Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(28)

He did not turn. “Mother, I—”

“You are the last kind of beast I expected to find in the stable.”

A smile ghosted across his lips again. “The last kind of beast I expected to find in the stable, my lord.” Kenshin turned as he spoke, not even trying to conceal his pleasure at the arrival of this unexpected visitor.

A young girl in a simple kimono of deep blue silk leaned against the gate door. She wrinkled her pretty nose in playful distaste at his words.

Their titles had long been a source of amusement for them both.

For this girl was not in fact one of Kenshin’s servants.

Despite what his father frequently said in private.

“It’s not often that you surprise me, Hattori Kenshin.” As the girl spoke, her tone became flatter. Almost morose.

Her amusement had already begun to wane. So quickly.

Too quickly.

Kenshin cleared his throat, letting his smile drop, despite his wish to remain lighthearted. There were smudges across her cheek and nose. He’d have wagered ten gold ryō they were from the dust of polishing sand. Just like when they were children. Just like when she’d helped her father—celebrated artisan Muramasa Sengo—polish weapons in the nearby smithy.

Memories stirred through Kenshin, pleasant and warm. He should not—would not—smile at this particular girl so familiarly again. No matter how much he wished to do so.

Such a gesture would not serve them well.

A grip of doubt took hold of Kenshin’s throat. A terrible sensation that only ever came about in this girl’s presence. “Would you like me to leave?”

“Well, I have no intention of currying your horse for you, even if you are the fearsome Dragon of Kai.” Though her words were crisp—plinks of water against clay—her voice was calm.

It suited her. Amaya.

A night rain.

Crisp. Yet calm.

Kenshin gritted his teeth. “You should not—”

“You haven’t brought your sword to be polished in quite some time.” Amaya stepped toward him. “My father mentioned it only yesterday.” She held out her left hand. “Give it to me.” She spoke as though nothing were between them.

As though Kenshin meant nothing to her.

That same grip of doubt tightened its hold. Kenshin threw it off with a roll of his shoulders, like an unwanted burden.

Better Amaya think he was nothing to her. Better for them both.

The longer he thought it, the sooner it would become true.

Without a word, Kenshin removed his katana from its bindings and passed it to her.

Amaya unsheathed the blade from its ornate saya. Her eyes flitted across the intricate tsuba—across the copper-gilt filigree of the Hattori crest worked into the hand guard. Over the gaping dragon’s maw inlaid with turquoise enamel. She stopped to tsk at the sight of the sword itself. “Do you not know by now?” Amaya scolded lightly. “Art such as this is meant to be cared for.”

Kenshin watched her study the grooves in the painstakingly crafted jewel steel. The notches of wear and neglect. Her eyes were soft puddles of grey. Concern etched a groove between them. One he desperately wished to smooth with a quick pass of his thumb.

It was this groove—this concern for something Amaya should no longer trouble herself with—that tempered the anger in Kenshin’s veins.

Despite her efforts to conceal it, Muramasa Amaya always cared about things far more than she should.

“You’re right,” Kenshin replied. “Anything made by Muramasa-sama is meant to be cared for.” His words were laced with tender meaning.

Those same soft eyes lifted to his. Unhesitatingly. “Father would agree.” She paused, then glanced away. “I’ll see to it that the blade is sharpened and returned to you tonight.”

“There’s no need.”

“No.” Amaya returned the katana to its saya with a smooth flick of her wrist. “Father would not want a blade he fashioned to remain in such disrepair.” She spoke as if her father—perhaps the most famed metalsmith in all the empire—would personally hone and polish the sword, but Kenshin knew Amaya would be the one to do it.

Knew it with the certainty of the rising sun each dawn.

A sharp pang carved a path around his heart.

But he said nothing. Did nothing.

It was better this way.

As Amaya turned to take leave, she looked over her shoulder. If he hadn’t known her better, Kenshin would have sworn he saw Amaya hesitate.

“Mariko . . . isn’t dead, Kenshin. She can’t possibly be dead.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Amaya nodded once. “Don’t give up in your search for her.”

“I won’t.”

A small smile curled up her face.

His resolve broke at the sight.

“Amaya . . .” Kenshin closed the gap between them. He wanted so badly to wipe the smudges from her cheek. To press the groove between her eyes until it vanished beneath his touch. His hand rose to her face.

She pulled back. “Good evening, my lord.” Amaya bowed low.

In the gesture, Kenshin saw none of her teasing. None of their usual humor.

He missed it more than he could ever say.

But Kenshin knew better. He stepped to one side. Dipped his head in a bow.

When she turned to go, Kenshin found himself moving forward, his feet obeying his heart’s unspoken commands.