The Next Act

Everyone who heard her words, though their faces remained impassive, felt a silent shockwave ripple through them. A teacup paused halfway to a pair of lips; a fan stopped its fluttering mid-arc. Is Lady Murasaki going to adopt him? The unspoken question hung in the air, thick and heavy as the summer humidity.

Haruka’s smile felt stiff, a brittle mask frozen on his face. I just declared that I look like my mother, he thought, his mind racing, trying to solve an impossible equation. She must have heard everything. What does she mean by this?

Kiyohime, however, gently tugged on the corner of his sleeve, her expression suddenly bright with an uncomplicated, almost childish excitement. What’s so hard to understand? her look seemed to say, her eyes sparkling. My mother is obviously going to take you as her adopted son.

Lady Murasaki remained noncommittal, a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her perfect lips. “Why are you all still standing? Please, sit down.”

“There are no seats, Mama” Kiyohime pointed out. Haruka noticed that her entire demeanor had shifted, becoming much more relaxed and casually familiar, even in front of these powerful elders. It was all because Lady Murasaki was here, a sun around which all other planets were forced to orbit.

“Oh my, no seats? It looks quite spacious to me though,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice a soft melody. She began to walk slowly behind Fujiwara Asou, her movements fluid and deliberate, and patted the back of her chair.

Haruka recognized the woman instantly. Fujiwara Asou. She was the one who had asked the question about his resemblance to his father or mother, the one who had turned the pleasant atmosphere delicate and tense.

Fujiwara Asou’s thumb had been incessantly, nervously, rubbing the large emerald ring on her finger, the green stone polished to a greasy, anxious shine. She looked around at the other beautiful guests, who all wore faint, knowing smiles, their eyes glinting with the cruel pleasure of watching a good play unfold.

Asou stopped her nervous fidgeting. She spoke slowly, her voice firm with a desperate, self-conscious bravado. “I have been sitting in this seat since the Old Mistress was in charge. I have never moved.”

“Asou, what are you talking about?” Lady Murasaki said, her tone one of mild, innocent surprise. “I was just asking you to shift over a little, to make some room for them to sit down.”

“I will not move,” Asou said, her voice sharp. She didn’t dare look at Lady Murasaki’s face, afraid that a single glance into those mesmerizing eyes would shatter her nerve and force her to bow to this younger woman’s will. “Let the people in front or behind me move. It’s not as if they don’t have space.”

“Is that so?” Lady Murasaki sighed, a soft, disappointed sound that was more cutting than any reprimand. “Then who would be willing to make some room?”

Before the words had even finished leaving her lips, Fujiwara Hitomi shot up from her seat as if propelled by a spring, moving her chair inward with a clumsy haste. “The Young Master can sit here!” she said, her voice breathy, her smile fawning.

The other women looked at Hitomi with a complex mixture of contempt, regret, and raw envy. The thought in most of their minds was the same: Tsk, I was a little too slow. That woman Hitomi beat me to it.

Lady Murasaki sighed again, a sound of profound, theatrical disappointment. “Asou, Asou… thank you.”

Fujiwara Hitomi froze for a second, her smile faltering. “My Lady, I am Hitomi.”

“I will remember,” Lady Murasaki said with a small, dismissive smile that erased Hitomi from existence.

Just then, two servants brought over two more chairs. One placed a chair to the left of Hitomi. Izayoi, who had been sitting on her right, shifted a little further away, the charming smile never leaving her face, but a clear, deliberate distance now created between her and the disgraced Hitomi.

There was still one chair left. A few of the guests, unable to contain their ambition, immediately stood up. “Let the Young Mistress sit with me!”

Not only were their words the same, but they had timed them perfectly, speaking in a near-unison of desperate sycophancy.

Kiyohime couldn’t help but laugh out loud, a genuine, unrestrained sound. She pointed a finger at them. “Are you all twins?”

“Yes, yes,” they said, laughing awkwardly, the only thing separating them from the bowing, faceless servants being the fact that they remained standing.

Kiyohime’s amusement quickly faded, curdling into disgust. She suddenly found the fawning smiles of her elders repulsive. She turned her head to look at Haruka, at his handsome, stoic profile, and thought, If only he were as obedient as these people. The thought sent a strange, possessive thrill through her. Then another thought followed, sharp and delicious: From the way Mama is acting, she is definitely going to adopt him. Then, in the entire Fujiwara household, besides Grandmother, Mama, and my sister, I’ll be the only one who can order him around. I’ll make him pay for every last bit of disrespect he’s shown me.

The fantasy of future scenarios, of him bowing his head to her, brought a slow, satisfied smile back to her face.

“Place that chair next to me,” Lady Murasaki said to the servant, her voice cutting through the chatter.

The guests who were still standing looked instantly, painfully embarrassed. “Of course,” one said, her voice strained, “how could the Young Mistress possibly sit with us?”

The smiles on the other women’s faces were a silent, merciless mockery of their failed attempt, making the standing women’s faces turn an even deeper shade of red.

Fortunately, Lady Murasaki’s tone was gentle, a balm on their wounded pride. “You may all sit down,” she said. What made them even more excited was that she then asked each of them their names, a small act of grace that felt like a coronation. The smiles on the other guests’ faces began to fade as the chosen few preened, their expressions smug. Let’s see you put on airs now, they seemed to think, their victory sweet.

Kiyohime glanced at them with disdain. A bunch of servants, she thought. She started to walk toward the seat beside Lady Murasaki, but before she could sit down, her mother said coldly, “Who told you to come here?”

“Huh?” Kiyohime froze, her body going rigid with shock. “Then where do I sit?”

“Go and sit with Hitomi,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice flat and dismissive.

Kiyohime couldn’t believe her ears. To be cast aside, to be told to sit with the sycophant…

Lady Murasaki then turned her gaze to Haruka. “You. Come here.”

Everyone, including Haruka, was stunned into a fresh silence.

Haruka hesitated for a long moment, the world seeming to slow down around him. Then, he slowly walked over, each step feeling heavy, deliberate.

Lady Murasaki took his hand, her touch cool and firm, and pulled him down into the seat of honor beside her.

Haruka stared at her breathtakingly beautiful face, so close now he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. He didn’t dare to breathe, completely unable to understand what game she was playing.

“Not at all like a young master,” she chided softly, her voice a murmur that vibrated through him. “Your face is covered in sweat. Don’t you know how to wipe it away?”

She took out a silk handkerchief, its scent a faint mix of sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine, and gently dabbed the beads of sweat from his forehead. She leaned in close, her lips almost brushing his ear, her voice a whisper meant only for him, a secret shared in the midst of a crowd. “Your mother and I were enemies, even before we met your father. Heh, I was never in love with him. I just enjoy destroying everything that belongs to your mother. It truly brings me such exquisite pleasure.”

“You…”

Haruka couldn’t believe the words she was uttering, so devoid of the dignity of a lady of her station, so wantonly, gleefully cruel.

Her bewitching hand, separated from his skin only by the thin, cool silk of the handkerchief, moved down to caress his throat, a touch that was both a comfort and a threat.

“If I take you away from her,” she continued, her voice a silken thread, “then no one will even remember that woman ever existed.”

Lady Murasaki stared deep into his eyes, her charm and charisma so overwhelming, so absolute, that Haruka couldn’t help but lean back, pressing himself against the hard wood of the chair as if seeking an escape he knew he wouldn’t find.

“Forget her,” Lady Murasaki whispered, her fragrant, cherry-like lips parting in a devastating smile. “Be my son.” The handkerchief gently, finally, wiped the last traces of sweat from his face, a gesture of ownership, of finality.