Pure White

Haruka laughed, a genuine, happy sound that seemed to chase the last of the mist away. He could vaguely make out the characters she had scrawled on the fan, a playful, fleeting gift.

Even after the car had become a distant black speck and disappeared, the smile remained on his face, a warm afterglow from their strange encounter.

He turned, and Suzune was standing there, waiting for him at a perfect, respectful distance, a silent, unmoving shadow.

“Let’s go,” Haruka said, his good mood lingering. But then he noticed she was staring at him, her expression unreadable. “What is it?”

Suzune lowered her head as if embarrassed, her own cheeks flushing slightly. “Young Master, you have something on your face.”

Puzzled, Haruka wiped his cheek. He felt a faint, sticky, waxy residue. When he looked at his hand, he saw a few pale red specks. An alluring, perfectly shaped lipstick mark was imprinted on his pale skin.

Suzune forced a smile, taking a clean, folded handkerchief from her sleeve. “Young Master, you should wipe that off. It wouldn’t be good for others to see.”

Haruka finally remembered the sudden, soft pressure on his cheek. So Izayoi did kiss me?

“Is it gone?” he asked, taking the handkerchief and rubbing at his face, but his movements were clumsy, and he kept missing the spot.

“Young Master,” Suzune said, her voice soft, “shall I help you?”

“Alright.” Haruka didn’t think twice, handing the handkerchief to her.

Suzune, however, hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering in the air. She reassured herself that she had already dried his hair; simply wiping his cheek was nothing. It was her duty.

She took back the handkerchief, her hand whiter than the lily embroidered on the cloth, and gently began to wipe at the lipstick mark. She didn’t know what brand of lipstick it was, but the pale pink stain refused to come off, clinging stubbornly to his skin. She didn’t dare to use much force, and as a result, the mark only smudged, becoming a hazy, romantic blush that gave the impression that Haruka had just been thoroughly, passionately loved by a woman.

A wave of guilt washed over Suzune. “I’m so sorry, Young Master.”

“What’s wrong now?”

“The lipstick mark won’t come off.”

“Then let’s just use water.”

Haruka remembered seeing a water tap nearby. He followed his memory and found it standing next to a weathered wooden pillar of the corridor. He turned the handle, splashed his face with the cold, clear water, and took the proffered handkerchief to dry himself.

When he was done, he looked at the damp, pink-stained handkerchief in his hand, then at Suzune, who stood with a gentle, patient expression, her hands clasped at her waist. He was unsure what to do with the soiled cloth.

The ever-perceptive maid reached out and took it from him with a small, reassuring smile. “I will clean it, Young Master.”

Haruka nodded, noticing that Suzune folded the handkerchief with a care that bordered on reverence before slowly, carefully putting it away in an inner pocket of her clothes.

They walked along the corridor, one behind the other, their footsteps a soft echo in the quiet morning.

“Young Master,” Suzune said softly, her voice barely disturbing the air, “there is something I wish to say, though I don’t know if I should.”

“Let’s hear it,” Haruka said, his eyes on the polished wooden planks beneath his feet.

“It is not my place to speak out of turn,” Suzune began diplomatically, “but it seems that Mrs. Kurosaki and Lady Murasaki’s relationship is… not very good.”

“Really? I thought they got along quite well,” Haruka said, the image of their sharp, witty banter still fresh in his mind.

“Young Master… I believe you have been bewitched by Mrs. Kurosaki,” Suzune said, her tone delicate but firm. In the Fujiwara household, it was common knowledge that Izayoi and Lady Murasaki were bitter, deeply entrenched enemies. It was even whispered that if the Kurosaki family weren’t one of the main pillars of the Fujiwara clan, Izayoi would have been secretly disposed of long ago.

“Bewitched? Perhaps,” Haruka said, a small smile touching his lips. He still felt the two women shared a strange, deep, almost sisterly bond beneath all the animosity.

“Mrs. Kurosaki is indeed a very beautiful woman,” Suzune said hesitantly. “Even as a woman, I sometimes find my heart stirred by her. But she is a frivolous…”

Haruka stopped walking. The creak of the floorboards was sharp and jarring in the sudden silence. “There’s no need to say any more,” he said, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

“Yes, Young Master.”

Suzune’s heart skipped a beat. She quickly bowed her head. “I have overstepped.”

But Haruka reached out and stopped her from completing the bow. “It was an honest mistake. But whether you speak the truth or not, I do not like to hear my family and friends spoken of behind their backs.”

“Is Mrs. Kurosaki… your friend?” The question was quiet, laced with surprise.

Haruka thought for a moment. “I suppose so,” he said, though he couldn’t quite define their strange, intoxicating relationship himself.

Suzune sighed internally, a silent resignation. The Young Master is completely under her spell. Whether he is right or wrong, she thought, my place is to follow him.

Haruka, however, had a different perspective. He felt that Izayoi, much like Lady Murasaki, possessed a strange, indefinable pitiableness beneath her dazzling exterior. If she is truly deceiving me, he thought, then I will let her deceive me. The heavier his thoughts became, the lighter his footsteps grew. After they had passed four pillars, Suzune whispered, “We’ve arrived.”

Haruka looked at the paper screen door beside them. Suzune’s voice was a low, urgent warning, a sudden shift from servant to confidante. “Young Master, you can only rely on Lady Murasaki.” Her voice was filled with both respect and a palpable, deeply ingrained fear. He could feel her deep, almost religious reverence for the head of the house.

Haruka knocked gently on the paper door. “Mother?” he called.

A rustling sound came from within, and he thought he heard Kiyohime’s voice, a sleepy, complaining murmur that faded as quickly as it came.

“Come in.”

Lady Murasaki’s voice was unique, its pitch never too high or too low. It was like the fine, silken hair of a horse’s tail, gently tickling the ear, easily arousing the dormant ambitions of the heart.

Haruka tried to slide the door open as quietly as possible, so as not to break the lingering, beautiful echo of her voice.

“Mother.” Haruka bowed his head.

Lady Murasaki’s voice descended from the mist. “Come and sit beside me.”

“Yes,” Haruka said. He slowly took off his geta and stepped onto the tatami mat. In the far corner of the room, a small, silver incense burner emitted curling wisps of sandalwood smoke.

Lady Murasaki was veiled by the mist, her expression unreadable. Beside her sat Momozawa Ai, her posture impeccable, a silent statue. Though she was slightly taller, she somehow seemed smaller than Lady Murasaki, like a shadow hiding behind its master. To their left was a low, brown tea table, upon which sat a complete tea set, steam rising from the warming pot. And on the other side of the steam sat another girl, her form also obscured by the haze.

Haruka took small, deliberate steps into the room, trying to see their faces through the mist. Momozawa Ai’s face was always clear; Lady Murasaki’s grew more indistinct the closer he got; Kiyohime’s face flickered in and out of focus, as if she were vibrating with a restless, impatient energy. One moment she was a blur, the next, he could see through her bright eyes to the bowing Suzune at the door, and to himself, drawing ever closer.

Finally, Kiyohime’s face came into focus. A smile spread across her bored features.

Haruka smiled back and was about to sit next to her when Lady Murasaki spoke, her voice calm but unyielding. “Haruka, I told you to sit beside me.”

Haruka froze.

Kiyohime grumbled something under her breath, then said with a sigh of dramatic resignation, “Then go and sit over there.”

Haruka gave her an apologetic smile and obediently sat down next to Lady Murasaki.

Suzune, still kneeling at the door, looked up. Haruka and Lady Murasaki, dressed in identical, severe black kimonos, sat close together, speaking in low, intimate tones. They looked for all the world like a real mother and son. Suzune felt a genuine, uncomplicated happiness for her young master, and she gazed at Lady Murasaki with a mixture of awe and worship, as if trying to see her idol’s true face through the mist.

Suddenly, the god-like idol tapped a single, elegant finger on the tea table. Momozawa Ai stood up and walked past Suzune without a glance.

Suzune was startled. Her eyes darted around the floor for a moment, and then she felt her arms being seized from both sides by unseen hands.

“Haruka was late, and that is partly your fault,” Lady Murasaki’s face finally became clear, colder and more lifeless than a clay statue. “Take her away.”