Falling Through Glass

by Barbara Sheridan

  “Silence!” Yamanami yelled in a voice infinitely more commanding than his measured speaking tone.

  Emmi kept her eyes focused on her feet. She followed the vice-commander to the middle of the three small cells that formed the shorter portion of the L. Blankets had been hung on the sides as makeshift walls. Yamanami picked up the clean chamber pot from the floor outside and placed it in the right corner behind a small bamboo screen.

  “It isn’t the privacy you’re used to, but I think you’ll be comfortable enough.”

  “Thank you,” Emmi said, stepping inside. Though she wanted to scream when Yamanami shut the door and placed a large iron lock through the wooden bars, she kept silent.

  “I’m going to check on that food tray, and then I’ll be back.”

  “All right.”

  When he left, Emmi unrolled the thin futon mat and curled up in the center. She prayed that this was all a nightmare, that she’d wake up and find it had all been a bad dream. That wish fell apart quickly once the male prisoners began calling out to her a few minutes later.

  “They bring you to entertain us?”

  “You smell sweet.”

  “I get the first taste.”

  Emmi covered her ears and hoped Yamanami would return soon. When the outer door to the jail slid open, she crawled to the front bars and looked out.

  She could make out Yamanami in the dim lantern light. He was carrying a dinner tray. Behind him was another man, who veered off toward the prisoners’ cells.

  Emmi gasped when she heard scuffling and what could only be the sound of men being beaten. A man’s voice issued threats and orders of silence.

  “Pay it no mind, child,” Yamanami said as he set the tray down then unlocked the door.

  “But—”

  “They savaged and murdered a woman who was gathering information for the shogunate. They don’t deserve your mercy.”

  He slipped the open lock through one of the door crossbars, then picked up the tray and set it on the floor beside the futon. Emmi’s empty stomach rumbled at the smell of the soup, steaming tea and flat bread. She noticed that there was enough for two.

  “If you don’t mind, I thought I’d sit here with you.”

  “Well…”

  Yamanami smiled a rather sad smile. “It’s quite safe, I promise you.”

  “Yamanami-san,” a man said.

  Emmi looked up at the man who had accompanied the vice-commander inside. He was dressed in a dark kimono, his black hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

  “Forgive the interruption. I don’t think you’ll have any further trouble tonight from that scum.”

  Yamanami sighed, and Emmi had the distinct impression that he didn’t have much of a stomach for this part of the job.

  “Thank you, Saitou-san.” He turned back to her. “Maeda-dono, this is Saitou Hajime, captain of the third unit.”

  Emmi managed to stop herself from saying “I know.” Saitou was portrayed quite often in anime and manga. The drawn versions didn’t come close to grabbing the intensity of the real man.

  Saitou bowed to her then addressed his commander once more. “I will be making rounds through the compound tonight if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  The fierce samurai headed to the door, pausing long enough to order the prisoners to cease their groaning and sniveling else he’d “make them stop.”

  “I think he’s more frightening than Hijikata.”

  “You might be right.” Yamanami removed the cover from the food dishes. “We’d better eat this before it gets cold.”

  * * * *

  At the sound of the quiet knock, Hijikata Toshizou turned toward the inner door. “Enter.”

  His chief investigator slipped inside and knelt, bowing deeply.

  “As of now, my sources within the Shoshidai have no information on any girl scheduled to be questioned in connection with rebel activities. It’s possible the girl may have information on another matter, or it might be that the confusion surrounding the current changeover between governors has let something slip through the cracks.”

  Hijikata stroked his chin. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “This bureaucratic confusion is all unbelievably convenient for our friend, Nakagawa no miya—oh that’s right, he calls himself Fujiwara in public.” Hijikata snorted. The emperor’s nephew shouldn’t go about putting on the pretense of a commoner. Men of the court had no stomach for war—particularly a prince with a weakness for pretty faces.

  “Sir?”

  Hijikata dismissed his speculation with a wave. “And the girl?”

  “I didn’t find any information specifically on her, although it seems that she and Fujiwara were coming from the direction of the Inamoto-ro. However, they have no women fitting her description. I checked with people at the other first-class houses, but they had nothing either.” The spy paused. “Shall I check with the lesser houses?”

  Hijikata shook his head. “Fujiwara wouldn’t dirty himself at a lesser brothel.” He drank a small saucer of sake, offering some to his spy. “Something about the girl didn’t come across as a prostitute, though she was dressed like one. She had no shoes, and her hair was a mess. Such slovenliness is not good for business.” He poured himself another drink. “What exactly could our ‘friend’ be up to?”

  “You don’t think he has begun to side with the rebels, do you?”

  Hijikata shrugged. “Katsura and his people want to be the power behind the throne, and what better way to get close to that throne than through the son of the emperor’s closest advisor?”

  “But if the girl is a Choshu spy, then perhaps that’s why he wants to hand her over to the Shoshidai.”

  “That’s entirely possible,” Hijikata agreed. “However, I don’t trust our current governor, Inaba. When Matsudaira takes over in the next few days, we may know more.”

  The spy, Yamazaki, bowed and stood. “I’ll keep trying to find out who the girl is and see what I can dig up on Fujiwara’s recent activities.”

  “Fine.”

  * * * *

  In his bedroom in one of the residence buildings of the Imperial Palace, Kae stared up at the moonlight glinting off the gilded ceiling trim. He reached beneath his thick futon and pulled out the stained cloth he’d wrapped around the pretty oni’s hand earlier. The stains certainly appeared to be human blood. She could feel pain and fear. She had cried. These things certainly seemed to prove her claim that she was no demon. Yet the undeniable fact was that he had pulled her from Aneko’s mirror with his own hands. How could she have come from within a mirror and not be some otherworldly being?

  ‘I told you, I’m Em—Maeda Emiko. I don’t know how I got here, but I know the mirror has something to do with it, and I need it to get back to my time…’

  Her time.

  What did that mean? For that matter, why did she have such an odd accent and where had she learned foreign words?

  Kae got up and tossed the bloodstained cloth into the small brazier that did little to warm the room. He went back to his futon and pulled the cover over his head. He closed his eyes, doubting that sleep would come any time soon.

  It wasn’t just this business with the pretty oni—Emiko, he corrected himself—that troubled him. The very condition of Japan itself preyed upon his mind.

  His father did not like the political trouble the Choshu clan and their followers stirred within their various domains. While they insisted that they revered the emperor and wanted to expel all foreign barbarians, the truth of the matter was that this Sonno Joi philosophy of theirs was merely a means to overthrow the Tokugawa. With the shogunate gone, they would be in the position of power to make the rules that benefited themselves and not necessarily all of Japan.

  Kaemon bolted upright as a preposterous thought hit him.

  Of course! His pretty oni was a human girl—her odd appearance was all part of the rebels’ plan.

  Before Aneko had left the brothel, she’d had one of the serving
girls bring him sake. While he doubted that Aneko could be any kind of accomplice, it remained entirely possible that the Choshu had found out exactly who he was and had found the perfect opportunity to drug him.

  Kae stood and paced the room. It all made perfect sense. The episode with the mirror was nothing more than a drugged dream and the acting of a devious girl playing tricks with his mind.

  But if that’s true, then why didn’t they poison me outright?

  Chapter Seven

  Emmi woke a bit before dawn and sat up to see Yamanami had fallen asleep sitting against the side of the cell. Emmi took one of her blankets and gently draped it over him.

  He was such a nice man that she found it hard to believe he was actually one of the leaders of this fierce group of samurai. She’d detected sadness in him when he spoke of their recent run-ins with the Choshu samurai who were seeking to overthrow the shogun. It was clear that he fought when he had to, but each time he raised his sword against another man, he did so at a great personal sacrifice.

  Emmi wished now that her father hadn’t read her those history books as bedtime stories when she was younger. It broke her heart to know what Yamanami Keisuke couldn’t. His conscience would not allow him to violate the Shinsengumi’s cardinal rule—once you joined, you could never leave. Yamanami would die because of it.

  Her mouth was bone dry. Emmi reached through the open cell door and poured herself a bit of the now cold tea that was left in the pot from the night before. It wasn’t her usual morning latte, but it wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately, it was just enough to fill her bladder to the overflowing point. She stifled a groan as she thought of the chamber pot waiting behind the screen in the corner.

  She tried thinking of something, anything, to take her mind off her need, but all her imagination would conjure was a remembrance of sitting on the beach near Jake’s condo. The beach. The ocean. All that water, pounding against the rocks. Wave after wave…

  Emmi nearly dove toward the screen to use the dreaded ceramic pot. She struggled to get situated, but once she did, she shut her eyes and hoped that Yamanami would sleep through the sound, which seemed as loud as the gushing of Niagara Falls. Though her bladder felt so much better once the deluge ran its course, there was still one small problem.

  Or not.

  Finally, Emmi appreciated Grandma Maeda’s weird fixation that a lady should always carry a tissue or two tucked in the center of her bra. It wasn’t quite the abundant quilted softness she was used to, but it was close enough.

  Carefully, Emmi finished up and stood, making certain not to tip over the pot or let the hem of the kimono fall in it. She peeked around the screen then stepped out. Luckily, Yamanami was still sleeping, and if he wasn’t, at least he had the decency to pretend to be.

  Emmi lay down on the futon again but knew she’d never fall back to sleep. Her brain buzzed with a million and three questions, the first being—how was she ever going to get back home when she wasn’t even quite sure how she’d gotten here?

  She sat up and crinkled her nose. A breeze blew through the tiny window set high in the wall outside the cell, and the smell it carried reminded her of the chamber pot’s existence. Bad enough that the place stank from the male prisoners’ waste, but she really didn’t want anything of the sort to be closer to her than necessary.

  Yamanami had gone out last night to relieve his own bladder. Emmi didn’t recall him unlocking the outer door before exiting, so it might remain unlocked now. She could go out, leave the pot, then come back and wait to be formally sprung. After all, it wasn’t as if she was a criminal prisoner or anything.

  Emmi retrieved the chamber pot carefully, moving slowly so as not to spill it. She tiptoed between the futon and the sleeping samurai leader, hoping he didn’t decide to stretch out his legs. She stepped over him without any disaster and breathed a quick sigh of relief. Emmi inched to the door, not wanting to draw the attention of those criminals down the way.

  Almost home free! Emmi thought, testing the door by nudging it with her foot. It gave way a bit, and she shifted sideways to push it open with her shoulder.

  The door flew open just as Emmi shifted her weight. Emmi pitched outward, and the pot flew out of her hands, right into the center of Hijikata Toshizou’s chest. He roared an obscenity so loudly Emmi was sure it woke half of Kyoto.

  She fell to her knees partly as a sign of apology, partly to pray he wouldn’t slice her head off. Gaining an ounce of courage, she glanced up and winced. The tissue she’d used as toilet paper had deposited itself right in the center of his low obi.

  Emmi bent her head to the ground and apologized profusely in Japanese as best she could. She begged his forgiveness, adding that she was a complete fool who didn’t deserve his mercy.

  “Can’t you do anything right?” he shouted.

  Emmi bit back the tears and shook her head, thinking he was addressing her until she heard the other vice-commander speak.

  “It was an accident, Toshi. An accident.”

  “Was it an accident her cell wasn’t locked?”

  “She’s a harmless girl—”

  “And that could very well be what the rebels want us to think! She wouldn’t be the first spy sent to try to murder us in our sleep.”

  With that he spun around and stalked off, flinging the wet tissue from his obi to the ground.

  Yamanami touched Emmi’s shoulder. “You can get up now, Maeda-dono.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

  “It is nothing you did. It’s me. He finds fault with everything I do these days.” He paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you can wash, and I’ll try to find you some clean clothing.”

  * * * *

  Alone in the bathhouse, Emmi stood and stared at the supplies she had been given. One of the items reminded her of the long table runner her mother brought out on Thanksgiving. The other was a small sewn cloth bag filled with something almost rice-like. Evidently these were the bath towel and soap, since there was nothing even remotely resembling a real towel or soap in sight.

  Emmi undressed, then filled the nearby wooden bucket with some of the tub water. She dipped in the scratchy little soap substitute and scrubbed it over her skin before climbing into the large wooden tub to soak. She submerged herself to her chin, wincing at first as the hot water slid over her skin. Once settled, she closed her eyes and tried to relax, though it was next to impossible to keep her mind from spinning with an endless stream of unanswerable questions.

  Finally the warmth of the water and the pleasant scent of cedar from the tub worked its magic, and all the hows and whys of her situation drifted to the far reaches of her mind. On the brink of dozing off, Emmi jerked her head up. Reluctantly, she climbed out of the soothing warmth. She dried herself as best as she could with the pitifully thin towel and donned her bra and panties before pulling on the blue men’s kimono Yamanami had given her. She used the narrow obi like a bathrobe belt. She was just reaching for the skirt-like hakama to place over it when the outer door opened.

  “What is taking you so long?” Kaemon demanded.

  “None of your business!”

  Emmi watched his gaze fasten on to her chest, and she wanted very much to slap him—until his expression changed to a mixture of confusion and fear.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to put this on,” Emmi said, shaking the hakama pants. “Wait outside.”

  “What are you doing with your kimono that way?”

  “What way?”

  He pointed again, appearing quite agitated that Emmi wasn’t getting the clue. She looked at herself again, and it finally hit her. She’d thrown the kimono on like she would a bathrobe. She had the right side overlapping the left, the traditional Japanese way to dress a corpse prior to a funeral.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, turning away to open and adjust the kimono. She stayed wit
h her back to him and stepped into the hakama, trying to pull up both the front and back sections at once.

  How in the hell did her father and Uncle Jake slip these things on and get the long ends tied like it was a piece of cake? This was ridiculous. When she grasped the front ties the back fell, and vice versa. What she wouldn’t give for a nice pair of jeans about now!

  “Let me,” Kae grumbled, coming up behind her.

  Emmi sucked in her breath when his large, rough hands swept across hers as he took hold of the ties from the front section. He fastened them around her waist, then reached down and took hold of the hakama back. He slid it up and tucked the kimono inside, brushing against her rear as he did so.

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry,” Kae said quickly, although he stepped closer still as he began to wrap the long back ties of the hakama around her waist and fit them into a precise square bow at the front.

  Emmi tried not to notice the way he allowed his arms to linger around her waist after he finished tying the hakama. She thanked him in a whisper and wondered if she was imagining the attraction between them.

  Nope, not imaging a thing, she thought when he drew her back against him.

  He kissed her neck. His lips were a warm and inviting prelude to the way he slid his tongue up the side of her neck and nibbled on her ear.

  Had that odd whimper just come from her? Did it even matter?

  Kaemon coaxed her around and drew her nearer, into a slow kiss. Emmi wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed closer. Giving in to his expertise, she let the play of his lips and tongue unleash a flood of sensation that she’d never fully experienced.

  She’d been on dates. She’d been kissed, but not like this. Never like this.

  Daylight flooded the bathhouse, and Kaemon and Emmi jumped apart. The scary man from last night—Saitou—stood in the doorway, struggling to conceal his amusement. He cleared his throat.

  “Hijikata-san wants to see you both in his quarters.”