Smoke in the Sun (Flame in the Mist #2)(4)

It all felt so similar.

But if Mariko could be certain of nothing else now, she could be certain her life would never be the same again.

Under her brother’s watchful care, they’d arrived in Inako late last night. To an imperial city cloaked in mourning. To streets teeming with whispers. Today was the funeral of their emperor, who had died suddenly, beneath a veil of suspicion. Upon discovering his body, the empress’s wailing was said to have been heard across all seven maru. Even beyond the castle’s iron-and-gold-plated double gates. She’d screamed murder. Raged at all those nearby, accusing them of treachery. It had taken a flock of maidservants to soothe her and begin ushering her toward her tears.

Toward final whimpers of resignation.

But beneath this hushed intensity seethed something sinister. Last night—when the second pair of gates leading to the castle had creaked closed behind their convoy—the air around Mariko had stilled. The faint breeze blowing past the woven screen of her norimono had sighed a final sigh. An owl had blared across the firmament, its cry ringing off the stone walls.

As though in warning.

Here in Inako, Mariko would not be granted a moment’s respite. Nor did she wish for one. She would not allow herself anything of the sort.

For deep in the bowels of the same castle, the last in a line of celebrated shōgun awaited his impending doom: the final judgment of the imperial city. And the lies this city wore—lies cloaked in silk and steel—shimmered beneath the surface, ready to take shape. No matter the cost, Mariko would mold them into what they should have been from the start:

The truth.

She bit down hard on nothing. Braced herself for the coming fight. It would be unlike any ōkami and the Black Clan had prepaired her for in Jukai forest. In this fight, she would not have weapons of wood and metal and smoke at her disposal. She would instead be armed with nothing more than her mind and her own mettle. This would be precisely the kind of fight she’d unknowingly prepared for as a child, when she’d pitted herself against her brother, Kenshin.

In a game of wits against brawn.

Here in Inako, Mariko’s armor would not be hardened leather and an ornamented helmet. It would be perfume and powdered skin. She had to persuade Prince Raiden—her betrothed—to trust her. She needed him to cast her as the hapless victim instead of the willing villain.

Though I plan to be a villain in all ways.

If it took everything from Hattori Mariko—even her very life—she would not allow those she loved to fall prey to those set on destroying them. She would learn the truth about who had conspired to kill her that day in the forest. Why they attempted to frame the Black Clan for the deed. And what deeper cause lay beneath their designs.

Even if those at the heart of the matter were the imperial family itself.

Even if her own family might fall into the crosshairs.

The thought sent a chill through her bones, as though the water in the furo had suddenly turned to ice.

Kenshin’s choice had been made long before he’d marched into Jukai forest flying their family crest alongside that of the emperor. Even before he’d let soldiers loose arrows around his only sister in a shower of fire and ash. He was a samurai, and a samurai followed the orders of his sovereign, to the death. He did not ask questions.

His pledge was one of unswerving conviction.

But Mariko’s time with the Black Clan had taught her the cost of blind faith. She refused to align the Hattori name with that of the shiftless nobles in the imperial city. The same nobles intent on lining their pockets and gaining influence at the expense of the downtrodden. The same people they’d worn to protect, like the elder woman who cared for the children in the Iwakura ward, who depended upon ōkami and the Black Clan for support.

Protect.

Mariko drew her knees to her chest, shielding her heart, preventing the worst of her thoughts from taking root.

What if ōkami is already dead?

She tightened the grip on her knees.

No. He isn’t dead. He can’t be. They will want to make a show of his death.

And I will be there to protect him when they do.

It was strange to think Mariko possessed the power to protect someone she loved. She’d never known the right words to do so before. Never known how to wield the right weapons. But ingenuity could be a weapon, in all its forms. Her mind could be a sword. Her voice could be an axe.

Her fury could ignite a fire.

Protect.

Mariko would never allow ōkami—the boy who had stolen her heart in the dead of the night, deep within a forest of rustling trees—to lose all he’d fought to regain. Nor would Mariko allow herself to lose anything she loved. She’d watched from the shadows as Kenshin had permitted soldiers to descend on her in Jukai forest. Felt the pang of her brother’s betrayal with each of his questioning glances. She’d bitten her tongue as these same soldiers had forced ōkami to kneel in the mud and surrender. As they’d taunted and derided him from their lofty perches.

Mariko swallowed, the bitterness coating her throat.

Never again. I will protect you, no matter the cost.

“Look at your nails.” The creases across the servant’s brow deepened as she spoke, cutting through Mariko’s deliberations. Her admonition conjured more memories of Mariko’s childhood. “It’s as though you’ve been digging through mud and stone all your life.” She tsked, inspecting Mariko’s fingers even further. “Are these the hands of a lady or a scullery maid?”