Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(22)

Nobody ever says anything good behind their hands.

I feel myself starting to unravel. “He’s a really good dog. Kind of. One time I tried to swaddle him and put him in a field of flowers, like a newborn photo shoot. He nearly bit my face off. Though I guess that’s not great…” I trail off. Nearest to me are two boys and one girl around my age. They smile like they’re forcing themselves to. End it. End it now. “Anyway. Izumi. Mount Shasta. Nice to meet you.” I bow. It doesn’t feel right at all. I fall down into my chair, trying to make myself as small as possible.

There is a pause. Everyone continues to stand until my father takes his seat. Then conversation resumes. I’m just dying in a puddle of my own embarrassment. The only consolation is that Akio is not present. No doubt he’s somewhere on the property, lurking.

“Well, you did your best,” the boy next to me says. He’s around my age. “Yoshi.” He holds out a hand for me to shake. I discreetly wipe my hand on my dress before I do, pleased with the familiar gesture. “Second cousin, official name Yoshihito, seventh in line to be emperor. Son of Asako and Yasuhito.”

He nods at his parents. They sit diagonally from us—a small, affable-appearing man beside a woman with a diamond necklace that must have cost a king’s ransom. Their smiles are warm, if a bit apprehensive. Understood. I’m not the only one trying to get a handle on the whole Crown-Prince’s-illegitimate-child situation.

“Please, you must call us Auntie and Uncle,” Asako invites, inclining her head. Yasuhito repeats his wife’s sentiment with a friendly bow of his head. I appreciate a man who supports the woman in his life.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking.” Yoshi snaps his napkin and lays it across his lap. A lock of hair falls into his eye. All in all, he looks like a J-pop star who fell through a trapdoor into royalty. “You would be correct. In the past, distant cousins have married. But these days, it would be frowned upon.” He sticks out his lower lip.

“Bummer,” I say, flatly. I copy his move with the napkin. Another white-gloved attendant holding a silver pitcher fills my water goblet.

He drops the pout and exchanges it for a grin. “Oh. You’ll do fine. I like you.”

I like him, too, in a purely platonic, non–kissing cousins kind of way. I don’t think I need to make that clear. He reminds me a little of Noora. They both have the same take-a-bite-out-of-life approach, something I aspire to have.

“You’re embarrassing her.” The girl across from me chastises Yoshi. She has a small oval face and her dark hair is pinned half-up. A glittery diamond on her left hand flashes as she takes a sip of water. “Don’t listen to my brother. I’m Sachiko.” She introduces herself, then the man sitting next to her. “My fiancé, Ryu.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding.

“Don’t worry, Sa-chan,” Yoshi says. He turns to me. “I’ve decided to take you under my leg.”

It takes me a full five seconds to decode his message. “I’m pretty sure you mean wing.”

“Wing?”

I suck in a breath, happy to explain. Finally, something I know. “The phrase is ‘take you under my wing.’”

His face screws up. “Why would I say that? I don’t have wings.”

“The term isn’t about humans, my God,” the guy next to me huffs. He looks very similar to Yoshi. Must be his brother. But his hair is shorter, his back is straighter, and he seems wound tight. He straightens the silverware and refolds his napkin into a symmetrical triangle. “It’s from observing birds sheltering their chicks under their wings. Obviously.”

“My brother.” Yoshi confirms my suspicions. “Spent four years in Scotland studying ornithology and linguistics. If you ever have trouble sleeping, ask him about his thesis on the captive rearing of the black grouse.”

Sachiko laughs. Their brother is less than pleased. Their antagonism is familiar, comfortable—makes me feel as if I’ve slipped on an old sweatshirt. Still, he bows a grumpy head. “Masahito,” he says.

“Are you finding your rooms acceptable?” Uncle Yasuhito asks. His mouth twitches under his mustache.

“More than acceptable,” I say. An attendant offers me a hot towel with tongs. A glance at Yoshi shows he’s unraveled his and is wiping his hands. He throws it into a silver bowl another attendant holds behind him. I pluck the towel from her.

Auntie Asako says, “The palace has recently been renovated.”

“Oh yeah, it’s like a Nate Berkus dream.” I turn, placing my used towel in the silver bowl. I whisper a thank-you, but the attendant doesn’t recognize it. His stare is locked on a spot on the wall.

Uncle Yasuhito’s forehead wrinkles. I’ve confused the poor man. “Nate Berkus?”

My smile is bright. “He’s a famous designer in the States. Oprah’s best friend.”

Light shines in Auntie Asako’s eyes. “Ah yes, he is like Shoji Matsuri. He designs cat homes.” She nudges her husband. “Remember, he designed something for me. Would you like me to give you his contact information?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “He’s very discreet.”

Not totally sure what she means, but some things are better left unknown. “No, thank you. I’m more of a dog person.”