Both of us froze.
Sakurai’s hand moved to his side. I had not noticed before, but there was a small blade tucked into his clothing. His fingers curled around the handle, his body coiled and ready. I’d never seen him fight or show any indication of being trained to do so. There, with a simple flex of his fingers, I watched a panther coil and ready to pounce. He was every bit the predator the woman in black had been—perhaps more so for his deception, for making me believe him harmless.
The footsteps passed, continued down the corridor, then faded. Sakurai relaxed fractionally but did not remove his hand from his weapon.
“We must be always aware,” he said quietly. “Always ready. This room is safer than most, but nowhere is truly safe.”
He finally released the blade and looked at me.
“Tomorrow morning, I will return at the same time. We will work on memory techniques—how to catalogue what is present in a room, how to retain exact conversations even while distracted, how to see what hides in plain sight. This morning was a taste; tomorrow we begin the meal.” His expression was serious. “You did well today, Kaneko-san, better than I expected. You have natural aptitude for this work.”
“Thank you . . . I think,” I said, unsure what I believed. Then without thinking, asked, “Is that good or bad?”
He considered a moment. “I believe it may be both. It means you will survive, but it also means you will change. Lying will become natural. Trust will become nearly impossible. You will forget who you were beneath the masks, and . . . there is sadness in that loss.”
That loss. A loss of self. Of all the things this man had done with me, said to me, tried to teach me, those words frightened me the most.
“It feels like I’m already forgetting,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to forget . . . everything.”
He studied me again, and something like sympathy flickered in his eyes.
“Then hold on to what you can,” he said. “Whatever piece of yourself still feels real, protect it, because once it is gone, you will never get it back.”
Then he was gone, the door sliding closed with barely a whisper, and I sat alone in the growing light of the new morning, my mind churning. He was right; I had been good at the practice, too good. Lies came easily. Manipulation felt natural.
I stood and moved to a small mirror in the corner of my chamber, looked at my reflection in the dim light. “You’re tookind,” I said softly, practicing the phrase, making my voice warm, my expression appreciative. I couldn’t tell if I meant it or if I was lying, couldn’t tell where the performance ended and I began.
Yoshi, I thought, staring at the stranger in the mirror.I’m becoming someone you won’t recognize, someone I don’t recognize. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold on . . . to hold on to myself . . . without you.
Outside, the house began to wake.
I heard voices, footsteps, and the sounds of another day beginning.
Chapter 20
Kaneko
Sakurai was relentless, drilling memory techniques—reciting conversations word for word hours after hearing them. Reading micro-expressions—the twitch of an eye, the tension in a jaw, the false smile that did not reach the eyes. We also worked on detecting lies through breath patterns and body language. He told me physical lessons would come, but given my role in the house, learning to throw stars or fight with short blades was far less important than skillful use of my tongue—to whatever end it served.
Each morning brought new scenarios, new challenges, new masks to try on and discard. I was getting better, frighteningly better. The lies came so easily. The masks felt natural. I could slip into a role the way Hana had taught me to slip into refined clothing—smoothly, without thought, as if I had been born into it, as if it had been made only for me.
Mornings after Sakurai left still belonged to Hana. She seemed oblivious to my other training. Or perhaps she simply knewbetter than to acknowledge what she suspected. We never spoke of it, never even hinted at it. She taught me a new song on theshamisen, corrected my calligraphy, laughed at my clumsy attempts to arrange flowers with the precision she demonstrated so effortlessly. The warmth between us remained—that friendship forged in shared captivity.
Our friendship also became my link to the real Kaneko, my guiding star, my truth. As long as Hana smiled and lent me her warmth, I knew the real me still existed. The moment her voice no longer held sway over my heart, I feared I would be lost.
Sometimes I wondered if she saw the changes in me, even in small things, like how I observed her with the same calculating attention I had learned to turn on Sakurai’s fictional customers. I practiced on her without meaning to, testing my skills, watching how she responded to different approaches, different tones, different versions of myself.
It made me feel sick, but I kept doing it anyway—because that was who I was becoming—someone who could not turn it off.
On one particular morning, Hana arrived but carried no tea, no lesson materials, only herself, and an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Kaneko-san,” she said softly, bowing with respect I didn’t deserve. “The mistress wishes to see you in her office.”
“Mistress Momoko?” My stomach dropped. “Why? Did I—have I done something wrong?”
“No, no.” She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes, something that looked almost like a farewell. “Just . . . come. She is waiting.”
I followed her through the corridors, my mind racing. Had I been discovered? Had someone seen Sakurai entering my chamber each dawn? Had I made a mistake during training, said something wrong, revealed something I should not have?
