Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(15)

My name is called, but I keep my focus on Mr. Fuchigami. More photos are snapped. Lights flash, the imprint emblazoned on the back of my eyelids. I wonder if they’ve captured my disappointment. Perhaps the headline will read “Princess Stood Up by Her Father.”

Mr. Fuchigami’s smile is commiserative. “The Crown Prince is waiting for you at the palace. We thought it might be best for your reunion to be private.” That makes sense. I guess. Still, my stomach clenches like a fist. “Please,” he says, sweeping his arm out and creating a line he expects me to follow.

Akio’s presence beside me is darker than the clouds in the sky as he glowers at the crowd. The imperial guard can stand down now. He’s no doubt going to enjoy this handoff. Probably can’t wait to be free and do something he finds relaxing, like winding clocks or frightening little children at a schoolyard or (one can only hope) playing in traffic.

I glance left, then right. The car door is still open. Rain pelts the interior. Mr. Fuchigami is waiting. My father is waiting. Japan is waiting. I brace myself and find the silver lining. My father might not be here, but Tokyo is. I will my nerves to be like the concrete under my feet, hard and impenetrable. I am brave. I am magnificent. I can do anything. (As long as I am gently handled, have ten hours of sleep a night, and a hearty, protein-packed breakfast, of course.)

Ready.

Steady.

Go.





6


I settle into a buttery-soft leather seat the color of fine scotch. Mr. Fuchigami sits across from me, bowler hat in his lap. His hair is shot through with gray and slicked back. Car doors slam. It’s just my luck Akio climbs in the front. His posture is ramrod straight. Words like stick and ass come to mind. Raindrops slide down the back of his neck. He pats them away with a neatly folded handkerchief. I kind of hate him. I hate him more because he’s so attractive.

A chauffeur in a brass-buttoned jacket and white gloves drives us. “Who’s in the other car?” I ask when I notice a second Rolls-Royce following us. It’s a bit stuffy in the car, and the windows fog.

“No one.” Mr. Fuchigami pulls black leather gloves from his hands. “It is empty, in case this car breaks down.”

The wood of the interior gleams. The engine purrs. “Has this car ever broken down?”

Mr. Fuchigami’s face is blank. “No, it is brand new.”

“That makes sense.” But not really.

Police on white motorcycles flank us. We’re speeding down a highway now. Cars pull over to the side of the road and let us pass.

“Your itinerary for this evening and the rest of your stay.” Mr. Fuchigami places a sheaf of papers in my lap, his tone all business.

Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi’s Itinerary

3/22/2021



3:32 p.m.—Arrive at Narita International Airport

3:45 p.m.—Depart Narita International Airport, motorcade tour of Tokyo and imperial grounds



I check my phone. 4:01 p.m. Sixteen minutes behind schedule. It’s really not my fault. I was even born late—three weeks overdue and ten pounds to boot, roughly the size of an adult Maltese dog. Mom was so big that everyone thought she was having two, which lead to the nurse joking I devoured my twin in utero. I smile at the thought. Mr. Fuchigami watches me warily, his lips twitching. I turn my attention back to the schedule.

5:01 p.m.—Dress for dinner

5:22 p.m.—Private meeting with Crown Prince

8:00 p.m.—Welcome reception and dinner



“The schedule will need to be adjusted. I understand there was an unanticipated stop in the airport,” Mr. Fuchigami continues. His gaze lingers on the radish, which I’ve placed on the seat next to me. It’s kind of my friend now. I’ve named it Tamagotchi 2.0.

I flip through the pages and bite my cheek. Well, this might be a challenge. Adhering to my school schedule is a minor miracle. My two weeks here are filled with activities. Private lessons in Japanese history, language, and art. Tours of shrines, temples, and tombs. A visit to the imperial stock farm and wild duck preserves. Assorted banquets. Outings with my father—a baseball game, public art exhibit opening. There’s even … “A wedding?”

Mr. Fuchigami nods. “The prime minister will be married in ten days.”

I audibly gulp. “I didn’t bring anything to wear to a wedding.” My wardrobe consists of leggings and sweatshirts—think Lululemon’s sloppy sister—all perfectly acceptable in Mount Shasta. But then again, ax-throwing and cow-tipping are also perfectly acceptable in Mount Shasta.

“A wardrobe has been provided for you. The imperial family works with a number of designers to produce acceptable clothing.” I can read the underlying message in his statement, in his tone, in his inscrutable smile. You represent the imperial family now.

“Of course,” I reply. I have an inkling I may be in a little over my head. No matter.

“Your first cousins, the twin princesses Akiko and Noriko, travel extensively,” he adds, tone warming. “Last week, Akiko returned from Scotland. She’s planning to study English and medieval transportation at university there next year. She wore home a very charming dress and blazer.”

Oh, I think. “Oh,” I say. Mentally, I catalog my outfit: leggings and a faded Mount Shasta High sweatshirt. “Sorry, I didn’t know…” I trail off. Shout out to all the girls who apologize too much. I feel you.