The Question

The remark sent a fresh wave of tinkling laughter through the guests, a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze.

The women at this table, with the exception of two elegant matriarchs in their fifties, were all stunning, predatory beauties. The air was thick with the scent of their expensive perfumes, a dozen different floral notes mingling into one intoxicating bouquet. Delicate, snow-white necks rose from the collars of their kimonos, and the gentle slopes of their chests and the smooth, alluring lines of their shoulder blades were on display. They were a garden of rare, hothouse flowers in full bloom, each vying to be the most beautiful, their collective gaze a palpable force.

Haruka didn’t know where to look. It was a dazzling, overwhelming assault on the senses.

He had steeled himself for them to make an issue of his status, to face a firing squad of polite but pointed inquiries. He hadn’t expected this—to be so welcomed, so utterly devoid of malice. They smiled at him, their eyes crinkling, and introduced themselves one by one.

At one point, out of a sense of decorum, Haruka began to introduce himself. He had just uttered the first character of his surname, his voice quiet but clear, “Yuki—” when a folding fan gently tapped his forehead, silencing him.

“Silly boy,” Izayoi said, her voice a low purr, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Haruka’s heart gave a jolt. He understood instantly. She was kindly, cleverly, reminding him. Even if these women meant no harm, this was still the Fujiwara household. His surname was a landmine, a sensitive topic best left buried.

“I…”

Before Haruka could formulate a response, Izayoi’s fan began a slow, deliberate descent from his forehead. It traced the path her eyes took, a stand-in for the touch of her own slender, jade-like fingers. The fan’s silk edge brushed past the bridge of his nose and then, with feather-light pressure, tapped on his lips.

A faint, tingling numbness spread from the point of contact, electric and strange. Haruka looked at her smile, at the mischievous light dancing in her eyes, and felt his own heart begin to beat a little faster, a little harder.

Kiyohime stood to the side, watching. Since the initial introductions, everyone’s attention had been a laser beam focused on him. Seeing that they meant him no harm, a genuine, unselfish happiness had bloomed in her chest. But now, for some reason, seeing the breathtakingly intimate gesture between him and Izayoi, a sour, acidic feeling began to churn in the pit of her stomach.

And so, Kiyohime stepped forward. With a swift, decisive movement, she grabbed Izayoi’s fan. “Kurosaki-obasan,” she said, her voice a little too sweet, a little too bright, “could I borrow this fan for a moment?”

The beauties seated at the table exchanged subtle, knowing smiles, their eyes glinting with a strange, shared light. They were all experienced women, veterans of a thousand social battlefields; they could see with perfect clarity that Kiyohime had taken a liking to Haruka, and was marking her territory.

“Obasan, you say…” Izayoi sighed, a look of heartbreaking coquettishness filling her eyes. If there had been any men present, they would have undoubtedly rushed to her side to comfort her. Even Haruka couldn’t help but look at her for a moment longer before quickly averting his gaze. She looks so young, he thought, much younger than my mother. Probably only a few years older than Yukina.

Izayoi glanced at Kiyohime, her gaze lingering for a charged moment on Haruka, before she slowly, gracefully, released her hold on the fan. “Since the Second Young Mistress likes it so much,” she said, her smile deeply meaningful, “then I will give it to you.”

“I just wanted to have a look. I’ll give it back to you right away,” Kiyohime said, slowly opening the fan. One side was plain, unmarked white; the other was painted with a delicate, exquisite picture of a court lady.

She held the fan up, her eyes fixed on Haruka, but her words were a clear challenge aimed at Izayoi. “This painting is very well done. Where did you get it, Kurosaki-obasan?”

“I picked it up on a trip to China. Well, since you like it so much, it’s yours.” Izayoi glanced at the fan in Kiyohime’s hand and let out a small, musical chuckle. “Second Young Mistress, you’re holding it backwards.”

“Ah!” Kiyohime exclaimed, her head snapping down to look at the fan. She had, without realizing, been displaying the blank white side to the entire room. Thinking of her confident, critical appraisal just moments before, she felt a hot flush of shame and curled her toes in embarrassment inside her geta. When she looked up, everyone was smiling at her, their amusement gentle but obvious. Even Haruka. A faint blush crept up her pale skin, a rare sight. She quickly hid her face behind the fan, so that now the shy, painted court lady was peeking out at everyone, mirroring her own mortification.

“Hahaha…”

Izayoi lost all her composure for a moment, her laughter so vibrant and genuinely alluring that all the other beauties in the room seemed to pale in comparison. She sat back down and, with a flick of her wrist, produced another fan as if by magic, immediately recapturing Haruka’s rapt attention.

With a gentle shake, Izayoi unfurled the new fan like a blooming flower. She gave a triumphant little hum, a sound of pure self-satisfaction. On the fan were four bold characters written in a dynamic, splashed-ink calligraphy: All Rivers Run into the Sea.

Haruka stared in amazement at her simple, form-fitting kimono, wondering where on earth she could have possibly hidden a second fan. It seemed to have materialized from thin air.

Izayoi noticed his gaze and met his clear, black-and-white eyes. The temperature in the hall seemed to rise by several degrees. She turned the fan over and began to fan herself with a nonchalant, leisurely grace.

On the other side were four more characters: Greatness Comes from Tolerance.

“Alright, alright, let’s have the Second Young Mistress and the Young Master sit down before we continue our chat,” Fujiwara Hitomi said with a warm smile, breaking the spell.

Besides the head of the table, the seats were mostly full. But the women were all so slender that by squeezing together a little, they could make room for three or four more people, though there were no chairs. Hitomi called over a servant and had her bring more.

While they were waiting, Hitomi asked, “Young Master, how old are you?”

“I will be thirteen in a few months,” Haruka replied politely, his voice steady.

“In a few more years, there won’t be a woman in Japan who doesn’t love you,” one of the women teased, her voice husky.

Izayoi stopped fanning herself and blinked, her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. “Ara ara, so you’re only five years younger than me.”

“Shameless!” Hitomi laughed. “Since when are you seventeen?”

“I am forever seventeen,” Izayoi declared with a mock solemnity that was utterly convincing.

“Then I’m seventeen, too!” Hitomi said, puffing out her modest chest with a playful grin.

Izayoi hid her face behind the “Greatness Comes from Tolerance” side of her fan, concealing a pitying gaze meant for Hitomi. “Young Master Haruka, how old do you think I am?” she asked, slowly lowering the fan to reveal her eyes, which were brimming with a flirtatious, spring-like warmth that promised endless secrets.

“If my sister says she is seventeen, well then she must be seventeen,” Haruka said, his smile as sincere and natural as the sun rising.

“You trust me so easily, Young Master Haruka? Then I shall have to trick you more often,” Izayoi said, putting down her fan, her watery, beautiful eyes momentarily avoiding his disarming smile.

The conversation returned to Haruka, a gentle tide of questions. The guests asked him a series of pointless, charming things about his tastes and hobbies, all of which he answered with an unfailing, easy politeness.

Until one of them asked a question that was anything but pointless.

“Do you think you look more like your mother, or more like your father?”

The light, pleasant chatter died instantly. All eyes turned to the woman who had spoken. She was sitting fourth from the left, her face still pretty, but clearly nearing forty, an age that even the most expensive cosmetics couldn’t entirely hide.

It’s Fujiwara Asou.

Everyone recognized her. They didn’t all know each other intimately, but everyone knew Asou. She was said to have once been highly regarded by the Old Mistress, but she was stubborn and possessed a catastrophic lack of judgment. She had run a fine hotel into the ground, racking up huge debts to the bank, and had become a tragicomic laughingstock in their circle.

They had all been carefully, deliberately asking harmless questions precisely to avoid a minefield like this one. After all, he was still the Master’s illegitimate son. They couldn’t believe Asou would be so foolish, so utterly tactless as to ask such a question. No wonder you bankrupted a perfectly good hotel, they all thought, a single, silent judgment passing through the room.

In this context, in this house, the question was loaded, a weapon disguised as curiosity. To say he looked like his father would be to declare his allegiance, to align himself with the Fujiwara family. To say he looked like his mother would be to reject them, to stand apart.