The Friday Society

by Adrienne Kress

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Well, you seem . . . rather energetic—”

  “Oh, you mean grabbing you. No, it’s just Raheem really hates being disturbed in the morning. He needs his quiet time. It’s why he gets up so early.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also, I’m jealous.”

  Cora turned and looked at Nellie, who seemed surprised that the progress of her tying had been interrupted.

  “Jealous?”

  “It’s petty. And it’s not your fault. I hate seeing other girls get on with Raheem. Especially girls my age. Women are okay, and they make fools of themselves flirtin’ with him. But you . . . he seems to like you. And I don’t want him likin’ you better than he likes me. He’s like a father to me, see.”

  Cora just stared at Nellie, who seemed perfectly relaxed and amiable.

  “That’s . . . honest.”

  “That’s how I am. But don’t worry. I know it’s not your fault. And I know it’s just me being all insecure and everything. I’ll get over it. And I like you too much to let it bug me. Now turn around so I can tie you off.”

  In a daze, Cora did as she was told, and in short order she looked ready for a night on the town.

  At six in the morning.

  “I’ll be mocked for this,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Returning in the same clothes I went out in. And everyone in the street will know that I’m wearing an evening gown, not day clothes. They’ll all think—”

  “Who gives a damn what they think?” said Nellie.

  “Go,” said Michiko.

  The two girls turned to see Michiko at the door, her satchel of weapons over her shoulder.

  Cora smiled. The advantage to a limited vocabulary—directness. “Well, that’s that, then,” she said. She offered her hand to Nellie, but the girl attacked her in a bear hug instead. Cora patted Nellie’s back as she felt the air squeezed out of her.

  Nellie moved over to Michiko, who apparently considered such a hug a threat, and indicated that she would not like to be touched. Nellie stopped herself short and gave her a broad smile instead. “Last night was fun!” she announced to the both of them. “Well, except for the whole decapitated-head thing. And Michiko being attacked. And the dead body in the other room. And the footman at the party. Oh, and the feeling hungover now.”

  “You feel it, too?”

  “Oh yeah.” She grabbed her head and squeezed it dramatically. “Ow.”

  “Ow,” said Michiko in the corner with a nod.

  The three girls laughed.

  “Okay, we’re off. Thank you for the hospitality, and thanks for letting us stay over. I hope we meet again soon,” Cora said as Nellie escorted Michiko and her to the door. Cora made sure to keep her gaze directly in front of her, lest the Magician’s naked back slip into view.

  After another quick farewell, they were out the door. She and Michiko parted ways soon after, and Cora was left on her own to brave the odd glances and the few choice words that were tossed her way by a couple of boys who, she could see, were vainly attempting to grow beards.

  By the time she reached Lord White’s, the day had decided to be hotter than usual for the time of year, and her hair had not reacted well. She was sweating through her red satin, and she felt even more constricted than usual in her corset. A great sense of relief washed over her as she entered the cool darkened foyer and she tiptoed upstairs to her room, hoping that Lord White was still asleep. Chances were good that he would be.

  The door to her room creaked softly as she closed it behind her, and she put an ear to it to listen for the telltale step of his lordship. A moment passed, and she exhaled a breath of relief.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Cora nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Sir, you scared me!”

  Lord White was sitting on the side of her bed, one leg casually crossed over the other, his dangling foot shaking in frustration. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was fully decked out in his light-blue-and-yellow-checked day suit. Cora was impressed he’d got himself out of bed and dressed all on his own.

  “I scared you? I scared you?” he said with great indignation. “Where the hell have you been all night? I haven’t been able to sleep a wink.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Well, I slept a bit, but I woke up frantic. And when Mrs. Philips said you hadn’t returned all night . . . you had the poor creature in tears, don’t you know?”

  Poor Mrs. Philips.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lord White stood in a huff and marched over to her. He wasn’t a very tall man. He stood maybe an inch above her. He oughtn’t have been intimidating. But there was something about him that was, despite the receding ginger hair, round glasses, and small stature. “That’s all well and good, but where have you been, damn it?”

  “It’s a very long story.”

  Which clearly wasn’t a good enough excuse for him.

  And so . . . she told him everything.

  That she could think to make up in the moment.

  16

  What Michiko Makes of All This

  MICHIKO WAS STANDING in the shadow of the archway that led to the market. Once she’d parted ways with Cora, she’d doubled back, intent on her purpose, but now she was full of doubt. And fear. She watched as the old samurai’s assistants set up his stall while the old man sat in his chair gazing into the distance. Absentmindedly she touched the stitches on her cheek. Stupid Callum and his stupid, cheap katana.

  What a strange night it had all been. Almost dreamlike. A man in the fog, a close encounter with death. Blackness. And then . . . and then the really weird stuff. There was one thing to be said about those girls. They liked to talk. A lot. Though they seemed pleasant enough. And they had really tried to include her.

  At times.

  She’d never had whiskey before. And she hated the throbbing in her brain now. Still, it almost seemed worth it, really, for the slight relief of anxiety the alcohol had provided. After the encounter in the fog, last night had been . . . dare she think it . . . fun. The girls were silly. And she didn’t approve of their lack of respect toward the dead body in the living room. But there was something about Nellie and Cora she had still . . . liked. They were so amazingly independent. Despite their having bosses just like her. They seemed . . . happy.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of the parrot, however.

  It was no matter. She was unlikely to ever spend much time with them again. She might meet them in passing, give them a little smile—she didn’t think she could smile so broadly to expose her teeth the way Nellie did—but that was it. The night was over and it was time to move on.

  Well.

  Not quite.

  There was still one piece of business that needed to be taken care of.

  Deep in her gut, and more present than ever now that the effects of the alcohol had worn off, she felt a burning ember. It radiated through her and would not go out, no matter how much she tried to extinguish it. The fact remained. She’d been defeated in an unfair fight, and honor had to be restored. Somehow she’d have to find the man in the fog and face him again. And this time she’d win.

  She had to.

  But first she had to thank the old samurai in person for his gift. And seeing as she had a full day of nothing aside from Callum’s curses and possibly worse ahead of her, she had the time now to approach him.

  What she didn’t have was the courage.

  After what had happened last night, she didn’t feel worthy of such a gift as the Silver Heart. Worse, she feared it had all been a terrible mistake. Maybe the Silver Heart had been meant for another Japanese assistant to a self-defense instructor. Or maybe the old samurai had said something like “Whatever you do, don’t give that girl this sword,” and his assistant, who hadn’t been listening carefully at the time, had only heard the last five words of the sentence.

  Yes. That was it exactly.
It had all been a horrible, horrible miscommunication.

  She stared at the old samurai and felt her heart sink. And then the old samurai did his “looking right at her as if he’d been looking at her the whole time” thing. One second she was momentarily distracted by a pale flower girl in a muddy dress scurrying out to the high street, and then she glanced back up at him only to discover that she was the object of his attention.

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, and she felt like a perfect fool.

  He didn’t move either. And then, finally, after what seemed like forever, he nodded that almost imperceptible nod of his: “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you.” Except she said it by pressing her lips together and raising her eyebrows.

  And then he was no longer looking at her. As if he’d never been looking at her.

  Not a miscommunication, then.

  Why did she still feel like it was?

  Michiko had barely made her way out onto the high street when she heard a familiar voice call out after her. She placed it immediately. After all, she could count on one hand the number of people who had spoken to her in her native tongue in this country.

  She turned and watched as the servant to the old samurai came bounding up to her. He was all limbs, galumphing his way over, a puppy—no more than fourteen—but he had speed. Much speed.

  “Silver Heart,” he said when he skidded to a stop in front of her. He ought to have been out of breath, but he wasn’t.

  “What about it?” she asked, feeling a panic rise in her throat. Just as she’d felt confident in the old samurai’s choice . . .

  “No, that’s you. You are the Silver Heart.”

  Me? The energy that flowed through all things flowed through the samurai’s sword and into his soul. Just as his soul flowed into the sword. So Michiko supposed it made sense that he would call her by the same name as her katana. Still. It sounded so strange to her.

  “What do you want?”

  “Can we speak privately?”

  “Why?”

  “I have a question to ask of you.”

  “No, I mean why do we need to speak in private? No one will be able to understand us. We could go to a theater and stand in the middle of the stage and yell back and forth to each other, and still, it would be a conversation shared just between us.”

  The young servant thought for a moment. “Good point.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to be your student.”

  “What?”

  “I want to study under you. I want to become samurai. Like you.”

  “Why don’t you just ask your old master?”

  “He refuses. He says his time is past.”

  “He is testing you.”

  “No, he’s not. I know my master.”

  “You must be persistent. You must show him your dedication. He will refuse, and you must keep asking. That’s how it works.”

  “I want you to teach me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you studied in Japan, where it was illegal. You could have died for your passion.”

  “A samurai expects to die every day, lives his life as if it was his last. The sure sign you are a samurai is that you feel no fear facing your own death.” Except, of course, when you are truly facing your own death, then you get scared and panic and feel like a child.

  “And you’re a girl. Girls are rare as samurai. That is special.”

  Well . . . he made a good point. Nonetheless.

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  And she turned and left.

  She couldn’t teach him. She didn’t have the time. Callum would certainly not approve, and she hardly felt worthy of being a samurai herself. She had all but abandoned the ancient teachings since arriving in this new world, and she couldn’t exactly become someone’s teacher in the tradition.

  Besides, she had her own issues to deal with. She had to find the man in the fog; she had to restore her honor. The very day she finally earned her sword was the same day she lost her first fight. And he didn’t even kill her. Her head started to throb even harder.

  “Let’s try this again.” The young servant appeared in front of her. Michiko stopped in her tracks and looked behind her. She’d left him to turn off the high street onto a narrow alley that saved her around ten minutes of travel time home. He had appeared at the far end. There was no way he could have gotten from where they’d been talking to here so fast. It was . . . impossible.

  “I understand you don’t think I’m worthy . . .” the boy was saying.

  “What?” Michiko was far too distracted by his seeming to appear out of thin air.

  “The other day. You said I was just a servant, that you were of a higher class than I am, and you’re right. But we’re not in Japan anymore. Here, in some ways we are very much equals in status. No one gives us foreigners a second glance . . .”

  Michiko really wasn’t paying attention.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  The boy stopped midspeech. “Do what?”

  “How did you get in front of me?”

  The boy smiled. “Oh, that. It’s a . . . hobby.”

  “What is?”

  “If I show you, will you teach me?”

  “No.”

  The boy sighed. “Fine. Watch.”

  The boy took off running toward a large overflowing bin full of garbage and looked like he was going to run right into it. Instead he leaped up into the air and touched the top of the bin with his foot, using the slight push to propel himself onto a tattered awning. He continued at the same speed along its supports, never faltering, grabbing a window ledge here, a line of laundry there, until he landed on the roof toward the entrance of the alley. But still he didn’t stop.

  He rolled across the roof and used a drainage pipe to launch himself across to the other side. And he kept running, leaping over the spaces between buildings, sometimes landing in a kneeling position, other times doing that roll again. Sometimes he used his hands almost as she’d seen monkeys do, pulling himself along until finally he leaped back down in front of her where he’d started.

  “What on Earth was that?” asked Michiko in awe.

  “I run. I just . . . I run. I go where my body tells me, I use falling to keep me going forward. I don’t know. I just . . . run.”

  “Well . . . you do it really well.”

  “Thank you. Now will you teach me?”

  “No.”

  But the boy wouldn’t leave her alone. She could sense his presence flying high above her as she walked the rest of the way home. He could have arrived at her place far in advance of her, but he stalked her like some crazy monkey.

  She didn’t need a pet.

  “Stop it!” she said as he landed in front of her, blocking the rear entrance to Callum’s.

  “Hey, this is where we met,” said the boy, glancing around the alley.

  “No, we met at your master’s stall.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Look, you can’t be here. I’ll get in a lot of trouble if he sees you here.” Michiko thought for a moment. “I’m already in a lot of trouble.”

  “Are you?”

  He was trying to stall her. Trying to make her like him. Didn’t he understand? This was impossible. She hardly felt samurai herself; she didn’t feel qualified to teach anyone. Though, she acknowledged, the true samurai was aware of how little she knew, and if that was the only definition, then there was no one half as qualified as she was.

  “Uh . . . are you okay?” asked the boy, interrupting her train of thought.

  Why did she always do that? Just disappear into her thoughts like that. Maybe it was because she’d been living inside her own head for so many months now that the outside world sometimes seemed secondary, almost like a dream.

  “Really. Are you okay?” The boy looked sincerely concerned now.

  Michiko nodded. “If I teac
h you, will you teach me how to run like you do?”

  The boy’s eyes went wide, and Michiko was surprised to hear herself say it. What? Of all the thoughts passing through her brain, she didn’t seem to recall that one. How had that happened? Instinct?

  Before the boy answered, she added, “This is not an equal exchange. I will always be your master, even when you show me that running thing you do. This can only work if I am given the proper respect. Otherwise the deal is off.”

  The boy nodded. Nodded so hard Michiko was concerned he might hurt himself. Then he was immediately on his knees, bowing low.

  “Yes, yes, that’s great,” she said. “But look, you really have to go now. I have to get inside. I have my own ‘master’ to serve.”

  The boy sat up and made a face. “That guy’s an asshole.”

  “You’re telling me.” The boy stood up and brushed the dirt from his trousers. “What’s your name?”

  “Hayao.”

  Michiko smiled in spite of herself. Hayao. The fast-flying man. “Appropriate.”

  Hayao rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. I think my parents knew I’d be quick. They could sense it.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Dead.”

  Short, single-syllable-word answers, Michiko knew, weren’t meant to be followed up on.

  “Well, Hayao, I’m—”

  “The Silver Heart.” Hayao smiled broadly, seeming truly thrilled by this fact.

  Michiko didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Energy was shared with everything. The soul of the sword, the soul of the warrior, they were one and the same.

  And yet.

  She was just Michiko.

  “You can call me that.”

  Hayao had to go. She insisted. But now that she was the boy’s teacher, evidently he was ready to take her orders easily and without complaint. Soon he had scampered up onto the rooftops where he seemed most at home and disappeared behind a chimney pot.

  Upstairs, hiding out in her room for as long as she could before Callum discovered her return, Michiko sat inside her wardrobe. The door was cracked open and the light fell across the blade of the Silver Heart. Her own heart ached holding it. Everything about the katana was perfect. Yes, as she admired the skillful detail in the tsuba with the intertwining vines of steel, the simple braided rope of black silk along the hilt, the single piece of metal sharpened to a razor edge, she knew she simply had to work harder at her craft. A samurai strove for perfection, in every move, in every fight, in every thought. And here in her hands was perfection. It would serve as a constant reminder of her life’s goal.