Serve the Son of Heaven, she had said. But how?
Didn’t we all serve the Emperor?
She had mentioned shadows and seeing and being unseen. She had spoken of my training, my ability to slip into the desires of others.
Was she asking me to spy?
To gather information?
To betray the customers who came to this house?
Why would someone serving the Emperor need that?
Unless—
Unless the Empire was more fractured than I realized.
Unless there were threats even here, in the capital, in the pleasure houses where powerful men came to forget their troubles—or to plan the troubles of others.
I thought of the conversations I had overheard in the common area.
Talk of rebellion. Of unrest. Of the Emperor’s absence.
Was she truly one of the Emperor’s agents? One of his shadows? Or was she something else entirely?
And that power I’d felt—thatpressure—what was that? I had never experienced anything like it, never even heard of such a thing outside of temples or shrines. Of course, I knew of the power of the monks and priests. Everyone did. But this? This was something altogether different.
And if that steely-eyed woman in black was a religious woman, I was a dolphin.
Mahou.
The word kept returning, kept circling my thoughts. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, making myself small.
How had she known about Yoshi? She had spoken his name. Described him. Used him as . . . what? Leverage? A threat?
That kind of pain makes you valuable.
What did that mean?
Hours passed. The house grew quiet. Sleep would not come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw hers: unblinking, all-seeing, watching me even now from whatever darkness she inhabited.
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the mat.
The night stretched on, endless and cold, and I did not sleep.
Morning arrived, as did Hana. Our lesson commenced, and the world resumed its turning.
After midday meal, I worked in the common room. Neither the Prince nor his consort returned. Sakurai was nowhere to be seen.
After dinner, Sakurai slipped into my chamber. Hiskimonoslid free, as it did every night, and our lesson began with his lips brushing mine. I knew this man, or I knew the image of him he chose to share. I felt his body writhe before he knew it would. I heard him moan before the sound left his lips. I knew exactly where to press, how to thrust, when to pull back—all to intensify his pleasure, to imprint the memory, the scent, the taste of me on his mind.
He was, above all, an excellent teacher.
And I had become a brilliant student.
Never once that night did he mention the woman, her offer, or the unanswered questions that hung like a sharpened blade above my neck. He slept by my side, one arm draped lazily across my naked chest. His breath tickled the tiny hairs of my chin, and oddly, I didn’t resent his presence.
That realization pained me more than any wound. I should have hated him, despised his teachings, resisted his touch. For Yoshi, I should have felt anything but . . . a connection. Even knowing that this man’s affection was likely feigned—an act designed to elicit compliance and nothing else—his embrace comforted me, offered me harbor in a world of storms. And now, in a way I could never have imagined, he offered hope.
