The First Gift

Momozawa Ai’s tone was teasing, a playful barb with a sharp, hidden hook. Haruka, though he knew she was mocking him, answered with a serious expression, his mind clearing rapidly. “Are you joking with me, Mrs. Butler? The Second Young Mistress was just sitting here, talking with me.”

“Oh my,” Momozawa Ai said with feigned, wide-eyed surprise. “Young Master, I was asking about your experience at the banquet last night.”

Haruka remained calm, his face a placid mask. “I don’t remember much. I drank too much and was very drunk. I’m still a little dizzy, in fact. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have misunderstood your question just now.”

“Are you still feeling dizzy, Young Master?” Momozawa Ai asked, her voice dripping with a concern that felt entirely manufactured.

“Thank you for your concern. I’m just a little groggy from waking up. It will pass.”

Suddenly, Momozawa Ai took Haruka’s hand. He was a little surprised by the sudden, intimate gesture. She was wearing long, thin, black lace gloves, and she gently, with her thumb, began to rub the palm of his hand in slow, deliberate circles.

“You…”

“My apologies, Young Master.”

Haruka thought she was apologizing for her sudden, forward action, but instead, Momozawa Ai let go of his hand and, with a slow, almost theatrical movement, peeled off both of her silk gloves, revealing hands as white as snow, so pale that a cool mist seemed to rise from them.

“I forgot to take off my gloves before holding the Young Master’s hand,” she said, now enclosing his right hand with both of hers. For a moment, he felt as if his own skin might melt and fuse with hers, her touch both icy and searingly hot.

“The Young Master’s hand is quite warm,” Momozawa Ai said calmly, her voice a low purr. “Or perhaps my own hands are just too cold…” As she spoke, she began to guide his hand, slowly, inexorably, toward her collarbone.

Haruka could feel her every hot breath, see the subtle rise and fall of her full chest beneath her clothes.

He quickly, sharply, pulled his hand away, his voice edged with a displeasure he didn’t try to hide. “Mrs. Butler, what are you doing?”

“I was just checking the Young Master’s temperature. I was afraid you might have caught a cold.”

“How could I catch a cold?”

“That’s right! How could my younger brother catch a cold!” Kiyohime, who had been watching from the side, a storm brewing in her eyes, finally found an opportunity to interject. Seeing Momozawa Ai’s hands on him, her casual intimacy, she had felt a strange, tight clenching in her chest.

Momozawa Ai glanced at the window. “It rained all night, and the Young Master’s clothes are thin. It would be easy to catch a chill.” 

“Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Butler,” Haruka said, his tone formal, creating a distance. “I will be more careful.”

“In any case, you must take care, Young Master,” Momozawa Ai said. “The mistress also mentioned that you are a restless sleeper and was worried you might kick off your blankets. That is why she sent me to check on you so early.”

“She… Mother… did she want to see me?” Haruka glanced at the sky, which was just beginning to lighten into a pale, bruised gray.

“The mistress has asked that you get ready. I am to take you to her shortly.”

“Then I will get ready now.”

Momozawa Ai took his hand again, her grip surprisingly firm. “There is no rush, Young Master. You may go whenever you are ready. This is mainly about another important matter.”

Haruka pulled his hand back again. “What is it?”

“To celebrate you becoming a young master of the Fujiwara family,” Momozawa Ai said nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather, “the mistress has prepared three gifts for you.”

“Gifts?” Haruka was surprised.

“Are there any for me?” Kiyohime asked excitedly from her corner.

Momozawa Ai gave her a flat, dismissive glance. “If you would please excuse us, Second Young Mistress.”

“Why should I? I’m not leaving. I want to see what the gifts are,” Kiyohime said, annoyed. If it had been anyone else, she would have made them pay dearly for such a dismissal. But Momozawa Ai had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, a more constant, and often more intimidating, presence than her own mother. After a moment’s thought, she sulkily moved a chair to a far corner of the room and sat down, watching them with a pout, a silent, resentful observer.

“What are the gifts?” Haruka asked.

“Please see for yourself, Young Master,” Momozawa Ai said, and clapped her hands twice, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room.

The door swung open, as if pushed by a gentle, unseen breeze. A woman in a blue and white patterned kimono was kneeling on the floor, her dark, glossy hair held in place by a simple hairpin adorned with a single, white lily pendant.

“Who is she?”

The woman’s head was bowed, and Haruka couldn’t see her face clearly, but there was something vaguely, unsettlingly familiar about her posture.

“Patience, Young Master,” Momozawa Ai said, her voice soft. Then she called out, “You may enter.”

The woman in the kimono did not rise. Instead, she lowered her head even further and, still on her knees, began to slowly, painstakingly, move forward.

Haruka felt the solid wood floor beneath his own feet. It must be uncomfortable just to kneel on it, let alone to move in such a difficult, demeaning posture. The woman was like an overturned beetle, except one was on its back and the other on its knees. The one similarity was that neither could get up.

Haruka could hear the soft, scraping sound of her knees on the floor, a sound like shattering glass, as she moved in small, shuffling increments. She still had a long, agonizing way to go to reach him.

He found it hard to watch. Is this another strange, cruel ritual? he wondered. He wanted to stop it, to tell her to stand, several times, but forced himself to remain silent, to watch.

He looked away, hoping to find an ally in the room, but he saw Kiyohime in the corner, leaning back in her chair and yawning with a bored, detached air. Momozawa Ai’s brow was slightly furrowed, as if the woman had made some small, infinitesimal mistake in her movements that displeased her.

Haruka couldn’t help but stand up.

“Does the Young Master not like this ‘gift’?” Momozawa Ai asked, her tone implying it was a matter of course, a foregone conclusion.

Haruka clearly saw the woman’s body tremble slightly at the question. He could instantly imagine her fate if he were to refuse. He forced a smile. “Whatever Mother gives me, I will accept with joy.”

“You suddenly stood up, Young Master. It startled me,” Momozawa Ai said, her voice a silken reprimand. “I thought you disliked the gift your mother so carefully selected for you.”

“How could I possibly dislike it?” Haruka said, his mind racing. “I was just wondering how I could properly thank my mother.”

“There is no need. Your filial piety is enough. The mistress will be very happy to know.”

As they spoke, the woman had finally crawled to Haruka’s feet.

Momozawa Ai, not daring to receive her bow, quickly moved to the other side and bowed to Haruka herself, then said to the woman in a low, commanding voice, “Begin.”

When Haruka looked down, the woman, her head still bowed, had taken off her geta and placed them neatly to her left. Then, she gently removed her blue and white kimono, folded it into a perfect, neat square, and placed it to her right, leaving herself in only a thin, white undergarment that clung to the lines of her body. Then she took off her white tabi socks, folded them, and placed them on top of her geta.

The more Haruka looked at her, at the slope of her shoulders, the line of her neck, the more familiar she seemed, but he couldn’t quite place her.

Just then, the woman pulled the pin from her hair, and a cascade of dark, fine hair fell over her shoulders like a curtain of black silk. She placed the hairpin in the center of the folded kimono.

“Recite the oath,” Momozawa Ai commanded, her expression solemn, her voice devoid of all warmth.

Haruka heard the woman earnestly pray to the gods and give thanks to the ancestors of the Fujiwara family. Then, her voice ethereal, almost a chant, she swore an oath: “Before the gods and ancestors, I, Murakami Suzune, willingly recognize the Young Master Yukishiro Haruka as my master. His words I will engrave upon my heart, reciting them morning and night, and I will not dare to disobey in the slightest. I ask the gods to bear witness. If I should have even a single disrespectful thought, may my limbs be broken, and may I fall into the endless abyss.”

With that, she bowed her head low, her forehead touching the cold, hard floor, her clothes arranged neatly around her like offerings at a shrine. Then, she raised her head slightly and kissed the tips of his feet. “I beg the Young Master to accept me.”