Chapter 6: Dress-up

Haruka followed Suzune out of the bedroom and up another flight of stairs, the air growing warmer and more still with each step. They arrived at a room on the third floor, a space that felt entirely different from the rest of the house.

It was a dedicated dressing chamber, spacious and sparsely furnished. A thick, crimson carpet covered the center of the floor, its circular shape mirroring the crystal chandelier that hung above, scattering prisms of soft light across the walls. To the left stood two tall, slate-gray wardrobes. To the right was an elegant vanity table, and next to it, a freestanding, full-length mirror that seemed to hold the entire room within its silvered depths.

As soon as Haruka entered, two pretty maids, who had been waiting inside, elegantly bowed in perfect unison. Suzune, her duty done, gave a small bow of her own and departed, her footsteps silent as she retreated down the stairs.

“Please, have a seat,” one of the maids said, her voice a pleasant melody. She guided Haruka to the cushioned stool in front of the vanity. She gently combed through his hair with her fingers, a surprisingly intimate gesture. “My, your hair has gotten a little long, hasn’t it?”

“My mother always cut it for me,” Haruka said, the words tasting like a confession.

“It looks like it’s been a little while, then,”the maid said sympathetically, her tone soft. She took a pair of gleaming shears from a drawer. “May I trim it for you now?”

“Yes, please.”

“Please try not to move.”

The maid began to slowly, expertly shape his hair, the cold metal of the shears whispering near his ear. “It doesn’t need much,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Just enough to reveal your face.” She paused, admiring her work in the mirror. “Your skin is so perfect. It must be a gift of youth, so soft it looks like you could squeeze water from it. Perhaps in a few years, I shouldn’t be seeing you in a place like this.”

“Then where should you see me?” Haruka asked, blinking in genuine confusion.

The maid let out a musical, unrestrained giggle. Unlike Suzune’s reserved professionalism, this maid was outgoing and warm, bold enough to tease him.

The other maid, who was pressing a silk garment behind them, chimed in with a laugh. “What my sister means, little master, is that she should be seeing you on a television screen.”

Haruka tilted his head slightly to give the maid better access, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “I don’t know about that. If I were, we’d probably end up as colleagues. I might even have to call you my senpai.”

The maids understood his clever redirection—that they were beautiful enough to be idols themselves.

“Boy, aren’t you the sweet talker!” the first maid said, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“You two are already beautiful,” Haruka said, turning to look at each of them in turn. “Are you really sisters?”

“We are. I’m Ryo, and she’s Shiraki.”

“All done,” Ryo said, stopping her work. She rested her hands on the back of the chair and leaned in conspiratorially. “Now, guess which of us is the older sister.”

Shiraki, having finished her ironing, folded the clothes with practiced ease and placed them on a chair. She giggled. “There’s a prize if you guess correctly.”

Haruka looked at them. He could see clearly that even though they were joking, a flicker of genuine, competitive earnestness danced in their eyes.

He smiled faintly. “I’m the youngest one here. To me, you are both my older sisters.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all!” Shiraki pouted, though her eyes were still smiling.

“Such a smooth answer,” Ryo said, but she couldn’t hide her pleasure as she removed the protective cape from around Haruka’s neck and gently brushed the stray hairs from his shoulders with a soft towel.

Ryo had Haruka stand up and studied him with a critical eye. “Right, let’s get you back to the washbasin. We can’t have these little bits of hair on you.”

I’ve already washed it once, Haruka thought, a flicker of annoyance passing through him. Why didn’t they cut my hair before my bath? It would have saved so much trouble. The casual wastefulness of this place was a constant, low-level shock.

As he was thinking, something was suddenly pressed into his hand. He looked to the side and saw Shiraki smiling at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. He opened his palm. It was a piece of hard candy in a crinkly, transparent yellow wrapper.

“Durian candy,” Shiraki said with a grin. “For you to eat while she washes your hair!”

Haruka smiled, a genuine, unguarded expression this time. He unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth. The small act of kindness, of being given something for nothing, was a foreign and deeply moving sensation.

“Ah, you really ate it!” Shiraki exclaimed, and through her feigned surprise, Haruka could see her undisguised delight.

“It’s pineapple flavored,” he said, chewing. The rich, sharp sweetness of pineapple exploded on his tongue.

Shiraki made a face, insisting playfully, “It’s durian!”

Ryo, amused by their exchange, said softly, “This way, please.”

She led Haruka to a small, adjoining bathroom and quickly rinsed his hair with a handheld sprayer. As she vigorously rubbed his head with a towel, with all the gentleness of someone drying a wet dog, she asked casually, “So, are you a relative of the family?”

Haruka couldn’t stand the rough toweling. He took the towel from her and began to dry his own hair, his eyes hidden beneath the soft fabric. “I suppose so.”

Ryo didn’t press further. The miko had instructed the Old Mistress to invite all her relatives, saying the lively energy would help her condition. No one but relatives had been invited.

Haruka crunched the candy between his teeth, the sharp sweetness a welcome distraction. He followed Ryo back to the main room in silence.

“Please change into this kimono,” Shiraki said, holding up the prepared garments. “If you would please remove your pajamas, we will help you dress.”

Haruka was not a bashful person, but he hesitated for a moment, a sudden awareness of his vulnerability in this house of women. He slowly removed the silk pajamas.

Though Ryo and Shiraki loved to joke, they were utterly serious when it came to their duties. They knew their place, their hands moving with a practiced, impersonal efficiency.

“Please raise your arms.”

They carefully helped him into the soft cotton juban, the under-kimono, before draping the heavy, silk outer kimono over it. Their four small, fair hands brushed against his skin, cool and light as moths’ wings.

“Please straighten your arms.”

Ryo kept her eyes lowered respectfully, and Shiraki was too focused to dare look up. They each took a sleeve of the juban and expertly guided it into the wide sleeve of the kimono, slowly adjusting the length so the hem hovered just above the floor. They brought the right panel of the kimono to his left hipbone, then folded the left panel over it to his right, encasing him in layers of silk.

Shiraki knelt on the floor and tied the first thin sash, or koshihimo, around his hips, her movements precise and economical.

Ryo, bent over in a near-bow, followed immediately after with the main obi. She wrapped the wide belt around his waist twice, the pressure firm and grounding. Her fingers moved in a blur, making a preliminary knot, folding the fabric into intricate loops, and finally pulling the knot tight to complete the formal arrangement.

Only then did they both straighten up, their eyes still respectfully lowered as they smoothed out the last invisible wrinkles on his kimono.

“Please, have a look.”

Ryo, still not daring to look at him directly, guided Haruka to stand before the tall dressing mirror.

Haruka looked at his reflection and saw a stranger. It wasn’t just the clothes. The boy in the mirror seemed older, more serious, a figure from a historical drama. The kimono felt tight and restrictive, a beautiful prison of fabric, and he frowned instinctively.

The maids saw his expression and immediately thought they had displeased him. Ryo quickly brought a stool, kneeling to help him put on the white tabi socks and the two-pronged wooden geta sandals. Shiraki, meanwhile, carefully draped the black haori jacket over his shoulders, its weight settling on him like a formal responsibility.

Haruka moved his arms, getting used to the snug, binding feeling. His brow gradually relaxed, and the two maids finally let out a silent, collective breath of relief.

He took a few steps, the geta making a soft, solid sound on the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror. The more he looked, the more alienated he felt.

“What do you two think?” he asked, his voice lacking its usual confidence. He turned, only to find them staring at him, their playful demeanor gone, replaced by a wide-eyed, almost reverent admiration.

“You look magnificent,” Ryo breathed.

“If you had been born in the Heian period,” Shiraki said, her voice hushed, “even the ‘Shining Prince’ Genji could not have compared to you.”

Haruka felt nothing. Their words were just polite flattery. How could this tight, stuffy outfit possibly look good?

Knock, knock!

The sound was sharp, urgent. Haruka turned his head and saw Suzune standing at the open door, her knuckles rapping lightly on the doorframe. She had returned.

“Is something wrong?” Haruka asked, walking toward her.

Suzune seemed mesmerized for a second, her eyes wide as she took in his transformation. But her expression quickly hardened with urgency. There was no time for compliments. She glanced around nervously, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then blurted out, “The Second Young Mistress is coming. You have to be careful.”

Without another word, she turned and fled, her footsteps a frantic, fading echo down the hall.

At the mere mention of the “Second Young Mistress,” a look of pure, unadulterated terror appeared on the faces of Ryo and Shiraki.

Before Haruka could even begin to process what was happening, he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs—light, deliberate, and drawing closer.