“I paid twenty-fiveryofor you,” she said quietly. “That is more than a skilled craftsman earns in a year—infiveyears.” She paused. “I saw something in you on that platform. Prove me right.”
I had no idea what to say, so I bowed again and fled.
Hana—the kind-eyed escort—waited outside. Without a word, she led me through more corridors, up a staircase, and down another hall. Everything was still beautiful. Still quiet. Still terrifying.
She stopped before a door and slid it open. The room beyond was small but elegant.
A sleeping mat with silk covers.
A small table.
A screen for dressing.
A basin of water that smelled faintly of flowers.
And laid out on the mat—more clothes—but not like thekimonoI wore.
These were . . . less.
So much less.
Silk, yes, but sheer, cut to reveal more than they covered, not that being covered by air cloaked much of anything. They were beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist.
“The mistress is good and fair,” Hana whispered, so quietly I almost did not hear. “Harsh when she needs to be, but also good. You will see, Kaneko-san.”
Then she was gone, sliding the door shut behind her, leaving me alone.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the clothes, at the room, at the beautiful cage I had been locked inside. Finally, I moved to the sleeping mat and sat, then lay down and stared at the ceiling.
Twenty-fiveryo.
I had no home. No family. No choice.
But I had a price.
Outside, somewhere in the house, ashamisenplayed. The notes drifted through the walls, hauntingly beautiful. I felt them on my skin, in my mind, seeping into my soul, and wondered if they would be the last beautiful things to pierce my chest in whatever of this gods-damned life remained.
Chapter 6
Yoshi 6
The bells woke me. Pre-dawn, when the world was still more darkness than light, their sound rolled across the monastery like thunder, deep bronze notes that resonated in my chest, in my bones, shaking me from sleep before my mind fully registered consciousness.
I sat up on my thin mat, disoriented.
The cell around me was barely visible—gray shapes in deeper gray—but I could hear movement in the corridor outside. Footsteps. Whispered instructions.
My door slid open, revealing a young monk, his head freshly shaved, his robes the color of rust. He said nothing, only gestured for me to follow.
I scrambled to my feet, still wearing the simple training clothes they had given me the night before. My body ached from sleeping on the hard mat, and my mind felt foggy and uncertain. How long had I slept? Three hours? Four?
The monk led me through dark corridors, down stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet, out into a courtyard.
Four other boys waited there.
The pre-dawn light was just beginning to touch the eastern sky, turning it from black to deep purple with only a hint of gold. In that half light, I could barely make out their faces, but as the light grew, moment by moment, I saw them clearly.
The first boy to my left was tall—taller than me by half a head—and rail-thin, all sharp angles and jutting bones. His hair was cropped short but not shaved, sticking up in uneven tufts. His stork-like face held deep-set and shadowed eyes, his mouth a thin line. He looked older than the rest of us, perhaps twenty-one or -two. Thin white scars marked his forearms—some fresh, some faded. He didn’t look at me when I arrived, his gaze remaining fixed straight ahead like a statue frozen in time.
