That left Kioshi and his younger brother Taiyo.
Taiyo was only six years old. I couldn’t imagine anyone—even Asami Eiko—targeting a child, but the Akira weren’t known for acting rationally. Rational people didn’t try to overthrow the Son of Heaven, after all.
Everything I’d heard pointed to the Crown Prince, but I had heard Kioshi was away from Bara, traveling somewhere at the behest of his father. If an assassination was planned in the city . . .
Haru. Oh, gods, it had to be Haru.
He was here. He was visible. He wasn’t shy about moving about in public and visited the House of Petals regularly. He would be leaving for Temple Suwa soon—traveling and vulnerable. North or south, wherever the road took him, there would be mountain passes and dense woods.
But I didn’tknowanything, not for certain. I was guessing, making assumptions.
Sakurai always said, “Assumptions get people killed.”
But what was I supposed to do with fragments? How could I warn anyone when I barely knew what I’d heard? Was this truly what spying was like, pieces of shattered pottery whose pattern was impossible to see, even when stuck back together?
The men below started to cross the square toward an alley.
I should follow, should try to get closer, should try to hear more.
But that wasn’t my job, not in that moment. I was only there to practice, to hone my skills at lurking in the shadows, then get back to the House of Petals without anyone noticing I’d ever left. Sakurai would likely be angry that I’d left without him. Following shadowy figures around the capital by myself was too far outside my mandate to consider.
I waited until the men vanished, one stage left of the auction block, the other stage right, then pushed myself up and picked my way from rooftop to rooftop until the park spread out below me.
My mind spun as I sat on the rooftop that only a few nights earlier had been so difficult to scale, the one where Sakurai had stood and encouraged me to climb—seven times. It felt strange, sitting there on the edge, staring down at the park, the House of Petals on the opposite end. The building looked like a ruby set in a band of verdant silk. Bitterness suddenly welled within, at my captivity, at my slavery, at how, without Haru’s intervention, I would now be forced to lie with men who disgusted me.
And yet, I couldn’t deny another odd sense as I peered down at the fluttering banners draped from the house’s eaves. In a strange way, this gilded prison had become my home, given me purpose, pointed me in a direction and offered me ways to serve that I might never have found without . . . without the mistress purchasing me like a slab of meat on a butcher’s shelf.
But sulking in the darkness wouldn’t change anything. I needed to get back inside and get some rest. Sakurai would return with more trials, and I needed to be sharp. The path he offered was unusual, but it offered the clearest way out of my captivity I could see.
I pressed my hands to the tiles to push myself up and—
Movement.
Something shifted in the trees below, drawing my eye.
A figure emerged, clinging to the shadows, lurking from tree to tree as it approached the House of Petals.
A man? I was fairly certain. He moved with purpose. With feline grace.
I watched, entranced, frozen on the rooftop.
Was this another conspirator? Someone bent on breaking into the madame’s home?
My home?
One of the house Samurai walked his lazy circle about the house, his eyes roaming the darkness without really seeing much. The intruder crouched, hidden behind a large boulder, and waited for the guard to pass.
I should get inside, warn the guard, do something.
But I sat frozen, unable to move, unable to look away.
Clouds obscured the moon. The park fell into deeper darkness. I could see only the silhouette of the man still ducked behind the rock.
Then the clouds shifted. And a sliver of moonlight broke through. It touched his face.
He looked up, his gaze drawn by the brightening sky—toward my position.
My breath stopped.
