The Enchantress

“Me?” Haruka was at a complete loss, not understanding why Izayoi, a whirlwind of playful chaos, had suddenly thrown the crushing weight of the decision to him.

Izayoi’s gaze cut through the crowd, a silken thread locking onto him. Seeing that he was looking back at her, a faint, delicate blush rose on her cheeks. She lowered her eyes, twisted her waist in a subtle, sinuous movement, and began to fidget with her sleeves, a perfect imitation of a young girl who had just bumped into her secret crush.

But when she looked up again, her shy, innocent eyes had transformed. They were now as alluring and captivating as the autumn moon reflected on still water, deep and knowing, making one’s heart sway helplessly. “Yes, you, Young Master Haruka.”

“You want me to choose? Surely you must be teasing me, onee-chan,” Haruka said, quickly looking away, his own cheeks feeling warm. The pale red kimono she wore, the color of a blush, made him think of the phrase, “A garden full of spring colors cannot be contained.”

“Teasing you?” Izayoi was an enchanting, fairy-like beauty; no one could ever guess what she was truly thinking. The beauty without her fan smiled a guileless, bewitching smile, her full lips glistening as if coated with honey, looking so soft they seemed about to overflow.

Haruka dared not look at her any longer.

“If you keep looking so shy all the time, Young Master Haruka,” she purred, her voice a low, musical laugh, “I will have to tease you every day.”

Hearing Izayoi’s tinkling laughter, Haruka couldn’t understand why she was flirting with him, nor could he understand how he was appearing shy. He was simply overwhelmed. He tightened his grip on the fan he was still holding. Should he follow Kiyohime’s example and hide his face?

Someone from Fujiwara Asou’s side grew impatient. “Kurosaki, this is not the time for games.”

Izayoi let out a long, theatrical yawn, tears welling in the corners of her eyes from the effort. She leaned back lazily against her chair, her posture one of elegant indolence. “But that would be so boring.” She looked at Haruka, her eyes half-lidded. “Young Master Haruka, if you don’t speak up soon, I’m just going to go over there.”

Haruka realized with a jolt that everyone’s eyes were on him, their gazes heavy with expectation, as if Izayoi truly would do as he wished.

He thought for a moment, but instead of asking her to join their side, he said, his voice calm and steady, “Kurosaki-neechan, please don’t worry about my feelings. You should stand on the side you truly wish to stand on.”

“But I don’t have the strength to even stand up right now,” Izayoi said, melting languidly against the back of her chair, her body as soft and boneless as the stem of a beautiful, heavy-headed flower.

The other guests couldn’t help but look at her with unconcealed annoyance, as if they wanted to rip this “poppy flower” from its chair, roots and all. Everyone else was standing, a sea of tense, vertical lines, yet she sat there lazily, an act of supreme arrogance and breathtaking disrespect. But they needed her vote, and their status was far, far below hers. There was nothing they could do. Their collective negative emotions became nutrients, making the flower named “Izayoi” bloom even more brilliantly.

“Why don’t you come down and help me up, Young Master Haruka?” she said, her voice a playful invitation.

Fujiwara Hitomi and the others on her side frowned, their disapproval a palpable wave.

Haruka, unfazed, tapped the fan in his hand and smiled. “You gave me a fan; it is only right that I help you up now.”

“That seems like a poor trade for me,” Izayoi muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Haruka had already left the head seat, his white-socked feet silent in their geta as he walked gracefully from the front of the room to the back, a calm island in a sea of tension.

The people in Fujiwara Asou’s line thought, Hmph, he’s not even a proper young master yet, and he’s already putting on such airs. But they couldn’t take their eyes off him.

Haruka walked past Kiyohime, who stared at him without blinking, her gaze intense. But then, thinking of him going down to personally help that woman up, a bitter wave of resentment washed over her. It was all Fujiwara Asou’s fault for making things so complicated.

Haruka arrived in front of Izayoi and extended his hand. “May I help you up, Onee-chan?”

Izayoi placed her hand in his. Haruka gently pulled her up, using almost no force at all, but she let out a small, surprised cry and stumbled as if she had been yanked, her soft, watery flesh pressing against his side.

Haruka, caught by surprise, looked down at her and saw her long, dark eyelashes fluttering up and down, a mesmerizing, hypnotic sight that made his heart itch.

Izayoi seemed to be whispering sweet nothings, her voice a secret meant only for him, her breath warm against his cheek. “Young Master Haruka, which side should I stand on? Whatever you say, I will do. I will listen only to you.”

Haruka couldn’t help but say, the words pulled from him against his will, “Of course, I hope you will stand with me.”

But Izayoi gently pushed him away, the flirtatious, innocent look vanishing from her face in an instant, replaced by a cold, unreadable indifference. “Then I will stand on the other side. Young Master Haruka, have you not heard that the more beautiful a woman is, the more likely she is to deceive?”

With that, she pulled her hand away and started to walk toward Fujiwara Asou’s group. But then she heard Haruka’s voice from behind her, clear and steady. “Then you must be the most deceitful woman of all.”

Izayoi stopped in her tracks. She couldn’t help but turn her head. She saw him looking at her with a sincere, unguarded gaze, a clean, pure smile on his face that she had never seen before.

Her heart skipped a beat. How cunning, she thought. That smile…

Fujiwara Asou and her faction, seeing Izayoi walking toward them, had been smiling in triumph. But now, seeing her stop and stare at Haruka, their smiles froze on their faces, quickly replaced by the sour anger of being fooled.

“Ara ara, I really did want to stand with the Old Mistress,” Izayoi said, fanning herself languidly. “But it’s so hot in this hall, and my fan is over there with the Young Master. I suppose I have no choice but to go back.”

Haruka immediately understood and offered the fan back to her. “Thank you for the fan, Onee-chan.”

Izayoi took the fan and, one rib at a time, slowly opened it. On its surface were the four bold characters for “Greatness Comes from Tolerance.” She looked up, her expression neither innocent nor flirtatious, but something ethereal and distant. “I said that women are deceitful. But when a handsome man decides to deceive, he can be far more dangerous than any woman.”

“Young Master Haruka,” she said, her eyes locking with his, “why don’t you try to deceive me?”

Haruka was at a loss. “Deceive you about what?”

“Deceive me. Tell me how beautiful I am.”

This stumped Haruka completely. Beauty was an abstract concept, and besides, the only comparison he knew how to make was with his mother. Looking at Izayoi’s slender, graceful figure, he thought that only Yukishiro Tomoe, before her illness, could have possibly compared. But he certainly couldn’t say that in front of everyone. It would be sincere, but also ridiculously, painfully comical.

A string of adjectives—elegant, lovely, stunning—flashed through his mind, but he dismissed them all as insincere, hollow words that couldn’t possibly capture her essence.

Izayoi sighed with mock sorrow, her shoulders slumping. “Am I so ugly that the Young Master cannot even think of a single lie to tell me?”

“I will not lie to you,” Haruka said, unable to find the words to describe her beauty, he spoke with a simple, earnest sincerity that was more potent than any poetry. “Because I would not want to see the sadness on your face when you learned the truth.”

Izayoi’s heart stopped for a moment. She sighed, a soft, genuine sound this time. “Young Master Haruka, you are far too good at coaxing women. I wonder how many will be wrapped around your little finger in the future.”

Haruka was confused. He had spoken from the heart. What did that have to do with deception?

Izayoi gave him a look that was both a reprimand and a caress, then tucked the fan back into the front of his kimono, her fingers brushing against his chest.

Haruka quickly tried to return it, but she said, her voice firm, “I told you, the fan is yours.”

Izayoi walked to the back of the line on the left and turned around, her place now firmly chosen. “And I,” she said, her eyes on Haruka, a silent promise passing between them, “will not deceive you, Young Master.”