of the garden was a dilapidated house. Its roof sagged, and its floorboards stank of rot. This had been his mother’s tea garden. When she’d died, so had it.
Taro carefully removed the mechanical bird from the folds of his robe. The bird’s eyes were closed, its wings pressed neatly against its body. Sleeping. Cradling the bird in his large palm, Taro wound the crank on its back.
The bird’s eyes flitted open and blinked. Its head turned left and right with sharp clicks. He wound the crank again, and the bird’s copper wings spread. The sig
ht was magnificent. One more crank, and the bird’s wings flapped. With a thrust of his hand, Taro set the bird to flight. His chest inflated with pride.
Like any newborn creature, the bird was tentative at first, flitting from branch to branch. But its bravery grew with each passing moment. The bird launched from a scraggly bonsai tree, entering the sky as straight as a spear. Its wings began to flutter erratically, and too late, Taro remembered its lifespan was only the entirety of three cranks. Two minutes. The bird was dying in the sky. All of Taro’s hard work, months spent toiling, would disappear like the flash of a firecracker.
Taro ran, arms outstretched, ready to catch his little bird, to save it. But he was too slow. Taro could only watch as the bird spun from the sky, preparing to crash to the earth below.
Chapter 13
Mari
Steam rose around Mari as Sei sponged her back in the long, wooden tub. “Have you been employed here long?” Mari asked. Her hands drew gentle circles in the opaque water, where specks of dirt from the journey floated around her. Tendrils of hair plastered her cheeks.
“Yes. My mother was a servant here before me. When she passed away, I was bequeathed to the innkeeper, Mr. Adachi,” Sei said meekly.
“Bequeathed?”
The cloth on Mari’s back stopped moving. “Yōkai are not free citizens in the Imperial City. We must serve a human master. My mother was Mr. Adachi’s property, and thus he owned any children she had.”
Bequeathed: What a gentle word for enslaved.
Sei rose from her kneeling position by the tub and fetched a bar of rose-scented soap. Mari glimpsed hooks nestled into Sei’s tight bun.
“You’re a hari-onago?” A Hook Girl. Mari didn’t mean to speak it aloud, but she couldn’t believe it. They were practically cousins, molded from the same clay, Tami had told her. Like Animal Wives, hari-onago were often mistaken for human. But they had a distinguishing characteristic—barbed, needle-like hooks graced the tips of their hair. She had heard the stories. In the cloak of darkness, Hook Girls wandered the streets, searching for unsavory men. When approached by one, the hari-onago smiled. If the man smiled back, she would sink her barbed hooks into her victim’s flesh, trapping him. Once the man was rendered helpless, the hari-onago devoured him. But this Hook Girl, Sei, didn’t resemble the creature of Mari’s childhood imagination. Sei was tall and gaunt. Her vicious hooks were rusted and dulled from a lifetime of neglect.
Hearing Mari’s accusation, Sei dropped the bar of soap and fumbled for it on the floor.
Mari sat forward, water splashing over the tub. “I’m sorry.”
Sei plucked up the soap and continued scrubbing Mari’s back, her movements jerky and her breaths quick. Mari muttered another apology over her shoulder.
Sei spoke in a low voice. “You didn’t say what village you hail from, but it must be far away. Here in the Imperial City, we don’t speak of . . .” The words died on Sei’s tongue. But Mari understood what she was failing to say. We don’t speak of who we really are.
Mari’s toes curled. “Is it forbidden?”
“It is . . .” The Hook Girl hesitated. “. . . unwise.”
Mari grew thoughtful. She let her head fall to the lip of the tub and closed her eyes. “In the village I am from, yōkai are free. No one is collared. And no one is forced to live in separate wards.” Technically all true, although perhaps it was not quite so idyllic as it sounded.
The sponge paused on Mari’s arm. “Forgive me if I offer unwanted advice, but for your own safety, I would discourage you from speaking of such things.”
Mari’s heartbeat pulsed. “Does it hurt?” she asked, indifferent to Sei’s warning.
For a tense moment, there was no sound but the drip of water. “Does what hurt?” Sei finally asked.
“Your collar,” Mari clarified. “Does it hurt?”
“I’ve worn it so long, I’ve forgotten it’s there.”
Lie. Mari could feel Sei thinking, contemplating if Mari could be trusted. Sei’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But sometimes my hand accidentally brushes up against it, and it burns like the heat of a thousand suns. The last time I burned myself, I lost all feeling in my fingertips.” Sei opened her hands. Thick, callused scars covered her skin.
Mari didn’t ask any more questions. Sei scrubbed her with rice bran until she was fresh and pink. Then she cleaned under Mari’s nails with a wooden pick. Guilt blossomed in Mari’s stomach, for while she grieved Sei’s enslavement, she couldn’t help but revel in her own freedom, however fleeting it might be.
* * *
Mari was lost. She had tried to sleep after her bath, but to no avail. She blamed her restlessness on the thin, sour-smelling mat, on the too-small room. Seeking fresh air and a reprieve from her chaotic thoughts, Mari left the inn and began to walk away from the markets. Somewhere, she had turned from the city’s main thoroughfare and into a neighborhood.
A wealthy one. Willow trees lined the streets, their branches sweeping in the wind. Ahead, a half-moon bridge arched over a stream. Sprawling mansions took up whole blocks. Mari was lost in the dark.
She tilted her head back, hoping to spot the golden roof of the Palace of Illusions, hoping it might orient her. Nothing. The shifting branches of the willow trees blocked the sky. A stone wall nearly twenty feet high hugged the sidewalk. It must lead to something.
Each pad of her echoing footsteps reminded Mari that she was alone. She wished she had brought her naginata. A girl unaccompanied in a strange city . . . Cautionary tales started like that. A subtle shift in the temperature had Mari pausing. Then she tasted it, her tongue tingling with burnt cinnamon. Around a slight curve in the wall, two priests smoked tobacco from a kiseru.
Mari blinked rapidly, but her vision didn’t change. A high whine of panic filled her head. A single drop of sweat slid down Mari’s spine. The priests hadn’t seen her yet. With haste, she turned and started back in the direction she had come.
“Hey, you!” a priest called out.
She nearly groaned at her mistake. She should have continued past the priests, fought through it. Guilty people run. She glanced over her shoulder. The priests hadn’t rounded the corner yet. The empty street stretched out in front of her. If she continued on, they’d spot her like a deer in an open field.
Mari looked around frantically, noticing pieces of stone jutting from the wall. The brush of the priests’ footsteps drew closer. Mari placed her foot on a stone and launched herself up. Her small stature had its benefits: she could climb fast. In her peripheral vision, she saw a flash of copper, but she didn’t have time to process the oddity. With a grunt, she pulled herself over the wall.
She landed in an overgrown garden, just as that flash of copper crashed at her feet. A metal bird. It lay on its side, its eyes blinking furiously before shutting with an audible click. Mari picked up the bird, studying it. How strange.
She didn’t hear the snap of twigs, didn’t see the body barreling forward. She let out a cry as a hand pinned her to the wall. The stone bit into her back. The bird tumbled from her fingers.
She heard one of the priests on the other side of the wall. “Sounds like one of the guards got her.” A muffled laugh, then the tap of fading footsteps.
Mari grabbed her assailant’s wrists, her fingertips ready to sharpen into claws, pierce and slash whomever it was to pieces. Men are conditioned to take. Women are conditioned to give. Never let a man take anything from you. Your smiles, your humor, your body. She remembered her mother’s words. Mari gazed at the soon-to-be-dead man.
The samurai was large, his face made up of sharp, unrelenting angles. He was imposingly handsome—in the way a katana blade was beautiful. His hair was long and kept in a sloppy topknot. And he had a smudge of dirt between his eyes. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Mari’s ragged breathing.
She slammed her foot down on the samurai’s, then thrust her knee into his stomach. His body bent. He emitted something between a snarl and a grunt. Sh
e bucked the same knee into his face. Crack. She’d broken his nose. The hand around her throat tightened, squeezed. Mari struggled, hands and feet swinging.
“Cease!” the samurai roared.
Mari stilled. Not because the samurai commanded it, but because she needed a few precious seconds. She put her hands behind her back, calling to her half-beast.
The samurai moved toward her, his cheek almost brushing hers. Blood dripped from his nose onto her feet. “You should know,” came the low voice, “you have breached a wall of the Imperial Palace. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Chapter 14
Taro
Taro drew back, gazing at what he’d caught.
A girl. Her long, black hair was woven into a thick braid. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and her russet-colored eyes shot daggers. Her kimono was simple, plain, but made of fine cloth. Not a servant, but not a courtier, either. Perhaps she was from out of town, here for the competition. The thought made Taro’s blood run hot.
“If I let you go, do you promise to stop fighting me?” he asked.
She made a hissing sound. He decided that meant yes. Taro eased the pressure on her throat, but he moved his body closer, keeping her trapped. He felt her tremble. “Who are you?” Her eyelids lowered. She didn’t answer. “What is your name?” he asked more forcefully.
She gritted her teeth, a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. “Mari,” she said.
Taro’s arm dropped to his side. “Mari?”
“Yes.” She lifted her hand, fingers caressing her neck, dancing over her stuttering pulse.
“And what are you doing here?” he asked.
Her eyes flashed, caution dancing in their depths. “That’s a complicated question.” He advanced. She put a hand up, warding him off. “I walked too far from the inn where I am staying and got lost.” Taro stepped back. She straightened from the wall. He found her height unimpressive.
