The Guests

Under Kiyohime’s guidance, Haruka stepped into a hall so vast it felt like a cathedral carved from marble and shadow. The air, cool and smelling of rain-washed stone and a faint, sweet trace of incense, seemed to hum with a life of its own. High above, a chandelier of sculpted crystal dripped light, its facets scattering rainbows across a ceiling that soared four stories to a vaulted peak, held aloft by flawless marble pillars. On the far wall, inlaid in the most prominent position, was the Fujiwara family crest—a wisteria fashioned from gilded metal. Its gold was not bright, but a deep, burnished hue, muted and dark, as if imbued with the immense weight of its history.

Beneath the crest, two long, European-style dining tables were set a world apart, islands of white linen on a sea of polished floor. Maids, their postures impossibly elegant, glided between them carrying trays of drinks, their movements as silent and fluid as smoke. The guests murmured in low, smiling conversation, their voices a soft counterpoint to the rich, melancholic melody flowing from a vintage vinyl record player, a sound that seemed to fill every empty space in the cavernous room.

The guests were mostly women. The few men present were well into their forties or fifties, their presence a quiet anchor to the vibrant femininity that dominated the hall.

Two attendants materialized with hot, scented towels. As Haruka and Kiyohime wiped their faces, the humidity of the evening air clung to them; the rain outside had lessened to a whisper, but their clothes were still damp from their walk through the gardens.

“Don’t be nervous,” Kiyohime whispered, her voice a breath of warmth against his ear. “When you talk to them, just pretend you’re talking to me.”

“Why would I be nervous?” Haruka replied, his tone even.

Kiyohime held out her hand, and an attentive servant took the used towel without a sound. She found herself staring at Haruka’s face, a familiar frustration warring with a feeling she refused to name. This boy… she thought, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him show a single shred of insecurity. A faint, enigmatic smile was always playing on his lips, an effortless curve that made him seem so natural, so completely at ease in his own skin. No, she wasn’t worried about him being intimidated by these women. She was worried about what audacious, unpredictable thing he might do next. The memory of his touch, of what he had done to her just moments before, sent a fresh wave of heat through her, making her heart beat a frantic, unsteady rhythm.

“Just… be smart,” she couldn’t help but add, the words escaping before she could stop them, laced with a genuine concern that felt dangerously exposed. “If they ask you anything you don’t want to answer, ignore them. I’ll handle it.”

The moment she said it, she felt his gaze on her, his dark eyes bright and unblinking, seeing far too much.

A hot blush crept up her neck, a traitorous tide of warmth. She forced a cruel smile, a familiar mask, meeting his stare with her own blood-red eyes. “What are you looking at?”

Haruka’s hand lifted. The small, simple gesture made her breath catch in her throat. His fingers, impossibly gentle, brushed against her long eyelashes, a touch as light as a moth’s wing. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur meant only for her. “Just leave everything to me.”

Kiyohime’s skin prickled, growing warm where he’d almost touched her. She pushed his hand away, her voice a weapon of feigned indifference. “I don’t care what you do. Go to hell for all I care.”

Sakuya, who had been waiting patiently to the side, a silent statue of propriety, let out a small, nearly inaudible sigh. This banquet was no place for a servant like her. She raised her voice, just enough to pierce their private bubble. “Second Young Mistress, I will take my leave now.”

“Sakuya? Are you still here?” Kiyohime asked unexpectedly.

Sakuya almost choked on her own exasperation. You two were so lost in your own world, you didn’t even notice I was still standing here? “Yes, Second Young Mistress,” she said, her voice heavy with a weary resentment she could barely conceal. “I have been here for quite some time…”

“Haha, I was only teasing,” Kiyohime said, giving Sakuya’s hand a quick squeeze before immediately turning and, right in front of her, taking Haruka’s hand in her own.

Sakuya’s heart became a tangle of complicated emotions as she watched them walk away, their joined hands a stark, public declaration. Staring at Haruka’s back, she had to admit, with a sense of profound resignation, With a face like that… it’s no wonder the Second Young Mistress has fallen for him.

———

The women seated at the long tables were all creatures of high status, draped in vibrant silk kimonos that shimmered like butterfly wings, each with her own unique, alluring figure. They spoke in low, melodious tones, amusing each other, occasionally covering their mouths to laugh—a cascade of silver chimes tinkling through the air.

“The Second Young Mistress has arrived,” one of them said, her smile knowing.

The flock of colorful women greeted her, but their gazes, like heat-seeking missiles, slid past the familiar, lovely face of Kiyohime, landing in perfect, predatory unison on the stranger by her side.

He felt their collective stare, a physical sensation like warm, rolling syrup, his body suddenly coated in a tempting, invisible honey.

“And who,” the woman who spoke first purred, her smile deepening, “is this handsome young man?” She was crossing her legs beneath her kimono, a flash of ankle, her skin so fair you could almost smell the sweet, clean scent of milk.

“That must be the Young Master Haruka who just returned.” Another woman spoke, her voice like silk, guessing the identity of the beautiful boy accompanying Kiyohime. She held a folding fan, her pretty face half-hidden behind a painted scene of a court lady. Her flirtatious eyes peeked over the top, sharp and bright, hooking one’s heart with a single, practiced glance.

They had all heard the rumors before arriving—that an illegitimate son, long lost to the family, had returned. His status was peculiar; as the son of the deceased adopted son-in-law, he had no true Fujiwara blood. These women, secure in their own pedigrees, felt no particular malice toward him. Instead, they were consumed by an intense, almost palpable curiosity, every one of them appraising the boy who stood before them now.

He stood out amongst the vibrant silks and powdered faces like a rare, dark orchid in a hothouse of exotic blooms.

His mother must have been a great beauty, the women couldn’t help but think, a shared, silent consensus. The more they looked, the more pleasing he was to the eye, and a collective, playful desire to tease him began to stir among them.

“So this is him. I must have a closer look,” a woman on the left said, sending a slow, deliberate wink in Haruka’s direction.

“Young Master, come a little closer. Let us see your face properly,” a woman on the right added with a throaty giggle.

Another leaned forward, the movement a dramatic, calculated display that revealed the snow-white curve of her shoulders. “Could it be Mori Ranmaru, come back to life before our very eyes?” she declared, referencing the famously beautiful young samurai of legend.

“You’ve been watching too many historical dramas.”

The remark sent a wave of tinkling laughter through the guests, their silken shoulders trembling. They covered their smiles with their hands, with their fans, with their long, flowing sleeves—all of them laughing without showing their teeth, their movements graceful and exquisitely refined, yet tinged with a lazy, decadent air. These women were all different, a kaleidoscope of butterflies flitting through a field of flowers.

Even Haruka was momentarily dazed, unsure how to navigate this sudden, perfumed onslaught.

The woman closest to him rose, her smile as bright and dazzling as the morning sun. She extended a hand. “Young Master, my name is Fujiwara Hitomi. You may call me Hitomi-neechan.”

Before her fingers could brush his, a folding fan gently tapped her hand away. It was the beauty with the fan from before. She said with a teasing smile, “Hitomi, you old woman, trying to act young again. It’s far more appropriate for the Young Master to call me neechan.”

“So what if you’re a few years younger than me?” the woman named Hitomi retorted with a theatrical huff. “You have a husband. The Young Master should be calling you ‘obasan’.”

The fan-wielding beauty snapped her fan open, hiding her face from the other woman as she fanned herself, her voice dripping with mock sorrow. “Having a husband is the same as not having one these days, and still I must be called ‘obasan’. How pitiful I am.” With a sharp thwack, she closed the fan, her beautiful eyes fixing on Haruka. She tapped the woman beside her with the fan’s edge, a silent command for her to move aside.

The beauty extended a hand as smooth and pale as jade. Haruka hesitated for a heartbeat, then took it.

“My surname is Kurosaki. My name is Izayoi,” the beauty said, her eyes as lovely as a painting, her expression artfully pitiful. “Whether you call me neechan or obasan, I will leave it entirely up to you, Young Master Haruka.”

Haruka felt a faint tickle in his palm. It was her finger, the nail gently, deliberately, scratching his skin. He looked up from their hands and met her flirtatious, challenging gaze.

He immediately released her hand and took a small, graceful step back, a charming smile blooming on his face. “Hitomi-neechan must be joking with me. And Kurosaki-neechan, why must you play along? My eyes are not blind; I can certainly tell the difference between a neechan and an obasan. Please, you two sisters, don’t tease me anymore.”

Izayoi tapped Haruka’s shoulder with her fan, a knowing, appreciative smile touching her lips. “Such a little devil, wise beyond your years.”

Fujiwara Hitomi laughed along, a rich, genuine sound. “Well, now we don’t have to fight. We’re both his sisters.”