The End

Kiyohime’s anger slowly dissipated, replaced by a flicker of genuine, unsettling confusion. She seemed fine just a moment ago, she thought, looking at Izayoi’s beautiful, flushed face. Why does she look so sad now? What is she thinking about?

Even though she didn’t particularly like this elder, with her games and her flirtations, Kiyohime couldn’t ignore the profound, naked sadness in her eyes. “That stuff tastes awful,” she said, the words a clumsy, awkward attempt at comfort. “You should drink less of it.”

Izayoi’s face was flushed, her eyes hazy with drink. She laughed, a sound that was heartbreakingly beautiful, like a bell ringing in an empty room. “It’s because it’s no good that I drink it.”

This woman must be mad, Kiyohime thought. Why drink something if it tastes bad? But then, she remembered the feeling of Haruka’s hands on the soles of her feet. At the time, she had resisted with all her might, but looking back now, there was something undeniably, shamefully wonderful about the sensation. Maybe drinking is the same, she mused, a strange new thought taking root.

Kiyohime found herself imitating Haruka’s earlier line of questioning. “Kurosaki-neechan,” she asked, her voice softer now, “tell me, is sake a good thing or a bad thing?”

“A bad thing,” Izayoi said without a moment’s hesitation, her smile like a beautiful, cracking mask worn over a crying face. “I am a bad thing.”

She’s drunk, Kiyohime thought, a flash of insight. I asked her if the sake was good or bad, and she just told me the truth about herself. Seeing her continue to down cup after cup, Kiyohime’s curiosity was piqued again. She’s drinking it with such gusto. Maybe I’m just doing it wrong?

Kiyohime picked up her cup, touched her tongue to the few remaining drops of sake, and immediately recoiled, putting the cup down with a clatter. It was just bitter and harsh. Terribly, punishingly uninteresting.

But Izayoi drank alone, her eyes growing hazy with tears that never fell. She looked around the room, at the beautiful demons and youkai in their painted skins, scattered about in small, gossiping clumps, their mouths forming the words “connections,” “favors,” “duty,” “power,” their laughter brighter and emptier than any human’s.

Lady Murasaki quietly listened to the chatter, a serene and distant queen. Every few minutes, another guest would come to offer her a toast. With each one, she had to show a degree of intimacy, while also maintaining a subtle, calculated distance. It was a contradiction, a tightrope walk, but she had to treat everyone with the same serious, weighty consideration.

Haruka leaned against Lady Murasaki’s chest, his body limp with drink, but he was still conscious enough to listen to the guests’ conversations. They had all come because of the Old Mistress, yet not a single one of them seemed to care whether she lived or died. He wished he had drunk a few more cups, enough to pass out completely so he wouldn’t have to hear their empty, grasping words anymore.

Suddenly, a warm, fragrant breath tickled his ear. “How long are you going to pretend to be asleep?”

Haruka’s heart leaped, a frantic bird in his chest. He didn’t dare open his eyes. His cheek was itchy from the strands of her hair brushing against it. I really was drunk and just woke up, he thought, his mind scrambling for a defense. She shouldn’t be able to tell.

As he was thinking this, he felt his legs being lifted, his body shifted into a new position. He kept his eyes closed, but he couldn’t help but picture himself being held like a baby. A wave of hot, mortifying goosebumps broke out across his skin, and he immediately opened his eyes.

He was met with a face so beautiful it took his breath away, so close he could feel the warmth of her skin, see the intricate patterns in her irises. For a moment, Haruka was stunned, wondering if the alcohol was still affecting him, if this was some strange, intoxicating dream. His own face felt incredibly hot.

Lady Murasaki gently wiped his face with the towel. “Don’t be naughty,” she said softly, her voice a low murmur. “It makes me very angry.”

Haruka looked down at his own body. He was being held diagonally across her lap, like a child. Hearing her words, he felt a surge of profound embarrassment and tried to get up, but she held him fast, her grip surprisingly strong. He looked at her, confused.

She gently stroked his head, her hand sliding down his neck to pat his back in a soothing, maternal rhythm. “Sleep,” she whispered. “When it’s over, I will wake you.”

Haruka’s heart slowed. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, it felt as if she really were his mother. But he immediately shook the thought from his head and tried to struggle again, but he had no strength left, and her embrace was a firm, silken cage. After a few futile attempts, he gave in, curling up in her arms in a shamefully childish position and closing his eyes. He had been exhausted all day, and with the lingering effect of the alcohol, this time, he truly fell asleep.

Lady Murasaki looked at the defenseless boy in her arms, and a smile of profound, quiet satisfaction touched her lips. But she had to look up, to pretend to be listening intently to the conversations below, occasionally offering a comment or two, playing her part.

Nearly two hours passed. “It is getting late,” Lady Murasaki finally announced, her voice carrying across the room. “I have prepared rooms for all of you. Please, stay the night at the Fujiwara house.”

No one objected. They rose from their seats, pleased and content. They glanced at the other table, where the ostentatiously lavish party was still in full, boisterous swing, and looked away with the quiet disdain of those in the inner circle, as if looking down from the clouds. It was all so boring, so common.

Fujiwara Asou, who had been sitting anxiously all this time, a knot of fear in her stomach, watched the guests leave like a receding tide. She gritted her teeth and walked toward Lady Murasaki.

Lady Murasaki gently shook Haruka awake. “It’s time to go back,” she whispered.

“Back where?” Haruka was still a little dizzy, the world soft around the edges. With her support, he slowly stood up, the back of his head resting for a moment against her soft chest.

“Home.”

Haruka’s mind cleared considerably at the word.

“To the home I have prepared for you,” Lady Murasaki said, her beautiful face unreadable.

Haruka looked at her, suddenly unsure of what he was feeling, a confusing mix of gratitude, fear, and something else he couldn’t name.

Just then, a few guests came over to bid Lady Murasaki farewell. She immediately looked up, her expression shifting back to one of polite, regal dignity, so flawless that even the most stringent etiquette master could find no fault.

After seeing the last of the guests off, Lady Murasaki let her mask fall away. In that moment, she was not the high and mighty head of the house, but just an ordinary, quiet beauty. She looked at Haruka in silence for a few seconds, then said, as if the words were pulled from her against her will, “I am your family, too.”

The moment she said it, a flicker of annoyance crossed her face, as if she were angry at herself for saying such a thing, for revealing a crack in her armor.

Haruka was unsettled, unable to tell if she was genuinely concerned for him or if this was just another, more subtle deception.

Lady Murasaki saw the doubt in his eyes, and her mood soured again, a thick, possessive desire rising within her.

Just then, Fujiwara Asou approached, her face pale. “Lady Murasaki.”

“What is it?” Lady Murasaki’s face was calm, her thoughts impossible to guess.

Asou was still having trouble swallowing her pride, but fear was a stronger motivator. “Lady Murasaki, I… I spoke out of turn earlier. I hope you will be magnanimous and not take it to heart.”

Lady Murasaki laughed, a soft, chilling sound that sent a shiver down Asou’s spine. “Why would I take it to heart?”

Asou didn’t believe her for a second. “Please, my Lady, forgive me!”

“Forgive you? But you have not offended me.”

“My Lady…”

“Alright, alright, I really don’t understand you,” Lady Murasaki said, looking at Haruka beside her. An idea, sharp and cruel, came to her. “How about this,” she said, her tone light, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “If my son can forgive you, then I will forgive you as well.”

She brushed the hair away from Haruka’s ear and whispered, her voice a playful, terrifying caress, “Do you want her to live, or do you want her to die?”