The experience opened Mariko’s mind to several new considerations.
This girl could not be older than her own seventeen years. Briefly she wondered if the maiko had had a choice in her future. Or if—like Mariko—the choice had been made for her by another. A sister. A father. A mother. An aunt. But for a twist of fate, this girl could have been Mariko. And Mariko could have been her.
Something about the maiko’s performance struck Mariko in the way willow trees often did. So profoundly beautiful. Yet hauntingly sad.
A smattering of applause rang through the room when the maiko finished her fan dance. She bowed, then swished in their direction. Again the beautiful girl ignored Ranmaru, sweeping past him almost coldly. Ignoring the flash of hurt that rippled across his face. Then the maiko fired another winsome smile at Mariko before settling beside Ōkami.
Was this girl the one Ōkami visited every other day in Inako? Would Ōkami knowingly conduct an affair with the girl of Ranmaru’s heart? Even for the Wolf, this seemed needlessly cruel. Not to mention a waste of time and money and energy.
When the lovely maiko leaned toward Ōkami’s ear—brushing the snowy petals of her hairpiece across his angled jaw—a faintly unsettling sensation took hold of Mariko’s stomach. She questioned it for an instant, and annoyance quickly rose in its place.
She was not angry at the maiko. The mere thought was ridiculous. Whether or not the girl took advantage of Ōkami and Ranmaru—spending the former’s coin and breaking the latter’s heart—was not Mariko’s concern.
Unless of course she could use either to her advantage.
Mariko conceded that perhaps a part of her was merely annoyed by the way the girl manipulated one boy to cause another boy pain. Chiyo had often gossiped about servant girls who behaved in such a manner, and Mariko had never liked it.
But why should she care what these idiot boys did with their time and their money?
The sake was clearly taking root in her head.
“Ōkami-sama,” the maiko said, her voice a perfect mixture of shy and coy. “Thank you for coming to see me tonight.” Her exquisite eyes slid toward Ranmaru with absolute intention. Then her gaze hardened once more, if only for an instant.
Another ripple of exasperation shot down Mariko’s spine. The maiko knowingly played with fire. Knowingly toyed with Ranmaru’s feelings.
But to what end?
And was there a way Mariko could leverage the girl’s end to achieve her own goals?
The maiko inclined her head—drawing even closer to Ōkami—and continued whispering in his ear. After a time, he nodded indulgently, and the girl smiled. She drew up one kimono sleeve to pour him a cup of hot tea, each of her movements like liquid smoke.
The more time transpired, the more it became apparent: irrespective of the maiko’s ulterior motives with regard to Ranmaru, she and Ōkami shared an obvious connection. Their conversation was hushed. Intimate. Not once did an awkward moment pass between the two. Ōkami never needed to ask for anything. The maiko anticipated his every wish, all while gazing at him with perfect trust.
The sight faintly disgusted Mariko. Was this how every young woman appeared in the company of handsome young men? How ridiculous. No wonder young men craved spending time in places like Hanami. Mariko would have wagered everything she had that this maiko was the reason Ōkami traveled so often to Inako.
A lock clicked open in Mariko’s mind.
Perhaps this girl was also the one connecting the Black Clan to its employers. Providing the mercenaries entry to the imperial city’s many secrets. Geiko were famous for keeping and disseminating some of the most valuable information amongst the nobility. Their unfettered access to men of power often gave them advantage in matters of state.
Perhaps this girl had the answers Mariko so desperately sought.
The maiko unfolded to her feet in a whisper of silk. As she passed Ranmaru, he began to stand.
“Yumi,” he said softly, “please . . .”
The girl shot a biting glare at the leader of the Black Clan before quitting the tearoom entirely.
As Ranmaru fidgeted beside him—his features marked by distress—Ōkami finished his tea in silence. The only comfort he offered his friend was to pour him another cup of sake. Then Ōkami stood, following the path the maiko Yumi had taken not long before.
Once Ōkami took his leave, Mariko debated how best to proceed, her mind a tangle of thoughts. It was clear Ranmaru and Ōkami were in love with the same girl. Strangely this conflict had yet to seed any obvious enmity in their friendship. The only reason Mariko could gather for this was that Yumi served a far more important purpose.
The unlocked door in Mariko’s mind swung open.
Yumi had to be someone of great significance to the Black Clan.
In that moment, Mariko was gripped by the need to know what purpose the girl served. The need to know anything and everything about the maiko.
This undeniable weakness.
Awareness forcing her to take action, Mariko tossed back a final cup of sake, then decided to take advantage of Ranmaru’s distressed state of mind. She stammered as she asked one of the attendants to direct her to a place where she could relieve herself. Once Mariko left the tearoom, she made her way down a connecting corridor toward an enclosed courtyard with an elegantly raked footpath and a tiny brook snaking through its center. She whipped around the next corner before crashing to a halt.
Across the courtyard, Ōkami and Yumi stood swathed in shadow beneath a low-hanging eave. They spoke in subdued tones, the maiko within embracing distance of the Wolf. Mariko’s breath drew short when she saw the expression on Ōkami’s face as he listened to the beautiful girl speak.
It was an expression of warmth. Understanding. Compassion.
Undeniably of love.
The Wolf wore the look well. Surprisingly well, considering his earlier disdain for the sentiment. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, Mariko would never have believed it. In contrast, Yumi appeared strangely conflicted. Her shoulders sagged, and Mariko saw the girl’s fingers grip her silken sleeves.
When Yumi’s head fell forward—some invisible weight taking its toll—Ōkami took her in his arms, pulling her close.
Offering her comfort.
Another pang of annoyance cut through Mariko, just beneath her heart.
She could not understand what Ōkami saw in this girl, beyond the embarrassingly obvious. Frankly Mariko expected better of him. It was unwise of him to flaunt his affections in such a manner. Earlier he’d claimed to appreciate Mariko’s stance on love. Claimed to understand her position on emotions in general.
This entire display was foolish. A waste of his time, especially on a girl who was a potential source of conflict with Ranmaru.
Mariko pursed her lips. It did not matter if Ōkami and Ranmaru were at odds with each other. Indeed it might be better if they were, for her purposes.
With a roll of her shoulders, she pressed into the shadows, trying to determine a way to move within earshot of Ōkami and Yumi. She recalled what she and Kenshin had done as children when they’d wished to spy on their elders. They’d licked a finger and pressed it to one of the rice-paper screens, forming a tiny hole through which to eavesdrop. But of course the screens in this teahouse were fashioned of silk. As if its builders realized the need for utmost discretion in all corners of Hanami.
With no obvious way to intrude at hand, Mariko looked upward. The low-hanging eave on this end of the courtyard was within reach. She could grab hold of it and shimmy along the roofline. If she could get close enough, Mariko might be able to hear all that passed between Ōkami and Yumi.
Mariko studied the intricately formed copper lanterns dangling at intervals along every wooden eave. They mirrored the lanterns along the exterior of the main teahouse, only these were smaller. Some were not yet lit, for it seemed the
proprietors of the teahouse believed the silver light of the full moon was more than enough to illumine its inner courtyard, despite the fleece of clouds gathering above.
She braced a foot along a support beam and clambered onto the tiled roof, her movements masked by the steady din from below. Once Mariko settled in place, she considered standing, but realized the tabi socks on her feet would not provide the necessary traction to move about freely. So instead she crawled like a spider across the curved roof tiles, keeping her head low.
When she glanced over the ridge at the crest of the roofline, Mariko almost slid from her perch, her pulse on a sudden rampage.
It’s not possible.
There—standing by the waterfalls near the entrance of the finest teahouse in Hanami—stood a face to mirror her own. A face Mariko had been raised alongside. A face she understood as no one else ever could.
Hattori Kenshin.
The Dragon of Kai had finally found her.
THE SWINGING LANTERN
Mariko thought quickly, her mind ablaze.
What is Kenshin doing here?
It was possible her brother had tracked her to Inako. Though it did seem highly unlikely anyone could follow her bizarre trail through a mountainous forest, back to the imperial city. But if there was even a remote possibility, Mariko knew Kenshin would be the one to do it. Which meant it was also possible he knew the Black Clan was responsible for the attack on her convoy.
Now Mariko was met with the consequences.
Impossibly, here her brother stood.
Kenshin waited beside the blue lagoon as his two hooded companions spoke to the attendants at the gate. Even from a distance, Mariko could see the concern on his face.
The deep-seated worry.
She scrambled to make sense of it all. Scrambled to form a plan.
However Kenshin had managed to track her here, Mariko could not allow him to find her. She’d risked too much to get this far.
I am not ready to cede control. Not yet.
Nor am I ready to go back home.
Her brother had not arrived at the teahouse alone. Two other nobles had entered the gates with him. Ones from an extremely wealthy family, judging by their clothing. The way several other attendants materialized from the shadows to assist their every need only further proved the point.
When four members of the imperial guard stepped beneath the glow of the lanterns to their right, Mariko’s heart crashed into her stomach: the two young men accompanying Kenshin were from the inner ranks of the imperial court. Possibly even members of the royal family itself. Mariko searched for signs of their crests. Tried to see past their resplendent cloaks.
Was it possible one of these hooded men was her betrothed, Minamoto Raiden?
Mariko swallowed, her nerves wound tight, her pulse trilling through her veins.
If her brother and his royal companions found Mariko here—in the company of the empire’s most notorious thieves, scrambling on the rooftop of Hanami’s most fashionable teahouse—the ensuing scene could prove disastrous.
It would undermine all her plans. Undermine her wish to spare her family any embarrassment and prove her worth beyond the marriage market. Undermine her chance to discover who had plotted to murder her.
Not to mention the scandal that would unfold when it was revealed that Minamoto Raiden’s bride-to-be had disappeared only to reemerge . . .
Dressed as a boy.
Lastly Mariko did not even want to consider what might happen if a fight were to occur between Kenshin and any member of the Black Clan.
Much less with Ōkami.
Mariko shuddered as she contemplated the possibility. Kenshin was the finest samurai she’d ever known. But not a single warrior she knew moved like the Wolf.
No. Mariko could never allow the two to cross paths.
As her panic continued to rise, the taller of Kenshin’s companions lowered the hood of his cloak. Even from her perch along the roofline, Mariko saw the silver crest stamped into the hood’s silken inlay.
A trio of gentian flowers and a sprig of bamboo leaves.
The crest of the Minamoto clan.
Her terror spiked in a white-hot flash. In an uncontrollable plume.
She’d never seen Minamoto Raiden before. But she knew from past accounts that he was tall. A gifted member of the yabusame. Chiyo had all but swooned when Mariko’s betrothal had been made official.
Even without proof, Mariko could easily surmise that her brother’s taller, broader companion was likely her betrothed. Which meant that . . .
The slighter companion. The reedier boy still cloaked and shielded by imperial guards.
Mariko’s body went numb, as though a wintry gale had blown across the rooftop.
The crown prince of Wa.
Takeda Ranmaru had been exiled by Minamoto Masaru. Though Ranmaru had not specifically said the emperor’s name that night by the jubokko, Mariko was not a fool. Ōkami and Ranmaru believed their fathers had been betrayed and murdered by the emperor.
Nothing good could come of their sons meeting by chance in a teahouse deep within Hanami on a dark summer night.
Consumed with worry, Mariko watched from her perch as Kenshin rinsed his hands in the same basin she’d used a few hours ago. Watched as he waited to enter the same teahouse. It was now impossible to return to her place in the main room. If Kenshin saw her, he would recognize her before she could swallow her next breath.
Panic took hold when Mariko realized that Ōkami was doubling back toward the teahouse, with Yumi at his side. Which meant his path would soon cross that of her brother. If Ōkami returned and discovered Mariko missing, he would undoubtedly ask Ranmaru where she had gone. The two would begin making inquiries. They would learn she had not simply disappeared to relieve herself.
And her brother would hear everything.
Without knowing exactly what information Kenshin already possessed, it was leaving too much to chance.
Mariko had to get the Black Clan to leave the teahouse with her in tow. Before Kenshin caught wind of anything that might be afoot. Because if the Dragon of Kai was here to find her, he would find her. Her brother would not give up until he did.
And she could not allow that to happen.
Not yet.
The way she saw it, Mariko had two immediate options:
She could either attempt to distract her brother by creating a commotion in his vicinity—perhaps by flinging the single throwing star she’d pilfered from Haruki—or she could create a diversion around Ōkami, away from the main tearoom. The kind of diversion that would grant them a chance to summon Ranmaru to their side, so they could all escape without being seen.
When faced with the decision to possibly threaten her brother—and coincidentally the crown prince of Wa—or Ōkami, Mariko’s choice was easy. She grabbed the chain of an unlit copper lantern behind her. Hauled it onto the roof. Took careful aim.
As soon as Ōkami came within range, Mariko swung the lantern into his path, intent on catching him off guard. She hoped that—with the sliver of time this small distraction bought her—she would have a moment to clamber off the rooftop unnoticed and quietly inform Ōkami of the teahouse’s most recent arrivals.
She could, of course, simply say something. Simply shout down at him from her perch. But if Mariko could help it, she did not wish for Ōkami to know she’d been spying on him. And she could not risk Kenshin hearing her. Or worse, seeing her.
So she was left with nothing but a lantern.
Unfortunately Mariko miscalculated two things when she boldly swung the lantern at the Wolf:
The surprising weight of metal suspended from a chain.
And the quickness of the Wolf’s reflexes.
As soon as he heard the grate of swinging metal from above, Ōkami shoved Yumi away and looked up in the same moti
on.
The maiko screamed as the rogue lantern struck the Wolf hard in the face, causing him to topple over the railing into the burbling brook. Orange-and-white koi darted in every direction as the splash resounded through the courtyard, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot.
Mariko blinked, her eyes and mouth forming perfect ovals. Ōkami swiped the hair from his face and immediately leveled a look of pure hatred up at her.
As though he’d known where she was all along.
That did not exactly go as planned.
Yumi stared down at Ōkami’s drenched body, one hand covering her perfectly painted lips.
At the gate’s entrance, Mariko’s brother stepped from beneath the overhang outside the teahouse’s sliding doors, drawn by Yumi’s bell-like scream and the sound of splashing water. Minamoto Raiden wandered from the shadows, following in Kenshin’s footsteps.
Mariko ducked lower, hiding herself from any eyes that might think to drift upward.
Hoping Ōkami would not draw attention to her.
Praying for a miracle.
When the Wolf stood suddenly—recrimination in his dark eyes, water sloshing from his fine clothes—Mariko cut him off with a sharp look, before he could begin yelling. Then she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, as though that offered a sufficient explanation. As though it offered her a valid reason to swing a metal box at his head. Ōkami peered over the connecting walkway leading toward the main tearoom, toward the row of richly clad figures now proceeding in their direction. Though his fury remained intact, he narrowed his eyes. In less than an instant, understanding settled across his features.
From where it had fallen beside him, Ōkami reached for the chain of the lantern Mariko had swung. Then he whistled once, the sound like that of a waterbird.
Again the terror gripped Mariko’s throat, catching her voice in a vise.
Each second brought her brother a step closer. If Kenshin had trailed her this far—trailed Mariko all the way from Jukai forest to the imperial city—her brother likely suspected the Black Clan of kidnapping her. Did he know the identity of the exiled boy who led this band of mercenaries?