Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(46)

I hit the button for the door and it slides open. My head is down. I’m not looking where I’m going and I run right into a solid body. Eff my life. It’s Akio. Sadly, my imperial guard is just as handsome as ever, but a little broodier. Even better.

“Your Highness.” His voice is dry. So formal. “I didn’t see you.”

I can’t quite look at him. I don’t want to. The eyes are the windows to the soul, after all. “Right. I’ll make sure to alert you of all my future movements.” It’s a bit snippy. A lot snippy. But the best defense is a good offense. And that’s all I know about sports.

His unsure gaze searches my face. “If you would like another imperial guard, I would understand. A replacement can be here—”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” I lift a shoulder, doing my best to convey through body language that what happened between us means nothing at all. “No reason we can’t still work together. I’ve forgotten about it already.” Lie. Big lie. I haven’t forgotten. I cannot forget. I still have your sweatshirt. I still can feel your hands on my waist, the way your fingers dug into my hips. “It was a mistake. A misunderstanding.”

His lips press together. “Right.”

The connecting car door slides open. “Izumi-sama, lunch is about to be served.” It’s Mariko.

“Sumimasen.” Akio bows. “I’ve a security briefing to lead.”

I try to smile, but I’m pretty sure I fail. Akio stares at me for one agonizing moment, then leaves. Mariko watches him. I give myself a pat on the back for keeping my eyes trained on the window. Small steps.

“Everything okay?” She frowns, searching my face. “You seem a bit off.”

“Just peachy,” I respond tightly.

She takes a deep breath. “Akio’s in a mood today.”

“Yeah.” I straighten. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

I breeze past Mariko. Lunch is placed in front of me. A bento box. Akio stands at the back of the train. No, I will not look at him. But do I feel the weight of his stare, or is it just wishful thinking? My neck heats. I glance back. Oh, he’s watching me, face blank. I remind myself this is his job. That’s all he’s doing. No need to read into it.

A distraction is necessary. I could spend the time on homework. I’ve arranged to finish up my classes online. But instead, I reach into my bag—some designer purse that looks like a large envelope with handles—and pull out my headphones. I plug them in and listen to hip-hop and “The Rose,” the song Akio and I danced to.

The music drowns out the sound of the train, the rustling of Mr. Fuchigami turning his newspaper, the chatter of Mariko on the phone, and most importantly, my thoughts.



* * *



I let out a frustrated breath, ball up the piece of parchment paper, and toss it to the side. It’s late, the hour nearing midnight. Lights are turned down low. I shiver in the drafty room. Built in the late 1800s, the Sentō Imperial Palace was refurbished, but kept all of its ancient charm and appeal—a tiled roof that swoops into elegant curls, huge wooden exterior doors, floorboards cut from rare keyaki wood, and golden screens separating rooms. If I am to find my Japanese soul anywhere, this would be the place. There are no tabloids here, no high-profile events, no distractions.

My hands are stained with ink, and the blue Nabeshima rug is littered with my sacrifices. I’ve been practicing kanji at a high table for hours. The house retired long ago. I am alone with all my failures. Picking up another sheet of washi paper, I place it on a cloth and weigh it down with a polished stone.

I dip the brush in ink. Making ink—grinding powders, mixing colors (golds, silvers, azurite), and adding glue—can take hours. Someday, I might be able to do this. But it’s a master’s skill, and I am a novice. It is the way of kata, the practice of doing something over and over again until it is second nature. Calligraphy is part of the imperial identity. Therefore, it is part of mine now.

I draw the brush downward, creating the first stroke for the word mountain, yama. It ends in a giant splotch. I drop the brush, and ink splatters all over the paper. Another one bites the dust.

“You’re overthinking it.” It’s Mariko. Her pinstriped pajamas are buttoned all the way to the top.

I startle. “I didn’t think anyone else was still awake.” She hesitates at the door. Inwardly, I sigh. “You hungry?” I gesture to the plate of dorayaki pushed to the corner of the table.

“I could eat.” She shuffles forward and joins me at the table. We nibble in silence for a while. Mariko’s serious face glows in the lamplight. “May I see?” She edges the piece of paper with the ruined script toward her.

I squirm in my seat. She studies my handiwork and doesn’t try to hide her displeasure. I actively wish for the power to light things on fire with my eyes. “I knew it. You are overthinking. Because of this, you are too heavy-handed. You are forcing the lines rather than letting the lines be the force. Let me show you.”

She takes up the brush, dips it, and, on the same piece of paper, executes the first stroke. “Do not think about the character you’re making. Only think about the line, the single movement. It’s like a dance, ne? If you concentrate too much on the final steps, you will miss the present ones.” Another stroke, one more, and she has completed the pictograph. It is beautiful, worthy of hanging on a wall, and I say so.