And surely this brother of hers had seen such things. She was determined not to seem ignorant when they spoke.
Nori gnawed on her lower lip. “Do you . . . do you think that he will like me?”
Akiko’s face softened. She tucked a loose curl behind Nori’s ear.
“I hope so, sweet girl.”
This next question was even more dangerous. But Nori had to know.
“Do you think he knows where Mother is?”
The maid stiffened and glanced at the door. “Little madam . . .”
And that was all she needed to say. Their moment of familiarity was over. Akiko’s duty to her grandmother always won in the end.
Still, Nori allowed herself to be confident.
Akira would speak to her, surely. He had no reason to hate her. She had done nothing to him; she had cost him nothing. She had cost her mother her rightful place—she saw that now—and she had cost her grandmother her honor. But she had done nothing to Akira.
Maybe this is it. The thought struck her suddenly. Maybe the arrival of this strange brother of hers, who was somehow older than she even though she had never heard of him, could be the test that her mother had set for her. Of course, he had to be. In Nori’s experience, there was no such thing as a fortunate coincidence.
It was finally clear to her. All she had to do was pass one more test. She had to because then—then—her mother would come back to this place. And she would take the two of them away somewhere. And the three of them would live together somewhere with lots of tall grass and flowers, the big ones, like the kind that grew on the sides of mountain ranges. And there would be a pond there too, probably. Nori could wallow underneath the clear water until she felt the need to return to the surface. When she was done with that, she would lie in the sun. She would lie there for hours, until the palms of her hands and feet were bright red and tingling. And this brother, whoever he was, whatever he was, would lie there with her. And they would laugh at how silly it was that she had ever been afraid.
* * *
AKIKO
It is well past midnight when I finally lead the little madam down the attic stairs. As instructed, I hold on to her hand. It is painfully frail in my own; I can feel every bone. She descends the stairs with some trepidation, pulling at her dress as if she is afraid it will crease in the short distance from here to the foyer. Come to think of it, she has every reason to be cautious. She has not been allowed past the second-floor bathroom for over two years now. When we move past it, she lets out a soft wheezing sound. I think it is relief. Then again, it could be fear. She is a nervous child.
The girl does not say much, but she gives a lot away with her body. Often I find her staring into space, gnawing on a lip that is already swollen and bloody. I wonder if she feels it.
I cannot decide whether she is brilliant or a complete dullard. The other day I caught her reading a book in English—she was pointing to some pictures and sounding something out under her breath. She became skittish when she realized I was looking at her. I wonder if she is teaching herself—if she is capable of such a thing. Maybe she is. Maybe the traitor’s blood flows in her veins and teaches her things that we cannot.
In all fairness, she is an easy charge. She never complains and rarely asks for anything. She is complacent with her “treatments,” as I have been told to refer to them. She does cry, but she is careful not to make a fuss about it.
She is naturally curious—I can tell that much. Silence does not come easily to her. I see how she struggles with it. In this way, she is much like her mother. Lady Seiko never did take to the task of being a proper noble lady.
Nori-sama’s mother fell to ruin because of willful disobedience. Lady Yuko says she was overindulged by us all, and that I am to make sure not to make the same mistake again.
But she’s a sweet thing, really, and I find myself allowing too much.
Nori-sama tugs on my hand, as if to pull me from my daydreaming.
Even when her mouth is closed, her strange eyes are flashing like fireworks. I can see how much thought she puts into everything she does, even simple things that should require no such effort.
Again, I cannot decide if this is a sign of intelligence or stupidity. In any case, the child does have beautiful eyes, warm and light and full of brightness, a shade of amber that I have never seen before. They are the prettiest things about her by a mile, but they betray her every thought.
When we reach the main stairs, she freezes. Her free hand clenches the banister with a kind of desperation that I cannot comprehend. She surveys the surroundings below, alert and trembling. I suppose she is looking for her grandfather, Lord Kohei. But he is not here, and I am as relieved by that fact as she is.
The master is difficult. He has been known to strike the servants in fits of rage. He complains about the food and throws dishes he does not like in the faces of the cooks. I have even seen him strike his wife when they disagree, though he rarely dares. Yuko-sama’s blood is far greater than that of her husband. It was her father’s money that built this house and that earned her husband a place among the Emperor’s advisors. She is a formidable woman; she is a Princess of the Blood, cousin to the Emperor. She runs this house with a firm, precise hand, and when there is anything that needs doing, we all know who ensures it gets done. Though she is just as demanding as her husband, everyone who works here respects her. She is a fair mistress. She is royal to the tips of her fingers, and one cannot help but bow to it.
I have allowed the child enough time to stand like a startled colt. I pull her forward and she comes, as I knew she would. She walks down the stairs on those unsure legs of hers, and I hold her firmly, afraid she will fall.
I lead her down the main hallway, and she is craning her neck behind her to take in as much as she can. She knows well that it may be a long time before she sees this part of the house again. She marvels silently at the rich surroundings, the fine rugs, the tapestries and the paintings.
She is trembling like a leaf as we approach the foyer. I can hear her mumbling something under her breath, a mantra of some sort. She sounds half mad. Maybe, after all these years in an attic, she is.
I have always wondered about her mental state, poor thing. And I have read that bastard children are of unstable constitution naturally. Not to mention the Negroes, who are said to be hopeless from birth, wild as lions.
We round the corner and can see him now, though he is not facing us: the slim frame of a young man staring absently out of the large window. She stops walking and stands perfectly still, like a woman transfixed by some merciless light.
As if touched by the sheer intensity emanating from the tiny creature beside me, the boy turns around.
I have done my duty for the moment.
I will leave them to their business.