Guidance

The words “live or die” shocked Haruka with the force of a physical blow, a splash of ice water that sobered him up considerably.

“Lady Murasaki, you mustn’t joke about such things,” Fujiwara Asou said, her voice sharp with a displeasure that bordered on panic.

“My words, in your eyes, are a joke?”

“I did not mean that,” Asou said quickly, her bravado crumbling. “I only hope that you will forgive me, my Lady.”

A flicker of pure disgust crossed Lady Murasaki’s eyes as she looked at the woman. Always begging for forgiveness, she thought, but never taking any real action to earn it. Her EQ is frighteningly low. I wonder how she ever managed to get her position. Suddenly, she remembered that Asou’s surname was Fujiwara, that she was deeply, blindly trusted by the Old Mistress, and it all became clear. “And which ‘mistress’s’ forgiveness are you seeking?” she asked, her voice dangerously sweet.

Asou’s face soured. If she had been willing to submit then, to say “Yours, of course, Lady Murasaki,” there might have been room for her to maneuver, a path back from the cliff’s edge. But she remained silent, her pride a fatal anchor.

Lady Murasaki didn’t look at her again. She lowered her head and whispered to Haruka, her breath a warm caress against his skin, “Isn’t she annoying?”

Asou, not hearing the whisper, cut in front of Haruka, her voice desperate. “Lady Murasaki, I am not joking with you.”

“And I am not joking with you,” Lady Murasaki said, her gaze turning to ice as she stared at the woman. “Haruka, you will decide for me.”

Haruka could hear that Lady Murasaki had deliberately softened her voice for him, as if she were genuinely, deferentially, seeking his opinion. He looked forward and saw Fujiwara Asou’s eyes slide down to glance at him, her expression not even one of contempt, but of complete dismissal, as if he were a piece of furniture. Oh, is someone standing there? her look seemed to say. She probably still thought Lady Murasaki was playing a game with her. How could her future, her very existence, be so casually decided by a “bastard” of such humble, insignificant status?

It was this look, this utter dismissal, that made Haruka’s heart sink completely. Fujiwara Asou didn’t even care enough to despise him; it was a thorough, absolute contempt reserved for things, not people. Her repeated attacks had never been aimed at him, but at Lady Murasaki. He was just collateral damage, a stone she was trying to throw.

A fire of cold, quiet anger began to burn within him. “What do you want to do?” Lady Murasaki whispered in his ear, her voice a seductive promise of power. “I will listen to you.”

Haruka opened his mouth, his voice a little hoarse from the alcohol and disuse. “I don’t like her.”

Hearing his words, Asou was surprised. For the first time, she seriously appraised the child before her, as if she had suddenly noticed a conspicuous black smudge on the pristine, white walls of the Fujiwara house, a smudge that made her stop and stare. That black smudge shouldn’t be there, she thought, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. Hasn’t a servant or a maid come to clean it up? That was what Haruka was to her. The fact that he even dared to stand before her, to speak, was, in itself, an absurd, offensive event.

“I don’t need a boy like you to like me,” Asou said, truly wishing someone would come and scrape this black smudge, along with a layer of plaster, off the wall.

Lady Murasaki smiled. “Haruka, you heard her. Do you forgive her or not?”

“I don’t forgive her,” Haruka’s voice was normal again, but his heart was beating uncontrollably fast, a wild drum against his ribs.

Asou laughed, a sharp, incensed sound. This “black smudge” could actually speak. “I was speaking with your father when you weren’t even born yet,” she sneered, aiming for the kill.

The word “father” made a vein throb on Haruka’s forehead.

“I can see you really don’t like her,” Lady Murasaki whispered in his ear, her voice a silken temptation. “Do you want her to live, or do you want her to die?”

Haruka’s heart was pounding like a war drum. He assumed Lady Murasaki was just trying to scare the woman, to punish her, to teach her a lesson. “Dead, of course,” he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Asou felt as if she had been plunged into an icy abyss. A fire of pure, unadulterated rage erupted in her mind. “You—” she screamed, but before she could finish, two servants materialized from the shadows and grabbed her from behind, one covering her mouth, the other restraining her body, murmuring, “You’re drunk.”

The commotion, though not loud, caused a ripple of alarm. The few remaining guests stared in shock as Fujiwara Asou was unceremoniously dragged away, her muffled struggles pathetic and futile.

Lady Murasaki smiled at them, her composure perfect. “Asou is drunk. She was insisting on seeing the Old Mistress. So, I had no choice but to have her taken to rest. When the time comes tomorrow, I will send her to see the gravely ill Old Mistress.”

The guests didn’t pay too much attention, assuming Asou had once again clashed with Lady Murasaki. Asou wasn’t well-liked anyway; a little punishment was to be expected.

Lady Murasaki gently hugged Haruka, her breath like orchids and victory. “It’s wonderful that you can understand your mother’s thoughts.”

His body stiffened. He turned his head. Lady Murasaki’s face was filled with a profound satisfaction. She was radiant, glowing. She took his hand, as joyful as a young girl holding a handkerchief, strolling through a valley of flowers and birdsong.

Lady Murasaki turned, her long kimono swirling, intending to lead Haruka out through the back door. But someone blocked their path. Before they even got close, they could smell the faint, sweet scent of alcohol.

Haruka recognized her. It was Izayoi. Her face was flushed, like a ripe peach in August, making her even more bewitching and alluring than usual. He didn’t know if Asou was drunk, but the Izayoi before him certainly was.

“Is there something you need?” Lady Murasaki asked, her smile polite and distant, a mask she wore for everyone but Haruka.

Izayoi exhaled a breath heavy with intoxicating fumes. “I have something to say to you.”

Lady Murasaki’s smile slowly vanished. “Then say it.”

Haruka thought of Fujiwara Asou being dragged away. Izayoi was drunk, and there was a faint, unmistakable hatred for Lady Murasaki in her eyes. He was afraid she would do something impulsive, something irreversible. Seeing her empty hands, he tried to remind her, to de-escalate, a small act of kindness. “Izayoi-neechan, did you leave your fan at your seat?”

Lady Murasaki’s expression changed instantly. She stared at him with the look of a mother whose beloved child had just disobeyed, a look of hurt and betrayal.

Izayoi, too, understood his meaning. She looked at him with an unreadable expression, a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.

The two women spoke at almost the exact same time. From his left ear came Lady Murasaki’s voice, cold and possessive: “I am your mother.” From his right ear came Izayoi’s, soft and pained: “You don’t have to be so good to me.”

A rational voice in Haruka’s own mind, full of regret and self-reproach, screamed: Why did you have to offend Lady Murasaki? But there was a soft place in his heart that told him he couldn’t do otherwise. Izayoi had warned him once; he couldn’t just ignore her now, not when she looked so broken.

Lady Murasaki beckoned to a servant. Izayoi opened her mouth to speak.

“Take the Young Master back to his room.”

“I want to talk to you alone.”

Again, they spoke at almost the exact same time.

The servant froze, unsure how to react, caught between two powerful forces.

Lady Murasaki’s gaze turned to ice. “What are you waiting for? Take the Young Master back to his room.”

Izayoi said nothing, just watched him leave in silence, her eyes full of unspoken words.

This time, Haruka did not resist. He obediently followed the servant. His rational mind told him he should just go with the flow, but he hated being swept along by the current. He glanced back at the two women standing there, two beautiful, warring queens, and made a silent vow to himself that he would, one day, be the master of his own destiny.

After Haruka had gone, Izayoi laughed sardonically, the sound brittle. “We really are old friends, aren’t we? We even speak at the same time.”

“I don’t have time to chat with you,” Lady Murasaki said coldly.

“Why, are you in a hurry to twist the Young Master’s thoughts until they’re just like yours?”

Lady Murasaki’s voice dropped, becoming a low, dangerous hiss. “He is my son. Stay away from him.”

“Do you even believe that when you say it?” Izayoi’s voice turned cold, sharp as a shard of ice. “You lied to me, and now you’re lying to a child.”

“I do not lie,” Lady Murasaki said calmly.

“Then what am I!” Izayoi’s body trembled, her composure finally shattering. “You tricked me into marrying him…”

“And isn’t that for the best?”

“He can’t even get it up… he’s not… he’s not a man, not physically, not mentally. And you call that for the best?”