Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(51)
The music the geiko played was haunting. A song filled with veiled feeling. Its rhythm was torrid, yet its melody did not burn; rather it hypnotized. The low, constant buzz of the shamisen’s deepest string rumbled throughout the space, lulling Mariko into a near stupor.
There was such pride in the way the geiko performed. Such passion. She played for herself, first and foremost. And Mariko appreciated it more than she could ever have put to words.
Once the song was finished, Mariko, Ranmaru, and ōkami took their places at a set of individual tray tables on one side of the rectangular room. Two neat rows ringed the perimeter, parallel to each other. The floors were covered in freshly woven tatami mats, their edges trimmed in deep purple silk.
Mariko sat before one of these trays, again catching herself thoughtlessly imitating each of ōkami’s motions. Hating herself for it. As though she could ever wish to emulate anyone like him. Anyone so smug. So uninterested in anything of import.
Just as Mariko had finished arranging the hem of her robes around her, a bowl of glazed black porcelain—filled with fragrant rice—was placed before her. Lacquered chopsticks were rested atop a stand of polished jade. More female attendants in the same simple silk of the girl at the teahouse gates bore individual servings of food—fillets of amberjack covered in a sauce of fresh sorrel and white miso paste, a cut of creamy bream served alongside a small bowl of ponzu, cool abalone marinated in sweetened soy sauce and topped with finely diced chives.
When Mariko touched the tip of her chopsticks to the amberjack, the fish fell apart in flakes. Flakes that melted in her mouth, buttery and rich on her tongue. Hand-painted flagons of sake and matching cups were set before each of the teahouse’s guests. Soon the room was filled to capacity. And the topic of conversation descended to winking suggestion. Became bawdier. Louder.
Men. Mariko shook her head and looked around, staving off the flush creeping into her cheeks.
Slants of light emanated from matching miniature pagoda lanterns hanging at intervals around the room. The flames within flickered through the intricate slats, creating shadows that danced through the screens, throwing light across the silk-covered walls.
After Mariko finished consuming her food, the sliding door at the opposite end of the main tearoom slipped open. At first, Mariko thought the girl standing before them was simply younger than all the other geiko present. Perhaps even younger than Mariko herself. When the girl began gliding by—each of her steps a gentle brush across the woven mats—Mariko saw the flash of padded red silk positioned in the center of her hair, just above her nape. It was the sign of a maiko—an apprentice geiko who had not yet established her place among the official ranks of floating art in Hanami. The train of the maiko’s long kimono rippled behind her, like a soft swirl of wind. On her best day, Mariko could not imagine the skill it took to walk with such grace when burdened by the weight of three underrobes and a heavily embroidered kimono of brocaded turquoise and pale pink silk. Her obi alone looked as though it weighed nearly a stone, its knot at her back ornate and immense.
Just as she passed Mariko, the maiko leveled a smile at her. A smile that made Mariko think this girl knew the answer to any question ever asked. The maiko’s prowess in the art of flirtation did nothing to hide the calculating intelligence in her painted eyes. If Mariko had had to guess, she’d have said this girl possessed a formidable mind as well. The touch of hardness in her gaze made her appear all the more mysterious.
Every man in the room was entranced. ōkami watched the maiko float to the other side of the room and nodded once when she looked his way. Ranmaru followed her with his eyes, ready and willing to catch her should she begin to fall, even from across the room. Though Mariko did not miss the glimmer of pain—the undercurrent of unhappiness—that lingered on the leader of the Black Clan’s face as he watched the maiko pass him by without a single glance in his direction.
This must have been what Ranmaru meant earlier. This maiko had to be the source of his endless siege.
And a possible weakness.
Her interest heightened at this realization, but Mariko held her emotions in check. Just as cool and as even as the Wolf.
Once the maiko faced the wall on the opposite side of the tearoom, she stopped. Turned slowly, her movements perfectly timed with the strum of the shamisen. From the pocket of one long sleeve, the maiko removed two folded silk fans. With a quick snap, she opened them, striking a lingering pose, glancing over her shoulder at the rapt audience behind her. As she faced them, the girl twirled one fan around her first finger in a spinning circle, like a delicate windmill. The other she fluttered across the sea of mesmerized faces, wafting the scent of sweet plum and honeysuckle their way.
She continued floating across the mats, coiling and catching her fans in perfect unison with the rise and fall of the music. Though Mariko did not see anything sensual about the dance, she nevertheless felt titillated at its sight.
Something about it seemed forbidden. Illicit.
Mariko knew she’d been granted a remarkable opportunity. How many noblewomen before her had been inside a teahouse in Hanami? Had witnessed firsthand the famed art of the geiko—an art that had been carefully controlled and kept secret from her kind for so many centuries.
The experience opened Mariko’s mind to several new considerations.
This girl could not be older than her own seventeen years. Briefly she wondered if the maiko had had a choice in her future. Or if—like Mariko—the choice had been made for her by another. A sister. A father. A mother. An aunt. But for a twist of fate, this girl could have been Mariko. And Mariko could have been her.