The Two Tables

Haruka didn’t argue. He didn’t want to lie to Lady Murasaki, and he knew, with a chilling certainty, that he couldn’t hide the truth from her anyway. His silence was his answer.

“Whatever Izayoi said to you,” Lady Murasaki murmured, her voice a low, intimate whisper that slid under his skin, “do not take it to heart. She is a very cunning woman. If you trust her, you will be terribly deceived.”

A strange, conflicted expression crossed Haruka’s face. Lady Murasaki and Izayoi were saying the exact same thing about each other, painting each other as beautiful, dangerous liars. So who am I supposed to believe?

“In fact,” Lady Murasaki continued, her gaze sweeping over the laughing, chattering guests with a cold, dismissive air, “you cannot trust anyone at this table.”

Haruka felt a deep, resonant sense of agreement. Their attitudes shifted far too quickly, their loyalties as fluid as water. One moment they were at each other’s throats, their faces contorted with ambition and resentment; the next they were sitting together, laughing and joking like the oldest and dearest of friends. He was disgusted by their hypocrisy, by the effortless way they wore their masks.

Lady Murasaki’s words were like a feather floating on the wind, and Haruka couldn’t help but reach out and try to catch it. “Then who can I trust?”

“Me,” Lady Murasaki said simply, the word a profound, unshakable truth in her own mind.

Haruka looked at her, a strange, almost dizzying feeling stirring within him. She had just dismissed everyone else, claiming that only she was trustworthy. Does she have any self-awareness at all? he couldn’t help but wonder, a flicker of dark amusement in his thoughts.

“I will not deceive you,” Lady Murasaki said, a dazzling, genuine smile blooming on her face, completely different from her usual imperious, calculated expressions. It was like a rare violet blooming only for him, in a secret, hidden garden. “Because I am your mother.”

Haruka quickly looked away, his mind racing. Does she smile like that in private? If the Fujiwara family were full of men instead of women, she would never have to act so stern, so untouchable. A single smile like that would be enough to make them crawl over fire and spill their own blood, just for the chance to see it again.

A few of the guests noticed her smile and were stunned into silence, as if they had seen a celestial being descend to earth. Lady Murasaki smiled, of course, but it was usually a polite, formal smile, a tool of social grace. This was something else entirely, something that came from within, raw and breathtaking. By the time they looked again, she had resumed her cold, dignified demeanor, making them wonder if they had imagined the entire, miraculous event.

“I just saw the Lady smile,” Fujiwara Hitomi whispered to Kiyohime, her voice full of awe.

“Who doesn’t smile?” Kiyohime said dismissively, though she, too, had seen it and felt a strange pang of jealousy. “My mother isn’t Ai-obasan. It’s normal for her to smile.”

Hitomi wanted to explain that it had been a real, heartfelt smile, completely different from her usual one. But seeing Kiyohime’s indifferent, almost sullen expression, she realized that the Second Young Mistress had likely never been the recipient of such a smile herself. There was no point in saying anything.

Just then, servants in black uniforms began to serve the first course, a jellied dish with fresh sea urchin, placing it before each guest with silent, practiced efficiency. The guests took a single, polite bite before the servants whisked the dishes away, replacing them with platters arranged in beautiful bamboo baskets. Haruka couldn’t name the dishes, but he saw they were composed of seasonal vegetables, grains, and a small portion of seafood like fish and shrimp, all exquisitely and colorfully arranged, a feast for the eyes.

He had been hungry all day. Besides the single piece of hard candy from the maid and the cup of bitter tea with the miko, his stomach was completely, painfully empty. He felt he could have swallowed anything. But Haruka suppressed the primal urge to pick up his chopsticks, instead covertly, carefully, observing the etiquette of the other guests.

They laughed and chatted, murmuring a soft, “Itadakimasu,” before picking up their chopsticks and taking a small, delicate bite of vegetables. The guests seemed largely uninterested in the food, their focus more on networking, on the subtle dance of power and influence. They mostly ate the vegetables and grains, leaving the pristine, glistening seafood untouched.

Haruka quietly repeated the pre-meal grace under his breath, picked up his chopsticks, and followed their lead, putting a piece of bright orange vegetable in his mouth. It made a crisp, crunching sound. He frowned slightly. It was a raw carrot. He tried another vegetable; it was also raw. The taste was incredibly bland, like chewing wax, but for Haruka, who was never a picky eater, it was not a problem to swallow. In fact, the clean, unsatisfying taste only stoked the flames of his appetite, a fire that seemed to be rising from his stomach to his throat. The exquisite fish and shrimp beside the vegetables looked even more tempting now, forbidden jewels on a bed of bland leaves.

The guests took a few more bites of vegetables, then put down their chopsticks with an air of finality. Not a single one of them touched the seafood. Haruka, a person of immense self-control, followed their example and put his chopsticks down as well, his stomach clenching in protest.

A servant came by and removed the bamboo basket. After all the baskets were cleared, a bowl of clear soup was served to each person. All the solid ingredients had been strained out, leaving only a clear, golden broth garnished with a single, perfect three-leaf clover of green. The soup was so clear you could see the intricate pattern at the bottom of the bowl.

Again, Haruka did not rush to drink. He carefully observed the others, noticing that they did not use the porcelain spoons provided. They held the bowls with both hands, brought them to their lips, and took small, delicate, almost silent sips. The spoons remained untouched, pristine and ornamental.

Another table manner, Haruka thought. He had grown up with only his mother, and besides the most basic politeness, he was ignorant of these complicated, unspoken rituals. Even though he didn’t know the reason, he copied them, taking one or two sips before putting the bowl down, the warm liquid doing little to quell his hunger.

Looking at the beautiful women, who were chatting and laughing, their voices a low, melodious hum, he was glad there wasn’t a “no talking during the meal” rule, or the entire experience would have been unbearably, punishingly dull.

Haruka glanced over at the other table. An chaotic, joyous array of unseen delicacies was being served, a world away from the restrained, rule-bound, almost ascetic meal at his own table, which seemed designed not for enjoyment, but to display maximum luxury and self-control. He only looked for a second before quickly turning his gaze back, taking another sip of soup, trying to discern its flavor. There was no taste of MSG or artificial seasoning. If he had to describe it, the only word would be “fresh.”

It felt like a gathering of an ordinary family, the dishes “simple” and “light,” yet everything about it was extraordinary. But probably no one at the table cared about the food anyway. They were all in their own little groups, whispering about business and connections, so engrossed they didn’t even notice when the servants cleared one course and served the next.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Lady Murasaki whispered, her voice a low caress. With her own chopsticks, she picked up a glistening piece of pink sashimi from her own plate and placed it gently in Haruka’s bowl.

For anyone else, this would have been a shocking breach of etiquette, a rude, unhygienic gesture. But coming from Lady Murasaki, others would only see it as a sign of her deep, maternal affection for her son.

“You are the young master of the Fujiwara family,” she said, her beautiful, narrow almond eyes glancing at him, a silent command in their depths.

He lowered his head, saying nothing, the piece of fish looking alien and impossibly decadent in his simple bowl.

Lady Murasaki knew he still remembered that other woman, that he did not yet think of her as his mother. She felt no anger. In fact, the more resolute he was, the greater the thrill of conquest would be. She was very pleased with his character.

She had been observing him in silence, noticing that this child possessed a subtlety and self-control far beyond his years. Even though he had been hungry all day, he had first observed the table manners of others, and had even been willing to put down his chopsticks when the food was right in front of him, a small act of immense discipline. If she had to say there was something she didn’t like, it was that he was surprisingly, stubbornly loyal about certain things. Lady Murasaki attributed this to the “lingering ghost” of that woman, but there was plenty of time. Haruka’s days in the Fujiwara household were just beginning. If she wished it, she could, sooner or later, carve this fine piece of uncut jade into any shape she desired.

And now, Lady Murasaki decided it was time to make the first cut.

“Let me hear you say ‘Mother’,” she whispered, her voice a silken command, soft but absolute.