Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(26)

He sighs. “My parents worked a lot. It was on television when I was young.” My stomach twists with sympathy. He nods. “Are we finished, Your Highness?”

Akio gestures to the entrance. Chatter comes through his earpiece, and lines form around his mouth. “Everything okay?”

“There is some commotion at the gate,” he huffs.

“Commotion?”

“Reporters hoping to get a glimpse of you.” The chatter in his earpiece increases. “Are you ready to go inside? I’m needed at the gate.”

I shrug. Seems unnecessary since I can’t even see the gate from the palace, but I say, “Sure.” It is easy to acquiesce when it’s your only option. Plus, apparently, he’s the boss.

He touches two fingers to the back of my elbow, steering me indoors. There’s a little spark. So what if he looks like The Rock and Daniel Dae Kim had a baby and raised it in the Japanese wilderness? I’m sure this attraction is only one-sided. I’ve had too many unrequited crushes to waste my time on another. I decide to focus all my energy on hating him. Good thing he makes it easy.

“Hey,” I say to Akio. “I had a thought.”

“A dangerous pastime,” he murmurs.

I choose to ignore his comment. “Don’t feed the bears” is a saying in Mount Shasta. “Do I have a code name? I’m pretty sure I get a code name. I’d like to choose it.”

His fingers fall from my elbow. A pity. “Yes,” he says. “As a matter fact, you do have a code name.”

“I knew it!” My twirl is the glee-filled kind. “What is it? Sidewinder or Lightning or maybe Pegasus?”

“We were calling you Butterfly.”

Huh. “That’s nice, I guess.” A little soft, but okay.

“Then, the tabloids gave you the moniker The Lost Butterfly, so we had to change it.”

I perk up.

“I suggested it,” he baits.

“What did you suggest?” I look up at Akio with stars in my eyes. The possibilities are endless—Sunshine, Moonflower, Cherry Blossom. My thoughts are a runaway train. Maybe he likes me. Maybe he’s not as mean as he seems. Maybe I’ve terribly misjudged him and this is just a rocky start to a friendship that turns to love that will last the ages. Our affair will inspire folksy campfire ballads.

It’s the first time I see Akio smile. It’s part evil, part satisfied, as if he’s just won a bet with himself. “Radish.”





10


I have lunch with my father, just the two of us at the palace. My earlier conversation with Akio lingers around me like a miasma, but all in all, the atmosphere is good. Casual. The place settings are informal, ohashi the only utensil. I lighten up and relax a bit. A special treat has been prepared—ayu, a troutlike fish caught in the Nagara River from the Gifu area. It is served whole over a bed of rice, once a currency and now a sacred grain.

“Very fresh,” the chef informs us with a proud smile. “Caught this morning.”

“It’s considered a delicacy,” my father says as the chef leaves. I haven’t managed a taste yet. I’m watching my father, observing how he’ll eat the fish.

He brings the bowl to his face, then uses the ohashi to grasp the tiny sweetfish and take a bite, starting with the head. I blink. Oh, okay. That’s how it’s done. I pick up my ohashi and copy his moves.

My teeth sink into the fish. I wait for my gag reflex to kick in, but it doesn’t. The skin is crunchy and salty, but gives way to a softer, sweet inside, tasting like watermelon. My saliva glands kick into overdrive. Just like that, I’m all in. If ayu is on the menu, I’ll have two.

We dig in.

My father explains how the fish are caught, painting a picture with his words. The canvas is shaded in purple and blues, the bruises of nightfall. A single firework rises over the river. It signals the start of the evening fishing. In that moment, the towers of Gifu Castle are caught in relief. The fishermen wear grass skirts, indigo tunics, and pointed caps. In specially made bamboo baskets, they carry leashed cormorants, dark feathered birds with hooked beaks. They ease into the water in long wooden boats, torch blazing at the bow. The birds dive under the water and catch and keep the fish in a special pouch in their throat. A snare prevents the bird from swallowing the fish.

My father says, “The relationship between cormorant and man is very important. To the keepers, the birds are family. In the wild, cormorants live seven to eight years, but with the fishermen, it can be much longer. The record is thirty years.”

My bowl is empty. My stomach is full. My soul longs for it to be night and to be on the shores of the Nagara River. I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “I’d like to see it sometime.”

“The high season is in the summer. I’ll ask Mr. Fuchigami to schedule it…” He trails off. We both realize it at the same time. I won’t be here. In two weeks, I’ll be gone.



* * *



After lunch, we walk. The sun is shining and heats my head. Black hair is the worst. The gravel beneath my feet is still wet and little puddles dot the lawn. Japan is mercurial. I mean, pick a temperature.

My father says, “Your lady-in-waiting is working out? Your lessons are going well?” He’s discarded his suit jacket and tie and his sleeves are rolled up. He’s more relaxed outdoors. I remember he loves the mountains, hiking, and such. This is his happy place.