by Emiko Jean
Chapter 28
Taro
Taro paced the dewy grass of the wet garden. The banquet wasn’t set to start for another hour. He was early. A new habit. One he wasn’t sure if he liked or not.
He felt himself changing, all because of a short, abrasive girl who had pushed her way into his life. He liked his space. The quiet. And now she filled his silences. Every time she teased or challenged him, it felt . . . life-altering.
He’d sent a note requesting her presence prior to the banquet. He smiled at the thought of her receiving the summons. No doubt she would bristle at the command. But she would come. Taro was sure. He interested her as much as she him. Still, he felt like a lovesick fool, waiting for her, pacing the garden, a gift for her warming his pocket.
“Good evening.”
Taro whirled around at the sound of Mari’s voice. His words stuck in his throat at the sight of her. The sunset limned her body in a kind of celestial light. Her kimono was the color of a river. Curved white lines had been stitched into the fabric, mimicking ripples. In the current, birds swam, irises bloomed, and lilies floated. Taro feared that if he blinked she’d disappear. This creature of water and moonlight didn’t belong to him. And perhaps she never would. There were two more rooms left in the competition. Master Ushiba had bragged about the Winter Room. By my calculations, there are least a thousand ways to die, he’d said. Taro’s stomach clenched.
Mari’s two samurai guards hovered nearby, and Taro dismissed them with a flick of his head.
“Your frown is so fierce, it looks as if it could set the garden afire.” Mari stepped forward.
“I was just thinking of the girls from the Fall Room.”
Mari nodded. “I’ve been thinking of them also. Have your investigations yielded anything?” When they’d spent the afternoon together in his workroom, Taro had mentioned the three girls who had died under suspicious circumstances.
“They were poisoned,” Taro said.
Mari knitted her brow. “Poisoned?”
“That’s how it appears,” Taro explained. “Inquiries have been made into their deaths, but the shōgun is confounded.”
Mari frowned.
Seeking her smile, Taro said, “I’ve brought you a gift.”
Mari perked up. “What is it?”
Taro reached into his sleeve and withdrew the copper canary—the bird that had brought Mari to him. She grazed the bird’s feathers with a careful touch. “You’ve healed her.”
Taro had worked for hours, bent over his worktable, painstakingly hammering the feathers. He couldn’t fix the dent in its abdomen, and the copper didn’t shine as brightly as it once did, but the bird would fly again.
“Should we see how she fares?” he asked.
“I think it would be wrong not to,” she replied.
Courtiers began arriving, the garden growing more crowded by the minute. “Not here,” he said gruffly. He offered his arm.
The warmth from Mari’s hand seeped through Taro’s sleeve. He led her down the path they’d traveled at the first banquet.
“No fireflies,” Mari mentioned offhandedly.
“No,” Taro replied. “I had them all released.”
Mari rewarded him with a glowing smile.
The path narrowed, then opened into a field. Thick moss carpeted the ground and crept up, covering stone lanterns and steps. A fine mist cloaked the base of the cypress trees. The Moss Garden, another of Taro’s secret hideouts. He took in the musty dirt and rich greenery. It brought him a unique tranquility. One look at Mari, and he knew she felt it too.
“This reminds me of home,” she said.
“Where is that?” he asked.
“Far away.”
Taro frowned. Mari was careful with details. He hadn’t missed how she artfully dodged questions about herself by turning them back on him. She was clever. Secretive, even? “But where exactly?” he pressed.
Mari walked farther into the garden, moss cushioning the sounds of her steps. She brushed a hand against the thick orange bark of a cedar tree. “The mountains. I am from a small village in the Tsuko funo Mountains.”
Taro’s suspicion eased. Why did he find it so difficult to trust? He remembered the copper canary in his hand. He wound the bird and let it go. The canary flew up and then back down, hovering near a stone lantern.
“It’s flying a bit crooked,” Mari said, stepping closer to the bird.
Indeed, the bird favored one wing over the other, giving its flight pattern an uneven tilt. “That’s okay,” he said. “She is wounded but still a warrior.” When the bird’s cranks ran out, the moss cushioned its fall. Taro retrieved the bird and cracked open its chest with his thumb. He traced the gears and explained how the mechanisms worked. “The most important thing is the heart.”
Mari touched the bird, stealing Taro’s attention. “You speak of the bird as if it were alive.”
“What is life?” Taro asked, the corner of his mouth curling in a wry smile. “Most believe it is anything with a spirit, a soul. This bird has been a friend to me.” He focused on his feet, searching for the right words. “Every time I create something, I put a part of my soul into it.” Taro paused. “Even the metal collars.” Bringing his head up, he saw Mari’s stricken expression. “It doesn’t mean that I’m proud of them. I still regret it, but I don’t deny that they’re a part of me.” Carefully, he closed the bird’s chest and placed it in Mari’s hands. “My gift to you.” A piece of myself.
Mari’s hands shook as she closed her fingers around the copper canary. “Thank you.” Her voice sounded strange, choked. But then she smiled, at once honest and mysterious.
“What are you thinking?” Taro asked. Her hair was pulled back in an elaborate bun and adorned with a silver pick. It caught the light, winked at him.
Mari tilted her head to the sky. “I grew up so far away from here, but you were just as isolated. It occurs to me that you, too, have been alone all your life.” She leveled her gaze with his. “Is it lonely in your Palace of Illusions?”
Taro answered in a rough, uncultivated voice. “It is safe.”
“That is not the question I asked.”
Yes, he wanted to answer. It is. So lonely. Taro loved his creatures, but at the end of the day, they were cold. They could not speak or feel. Mari’s eyes locked with Taro’s. The air hummed. They stepped toward each other, magnets pulled together.
Taro grasped Mari’s waist. At the action, she let loose a breath. Then he brought his mouth to hers. There were no lightning bolts. Or fireworks. Or blazing heat. But a gentle warmth crept through Taro, and, along with it, a fierce certainty. His lips mapped hers with care. Whole worlds danced before his eyes as Mari sighed and drew him closer. He felt something fierce and needy uncurl deep inside him. This creature of water and moonlight. He’d never let her slip through his fingers.
Abruptly, Mari broke the kiss. She stepped back. Her fingers went to her lips, and her eyes widened. Surprise etched her face, and something else. Fear?
Taro inhaled, wanting so badly to capture her lips once more, to silence any of her protestations. But he stayed in his place. “I’m sorry,” he said, even though he wasn’t sorry at all.
“Are you?” Mari asked.
His lips curved down, back into his usual frown. “No.”
Mari’s eyes narrowed. “I should go.” She took another step back.
“No,” he said again, his voice strangled. “I don’t want you to.” Now he sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn’t stop the fear from climbing his throat and choking him. If he let her leave, he might never see her again.
Mari’s lips toyed with a reproachful smile. “Do you always get what you want?”
Taro didn’t have to think about it. “Yes,” he answered. “But not what I need.”
“You admit to being spoiled, then?” she asked, ignoring his last comment.
Taro gave a snort. “Yes. I am spoiled and stubborn.” His two greatest faults. He looked down, s
haking his head. “Mari . . . there are things I . . . things I need to tell you.”
“Don’t,” she said in a warning, plaintive tone.
His words flooded out. “I ordered all the lightning bugs freed because you didn’t like them in cages.” They locked eyes, and his hands clenched. “I’ve been a coward, too afraid to stand up to my father, but I don’t want to be that way anymore. I want to be different. And I think I could be, with you by my side. You make me want to be . . . better.”
She pursed her lips before answering. “You should want to be better for yourself, not for someone else.”
He didn’t know how to respond, so he did in the only way he could. “There are two rooms left. I believe in you. I believe you were meant to conquer the Seasons and be my empress. Just as I believe it is fate that brought you to me in the garden. And now I believe in us, in what we can do together. I believe together we can make another way, a better way.” He stopped, crippled by his vulnerability. It was as if someone had cracked open his chest, pulled out his heart, and was peering at all the nicks and defects.
“You are cruel, Taro,” she said wretchedly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Mari—” He reached for her, but she put out a hand.
“It isn’t fair. You promise me things I cannot have.”
“I don’t understand.” He watched her.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” she whispered the words to herself.
“What isn’t the way it was supposed to be?”
She gestured at the space between them. “I never intended—” Her words cut off on a choked sob. She fled. And despite his earlier vow never to let Mari slip through his fingers, Taro lost her to the trees and the ink of night.
* * *
Taro returned to the banquet. He caught a cup of sake from a passing servant’s tray and downed it in one gulp. The liquor burned the soft tissue in his throat, releasing the sting of Mari’s departure. He’d upset her, but why?
“I never liked these parties.” The voice startled Taro. The emperor drew close to his son. They stood shoulder to shoulder at the fringe of the revelry, twin stony stares shadowing their faces, making them unapproachable.
“No one likes them less than I,” Taro said. He clutched the sake cup and tipped it to his mouth, hoping for another drink, but the cup was empty.
“Is this something else we should argue about? Who likes parties less?” the emperor asked. He sounded tired, resigned. Could his father be wearying of their discord?
Taro tapped his fingers against the sake cup. “Is there something you wanted, Father?”
Lines of irritation appeared on the emperor’s forehead. “The Winter Room starts tonight.”
Taro’s brow descended in an ominous line of displeasure. “It was supposed to begin tomorrow.”
The emperor sighed. “I’ve asked Master Ushiba to move it up. I’m tired of waiting.” Another of the emperor’s less desirable qualities: impatience. “I want to see this over and you married.” He slapped Taro’s back and returned to the banquet.
A frustrated wheeze escaped Taro as he watched his father go. A love like madness, that is how the people often spoke of the emperor and his empress, how they described what they shared.
“Be careful,” his nursemaid used to warn. “It’s catching. Your father’s blood runs true. There is a flame in your veins, waiting to ignite.” It was a warning never to love too deeply. But Taro no longer heeded his nursemaid’s words. What if he did go mad with desire? If Mari were a fire, Taro would gladly burn.
Chapter 29
Mari
Mari fled the moss garden. Her hair loosened, and the silver pick, Hissa’s gift, dislodged. She tore it from her bun, holding it alongside the copper canary.
She could still feel the warmth of Taro’s lips. The imprint of his hands gripping her waist. Duty and home. The whole before the self. The betrayal in her heart burned, and a sob wrenched from her lungs. She’d meant it when she’d accused Taro of cruelty.
How dare he dangle this life in front of her?
She’d come to care for Taro, the prince of metal and ice. But he was more than that. Taro was a lonely young man who created brilliant things.
It would be easy to love him. As easy as falling or breathing. Mari swiped at the tears on her cheeks, her thoughts in chaos. Her old desires and new desires clashed, leaving only wreckage in their wake. Taro offered her a chance at . . . love. Passion. With Taro, the possibilities were endless.
If she stayed with Taro, she could never go home to Tsuma. Maybe that would be a bearable sacrifice.
But what would happen if Taro discovered she was yōkai? Would she always have to hide the other part of herself, her yōkai existence? Would it be possible to trust Taro with the truth?
Cold air caressed Mari’s face. The banquet’s revelry grew muffled in the distance. She’d arrived at the Dry Garden. White sand, raked into waves, glittered in the moonlight.
Another way, Taro had promised. His words burned inside her chest, the force of a million suns. A better way. Was this her purpose? The glimmer of a new destiny unfolded before Mari, one in which she and Taro forged a path together, where yōkai were no longer choked by the metal collar.
The garden grew cold. Chilled wind brushed her cheeks. Her lips tingled, and she tasted . . . snow? Yes, snow! Little flakes began to fall, catching in her eyelashes and melting. It reminded her of home, and Mari smiled with wonder. Snow in spring. A clack of footsteps on the slate path drew Mari’s attention. Out of the darkness, a figure took shape—thin, gray beard, milky eyes, papery skin that loosely hugged bones. Master Ushiba hurried forward. “There you are. I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
Mari’s mouth parted, but she said nothing. The snowfall increased and began to layer on the pathway. Still, the sky remained clear, stars twinkled, and the moon was full and bright.
“Come, come.” Master Ushiba gestured for Mari to follow. “The others are waiting.”
Mari hastened to join the Seasonist. “Waiting?”
“Yes, the Winter Room starts now.” He continued on his way, moving far too briskly for a man his age.
“I didn’t receive a summons,” Mari said. They exited the garden and wound through the banquet, courtiers parting and staring at the spectacle, Mari chasing the Seasonist while snow fell around them. As they mounted the palace steps, Mari glanced back, searching for Taro, but she couldn’t find him in the revelry. Did he know the Winter Room began tonight?
Master Ushiba waved a thin hand and bobbed his head. “The emperor, our Heavenly Sovereign, said I have spent far too much on taiko drummers and red carpets. Less is more, he said. And I am ever his dutiful servant.”
“My weapon,” she uttered.
“No weapons in this Room. You will rely on your natural abilities.”
They arrived at the Main Hall in front of the Winter Room entrance, the cloud of snow still hanging around them. Sachiko, Nori, and Asami were already gathered. None of the girls carried weapons. Six samurai lined up against the entrance, waiting to lift the oak bar and unlock the room. A snow-capped mountain was carved into the doors. Mari took her place next to her ally.
“Evening,” Asami said, swallowing.
“I had hoped we wouldn’t see each other again so soon,” Nori remarked. The battle-axe girl’s breaths seemed shallow. She hadn’t fully recovered from the Fall Room.
“Welcome to the third season, the Winter Room.” Master Ushiba rubbed his hands together. The snow ceased, evaporating into thin air. “Behind these doors, a single scroll awaits you.” Mari sucked in an uneasy breath. Beside her, the other three girls shifted on their feet. One scroll. One winner. It seemed her alliance with Asami was at an end. But what about the fourth Room?
As if reading Mari’s mind, Asami spoke. “What of the fourth Season?”
Master Ushiba smiled. “Though only one girl will move forward, the competition will continue beyond this room. But that i
s all I can tell you. A Seasonist must have some secrets.” He clapped his hands. “The doors, please.” The samurai’s motions were synced as they placed their shoulders under the massive oak bar, lifting it up and away.
Endless winter sprawled out before Mari, a vast field of rolling white hills. A blast of cold air pressed Mari’s kimono against her body, and she shivered. In her hand she clutched the canary and her silver pick, the items forgotten in all the excitement.
Master Ushiba cleared his throat. “When you see the sun flare”—the gray sky in the Winter Room erupted with light, then abruptly extinguished—“you may begin your search. You will find the scroll at a place that always runs but never walks, often murmurs but never talks, has a bed but never sleeps, has a head but never weeps.” Silence reigned. Mari mouthed the riddle to herself, committing it to memory.
“A warning before you enter.” Master Ushiba’s voice took on an ominous tone. “It has been brought to my attention that one of you may have used trickery to gain an advantage. Though I cannot control your actions once in the Room, beware that the Room sees and knows all. Do not try to cheat the Seasons, for they will collect twofold. Nature is the most vengeful of partners.”
A sick sensation curled low in Mari’s stomach. She glanced at Sachiko. The girl had let a pit viper do her dirty work. Was she also responsible for the deaths in the Fall Room, for poisoning the other girls? Or was it Asami? Mari didn’t know what kind of yōkai the girl was. She could be capable of anything. Or could it be Nori? The battle-axe girl had been wounded. But could she have inflicted it on herself? Never discount an opponent in last place. She has her own advantage. Your back is turned, unprepared for a stab between the shoulder blades.
Master Ushiba smiled. “Now, Lady Asami of Clan Akimoto, your destiny awaits.” He swept into a bow, gesturing at the open doors.
