“Hello, love.” He held up the package; a long box of scarlet card, set with a white, silken bow. “I brought you a gift.”
She blinked. Standing motionless. He was dressed in a beautiful blood-red kimono embossed with roaring tigers. His hair was swept up in coils, pinned at his crown with four long golden needles, chainsaw katana and wakizashi crossed at the small of his back—a new luminary of his clan, arrayed in his finest. A golden breather was strapped across his mouth and jaw, fashioned like the maw of a snarling tiger. But the eyes above it were soft with concern.
“Have you been crying, Michi?”
“No, my Lord.”
“You look upset.”
“What are you doing here?”
He proffered the box, and she took it into her arms as if it might burst into flames.
“Open it.”
She looked at him for a long moment, mouth dry as grave soil. She was conscious of the iron keys at his obi. The chaindaishō at his waist. The bushimen outside the door. Placing the package on the bed, she untied the bow. Inside was a radiant jûnihitoe gown; twelve layers of beautiful scarlet and cream, embroidered with small tigers and tiny jewels, a broad obi of golden silk to match his own.
“I was hoping you would attend the feast tonight,” Ichizo said. “As my lady.”
Her gaze drifted from the dress to his eyes. “Why?”
“Because I love you, Michi-chan. With everything inside me. Every part of me.”
She simply stared, mute and unblinking.
“I brought you something else,” he said. “Just in case.”
He proffered a smaller box, no bigger than the palm of his hand. As she took it, she heard something rattle inside. Even before she opened it, she knew what it was; pulling back the lid and tipping it into her own hand. A saucer, filled with blood-red wax, set with the impression of her room key.
No One had failed.
“We found this in your accomplice’s home, along with a palace servant’s uniform.” There was no anger in Ichizo’s voice, just a wounded, wilting sadness. “I need only say the word and the bushimen outside will step in here and drag you back to Kigen jail.”
“So do it.”
“I do not want that, Michi-chan.”
He stepped forward, put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. “Your plot is undone. But I can protect you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I love you. Godsdamn me for a fool, but I do. And I look into your eyes and know some part of you loves me too.”
“I…”
“I am a good man, am I not? Have I ever treated you ill? Done anything but care for you? Even now I betray my oaths, my very blood to keep you safe. I love you, Michi.”
Too good to be true …
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“What do I gain from doing this? And what do I lose?”
“You’re lying.” Michi shook her head. “You want me to betray the others. Give away the location of the stronghold. Identities of the city cell—”
“I don’t care about your rebellion!” His voice was a fierce whisper, and he glanced at the doorway, the bushimen just beyond. “I don’t care about the throne or the dead man who would sit on it. I don’t care about any of that. We can run away once the wedding is done. You and I. As far as we want. I have money, I have favors. We can leave all this behind us.”
Michi said nothing, lips parted, struggling to breathe.
“Tell me you do not love me,” Ichizo said. “Tell me you do not feel something.”
“I…”
He tore the breather from his face, seized her wrists.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not feel what I do. When you feel my lips on yours. When you whisper my name in the dark. Tell me there is nothing between us.”
She felt tears spilling down her cheeks. Lower lip trembling. Hands shaking as he searched desperately within her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come, and her face crumpled like someone had kicked it in.
“Don’t cry…”
He kissed her eyelids, one after another, the same way he’d done when first he said “I love you.” Hands pressed to her cheeks, gentle as feathers.
“I know you,” he whispered. “Who you really are. You’re not a traitor. You’re not a Shadow. You are my lady. You are my love.”
She fell into his arms, mouth seeking his, hot with the flush of her tears.
“You are my love…”
She tasted salt as their lips touched, his body against hers. And in that brief pin-bright moment, she saw everything she thought she’d never have. A life spent in peace, far from blackened shores. A good man to share it with; a man who’d risked everything to be with her, who loved her more truly than Daichi or Kaori or Aisha ever would. A glimpse of happiness she’d long ago given up any hope of holding, here, now, in her arms, if only she could find the words to speak it.
She pressed her hands to his cheeks, running her fingers through his hair, breathing the words into his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Ichizo…”
Fingers around the golden needle holding his hair in place.
Slipping it free, quick as flies.
“I truly am…”
Sliding it up under his ear, behind the curve of his skull and into his brain. Her mouth over his to smother the gasp, the feeble, choking cry as his eyes opened to the sight of hers looking back at him, filled with tears. And his legs gave way and she caught his weight, lowering him twitching onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him as she pulled the needle free, leaving a tiny spot of blood on his skin.
“But I am not your lady,” she whispered. “And I am not your love.”
She slipped the needle into his heart, just to be sure. A fool’s heart, to love a girl who’d abandoned the very idea of it, too long ago now to remember.
“I am Kagé Michi.”
The key turned and the door opened wide.
The girl was dressed in a beautiful jûnihitoe, all scarlet and cream and smooth, smooth skin. Her face was powdered white, thick kohl rimmed about her eyes, a vertical stripe of cherry-red paint on her lips. She was facing to the left of the door, smiling, bowing from the knees.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said.
The four bushimen straightened, waiting for Magistrate Ichizo to appear behind her. The girl stepped into the hallway, tiny steps hobbled by the gown’s hem, and her feet caught upon the threshold. With a small cry she lost her balance, pitched forward. Two bushimen stepped up to catch her and she straightened, arms extended, driving hair needles up under their chins before either could blink.
Quiet gurgles. Stupefied expressions. Men dropping like stones.
The other two guards cried out, hefted their nagamaki; four-foot blades of polished steel with hafts of equal length, far too long to wield in the narrow corridors of the servant’s quarters. And Michi drew two more of the long, glittering needles from her hair and stepped between them, whirling as if she danced, burying one into each man’s eye.
This is what I am.
The bushimen hit the boards like lead, limp and breathless, armor ringing on polished pine like iron bells tolling the changing of the hours. The air was stained with the stink of blood and urine. She lifted her chin, closed her eyes and breathed deep.
This is where I belong.
Scanning the corridor, she grabbed each corpse and dragged it into her bedroom, struggling with the weight. Blood wiped from the floorboards with a scarlet tabard, staining golden tigers red. Hefting one of the nagamaki, she rucked up the outer layer of her jûnihitoe and slit the eleven layers underneath, all the way up to her thighs. She wiped the needles clean, reinserted them into her hair, staring at her reflection in the looking glass. Finally the face of the girl she knew—the vacuous, servile mask torn away and left bleeding on the floor.