A Shared Sadness

Haruka had read in history books that great men were always described as being composed and self-assured, able to laugh and chat freely in any situation, their hearts as calm as a placid lake.

But he did not feel nearly as calm as he looked. Seeing Murakami Suzune kneeling before him, a willing sacrifice, he felt a tightness in his chest and a fine, uncontrollable tremor in his hands. It took him a long moment before he could slowly, gently, help her to her feet.

Haruka looked at the untouched food on the table. “I’m full,” he said, his voice a little rough. “You can have the rest.” He pushed the cushion he had been sitting on toward her.

Murakami Suzune was overwhelmed by the simple act of kindness. She immediately pushed the cushion back. “Young Master, I can just kneel on the floor.” When Haruka then pushed the cushion under the table and sat cross-legged directly on the cold, hard floor himself, a silent protest, she was truly stunned.

Suzune saw this and, seeing him close his eyes as if not to disturb her while she ate, thought, The Young Master… He is truly a good master. Compared to the First Young Mistress who despised everyone with a cold disdain, and the capricious, cruel Second Young Mistress, Haruka was by far the most harmless, the most gentle.

And then, Suzune remembered Haruka’s hint at the table, the subtle promise in his words, and her heart began to beat faster, a frantic, hopeful rhythm. If any other master had shown such an intention, she would have thought he was mad and would have only feigned loyalty out of a sense of duty. But with Haruka, she had a feeling, a deep, unshakeable conviction, that he would succeed. He possessed an indescribable charm that had made her, of her own free will, declare that she would give up her freedom, abandon any better prospects, and sacrifice everything to serve him, to the point of prostrating herself on the floor at a moment’s notice. Thinking back on it now, a shy, tingling sensation spread from the roots of her teeth.

Murakami Suzune held her bowl, forgetting to even pick up her chopsticks. She looked at Haruka’s meditative posture and thought with a surge of profound, protective affection, Even if the Young Master has no ambition, it would be wonderful just to be by his side.

After a while, Haruka opened his eyes and saw the clean bowl and chopsticks on the table. Murakami Suzune was kneeling in a perfect posture, looking at him with gentle, obedient, worshipful eyes.

“Why didn’t you call me when you were finished?” Haruka asked.

“I was afraid the Young Master had fallen asleep,” she whispered. “I didn’t dare to wake you.”

“Who can fall asleep sitting on the floor?” Haruka noticed that Suzune was staring at him, her gaze so soft it seemed to be brimming with water. “Suzune, what are you looking at?” he asked, puzzled.

A gentle smile touched her lips. “Young Master, I was just counting your eyelashes.”

Haruka found this amusing. “And did you get a clear count?”

“I was about to,” she said, her voice a soft melody, “but then I was distracted by speaking with you, and I forgot where I was.”

“It’s alright,” Haruka laughed, the sound easy and natural in the quiet room. “There will be plenty of time for that in the future.”

I would be content to stay by the Young Master’s side and count his eyelashes for a lifetime, Suzune thought, her heart aching with a sweet, unfamiliar emotion.

Without needing to be told, the ever-perceptive Suzune stood up, called for the servants to clear the table, and fetched a clean, warm towel to wipe her hands. Only then did she respectfully bring over the kimono Haruka was to wear for the day.

It was a jet-black kimono, the silk heavy and cool to the touch. Haruka took off the thin cotton pajamas the servants had prepared for him the night before and let Suzune help him dress.

She had him sit on the edge of the bed and knelt on the floor to put on a fresh pair of white tabi socks, her movements graceful and reverent. Then she brought him a new pair of geta that were easier to walk in.

Haruka took a few steps, moving his body, feeling the weight of the fine fabric. “This kimono is more comfortable than yesterday’s.”

“I heard from Ryo and the others that the Young Master was not used to wearing a kimono and found it a bit tight,” Suzune said with a smile. “So I had them exchange it for a larger size.”

Haruka nodded. It was indeed much more comfortable to walk in.

He walked around the room a couple of times and stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe. The style of this kimono was completely different from yesterday’s. It was entirely black, severe and formal, giving him a very serious, somber air. He couldn’t help but think of the Old Mistress lying in her sickbed. Today was likely the day he would have to wield the sword to exorcise her demon. Hence the funereal attire. But neither the servants nor the guests at the banquet last night had mentioned the Old Mistress much at all. He couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her, a forgotten queen in her own castle.

“Young Master, if you would please lower your head,” Suzune said softly from behind him.

Haruka lowered his head. She gently ran her hands through his hair. Without using any gel or water, just a simple comb, she managed to tame his stubborn, unruly hair, making it fall just as she wished.

After a while, she asked, “Are you satisfied, Young Master?”

Haruka looked at his reflection. Even with the change in hairstyle, he didn’t feel he looked much different, but he still said, “It’s fine.”

Suzune stared at his reflection, her gaze growing even softer. She thought his current appearance fulfilled every girlish, romantic fantasy of a young, tragic nobleman.

“Is there anything else you require, Young Master?” she asked.

“No, that’s all. Please take me to see my mother now.”

“Yes, Young Master. Please follow me.”

Haruka followed Suzune out of the building, across the damp stone of the courtyard, and toward the east wing veranda.

Outside, a willow-catkin-like mist hung in the air, a soft, white veil that blurred the edges of the world, like a steamed-up mirror.

Haruka heard the faint sound of footsteps from the corridor below. He looked down and saw a woman in a black kimono, a solitary figure in the fog.

As if by some sixth sense, a silent, invisible string pulling them together, they both looked up at the same time, their eyes meeting across the misty expanse.

Fujiwara Yukina and Yukishiro Haruka had met by chance, and both of them stopped in their tracks, frozen.

Haruka didn’t know what to say. Perhaps he should greet her? Offer a word of explanation?

But Yukina felt she had nothing to say to him. She regretted, with a sharp, bitter ache, bringing him to the Fujiwara house. She believed he was willingly, eagerly, allowing himself to be corrupted, to be twisted into something unrecognizable, just like her own sister had been.

At the same moment, they both looked away and, as if by a silent, painful agreement, continued on their separate, diverging paths.

After the pair had walked nearly a hundred paces, Suzune asked softly, “Does the Young Master also dislike the First Young Mistress?”

“‘Also’?” Haruka seized on the key word. “Do you dislike her?”

“How could I dare? It is just that the others in the Fujiwara household do not like her.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not entirely sure of the reason. I have only heard others whispering in private,” Suzune said, lowering her head. “Perhaps it is because the First Young Mistress does not act like a young mistress at all.”

“Well, I don’t think so,” Haruka said, puzzled. “I think she has the air of a young mistress.”

“Not in terms of her bearing,” Suzune said, choosing her words carefully. “But rather… she does not allow anyone to serve her. She even sent away the maid who grew up with her. In some ways, she is too…”