Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(60)
His eyes rake over me, head to toe. “You look…” Beautiful? Lovely? “Fine.”
I laugh. He never fails to surprise me. “Wow. I can’t believe I ever thought you lacked charm. I’ll take fine, though. I just want to fit in.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Maybe you’re not meant to fit in. Maybe you’re meant to stand out.” My heart beats heavy and fast. He bows. “You’re beautiful, Your Highness.” He looks down, hesitates. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, probably not,” I say. “But just to clarify, beautiful like a unicorn bathed in glitter?”
“No.” My face falls at his emphatic response. “I’d never say something like that.”
“No, of course not.”
He closes the distance between us. We’re a foot apart. Akio’s voice is low, husky, and filled with sweet longing as he says, “If I could speak freely, I might say you remind me of Kannon, the goddess of mercy, with dark hair that absorbs the light. A face so lovely it blinded men … and yet, so far from a mere mortal’s reach.” With a single finger, he traces my hairline, leaving sparks in its wake.
“Well that’s better, I guess.”
He withdraws. His smile is wry. “I guess.”
My breath hitches. I’m struggling to form the words to tell him that when we’re together, it’s as if we’re standing at the bow of a ship, like I can feel the spray of the tide and the wind in my hair. “Akio, I—”
“We need to talk,” he says at the same time.
His words slash through my haze. “Sounds serious.” My lighthearted tone is not convincing. Suddenly, it’s as if I’ve swallowed a nest of bees. My insides hum with apprehension.
Akio’s brows dart in. “No, it’s not like that. It is serious, but it’s good. At least I think it’s good.”
“Please,” I say. “You can tell me anything.”
The doors open. It’s Mr. Fuchigami. “Your Highness.”
The timing is poor, but inevitable.
“I’ll find you sometime during the luncheon,” I say lowly.
Akio nods, imperial guard mask back firmly in place. I’ve left my gloves on a window ledge. I retrieve them and head toward Mr. Fuchigami. Akio has moved to the door as well. As I pass him, he lifts a single finger and it brushes along my wrist. It gives me courage. My steps are more surefooted. It’s amazing how life-sustaining a single touch can be.
* * *
My father waits in the hall. He smiles gently, and we begin walking down the red carpet, me following just a step behind. The hallway is lined with evenly spaced bamboo lanterns and I count them as we move.
When we reach a set of doors, he stops. “Don’t be intimidated. Just remember, they watch soap operas and sumo wrestling in the evenings,” he whispers with a wink. “We’ll talk for a while. Then, I’ll accompany my parents to the balcony. You may watch in the wings, if you’d like. I did so as a little boy.” Only imperials that have come of age can stand on the balcony and greet Japan. It’s tradition.
I relax a smidgen. Smile. Talk about a brave face. My father nods to two white-gloved attendants. Doors slide open, folding in like neat origami. I understand now. These pocket doors are part of the Japanese way. We are all just a bigger part of the whole.
He’ll enter first. Imperial protocol. I’ll follow behind. This, I do alone, without Mariko, Mr. Fuchigami, or Akio at my back. I square my shoulders. Take a few easy breaths. Remind myself pressure is okay. It’s how diamonds are made.
The Audience Room is vast. Various representatives are present, including the Grand Chamberlain, Mr. Fuchigami’s boss’s boss. There is a stillness, a silence like that of a temple. But it’s not cold. The room is made entirely of cypress. The walls are papered in fabric with bamboo patterns. It’s warm, inviting. In the center, the empress and emperor sit in upholstered silk chairs, a table and tea set between them. Simple. Domestic.
I approach and go into some sort of trance where I bow and deliver the correct honorifics. When finished, I stand vision downcast and wait. From the corner of my eye, I see my father. He’s standing, too. Nothing seems to move for a while. Not even time.
“Please,” the empress speaks. Her voice is warm and dry. “Sit.”
Chairs are produced. My father and I sink into them. I place my gloves in my lap, fold my hands on top of them, and keep my gaze trained there. An attendant pours tea, setting the cup and saucer on the table in front of me. My hands are shaky as I pick them up.
“Izumi-chan,” the empress says.
Her use of the affectionate honorific surprises me. My eyes dart up then back down, embarrassed. But in that one moment, I am able to fully see her. Her character shows through her features: An oval face with a small nose and kind eyes. Wrinkled skin the color of parchment paper. Hair glowing gray, parted down the middle and pulled back into a neat twist. She is wearing a kimono of brown silk with gold and silver bars. She is full of grace. “Your father speaks very highly of you.”
Another glance up. This time, my gaze bounces between the empress and emperor. There’s an unimpeachable aura about the two. My grandfather is small, approaching his ninth decade. A pair of round spectacles is perched on his nose, and dark circles hang below his eyes—he hasn’t fully recovered from his fatigue. His suit is slightly ill fitting. It’s as if he’s shrinking in time. His court name is Takehito. The -hito at the end signals the highest level of virtue. “Sono yō na shōsan ni atai shimasen,” I say, deflecting the compliment.