Hana watched with her arms folded, her painted face serene. I held my breath, waiting.
“Your wrist,” she said finally. “When you pour, it turns slightly inward. See?” She demonstrated, her own wrist moving with effortless grace. “The angle should remain constant. Like this.”
So many details. Who cared how my wrist turned? Were men truly so vain?
I tried again with an empty cup, mimicking her motion.
“Better.” She smiled—a real smile, not the practiced one she used with others. “Much better, Kaneko-san. You have come so far.”
The praise made something warm bloom in my chest. After all these months, her approval still mattered, still felt like something precious.
“I still make mistakes,” I said.
“Oh, Kaneko-san, everyone makes mistakes.” She laughed, a glorious sound that filled the chamber. “Even the mistress made mistakes when she was learning.” Hana kneeled beside me and adjusted the position of the tea caddy by a hair’s breadth. “Perfection is not the absence of error; it is the constant refinement of technique. You understand that now, yes?”
I did. The endless repetition had taught me that much. It felt much like learning thekata, only more delicate and intricate.
“Try the full sequence again,” she said. “But this time, do not think about each movement. Let your body remember. Let it flow.”
Something in her words reminded me of home, of the dock, of the sun dipping below the distant shore as Takeo barked corrections to Yoshi and me. Our hands were never in the right position, our bodies never relaxed enough, ourbokkenforever askew.
Longing mingled with contemplation as I breathed out, long and steady, and began again. Heat the water. Measure the powder. Pour. Whisk. Turn. My hands moved without thought,guided by muscle memory built through countless repetitions. When I finished, I looked up at Hana.
Her smile held the brilliance of the Emperor’s golden banners. “Perfect.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” She reached out and squeezed my hand—a gesture that breached all protocol and would have been unthinkable when we’d first met. “You have become skilled, Kaneko-san. More than that. You have become . . . graceful.”
The word should have felt like an insult, a reminder of what I had lost, what I had been forced to become, but coming from her in that moment, it felt different, like acknowledgment of my survival—of my growth.
“Only because you are a good teacher,” I said.
“And you are a good student.” She stood and smoothed herkimono. “Even when you fought me at the beginning, even when you slouched on purpose and made yourself clumsy out of spite.” Her eyes danced with amusement. “Do you remember that?”
I felt my face flush. “I was . . . I was angry.”
“You had every right to be. You still do.” Her expression sobered slightly as she whispered words meant only for me. “But anger alone does not keep us alive, does it? We must learn to bend so we do not break.”
She was right. I knew it in the heart of my bones. We both had bent—to survive this place—and bending had become its own kind of strength.
“Hana-san,” I said quietly, rising to my feet and bowing far lower than her station could ever deserve. “Thank you.”
She tilted her head, one brow twitching but not quite rising beneath her painted mask. “For what?”
“For . . .” I struggled to find words. “For not letting me break, for helping me, for being . . .” I stopped, uncertain.
“A friend?” she offered softly, reaching out to grip my forearm.
“Yes. A friend.”
Her smile was sad but genuine.
“We”—her fingers lifted and gestured between us—“are all we have, Kaneko-san. Those of us trapped here, we must hold each other up, or we all fall.” She moved toward the door, then paused. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow we will work on yourshamisen. Your fingering is still too hesitant.”
“I will practice.”
“I know you will.” She slid the door open. “Sleep well, my friend.”
