Moonlight

It turned out that after the banquet ended last night, Kiyohime had returned to her room, tossing and turning, unable to find a moment’s peace.

She regretted drinking that single, foolish cup of sake. A fire seemed to be burning in her lower abdomen, a restless, unfamiliar heat that made her skin feel too tight. The image of Yukishiro Haruka’s handsome, refined face kept floating, unbidden, through her mind—his calm eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the surprising strength in his hands.

Kiyohime grabbed a pillow, a soft cloud of silk and down, placed it between her legs, and squeezed it tightly with her arms and thighs, rolling over twice in her bed as if she could physically wrestle the thoughts from her head. The scene from the reception room replayed in her mind, vivid and intoxicating: she had pinned Haruka down, only to be overpowered and pinned by him in return, their bodies tumbling back and forth in a tangle of limbs. In the private theater of her memory, she embellished the scene, adding details that had never happened, until it seemed less like a fight and more like a secret, breathless game. She remembered the feeling of her soft, watery flesh pressed against his firm, earthen chest, and even the pillow clutched in her arms grew warm and damp with a strange, phantom heat.

After a short while, she threw the pillow to the floor in frustration and lay limp on the bed, a starfish on a sea of silk sheets. Her dark, bright hair was a messy halo around her head, her snow-white skin exposed to the cool night air. The rain outside had stopped, and the cool, silvery moonlight poured in through the window, but it could not compare to the milky white delicacy of her skin, which seemed to glow with its own inner light.

Kiyohime swung her legs out of bed, her pinkish-white feet landing silently on the cold, polished floor. The hardness of the wood sent a shiver through her. She took two steps, barefoot, and felt that something was missing—that ticklish, infuriating, wonderful sensation. The warmth in her heart, which had been simmering moments before, began to drip away again, leaving a familiar emptiness.

She slipped on her geta, the wooden soles making a soft clatter, threw on a thin robe, and walked straight out of her room, heading for the west wing veranda. The moon was rising in the east, its light so soft and liquid it seemed you could squeeze water from it. It bathed the young girl in a hazy, dreamlike glow, as if she had just stepped out of a hot bath, her skin luminous and ethereal.

The west wing was where the servants lived.

Kiyohime, bored and restless and filled with a strange, malicious energy, picked a few doors at random and banged on them, hard, with her small, clenched fist.

It had been an important banquet, and the servants had been busy from morning till night without a moment’s rest. Dragging their exhausted bodies, they had only just fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep when they were startled awake by the violent, jarring knocking. They rushed to the door, their hearts pounding, only to find the long corridor empty, silent save for the whisper of the night wind. They were furious, but helpless.

After they had gone back to bed, Kiyohime waited a while, her own heart beating with a wicked thrill, then knocked again. After this happened a few times, the servants could no longer contain their anger. “Who is it! Have you no shame!” one of them roared, yanking his door open. But when they saw the Second Young Mistress standing there, bathed in moonlight, a faint, cruel smile on her lips, a cold sweat of pure terror broke out on their skin.

Kiyohime suppressed a laugh, frightened them with a few sharp, cutting words, and then sauntered away, her geta clicking softly on the floorboards.

Bathed in the moonlight, she couldn’t help but laugh out loud, the sound a bright, sharp thing in the quiet night. The servants’ terrified expressions had been so amusing. She felt not a single shred of guilt.

When she grew tired of laughing, she found herself alone again, and a sudden, crushing loneliness washed over her. I wish Sakuya were here, she thought, a pang of genuine longing.

But though she thought of Sakuya, it was Haruka’s face that appeared in her mind. She felt a fresh surge of annoyance. It was all his fault for drinking at the banquet, which had made her curious enough to drink a cup herself. Now her stomach was upset, and her body was too hot to sleep. She would have to teach him a proper lesson.

Kiyohime headed further west, to the residences of the senior staff. Sakuya lived here as well. She passed by Sakuya’s room and paused, a desperate urge to share her strange, joyful, miserable mood with her friend rising within her. But she quickly suppressed the thought. Sakuya has been working all day, too. I should let her rest.

She lightened her steps, and only after she had gone a good distance, to a random steward’s room where she was sure she wouldn’t wake Sakuya, did she dare to knock loudly.

The steward opened the door and was startled to see the Second Young Mistress standing there like a beautiful, terrifying ghost. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked hurriedly, her voice thick with sleep.

“Do you know where my younger brother’s room is?” Kiyohime asked, the words feeling strange and new on her tongue.

The steward froze at the word “brother.” Kiyohime, seeing this, grew displeased. “What are you hesitating for!”

The steward then remembered that Lady Murasaki had already adopted Haruka. “Do you mean the Young Master?” she asked quickly, her mind scrambling to catch up.

Kiyohime was even more annoyed. “How many other younger brothers do I have, huh?”

The steward, knowing she had misspoken, quickly answered her question. “The Young Master is staying in the east wing…”

“Take me there!”

“Yes, yes.”

The steward timidly led Kiyohime on a long, winding walk, up and down several flights of stairs, before they finally arrived at Haruka’s door.

Kiyohime tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Where is the key?” she demanded, her patience gone.

The steward fumbled in her pockets, her hands shaking. “You were in such a hurry, Young Mistress… I didn’t bring it with me.”

“Are you blaming me?”

The steward fell silent, her head bowed. “Go and get it!” Kiyohime snapped.

The steward was about to run back, but Kiyohime stopped her. “And bring a permanent marker. Be quick about it. You know the consequences if you are slow.”

The steward didn’t dare to ask why she needed a marker. She turned and ran. After a while, she returned, out of breath and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and handed the key and the marker to Kiyohime.

Kiyohime took the key, inserted it into the lock, and with a soft click, the door opened. She turned and saw the steward’s pathetic, exhausted state and knew she hadn’t dawdled. Her anger subsided a little. But then she remembered the steward’s earlier hesitation, how she clearly didn’t truly think of Haruka as her brother, how even the title “Young Master” had sounded disrespectful and insincere.

Kiyohime uncapped the marker and beckoned the steward closer. “Is this marker dark?”

“Very dark, Young Mistress. I tested it myself.”

“Really? I don’t believe you. Unless…”

Before the steward could ask “unless what,” Kiyohime had jabbed the marker at her face. The steward was terrified, but she didn’t dare to move, afraid of offending the volatile Young Mistress. She could only close her eyes and endure it, a silent, trembling statue.

After a short while, Kiyohime put the marker away and admired her handiwork on the steward’s face. On the left cheek was a series of round, childish scribbles; on the right, as if she were a branded criminal, were the words “I have offended the Young Master.”

“Perhaps I have a talent for painting,” Kiyohime said smugly, feeling she had avenged Haruka’s honor. Let’s see which servant dares to offend him now.

The steward opened her eyes, terrified the Second Young Mistress would come up with some other twisted idea to torment her. “May I leave now, Young Mistress?” she asked quickly, her voice a thin whisper.

Kiyohime glanced at her. The steward’s posture was perfectly, fearfully respectful. Only then did she let her go. But after she had taken a few steps, Kiyohime called out again, “Wait. Remember not to wash your face. Let everyone admire it.”

The steward had no choice but to agree. As she was about to go downstairs, Kiyohime stopped her one last time, rushing to her side to whisper a final, chilling threat. “You are not to breathe a word of my visit to my brother’s room. If anyone else finds out…”

A cold sweat broke out on the steward’s skin. She quickly, desperately, promised she understood.

Only then did Kiyohime let her go. Thinking of the steward’s terrified, jumpy state, her anger was finally, completely gone. These servants were so foolish. They had to be beaten and scolded like dogs before they would learn to obey.

But then, she remembered how Haruka had stood up for those servants, how he had grabbed her leg and tickled the sole of her foot, and a new wave of displeasure washed over her. Even though the memory of that sensation still made her tingle, a closer look at the situation meant that, in Haruka’s heart, her own status was even lower than that of the servants. And remembering that she had stood up for him earlier, defending his honor, made her even more annoyed. She gripped the thick, black permanent marker, entered the room, and quietly closed the door, intending to deliver a small, intimate punishment to her “younger brother,” to make him understand who was the true elder.