And the smells. Gods, scents hit me like physical things.
Incense, first and foremost—sandalwood burning somewhere deeper in the house, rich and heady and grounding. Layered over that was something floral I could not name. Lotus? Jasmine? It was subtle, not cloying like the cheap perfume in the red district, but present in every breath, seeping into my lungs, into my blood. It tasted clean and sweet.
And there was tea. I could smell it steeping, being prepared—green tea, delicate and grassy, the scent so pure it made my mouth water despite my fear.
And underneath it all, perfume. Real perfume, the kind that cost more than most people earned in a year. It did not shout or demand attention. It whispered. It promised. It teased. Notes of plum blossom and something darker, muskier—ambergris, perhaps, or aged oud. Every woman we passed trailed a slightly different scent, as if each had been carefully chosen to complement her individually.
My ears rang in the sudden quiet.
After the overwhelming noise of the red district, the silence felt thick and oppressive, like being underwater.
But it was not truly silent. Water trickled somewhere—a fountain or stream, the sound crystalline and precise. Wind chimes hung near an open window, their tinkling notes so soft they might have been imagined.
We rounded a paper-walled corner to find a woman kneeling beside a low table in an alcove arranging flowers with movements so precise they looked like prayer. White chrysanthemums and deep red peonies, their placement deliberate, creating a composition that looked effortless but must have taken years to master. She did not look up as we passed, completely absorbed in her art. Her fingers moved with the delicacy of a surgeon, adjusting a stem by a hair’s breadth, then pausing to consider the effect.
Further down the corridor, another woman sat in a recessed alcove, her back perfectly straight, ashamisencradled in her lap. Her fingers moved across the strings as lyrical notes fell like water droplets into a still pond—each one perfect and separate, creating ripples of sound that drifted on the air. She smiled as she played, her painted face serene, her eyes half closed.The melody was haunting, caught somewhere between joy and sorrow.
I felt both catch in my chest.
Through partially open sliding doors, I glimpsed other rooms.
One held a table set for tea, the cups arranged with mathematical precision, steam rising from an iron kettle. Another showed silk cushions embroidered with golden thread, arranged around a low table where an incense burner sent thin ribbons toward the ceiling. Fresh flowers stood in alcoves everywhere—orchids, lotus blossoms, branches of cherry and plum, each arrangement its own work of art.
A woman passed us going the other direction, herkimonomidnight silk embroidered with silver waves. She moved like water herself, each step fluid and graceful. She bowed slightly to my escorts, who returned the gesture. She did not look at me, but I felt assessed nonetheless, measured and catalogued in that briefest of moments.
My skin prickled. Every breath felt thick with perfume and incense and the weight of expectations I had yet to understand. Everything was beautiful. Every single thing—from the way the light fell through the paper lanterns to the precise fold of fabric on a cushion glimpsed through an open door. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was accidental. It was all designed and intentional.
It was perfect.
No, it wascontrolled.
And it was terrifying.
This was not a brothel. Brothels were dirty, desperate places where men paid copper coins for quick relief. This was something else entirely. This was art and beauty and refinement weaponized. This was a place where pleasure had been elevated to something religious, something transcendent. This was aplace whereIwould be transformed into a thing of beauty, my rough edges polished and perfected and put on display.
I pressed my hands against my thighs as I walked, but I could not make them still.
“This way,” my escorts murmured.
We moved deeper into the endless house, down a corridor lined with more screens, more carefully placed decorations. Finally, we stopped before a set of doors more elaborate than the rest. Cherry blossoms were painted on dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl that captured the light like cherished jewels.
The kind-eyed woman knocked softly.
“Enter.” The voice from within was feminine, cultured, calm.
The doors slid open.
The room beyond was large but not cavernous. A low table sat in the center, flanked by silk cushions. Scrolls hung on the walls—calligraphy and paintings, all of them exquisite. An alcove held a single perfect flower in a thin, clear vase.
Everything spoke of wealth—and restraint.
And at the far end of the room, seated on a raised platform atop plush cushions, was Momoko. She had changed from her market clothes into akimonoof deep purple embroidered with golden thread. Her hair was still elaborately styled, her face still painted, and her lips still that deep bloody red. But here, inherdomain, she looked more formidable than fragile.
She watched me enter the way a cat might assess a mouse.
Not hungry. Just . . . interested.
“Come in, Kaneko,” she said. Not -san. Not -kun. Just my name, spoken as though she already owned it, which, I supposed, she did. “Sit.”
