Fifty Words for Rain(10)
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.
* * *
Very few things would remain clear in her mind in the years to come. The passing years would force her memories of her time in her grandmother’s house, like her memories of the time before, into a space too small to hold them, and they would meld together like watercolors on a page.
But the memory of this moment would remain, uncorrupted and undiminished.
He had a perfectly heart-shaped face with the same color eyes her mother had. His lashes were long, almost feminine. His lips had a slight fullness to them, and his skin was so pallid that his black hair came as a shock to the eye. And yet, of all his features, she loved his nose the most because it was exactly the same as hers. He wore a loose-fitting white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone and a pair of black slacks. The way he stood indicated that he was used to being in front of people; the slight drop of his shoulders hinted at a casual indifference to his surroundings.
Nori looked away then, blinking rapidly as she focused her gaze on the floor. She could feel his eyes on her.
She wanted to become something else then, something more deserving of view. Under the intense scrutiny of that gaze, she suddenly felt nude, though the grip she had on the skirt of her dress assured her otherwise.
Because there was nothing else to do, nothing her mind could possibly conceive of to say that would be significant enough for this moment, she simply did as she was told.
She lowered herself into a stiff bow.
It seemed incredible to her that she had ever possessed the power of speech, so far removed was that ability from her grasp now. All she could do was wait: for seconds or years, depending on his preference.
“You’re Noriko?”
She straightened up, but still, it took her a moment to fully realize she had been spoken to. This voice was unfamiliar, distinctly unfamiliar in her mental reserve of sounds. It was a quiet voice, soft but silky enough to indicate frequent use. She had nothing to compare it to, nothing to make the impact any easier on her senses. Her mind had no choice but to reluctantly absorb the foreign sound and, slowly but surely, give it a name: Akira’s voice. Her brother’s voice.