A Fan for a Beauty

The expression on every guest’s face changed in an instant. The air, already thick with unspoken tensions, solidified into something sharp and dangerous. A loyal supporter of Lady Murasaki snapped, her voice cracking like a whip, “Kurosaki, did you bite your tongue while eating, or has the wine gone to your head? You’re spouting utter nonsense.”

Izayoi tapped her own head lightly, a gesture of faux contrition. “My apologies, my apologies. I must be light-headed from the heat. I meant to congratulate the mistress on gaining a son, on welcoming the Young Master Haruka, but my clumsy tongue somehow twisted the words into ‘give birth to a noble son’.”

The anger on the faces of the other women did not subside. First, her blatant disrespect during the taking of sides, and now this poisonous nonsense. It was only because of her transcendent status and their desperate need for her favor that they didn’t tear her apart with their bare hands.

“I understand your meaning completely,” Lady Murasaki said, not angry at all, but smiling brightly, her magnanimity a weapon in itself. “Thank you for your blessing.” She fanned herself with her hand, a delicate, fluttering motion. “But it is indeed a bit warm in this hall. You always carry a fan, Izayoi; it must be difficult for you, being so sensitive to the heat, to have given both of your fans to my children.”

“Alas, I do not have a third fan to give to you, my lady,” Izayoi sighed dramatically, her eyes downcast.

Lady Murasaki laughed out loud, a clear, melodious sound that drew all attention. “It is I who should be giving you a gift in return. Why would I take your fan, hmm?” She beckoned, and a servant immediately came forward, bowing low. “Go and fetch the fan from my cabinet.”

The servant withdrew and, in less time than it takes to drink a cup of tea, returned, carefully carrying a long, brocaded box.

“I heard you are very fond of Chinese culture, Izayoi,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice casual.

Izayoi smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. “My lady, you can remove the ‘I heard’ part.”

“A friend of mine bought this fan at great expense and later gifted it to me. I’m told it is an ivory fan from the Qianlong era.” Lady Murasaki sighed with theatrical regret, a perfect performance of humility. “Unfortunately, I know nothing about such things. What is that Chinese saying? ‘A red duster for a beautiful lady.’ This fan will only find its true worth in your hands.”

With a single glance from Lady Murasaki, the servant bowed her head and presented the open box.

Izayoi took the fan between two slender fingers, the ancient, polished ivory handle seeming no more lustrous than her own translucent fingertips. With a flick of her wrist, the ribs of the fan spread open in a single, smooth, breathtaking motion, like a peacock unfurling its tail, like a hundred birds singing in perfect unison. A faint, ancient fragrance of sandalwood and time filled the hall. The golden face of the fan was painted with a magnificent, soaring phoenix.

Haruka, sitting beside the head seat at the end of the table, watched as the fan swayed gently, revealing a pair of half-hidden, mischievous eyes. It was like a fleeting glance in a crowded street, an innocent look that instantly became a seductive invitation. No woman was more bewitching than Izayoi. Even his heart, usually so steady, couldn’t help but beat faster. He found himself murmuring along with the others, his voice lost in the collective sigh, “What a beautiful fan…”

“Ara~ Am I beautiful, or is the fan beautiful?”

Izayoi, noticing his gaze, winked a slow, flirtatious eye. She did not close the fan. Instead, she rose from her seat, struck a captivating, dramatic pose, and, with a soft “Eee,” tested her voice in the high, piercing style of dramatic opera.

“Kurosaki, you know how to sing Beijing opera?!” the guests exclaimed, their previous annoyance completely forgotten, now all excited and eager for a performance. “Sing one for us!” they clamored, their voices a sudden, enthusiastic chorus.

Unable to resist their enthusiasm, Izayoi flicked her sleeve, swayed her new fan, and began to sing.

Most of the guests, though they had a rudimentary understanding of Chinese, could not understand the complex, poetic lyrics. They were simply enjoying the spectacle, the exotic melody, the graceful movements. But Haruka could hear the notes of feigned anger, of self-pity, of a deep, sorrowful lament in her song. And her captivating eyes, from time to time, would fix on him, drawing him into her performance, into her story.

Haruka’s heart began to beat in time with the rhythm of her song, a thousand distracting, dangerous thoughts sprouting in his mind. Is she… is she looking at me?

Lady Murasaki glanced at the mesmerized Haruka, and the smile slowly, almost imperceptibly, faded from her face. Her fingers began to stroke the armrest of the head seat, a slow, rhythmic, possessive beat.

Izayoi only sang half a verse. The mournful melody ended abruptly, and the fan, at some point, had closed. She pointed it directly at Haruka. His heart stopped. A single, urgent thought shot through his mind: I have to know what she was singing.

Izayoi half-opened the fan again, then slowly closed it. “It truly is a fine fan,” she said, her voice returning to its normal, playful tone. “This gift is far too precious.”

“It is not that rare, Izaoyoi. As long as you like it, that is all that matters.” Lady Murasaki stood up, raising her glass. She looked around at the guests, her smile returning, her words now carrying a hidden, double-edged meaning. “Besides the fan, it is not as if I do not have more precious things to give.”

Hearing this, the guests all lowered their heads, their minds racing. To those who already supported Lady Murasaki, her words were a sweet encouragement. But those who supported the Old Mistress couldn’t help but think, If Lady Murasaki can tolerate such blatant disrespect from Kurosaki, and since I have no real conflict with her, perhaps if I switch my allegiance, maybe… I can gain her favor too?

Izayoi finally realized she had been used, made into a public “example” to corral the others. The flirtatious look in her eyes turned cold, hard as ice. “…This gift is indeed too precious, my lady.”

“Hm, there are even more precious things,” Lady Murasaki said. She should have stopped there, her victory assured. But seeing Haruka still staring at Izayoi, his attention stolen, she felt a surge of raw, possessive anger, the feeling of her most prized possession being coveted by another. She couldn’t resist a final, spiteful jab. “You just wished me the joy of gaining a son. Then I, in turn, wish you and your husband a long and happy life together, and may you soon give birth to your own noble son.”

CRACK!

Several ribs of the precious, ancient ivory fan in Izayoi’s hand snapped, the sound shockingly loud in the sudden silence. Her expression did not change. “I cannot bear such a blessing from you, Lady Murasaki,” she said, her voice dangerously, terrifyingly calm. “Everything I have today, I owe to you.”

Lady Murasaki smiled. “Not at all. We are old acquaintances. There is no need to be so formal.”

“Yes, we are old acquaintances,” Izayoi said, picking up her glass and downing the sake in one gulp. “And you, my lady, are you really so much better off than I am? We are both just laughing at each other’s misfortune.” She quickly, gracefully, returned to her seat.

Lady Murasaki did not just touch her lips to her glass this time. She, too, drank the entire cup, though her expression was not as pleasant, a flicker of pain in her eyes before the mask of indifference settled again.

Haruka listened to their exchange, his mind a whirl of confusion. Why did Izayoi get so angry when Lady Murasaki wished her a long and happy life with her husband? And what did she mean, ‘laughing at each other’s misfortune’? I know my father died three years ago, but from their tone, Izayoi’s husband is still alive. Isn’t that a world of difference?

Lady Murasaki sat back down and noticed Haruka’s thoughtful, troubled expression. Her own emotions had not yet settled. “Pay her no mind,” she said, her voice tight. “She is just trying to get your attention.”

Haruka was about to speak, but stopped himself. Lady Murasaki, too, seemed to regain her composure, returning to her former, unshakable self. She stroked the armrest of her chair and suddenly said, “Haruka, would you like to try sitting here?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Haruka said quickly, instinctively.

“Is it that you don’t want to, or that you don’t dare?” Lady Murasaki asked, her voice soft, probing. “You told Izayoi you would not lie to her. Are you willing to lie to me?”

Haruka saw a flicker of genuine disappointment in her eyes and couldn’t help but say, “I am not willing to lie to you either.”

“Then is it that you don’t want to sit here, or that you don’t dare?”

“Both,” Haruka said.

“And which is it more?”

“‘Don’t want’ is more.”

“I see,” Lady Murasaki said, and fell silent, a new, colder distance between them.

The dishes continued to arrive, one after another. Fujiwara Hitomi, ever the clever one, quickly revived the atmosphere, pulling the other guests into boisterous drinking games. Soon, they were all laughing, their faces flushed, their snow-white shoulders stained the delicate color of maple leaves in autumn. They kept pulling Izayoi into their games, urging her to drink, partly in revenge for her earlier disrespect, and partly with a hidden, cruel mockery, as they all clearly knew her secrets.

“I don’t care~,” Izayoi said, her cheeks flushed, the natural charm in her eyes growing more captivating with every cup. She drank every glass offered to her, declaring with a defiant pout, “None of you are as happy as I am… hehe…”

Haruka turned his head. Lady Murasaki was smiling at the guests, a perfect hostess, but her own glass was also being refilled without pause.

The spacious hall felt crowded, thick with the decadent, suffocating scent of alcohol and perfume. Haruka felt a sense of oppression in his chest that would not dissipate. He remained silent for a long time, an observer in a chaotic play. Then, he picked up his own empty glass. His voice, though quiet, was clear enough for the drunken, laughing women to hear. He said to a nearby servant, “Pour me a glass of sake as well.”