The Test

“Second Young Mistress, the party will be starting soon,” Momozawa Ai said, her voice perfectly calm, a tranquil pond un-rippled by the preceding storm. “This attire is not appropriate. If a guest were to see you, they might say we lack basic etiquette.” She turned to Ryo and Shiraki, her gaze cold. “There are still many guests in the main hall. Go and attend to them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they murmured in unison, bowing their heads and exiting the room, pulling the door gently shut behind them, leaving a heavy, charged silence in their wake.

Fujiwara Kiyohime was unfazed, her youthful arrogance a shield. “This is my home. Who would dare say such a thing? They’re just relatives, anyway. It’s not like we need to impress them.”

Haruka thought of his mother on her deathbed, of how those same “relatives” had kept their careful, sanitary distance. Relatives are not family, he thought, the cynical observation settling deep in his bones. Their politeness is just a shield to avoid criticism. She will probably live her entire life cocooned in wealth, never needing to understand that distinction.

“At the very least, basic etiquette must be maintained,” Momozawa Ai said, her tone non-negotiable, a quiet assertion of her authority. “Speaking of which, have you paid your respects to the Old Mistress?”

“Not yet…” Kiyohime said sullenly, her bravado deflating. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

Momozawa Ai’s voice softened, becoming almost motherly. “The Old Mistress was ill and didn’t want you to catch it. She is feeling much better now. It would please her to see you before the party begins.”

“Fine! I’ll go,” Kiyohime said, suddenly eager to escape the room and Momozawa Ai’s suffocating control.

Momozawa Ai nodded, but her tone hardened as she addressed the blonde maid. “Sakuya. See that the Young Mistress is dressed appropriately.”

The blonde maid, Sakuya, replied with a flash of teenage unhappiness, “Yes… Mother.”

Haruka’s head snapped up at the word “Mother,” his eyes darting between the two women in surprise. Both had the same golden hair, the same sapphire-blue eyes, the same beautiful, refined features. He hadn’t looked closely before, but now that the connection was laid bare, he could see the striking, undeniable resemblance. Another piece of the complex household puzzle clicked into place.

As she was leaving, Kiyohime shot one last, fierce glare at Haruka, a final, impotent act of defiance before disappearing from the room.

“My apologies for that little scene, Young Master,” Momozawa Ai said, the warmth returning to her voice. “Now, if you’ll come with me. It is time to see the Old Mistress.”

“Me… me too?” Haruka asked, startled.

“Every member of the Fujiwara family is expected to attend. Unless… you do not consider yourself one of us?” The question was a silken trap.

“It’s not what I consider,” Haruka countered, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s what everyone else here thinks.”

Momozawa Ai’s sapphire-blue eyes locked onto his. “And who, precisely, is ‘everyone else’?”

“The woman who just knelt on the floor, for one,” Haruka said, meeting her gaze directly, refusing to be the first to look away. “How many more in this house share her opinion?”

“You mustn’t let it bother you,” Momozawa Ai said, taking a step closer. “There are too many rumors in this house, whispers in the corridors. We used to be able to control them, but not anymore. But it doesn’t matter what the servants say. In the end, only one person’s opinion truly matters in the Fujiwara family.”

“The Old Mistress,” Haruka said, lowering his head.

Momozawa Ai leaned closer still, her presence enveloping him. Her moist, red lips parted as she exhaled a warm breath near his ear, a whisper meant only for him. “The Fujiwara family… is in need of a man.”

BOOM!

At that exact moment, a brilliant flash of lightning bleached the room of color, followed by a deafening, soul-shaking crash of thunder. The already gloomy sky opened up, and rain began to lash against the windowpanes in a sudden, violent downpour.

Haruka felt as if his heart had been seized in an icy vice. His foot seemed to slip on the impossibly polished floor, and he fell backward, landing hard on his bottom with a pained cry that was swallowed by the storm.

“Whoops… sorry about that,” he said, grimacing through the sharp, radiating pain. “I’ve never worn these two-pronged geta before, and I lost my balance. The floor is surprisingly slippery here.” He looked up at her, his face a mask of innocence. “What did you just say?”

Momozawa Ai gently scuffed the toe of her elegant shoe on the smooth floor, her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window as if she were admiring the view. Haruka, however, could feel her eyes on him, their reflection watching him from the mirror-like surface of the floorboards. The thunder rumbled again, a low, continuous growl that vibrated through the room, and the muscles in Haruka’s jaw twitched uncontrollably.

“Did the thunder startle you?” Momozawa Ai murmured, as if to herself. “Yes, it is rather loud. I can barely hear what I’m saying…”

“What did you say?” he asked again, his face illuminated in stark relief by another flash of lightning.

“It was nothing important,” Momozawa Ai said, dismissing the topic. “Here, let me help you.” She extended a delicate, white hand.

“Thank you, but I can get up myself,” Haruka said, intending to rise on his own, but she had already taken his hand. He was shocked by the impossible strength hidden in her slender, delicate frame. Her hand, a thing that looked like a fragile work of art, closed around his wrist like a pair of steel pincers, squeezing so tightly he thought the bones might crack. He couldn’t break free.

“Sometimes, you just need someone to give you a hand…” With a single, effortless pull, Momozawa Ai hauled him to his feet, bringing him close. She gently, almost intimately, brushed the invisible dust from his kimono. “Look at the dust on you. If the wrong person saw this, it would only prove their baseless slander. Fortunately, it can be brushed away, no need to change the entire garment. See? It’s as good as new. Who would ever guess it had been soiled? In people’s eyes, it is still a magnificent new piece of clothing.” Her words were a lesson, a threat, and a promise all at once.

The thunder subsided, leaving only the steady, hypnotic drumming of the rain against the glass.

“Thank you for your help,” Haruka said, his head bowed, his voice respectful.

“Please don’t be so formal. It was my duty.”

They had switched back to their formal pronouns, the brief, dangerous intimacy erased. It was as if nothing had happened—as if Haruka had simply slipped and dirtied his clothes, and the kind butler had helped him up. That was all.

“Please, come with me.”

Haruka followed Momozawa Ai out of the room and into the corridor, where three maids were waiting like statues. Momozawa Ai beckoned one over. “Take the Young Master to see the Old Mistress. Use the other route.”

“Yes, ma’am. Young Master, please follow me.” The maid bowed her head and led Haruka in a different direction, away from the grand main staircase.

He had only taken a few steps when he heard Momozawa Ai’s sharp voice, now pitched to carry down the long hall, a public declaration. “Who was responsible for cleaning the floor in that room? You let the Young Master slip and fall… What are you standing there for? Get a cloth and wipe it clean, immediately!”

The voice faded behind him, replaced by a profound, echoing silence.

The long, straight corridor stretched out before him, seeming to go on forever.

Several times, Haruka had to fight the overwhelming, primal urge to look back, forcing himself to keep his eyes forward, repeating in his mind like a mantra that he must not, could not, turn around.

Because he knew, with a chilling, absolute certainty, that Momozawa Ai would be standing there silently at the doorway, a beautiful, patient predator, watching and waiting for him to look back.