Fifty Words for Rain(67)

Nori nodded. Kiyomi had taught her to use a fork.

“We should have a few in the kitchen. I can get one.”

“Have a servant fetch one,” Akira said lazily. He was reading a book under the table and only half trying to conceal it. As promised, he’d hired back a gardener and two maids. He’d wanted to hire a cook too, but Nori’s protests convinced him otherwise.

“She doesn’t need one,” Will objected. He snapped up a long strand of noodles on his chopsticks as if to further emphasize the ease of it. “She needs to learn to do things. Besides, it’s rude.”

Nori raised an eyebrow. This was the side of him that she did not like. He had all of Akira’s arrogance.

“It’s not rude.”

Akira looked like he was going to say something, but Nori’s irate glance silenced him. He shrugged.

Will smirked. “She doesn’t need a champion. It’s just a fork.”

“Every night she sits here, and every night half her food is left on the plate. It’s just a fork indeed. I’m tired of watching you two ignore it.”

Will’s blue eyes went cold. “My dear—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “I’m the one who cooks. It’s my right to be offended if my food doesn’t get eaten.”

Alice was red as a tomato. She looked down, and her silvery hair came forward to cover her face.

Will looked to Akira for support but received none.

Will conceded with a smile, but something about his demeanor shifted. He waved a hand.

“If she’s going to use a fork, she can go eat in the kitchen. I’m not going to encourage her failings, heaven knows she doesn’t need my help with that.”

Without a word, Alice picked up her bowl and went into the kitchen.

Disgust washed over Nori like a wave. Akira was lost in his book again, and Will was gesturing for a servant to bring more wine. Neither of them seemed bothered. But then neither of them knew what it felt like to be overlooked.

It was in the small things. And then, one day, without even realizing it, you looked in the mirror and you were small too.

Nori picked up her bowl.

“Oh, will you sit down,” Will snapped.

Finally, Akira spoke. “Will,” he said, “let her be.”

She went into the kitchen and found Alice standing at the sink and looking confused. She was taller than Nori by a foot, with the long legs of the women in the magazines. She looked older than her sixteen years.

But right now, with her makeup scrubbed away, Nori saw vulnerability for the first time.

“You can just leave that.”

Alice turned to face her. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the trash.”

“It’s all right.”

Already this small exchange was more than they’d shared in five months under the same roof. Will had a way of sucking up all the air in the room.

Alice hesitated. “Why . . . why did you help me?”

Nori decided on the simplest answer. “Why not?”

Alice flushed, and quick tears sprang to her gray eyes. “I thought you didn’t like me. That you looked down on me.”

Nori could only stare in stunned silence. She’d never heard something so absurd. After a beat: “Why?”

Alice shrugged. “I assume they’ve told you why we left London.”

Nori shook her head. “I asked Akira-san once. But he said it wasn’t his story to tell. And I’ve never asked Will.”

Alice laughed, and it was spellbinding. “It’s not his story to tell either, though that’s certainly never stopped him. It’s mine.”

Their eyes met from across the room, and a mutual understanding surged between them like a low current.

“You wear your yukatas wrong,” Nori said shyly. “I can teach you the right way. If you like.”

The smile she received in return was all the answer she needed.



* * *





ALICE



She keeps her promises. That’s more than I can say for . . . well, anyone.

Nori’s small hands move deftly as she dresses me in the silk robes of this little island. She shows me step by step the correct way to do it. When she’s finished, she sits me at her vanity. She takes her ivory comb and parts my hair down the middle.

“I’m going to tie it up into two pieces first,” she tells me. “This is how the proper ladies wear their hair in summer.”

Her touch is so gentle that it makes me want to weep.

I must admit that I judged her rather harshly at first. She is funny-looking, without doubt, with no fashion sense to speak of. Her hair is a tragedy. She doesn’t read magazines or watch television; she has no interests outside of her books and needlework. She doesn’t wear makeup—at all, doesn’t even paint her nails!—and the only music she listens to is that ancient classical nonsense that Will plays.

Truthfully, she is dreadfully boring. If she were not so odd-looking, I might mistake her for wallpaper.

If we were back home in London, I would never even look at her.

But this is not London. This is not my home. I am a stranger in her country, a guest in her house, and she has shown me kindness. Even before the other night. I have seen her in the kitchen, practicing Western dishes so that Will and I may feel more at home. She makes sure that the servants bring tea to our rooms in the morning. Though she has done it quietly, she has set upon the impossible task of trying to make everyone happy.