Trust

With that, she gave a faint smile. It was neither innocent nor flirtatious, but a clean, pure smile, like the first ray of morning sun falling on a clean pillow, chasing away the shadows of the night.

Haruka had never seen such a smile before. It was hard to imagine that the sometimes pure, sometimes seductive Izayoi could produce a smile so utterly contrary to her usual, dazzling demeanor. For a moment, he was stunned into a breathless silence.

“I learned how to smile like that from you, Young Master Haruka,” Izayoi whispered, her voice a soft secret that brushed against his ear before she turned away.

Haruka was surprised, not thinking his own smile possessed such a strange, disarming charm.

“Asou,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice cutting through the quiet, a sharp, clean sound that brought everyone back to reality, “it seems my side has one more person than yours.”

Fujiwara Asou and her faction fell silent, but the defiance on their faces was plain to see, a stubborn, bitter resentment.

Lady Murasaki did not press her advantage. Instead, she said, her voice softening into a tone of magnanimous leadership, “Although I am the head of the house, I respect your opinions. The Fujiwara family cannot function without each and every one of you. I will also ask for my mother’s opinion on this matter. I am well aware that I am only the acting head and cannot compare to the wisdom and experience of my mother. When the Old Mistress recovers, I will naturally return the position to her.”

Her words were perfectly chosen, a masterful blend of authority and humility. The tense, hostile expressions on the faces of the people on the right softened slightly, their rigid postures relaxing.

“Let us not stand any longer,” Lady Murasaki said. “Please, return to your seats.”

Each with their own swirling thoughts, the guests slowly returned to their original places, the lines of battle dissolving back into the polite arrangement of a banquet.

Lady Murasaki walked over to Fujiwara Asou’s chair and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Asou,” she sighed, the sound heavy with a sorrow that felt deeply insincere.

A chill of pure dread ran down Asou’s spine. “Lady Murasaki, what is it?”

Lady Murasaki looked at her uneasy expression, then withdrew her hand and smiled, a slow, predatory smile. “That’s a lovely ring you have on.”

Asou looked down at the ring on her hand, a large, square-cut emerald set in heavy gold. It was a gift from the Old Mistress, one she had worn for over ten years. The green stone was worn smooth and shiny from her constant, nervous touch. She instinctively pulled her hand back, clutching it closer to her body as if protecting it.

It was this small, fearful gesture that made Lady Murasaki’s gaze turn to ice.

The person sitting next to Asou, trying to break the sudden, chilling tension, asked, “Do you like jewelry, Lady Murasaki?”

Lady Murasaki smiled. “I do. I am particularly fond of emerald rings.”

A sense of impending doom crept over Asou, but she didn’t know what to say. Her mouth hung half-open as she watched Lady Murasaki walk back to the head of the table, her every step a silent threat.

Lady Murasaki, her long purple kimono trailing behind her like a royal train, possessed a beauty that was both sacred and profane. No one dared to speak.

She paused, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a rare, almost convincing look of gentleness on her face. She caught Haruka’s eye and gestured for him to return to her side.

Haruka immediately started back toward the head of the table. But as he passed Izayoi, she whispered, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible, a ghost of a sound against the silence, “Don’t trust Lady Murasaki. She is deceiving you.”

He turned his head to look at her, but her face was once again a mask of playful, flirtatious ambiguity, no different from before. He wondered if he had imagined it, a trick of his own overwrought mind.

Haruka continued walking, acting as if nothing had happened, and returned to Lady Murasaki’s side. But she had seen that brief, almost imperceptible turn of his head.

Her face showed nothing, but inwardly, she felt a sharp, possessive surge of anger, the feeling of something of hers being touched, tainted, by another. She grabbed Haruka’s wrist and pulled him down into the seat beside her. She herself sat back down in the head seat, a queen reclaiming her throne.

They were sitting very close. Dangerously close.

If Haruka looked down, he could see the elegant, powerful curve of Lady Murasaki’s thigh beneath the rich silk of her kimono. Her beautiful, imperious face kept the people below them in a state of timid, respectful silence, making the faint, hidden curve of her leg all the more potent, all the more alluring.

Suddenly, Lady Murasaki’s hand rested on the back of his. He almost jumped, his heart feeling as if it would leap from his chest. Her hand was delicate, smooth, unlike Yukishiro Tomoe’s, which had been covered in the fine, hard calluses of a woman who worked. This felt more like a mother’s hand should feel, gently, idly, scratching the back of his.

The people below could not see this secret intimacy. They only saw the intimidating power in Lady Murasaki’s eyes, like the midday sun, which no one dared to meet directly. They did not know that her small, delicate hand was more bewitching, more dangerous, than any weapon.

Haruka did not pull his hand away. Lady Murasaki’s actions were not aggressive, and with so many people watching, he did not want to cause an awkward, revealing scene. And besides, her touch was indeed very comfortable, a wonderful, terrifying sensation.

But when he saw Kiyohime and Izayoi watching him, the feeling became strange, tinged with guilt. Then he remembered they couldn’t see what was happening under the table, and the feeling became even more complex, even more indescribable.

Lady Murasaki stopped her idle caress and gently rubbed the small, prominent bone of his wrist. “Did that woman make you work often?” she whispered, her voice a low murmur.

“She never made me work,” Haruka said, his voice tight. “It was only when she fell ill that I had to take care of her.”

Lady Murasaki sneered, a look of pure, unadulterated disdain twisting her beautiful features for a fraction of a second.

Haruka could not tolerate anyone speaking ill of his mother. “She was very good to me.”

Lady Murasaki’s eyes burned into his, as if her gaze could feel the warmth of his skin against hers. “I will be even better to you.”

Haruka fell silent, unable to respond.

Fortunately, servants began to bring out the food, the quiet clatter of porcelain easing the charged atmosphere. Unlike the next table, which was laden with rich meats and flowing wine, this table was more reserved, the dishes simple but exquisitely prepared home-style cooking, each a miniature work of art.

The servants, all dressed in black, moved like shadows, serving each person a small appetizer. The guests returned to their normal banquet chatter, whispering and laughing with their heads close together. Some even served each other, refusing the help of the servants with practiced humility. Haruka recognized them as the same people who had been arguing so fiercely over taking sides just moments before. All the previous unpleasantness had vanished, as if they were all old, dear friends.

A servant approached and respectfully placed a set of tableware before Lady Murasaki. Haruka noticed that her set was different from everyone else’s; it was her own personal set, crafted from silver and jade.

Lady Murasaki glanced at Haruka and said, “Change his as well.”

The servant hesitated. “My Lady, should we change the Second Young Mistress’s set as well?”

Lady Murasaki gave her a single, cold glance, and the servant’s face went pale. She quickly, silently, retreated.

A moment later, a fine set of tableware was placed before Haruka: a small white jade bowl, a small white jade sake cup, a small red lacquer rice dish, a white porcelain spoon, and a pair of black chopsticks with gold tips resting on an agate chopstick rest. It was completely different from the new, “disposable” sets of the other guests, and it looked impeccably, anciently clean.

This was Lady Murasaki’s personal set, one that not even Kiyohime had ever used. Haruka glanced at Kiyohime’s tableware; it was the same as the other guests’.

The women chatted in low, melodious voices, occasionally picking at the glistening black pearls of caviar in their appetizer dishes with their chopsticks.

It was only then that Haruka remembered he hadn’t eaten all day. From the moment of his mother’s death to his arrival at the Fujiwara house, his emotions had been stretched taut like a bowstring. Now that he had relaxed, he realized he was ravenous.

Before he could even pick up his chopsticks, Lady Murasaki had carefully, with her own hands, moved the dish of caviar directly in front of him.

A feeling of genuine goodwill bloomed in Haruka’s chest, a warm and confusing sensation. He looked at Lady Murasaki, but she only showed him her incomparably beautiful profile, as if she were unaware of her own kindness.

But then he began to feel conflicted again. Lady Murasaki was being too good to him, so good that it felt unreal, a beautiful, dangerous dream. He couldn’t help but remember Izayoi’s whispered warning: “Don’t trust Lady Murasaki. She is deceiving you.”

Suddenly, Lady Murasaki spoke, her voice calm and quiet, but cutting through his thoughts like a knife. “What did Izayoi say to you?”

The color drained from Haruka’s face. It was as if she had seen right through him, into the very depths of his heart, and laid all his secret fears bare.