Priorities

Hearing her words, Haruka remembered that there was still another gift.

Momozawa Ai had said Lady Murasaki had prepared three for him. The first was Murakami Suzune, a living, breathing oath of loyalty. The second, the ring, and the chilling news, of Fujiwara Asou’s demise. But the third, even the all-knowing butler did not know, only that Lady Murasaki would deliver it herself.

Haruka, still seated on the floor, looked up. Lady Murasaki was a vision of simple, quiet elegance in her long, ink-black kimono. It was a stark contrast to the regal, intimidating purple she usually wore, giving her the mysterious, untouchable allure of a dew-kissed night.

He couldn’t help but remember the way he had just acted spoiled for her, the strange, childish intimacy of the moment. For some reason, Momozawa Ai’s words—“deliver it herself”—now echoed in his mind with a strange, new meaning. A warmth crept up his neck, and he silently cursed himself for his impure thoughts, forcing his mind back to a state of calm. “Mother, what gift are you planning to give me?” he asked, his voice steady.

“You’ll know when you come with me,” Lady Murasaki said, extending a hand to him.

Haruka took it. Her skin was cool and impossibly smooth, so much so that he felt if he weren’t careful, her hand would slip right through his like water. He tightened his grip instinctively and, using his other hand for support, slowly rose to his feet.

“Come,” Lady Murasaki said, her free hand gently brushing the invisible dust from his back. The simple, motherly gesture filled him with an indescribable shyness, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

She led him by the hand. They had only taken a few steps when a soft, hesitant knock came from the other side of the paper screen door.

“Is there something you need?” Lady Murasaki asked, her voice carrying clearly through the thin paper.

Momozawa Ai, staring at the blank door, could picture the subtle frown forming on Lady Murasaki’s face, but she had no choice but to report, her voice a model of professional calm, “My Lady, Councilman Kawashima and the others are here. They wish to pay their respects to the Old Mistress.”

Haruka looked up and saw that there was not a single ripple of emotion on Lady Murasaki’s beautiful, placid face. Momozawa Ai must have received the news and rushed back. Even a fool would know that the word “councilman” meant an important guest, one that Lady Murasaki herself must attend to. Haruka, being far from a fool, immediately said, “Mother, since you have guests, then…”

Before he could finish, Lady Murasaki pressed a cool finger to his lips, silencing him. She gave him a calm, sidelong glance, then said to Momozawa Ai on the other side of the door, her voice unwavering, “Tell them I am occupied with an important matter and am not currently at the estate.”

Momozawa Ai hesitated, the silence stretching for a beat. “Who should receive them, then? And they wish to see the Old Mistress. I’m afraid they may have… other intentions.”

“Their intentions will vanish once they have seen her,” Lady Murasaki said dismissively. “Let Yukina see them.”

“My Lady, the First Young Mistress might…” Momozawa Ai trailed off, her sentence hanging, heavy with unspoken concerns.

“The Fujiwara family has raised her for this long, not just to stand there and be looked at,” Lady Murasaki’s voice was ice.

Momozawa Ai, staring at the blank paper door, felt a shiver run down her spine, as if she were allergic to the thick fog that had gathered outside. “Yes, my Lady,” she said, and her footsteps slowly, silently, retreated.

Lady Murasaki’s finger was still on Haruka’s lips, preventing him from speaking. To see her so casually dismiss such important guests and instead stay with him filled him with a strange sense of guilt. It can’t be because of me, he thought. She must truly have a more important matter to attend to.

Just as he was thinking this, she removed her finger and took his wrist. “Let’s go,” she said. “The ‘gift’ should be ready by now.”

Haruka’s mouth fell open, the feeling of guilt intensifying, warring with a secret, illicit thrill. But he immediately caught himself. Why should I feel guilty? Why should I care about her affairs…

Seeing the tension in his body, Lady Murasaki loosened her grip slightly. “We must hurry,” she said calmly. “There is much to do today, and I can only spare you the morning.”

That small, considerate gesture only made Haruka’s feelings more complicated. He moved past her and opened the paper screen door for her himself.

They put on their geta, left the covered veranda, and walked a few hundred steps to an open area where a long, silver limousine was waiting like a sleek, metallic beast. A woman was holding the door open, a fawning, almost painfully eager smile plastered on her face. “My Lady, Young Master, please get in.”

Haruka at first thought she was a servant, but as they got closer, he saw that it was Fujiwara Hitomi, still smiling her obsequious smile. She was a pretty woman, but her sycophantic nature made her seem ugly in Haruka’s eyes.

Lady Murasaki glanced at Haruka’s expression, then said to Hitomi, her voice light and airy, “Hitomi, you ride in the front.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Hitomi waited for them to get in, then, like a caterpillar with a thousand invisible legs, she scuttled backward to the front of the car and slipped inside.

The rear of the limousine had been modified to create a private, partitioned space. Only Lady Murasaki and Haruka sat side-by-side. The view was expansive, and Haruka no longer felt the suffocating sensation of being trapped in a small box.

As the car began to move, Lady Murasaki said, “The journey will be a bit long. You’ll need to be patient.” She then clicked her seatbelt into place with a crisp, efficient sound.

Haruka was surprised by the action. He remembered that when he had ridden with Yukina, neither of them had worn one.

Lady Murasaki fastened her seatbelt with practiced ease. Noticing his surprised look, she smiled faintly. “Haruka, one must not break the law outside the home. One must always ensure one’s own safety.”

There was something strangely dissonant about her words, and he couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or simply stating another of her personal doctrines. He simply grunted in acknowledgment and began fumbling for his own seatbelt. It was only the second time he had ever been in a car, and for a moment, he couldn’t find it.

Lady Murasaki had already reached over, pulling the belt out for him, adjusting the length with quick, deft movements, and clicking it into place. The gentle, meticulous way she did it filled him with a strange, indescribable feeling, a warmth that was both comforting and unsettling.

After some idle conversation, the car soon reached the city center and came to a smooth, silent stop. A red light glowed at the intersection ahead. Through the dark, tinted glass, Haruka watched the traffic outside, a slow-moving river of molten metal under the gray sky.

Soon, the light turned green. Some cars, eager to get ahead, had already lurched forward on the yellow. But Haruka’s car waited until the light was fully green, paused for two or three seconds to ensure the intersection was clear, and only then did it begin to move forward again, a picture of calm control.

While they waited, Haruka said nothing, long accustomed to silence. As the car began to move, he pulled his gaze away from the window and looked at Lady Murasaki. She was sitting with a posture so perfectly, unnaturally straight that he wondered if her back was even touching the seat. He looked closer and saw, to his surprise, that her eyes were closed. Without her usual formidable, piercing aura, she looked… tired. As if she had been weary for a very, very long time.

A complex emotion stirred in Haruka. He felt that even in sleep, she was probably plotting something, her mind never at rest. He turned away, not wanting to look at her, but then his heart softened against his will. A sleeping Lady Murasaki has nothing to do with a waking one, he reasoned, a flimsy excuse.

He picked up a small, silk pillow from the seat, intending to quietly slip it behind her back to make her more comfortable. But just as he lifted the pillow, before he could even move it into place, her hand shot out and seized his wrist, her grip like steel.

“What do you think you’re doing?”