The Ritual 

The woman who had made the joke about being “dried out,” having been singled out by Lady Murasaki, felt her heart was about to leap out of her chest. She involuntarily started to stand, but then saw a maid step forward from the shadows and answer, “Yes, my Lady.”

The woman realized that Lady Murasaki had not been addressing her, but a servant. She was left standing awkwardly, half-risen, unsure whether to sit or remain standing, a fool in a room full of predators.

Haruka, knowing Lady Murasaki was only trying to frighten the woman and meant no real, lasting harm, gave her a way out. “Nee-chan,” he said, his voice calm and kind, “please sit down. There’s no need to trouble you with such a small matter.”

The woman still didn’t dare to sit. She looked at Lady Murasaki, her eyes wide with a pleading terror. Lady Murasaki, her point made, said, “Sit down.”

Only then did the woman, with a look of profound, trembling gratitude at Haruka, sit back down. Lady Murasaki then turned her gaze to the silent crowd. “Haruka is my son. I hope that in the future, you will all respect him as you respect me.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the guests said in perfect, subdued unison, a new sense of gravity, of fear, settling in their hearts.

Lady Murasaki nodded. Just then, the maid returned with a thick, black silk haori.

Lady Murasaki personally helped Haruka put on the jacket, the heavy silk a comforting weight on his shoulders. He felt much warmer. Seeing the genuine look of concern in her eyes, a sudden, sharp wave of guilt washed over him. He knew that asking Yukina about his parentage, that act of distrust, would likely disappoint her. He leaned close to her ear and confessed in a low, almost inaudible voice, “I asked Yukina who my mother is.”

Lady Murasaki gave him a long, complicated look, her eyes a mixture of disappointment, understanding, and something else he couldn’t name. “Since you already know, you should keep it in your heart. Do not speak of it to me again.”

“My first mother is gone,” Haruka said, his voice raw with a sudden, painful sincerity. “I don’t want to lose a second one. From now on, you are my real mother.” He no longer wanted to question her affection; he just wanted to accept it.

Lady Murasaki’s complex expression gradually softened. She called out to the maids below, “Bring another chair.” Haruka was seated beside her, a public declaration of his new, elevated status.

They sit so close, the guests thought. He must be her illegitimate son, without a doubt.

Fujiwara Hitomi, knowing that Lady Murasaki meant no real harm and was just trying to build Haruka’s prestige, was the first to start laughing and joking again, skillfully reviving the dead atmosphere. With her there, the waiting time did not feel so boring. Before they knew it, it was six o’clock in the evening. The sky outside had grown completely dark, and it looked as if it were about to rain.

Lady Murasaki spoke a few quiet words to a maid, and a short while later, the maid returned with the old miko.

It wasn’t just Haruka who disliked the old miko; the other guests were not fond of her either. But while Haruka despised her for her fraudulent act, they disliked her for her raw, earthy ugliness. Her skin was dark and rough, like a freshly dug potato covered in soil. And yet, they held a certain reverent fear for her “superstition,” feeling that to even think about her appearance was a sin.

The old miko walked up to the dais. Haruka caught a faint, foul, cloying odor, but when he tried to smell it again, it was gone, a ghost in the air.

The miko, her cloudy white eyes rolling in their sockets, recited a long list of instructions for the exorcism, most of them directed at Haruka. Even though he found the arcane rules detestable, he listened carefully and memorized them.

Once he had confirmed he understood everything, the group followed the miko to another, larger hall. She had someone shut off the main power, and the vast room was lit only by rows of candles on either side. The golden candlesticks seemed to be stained with black, and the long, red candles dripped hot, bloody wax with a soft, sizzling sound.

A strong gust of wind blew in from outside, making the candle flames dance wildly, casting long, monstrous shadows. The sky outside flashed with a bright, jagged streak of lightning, illuminating for a stark, terrifying moment the large bed at the front of the hall. It was surrounded by black gauze curtains, making it impossible to see inside.

Several maids, afraid the wind would blow out the candles, quickly moved to close the windows, their long shadows dancing on the walls like frantic spirits. The women here were all used to such scenes and watched the old miko calmly, their faces impassive masks in the flickering light.

“All unrelated personnel, please withdraw!” the miko’s voice boomed, unnaturally loud in the cavernous room. Seven maids exited, their heads bowed.

But Haruka noticed that three women who were not related to the Fujiwara family by blood remained: Momozawa Ai, Momozawa Sakuya, and Murakami Suzune.

Normally, anyone not of the direct Fujiwara line, not even those from the second table who had rendered great service to the family, would have the right to be here. The three of them were only allowed to stay because of an ancient, unyielding Fujiwara custom: the personal maids of the young masters and mistresses were considered half-family, bound by oaths deeper than blood.

Haruka saw that Momozawa Ai was standing in a corner, holding a pen and a large, leather-bound book, writing something with a serious, focused expression. No one dared to go near her.

“The butler is recording in the family register,” Suzune came over and explained to him in a whisper. “All major events in the Fujiwara family, every word and deed of the family head, must be recorded for posterity.”

“Is recording in the family register such an important task that only the head butler can do it?” Haruka asked.

“Yes. No one else can do it for her,” Suzune said with a look of quiet envy. “The honor of recording in the family register is passed down from one generation of head butler to the next. If nothing unexpected happens, Miss Sakuya will be the one to take over.”

“It’s a bit like the court historians of the ancient Chinese emperors.”

Haruka looked over at Sakuya, who was standing next to Kiyohime. As if sensing his gaze, her blue eyes met his bright, dark ones for a brief, charged moment. She immediately looked away, pretending not to have seen him, and turned her attention back to Kiyohime, her dislike for him a palpable, chilling force.

Haruka, feeling magnanimous, just smiled.

“Let everyone stand in line,” the miko said from the front. “And let the sword-wielder come forward.”

Haruka knew she was calling him. He walked up. The miko lowered her head and presented the strange sword to him with both hands.

Haruka took it with one hand. Though it was only the size of a baby’s arm, it was incredibly, unnaturally heavy. He looked at it closely. It was not sharpened. It didn’t look so much like a sword as a metal rod cast from unpolished silver, with only the vague, symbolic shape of a sword.

“Young Master, please prepare to bestow the blessing upon everyone,” the miko said in a low, guttural voice.

She had already explained the procedure to him. The “blessing” was simply a matter of waving the sword over each person’s head to “dispel evil,” then spraying them in the face with holy water from his mouth to “bestow good fortune.”

Haruka found the whole thing absurd, a barbaric, ridiculous farce, but he had to do it. He rinsed his mouth twice with the bitter tea provided, then nodded to the miko to show he was ready.

“Let the most fortunate one come forward first,” the miko said to the line of people behind him.

Haruka saw a beautiful woman with her hair in an updo eagerly kneel on a cushion before him. He recognized her as the woman named “Hirashima,” who held a very high position in the family. He was quite surprised to see that she was a devout, fervent believer.

This beautiful woman, believing herself to be the most fortunate, was the first to receive the blessing. She knelt on the cushion at his feet and said joyfully, her voice trembling with sincerity, “Please bestow your blessing, Young Master.”

“Please,” Haruka could only say, his own voice flat.

The beautiful woman, taking this as her cue, bowed once, then knocked her head heavily on the floor. Haruka could hear the dull thud from where he stood. A simple bow would have been enough, but Hirashima, a true believer, felt she had to perform five bows and three dogezas to show her sincerity. She bowed four more times, knocking her head on the floor before his feet, muttering, her voice a low, passionate chant, “‘May the good advance and the wicked retreat’.”