Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(17)
We round a corner. Walls rise up. We’re still skirting the Akasaka Estate. Gnarled oaks line the streets, and the walls give way to a simple bamboo fence wrapped in a hedge. All pretty innocuous, but security cameras are discreetly mounted every couple of feet, and imperial guards patrol the perimeter.
The cavalcade slows.
Ahead, imperial guards in immaculate blue uniforms and hats with shiny emblems stand at attention. The golden tassels on their uniforms wink at me. A black metal gate is pulled open. The police outriders split away, blocking the street and entrance as we glide through.
“Ah, we’ve arrived. This is Tōgū Palace,” Mr. Fuchigami announces evenly, warmly. “Welcome home.”
* * *
Time stands still, and my brain creates snapshots of each moment. No doubt this will be filed away in my hippocampus, the place where indelible memories are stored. Like when I had strep throat and could only eat bananas. I’ll forever associate the fruit with soreness and sickness. But this is the opposite. This is beauty and brightness.
A snapshot: driving down a gravel road flanked by maple trees, magenta azaleas weeping at their feet. Stretching in all directions is parkland, swaths of gingko, silver birch, black pine, and cedar. The air smells loamy and of fresh-cut grass.
A snapshot: alighting from the car and craning my neck. The rain clears for a moment. Even though the sun hides behind clouds, it’s as if the building creates its own light. It’s shining. Glowing. The perfect home for a man once believed to be a god descended from the sun. Tōgū Palace is a modern wonder. The sprawling eighteen-bedroom, two-story structure blends into its natural surroundings. A bronze roof rusted to a jade patina mirrors the trees.
A snapshot: walking to the entrance, passing a line of staff. They introduce themselves one by one. More chamberlains. A doctor. Three chefs (because three is better than one), who specialize in Japanese dishes, Western cuisine, and bread and desserts. Equerries. Maids. My father’s valet. My lady-in-waiting, Mariko. She bows.
I tug my bottom lip with my teeth. “Lady-in-waiting?” I ask Mr. Fuchigami.
“Personal companion,” he says archly, bowler hat back in place. “She will assist you in daily tasks and will tutor you in language, culture, and etiquette. Your father handpicked her. He thought you might enjoy company around your age. Mariko will graduate from Gakushūin soon. Her father is poet laureate Shoji Abe and her mother was a lady-in-waiting for Princess Asako. Her English is excellent and she is an expert in court manners.”
Butlers hold glass doors open. I step inside to the genkan and exchange my shoes for house slippers. The floors are mirror-finished and the chandeliers are chrome. Our pace is brisk, and I only catch glimpses of the rest of the house: Silk screens behind plexiglass in the hallway. Living room furniture arranged at perfect ninety-degree angles. The color palettes soft and soothing, woods and beiges with blush accents. Near-translucent paper screens on wooden tracks dividing spaces. It’s uncluttered. Airy.
In my suite, there is a wall of clear glass and below it, a pond. It’s as if we’re suspended, floating over a deep blue expanse. Swans glide on the water, and koi dart under the surface. In the distance, I spy Akio. Hair artfully tousled from the rain, he speaks with the other security personnel. No doubt, directing them. Mentally, I list Akio’s preferences:
Likes
Bossing people around
Schedules
Tom Ford suits
Earpieces
Glowering and more bossing people around
Dislikes
Tardiness
A joie de vivre approach to life
Princesses who pee, watch Downton Abbey, or accept radishes from chefs
Speaking of radishes, I still have it. I held it during the staff introductions and the palace tour. Now it rests on a gold foil chest, next to a single iris in a fluted vase. Something about the flower beckons me to study it.
The arrangement is perfectly framed against the silk tapestry behind it. The purple petals are simple but elegant. Its placement here seems deliberate, almost ceremonial. I can only take note because it feels as if my circuits are going haywire.
Mariko taps her lips. “The big question is, what dress should you wear?” She’s laid out the options on the four-poster bed: a pink silk-printed dress with a floral motif or a yellow cap sleeve with beading. “Princess Akiko wore pink yesterday to the morning tea party for notable persons,” Mariko says. She is small, her features sharp and unforgiving, with two slashes for eyebrows and a pointed chin. “We wouldn’t want to appear as if we’re copying her. But the yellow is so pale. I’m afraid it may have unwanted consequences complexion-wise.” Mariko holds up the dress against my cheek. The label is silk and reads Oscar de la Renta.
Me: Meh, designer labels don’t impress me.
Also me: Can’t wait to secretly snap a picture and send it to Noora. I already know her reaction. Bitch, you lie.
“What do you think, Izumi-sama?” asks Mariko.
“Oh, um.” I pretend not to be insulted and consider the options. Cap sleeves? Pshh. Baby pink? Double pshh. Neither option appeals to me. “Yellow and pink aren’t really my colors. Do you have anything darker? Black, maybe?” Preferably with one percent cotton and a million percent spandex. Don’t get me wrong, I love my body. I just love it most in black. It would also help with my little spilling problem. I’m a messy eater. Right now, there is a small stain on my sweatshirt—chocolate, and most likely from the Snickers family. If I were with the AGG, I’d have no problem licking it.