Smoke in the Sun (Flame in the Mist #2)(5)

Mariko’s sight blurred as she gazed at her scarred knuckles. Another pair of hands took shape in her mind’s eye, its calloused fingers intertwined with hers. Laced together. Stronger for it.

ōkami.

Mariko blinked. Organized the chaos of her thoughts into something coherent. She bit her lip and widened her eyes. “The Black Clan … they made me work for them.” Her voice sounded small. Insignificant. Exactly as she intended.

The servant chuffed in response, her expression still dubious. “It will take the work of an enchantress to repair this damage.” Her words remained harsh, unmoved by the sight of Mariko’s feigned timidity. Strangely—though this woman’s rebuke was in no way comforting—it nevertheless warmed Mariko. It brought to mind her mother’s quiet, ever-present judgment.

No. Not just that.

The servant reminded her of Yoshi.

At the thought of the grumbling, good-natured cook, Mariko’s eyes began to water in earnest.

The servant watched her, an eyebrow peaking into her forehead.

That time, the sight of the older woman’s judgment spurred a different reaction.

Anger roiled beneath Mariko’s skin. She snatched her hand away and averted her gaze, as though she were afraid. Ashamed. The servant’s stern expression lost some of its severity. As though Mariko’s embarrassment was an emotion she could understand and accept. When she next took hold of Mariko’s hand, her touch was careful. Almost soft.

In the same instant Mariko fought to curb her anger, she paused to take note.

My fear—even when it is feigned—has more weight when it is matched alongside anger.

One of the young women assisting the gruff servant bowed beside the wooden tub before lifting a pile of muddied, fraying clothing into the light. “My lady, may I dispose of these?” Her round face and button nose squinched in disgust.

They were the garments Mariko had worn in Jukai forest, when she’d been disguised as a boy. She’d refused to discard the faded grey kosode and trousers, even at Kenshin’s behest. They were all she had now. Her eyes widening in what she hoped to be a sorrowful expression, Mariko shook her head. “Please have them washed and stored nearby. Though I long more than anything to forget what happened to me, it is important to keep at least one reminder of the consequences when a wrong turn is taken in life.”

The ill-tempered elder servant harrumphed at her words. Another young girl in attendance grasped one of Mariko’s hands and began scrubbing beneath her nails with a brush fashioned from horsehair bristles. As she worked, the servant with the round face and button nose poured fine emollients and fresh flower petals across the surface of the steaming water. The colors of the oil shimmered around Mariko like fading rainbows. A petal caught on the inside of her knee. She dipped her leg beneath the water and watched the petal float away.

The image reminded her of what the old man at the watering hole had said the night she’d first met the Black Clan, disguised as a boy. He’d told her she had a great deal of water in her personality. Mariko had been quick to disagree with him. Water was far too fluid and changeable. Her mother had always said Mariko was like earth—stubborn and straightforward to a fault.

I need to be water now, more than ever.

Mariko wondered what had become of the Black Clan after ōkami had surrendered to her betrothed. Wondered how Yoshi and Haruki and Ren and all the others had fared following such a dire blow. Only three nights past, they’d learned their leader had been deceiving them for years. He was not in fact the son of Takeda Shingen. The boy they’d followed and called Ranmaru for almost a decade was instead the son of Asano Naganori. He’d assumed the role of Takeda Ranmaru to protect his best friend and make amends for his father’s betrayal—a betrayal that had resulted in the destruction of both their families. This boy’s real name was Asano Tsuneoki.

They’d all been deceived.

And Mariko’s betrothed—Prince Raiden—had left the forest with a prize worthy of laying at his father’s burial mound.

The true son of Takeda Shingen, the last shōgun of Wa: ōkami.

Resentment smoldered hot and fast in Mariko’s chest. Guilt coiled through her stomach. She dared to sit in a pool of scented water, allowing her skin and hair to be brushed and polished to perfection while so many of those she cared about suffered untold fates?

She took a steadying breath.

This was necessary. This was the reason she’d asked Kenshin to bring her to Inako. If Mariko intended to act on the plans she’d formulated while journeying from Jukai forest to the imperial city, she had to be in the seat of power. Mariko had to find a way to free ōkami. She had to convince her betrothed that she was the willing, simpering young woman he surely desired in a bride. Then—once she’d earned a measure of trust—she could find a way to begin feeding information to the outside. To those who fought to change the ways of the imperial city and restore justice to its people.

To topple evil from its vaunted pedestal.

“Stand,” the servant demanded in a curt tone.

Respect for an elder—regardless of status—drove Mariko to obey the truculent woman without question. She let the woman lead her to the largest piece of polished silver she’d ever seen in her life. Her eyes widened at the sight of her naked body reflected back at her.

Her time in Jukai forest had changed Mariko on the outside as well. The angles of her face were more pronounced. She was thinner. What had been willowy before was now honed. Muscles she’d not known she’d possessed moved as she moved, like ripples across a pond.