Someone had disturbed the hoard.
It wouldn't have particularly bothered Yasuko, if it had been a few months ago—Min-ho was prone to sniffing where he wasn't wanted, under the guise of courting her. Breeze, as well, was all too eager to stick his cheery nose where it wasn't wanted. But since Sakura had gone silent, answering none of her emails, Yasuko had become increasingly agitated.
This was supposed to help, she thought, staring at her pile in dismay. It had helped, slightly, but knowing it had been disturbed made her anxiety skyrocket.
'No tantrums. Don't panic. Don't scream.'
She clenched the doorjamb, choking on the sudden rush of indignation.
'Don't,' the Formula reminded her.
She shoved it back down as much as she could. She would not let it control her, not in her house. Outside was a different matter, but in here, she was in control.
'They're just things, they don't matter, you aren't made of things, you don't need things.' But those sorts of assurances wouldn't work on Yasuko.
'They're just things.'
'They're MY things.'
At any other time, she would have let the anger consume her, but she'd worked so hard at appeasing the Formula of late. All of that would go to waste if she lost her temper.
Slamming the closet shut, she whirled around just as Breeze and Emil strolled into her room, the former chattering happily while the other stared stonily at the far wall. She glared at them both, fighting to keep her expression resentful but also elegant.
Breeze paused mid-speech, raising his eyebrows as he looked her up and down.
She, in return, raised her chin a fraction of an inch.
The fundraiser wasn't all that much different from her original occupation—to look beautiful and entertain. A grand price demanded a grand costume, and so she was dressed in the full regalia of an oiran. It was a sight meant to impress, and judging by her caretakers' reactions, she had succeeded as planned.
Her face and neck were painted chalk-white, and red had been used to stain a rosebud across her lips. Her kimono was layered and heavy, embellished with hand-painted scenes of gold and orange upon black. It had taken hours to collect her full ensemble, and if she closed her eyes, perhaps Yasuko could have replaced her makeup artists with kamuro and pretended that the stage awaiting her wasn't a mere event center...but a maze of bamboo-slatted roofs and haughty tea houses. If she stepped beyond the threshold, would she hear the catcalls of cheaper yūjo, so desperate for business that they might even beg the light-pursed, honorless ronin? Would kamuro and shinzô be waiting in the courtyard, twirling their paper parasols or giggling under red lanterns as they prepared for the oiran dochu up and down Yoshiwara's streets?
Would Sakura be amongst the procession, smiling sweetly as cherry blossoms bounced off her shoulders and hair like soft kisses of rain?
Yasuko's lungs tightened at the memories. She wished, so dearly, that she could go back to those simpler days.
Breeze grinned, "Beautiful evening, our beautiful lady. Your carriage awaits." He held out a hand for her to take, his eyes glimmering with humor and wit. Less suggestion, though; Emil had threatened to report him to their superiors for the flirting. While Yasuko had neither enjoyed nor disliked the banter, the further change in routine was unwelcome.
"You were cleaning my room earlier?" she asked lightly, noticing with a small twinge of irritation that the table directly outside her bedroom door had been moved two inches to the left. Her eye might have twitched.
"Oh dear, did I?" Breeze declared with pure innocence.
She suppressed a growl, and with a sunny grin, he ushered her down the hall, Emil a muttering shadow in their wake.
"Maybe," the other man said, with a touch of resentment, "I should be leading her."
In rare agreement, she and Breeze both ignored the comment.
Breeze was more cautious than usual about guiding her into the vehicle. He even offered to climb in and ride with her. Ducking his head close to hers, so that Emil couldn't hear, he whispered, "I'd hate for your pretty clothes to get messed up, in there by yourself. I can help keep you in order." He paired this offer with a bright smile.
She had to admit, begrudgingly, that he did a good job pretending he was attracted to her. "If my clothes fall off, I'm sure you'll be the first to know."
"It is my job," was his teasing reply before he shut the door between them.
The drive was quiet and boring. There was nothing to look at, no one to talk to, and she'd neglected to bring her sketchbook along. She'd lived a long time, so a few minutes were barely a drop of water in comparison the ocean of her experience. But that didn't make some moments feel less like an eternity. Same as anyone else, she got bored.
With a sigh, she spent the indeterminable time tracing patterns on her obi, hoping to find the one that would click. She'd come close, a few times, but magic wasn't her forte, and the Formula had resisted her attempts thus far.
'Just a little more,' she thought, a bit frustrated and a bit tired. 'Just a little more...'
The vehicle slowed, and the Formula shivered against the design she'd traced, hesitating.
'Come on,' she coaxed, wishing again she had her sketchbook and could draw the pattern into permanence. 'Come on.'
The magic, to her disappointment, settled back onto her skin. She cursed under her breath.
"You can't force everything your way," Sakura had used to chastise.
Yasuko blinked, hating herself a little for failing to change. Two centuries, and yet she was as stagnant as a sickly pond, full of nothing but scum and filth.
She raised her head when a small panel opened between herself and the driver's compartment opened. Breeze.
He slid into a seat adjacent to hers, his usual smile doing nothing to lessen the awkward entrance, "Ah, just wanted to check on you before things started. How are you doing—"
"What's wrong?" she snapped, her eyes crawling over him, hunting for the anomaly. The Formula detected something, a difference, and it crawled over her like a thousand spiders, plucking and prodding and urging her to take notice.
"Ah, nothing." He smoothed the front of his suit jacket, for all the world appearing calm and steady. "The sun is taking a little longer to set, is all. Wouldn't want your lovely skin to get a tan. But just in case..." With a quick grin, he fished out a small bottle from one of his pockets, "Sun screen?"
Ugh, jokes. They were almost as bad as the listless flirting. Turning her nose up, she scoffed, "Is it a lotion to soothe my curse or to soothe my temper?"
"If only feathers could so easily be unruffled," he quipped, reaching forward to lay the bottle on the seat beside her. "How is your sister, by the way? You've been emailing her more than usual."
A scowl flitted against the back of her lips, wanting to escape. "She's doing fine, I'm sure. She can take care of herself. However, it would for the best if Min-ho's plane crashed."
"You're being a little over dramatic."
She scoffed, reminding him, "I was born to be dramatic. I'm an oiran."
"Was."
They both paused, a little surprised by his statement.
"...yes." Something tightened on her neck. Not the Formula this time, but an old ache for the things that she could no longer return to. "...was."
It took her a moment to realize that Breeze had spoken softly. And she, unintentionally, had imitated him. For some reason, the moment felt...companionable, as if they might be more than just caretaker and charge. Maybe...friends.
A part of her rebelled at the idea. There was no room in her heart to accommodate anyone besides her sister. Briskly, she turned her head to the side. There was nothing to see, of course, except her reflection in the blacked-out windows. "I'm grateful. So many lovers were rather tiring to manage."
She curved her mouth into a smile, but the person she saw in the mirrored window was not pretty. Even dressed at the height of Edo fashion, even with flawless makeup and a kimono so graceful seamstresses must have wept at its creation...Yasuko saw nothing beautiful in herself. Only a selfish, reptilian creature, swaddled in silk.
"I'm sure," she heard Breeze respond, as if far away, "All those men fighting over you. It must have been an ordeal."
"It wasn't." The confession came both easily and painfully. She didn't know why she was bothering with such honesty, but then again...few people ever cared what her life had been like as a prostitute. Truly like. She was exhausted with the glitter that the ACSS showered over her past, as if it was something glamorous. "It was easy, though, as long as you weren't fool enough to fall in love."
"...and your sister?"
Yasuko stilled, her heart thudding hard enough that she felt it might rip through her chest.
Breeze was quiet, and contrary to her expectations, he watched her with no expression whatsoever, his typical mirth falling away and leaving behind a blank, unreadable canvas.
She didn't like it. Neither did the Formula. In fact, it perked up more than it had already, reaching out to touch his somber mouth.
"Did you know?"
Yasuko reared back a little, red flushing her cheeks. "Of course I didn't know! I'm not a..." Her tongue twisted, and she hated herself for fumbling over the words. "I didn't know, I'm not sick, I...that's all."
His gaze softened into sympathy, and a flash of confusion pierced her chest. "How did you find out that you were related?"
"How do you think?" was her stiff response. "There are no secrets in the Circle." Sakura had always known. Yasuko, however, had not even suspected. They were too different. They didn't even look alike. How could she have guessed they were siblings, even if only by half?
"And how—"
'I got over it,' she wanted to say, because then the conversation would end. But she couldn't belittle the way she'd felt back then. It felt like a violation, not only a betrayal of her own feelings but of the person Sakura was—kind, sweet...irresistible. Despite herself, Yasuko choked out, uneasily, "I really loved her. No, it wasn't easy." It had nearly killed them both, actually. "She helped me, though. She...always helped me." Her voice trailed off, the back of her eyes burning.
Emotions pressed against her breastbone. Regret, guilt, bittersweet longing. She wasn't going to cry, here, in the back of a car with a man she barely tolerated.
She should have never left Japan.
'Coward.'
"What were you drawing?"
Shaking herself, she met Breeze's eyes. He was offering her a way out of the conversation. She'd gladly take it, but a knock sounded against the false glass, followed by a muffled voice.
As content as her to end the topic, her caretaker shuffled sideways and to the door. Strangely, when he offered his hand to help her out, he didn't have a sickly-sweet compliment to drip over her like rotten honey. She...appreciated his reticence. Thinking of Sakura, what her sister was doing, what Min-ho might have done—
'He wouldn't. I warned him. He knows better than to cross me.'
...didn't he?
All the more reason to finish the pattern and get home.
She trusted Sakura to take care of herself until then. Yasuko's sister was no delicate flower.
She took Breeze's hand, moving to hold him by the shoulder once she was standing. As she concentrated on balancing on her elaborately-tall geta, she heard him murmur, so quiet that she almost missed it, "You must care about your sister, still."
If he'd been talking about any of her past lovers, she would have been blithe—they had been mere men, wisps of smoke that were easily carried away and forgotten. Sakura, however, was the one thing Yasuko could never take lightly. "Sister or not, I'll always love her, in some shape or form."
Under her hand, his muscles tightened.
The event hall was bedecked in a theme of fire. Silk banners cascaded from the arched ceilings, painted yellow, orange and red to imitate pillars of flame. The tables were stylized like braziers, iron and bowl-shaped with stacked towers of glowing stones for centerpieces. Displays had been erected along the walls—mazes of kimonos on racks, paintings and framed poetry, and exhibits on vampires and Japanese history. Giant pedestals of wrapped orange tissue also dotted the floorspace, flickering lights within dancing like fire. Atop them crouched enormous phoenixes sculpted from flowers, their tails long curtains of wisteria and spider lilies. An actual bird was in attendance, too, his trilling beautiful and his feathers shining resplendently from his throne. People gathered around, basking in the pleasant warmth that rolled off him, and they clapped or sighed with appreciation.
Yasuko rolled her eyes. Her first impression of the bird had not been favorable, but then again, the vain rarely got along with one another.
The Formula expanded into the space, crawling over the decorations and people. 'Safe, safe, safe,' it chanted, judging the things it recognized and warily hesitating over what it didn't. Her babysitters had been good so far appeasing the Formula's restrictions, but there were always a few things that slipped through the cracks—a pair of earrings, the way a couple clung to each other. And every so often, some hopeful or anarchist managed to cut themselves, leaving a metallic tinge of blood in the air.
Her lips twitched with amusement. How droll.
A finger of the Formula, however, remained on Breeze, stroking his face. It extended to the rest of the staff, as well, noting the way they either stared at or avoided looking at Yasuko.
'It's the kimono,' she thought to the magic, though she knew it couldn't hear her. 'I'm not always dressed like this.' An oiran in full regalia was not a common thing to be seen, after all, not even in Japan.
The Formula ignored her, however, intent on its investigations. It rubbed at her nerves, the way it hunted, and by the time the first hour of the event was concluded, her strength was beginning to flag. It certainly didn't help that the kimono, familiar it might be, was more difficult to wear than her comfier outfits. Only her pride kept her upright and regal, but privately she started to curse the tightness in her scalp, the concentration it took to walk in her geta, and the fact that Breeze couldn't seem to match her pace, always a moment too soon or too late.
When there was a reprieve in the tide of guests, she stared avidly at the fiery banners and spoke in an undertone to her escort, her voice coming out a little waspish, "What's wrong with you?" For all intents and purposes, he didn't seem any different, and maybe she wouldn't have remarked on it if not for the Formula, its insistence like a blade scraping the inside of her skin.
Blinking quickly, his smile never faltering, he looked at her. Even with the assistance of her shoes, they were only at eye level, and she pursed her lips at the fact. She would have enjoyed towering over him, for once.
"I'm just so shocked at how beautiful you are tonight, Miss Yasuko," he said with the usual level of exuberance. Too much, in her opinion.
She was tired of the parade, tired of the disgusting food and supplements, sick with the thought of her sister, and irritated with the Formula's yoke. Her tone was, thus, a touch harsher than she usually let it. "Don't patronize me." With a huff, she asked to be seated. If she must endure the night unhappy, at least she could do it while sitting.
Half an hour later, though, she begged to walk around again.
"Bored?" Her escort queried, with an interested twitch of his eyebrows.
"You could say that," she admitted reluctantly, forming her lips into a pout.
Chuckling, Breeze led her past the phoenix, who shot Yasuko a nasty look, and towards the Japanese history displays. Some enterprising characters in the ACSS employ had fashioned a series of panoramas and glass-cased tables laden with facts and artifacts—items Yasuko had brought from her homeland herself, mostly. Though they had next to no value, the fundraiser attendees ascribed them exaggerated importance. This brush was essential to a war. That blade was worn by a famous feudal lord.
'Like me. Worth only as much as what others put in me,' she thought cynically, eyeing a fancy display afforded to an ugly hair comb and poorly-matched poetry on decaying rice paper.
"Did he really consult you on politics?" her escort asked, inclining his head towards another table—artistic rendition of a man and a courtesan poring over scrolls.
The courtesan depicted there was supposed to be Yasuko, according to a frilly card on the table.
"No, Toshi was more interested in a different type of conversation."
The fairy hummed, leaning a little her way to murmur, "I can see why. You seem like you know a titillating topic or two."
She shot him a half-amused look. "Or three, or more."
They moved to the next display, a collection of poetry on silk scrolls. Yasuko's poetry was at the same level of her painting, which was—to be frank—rather tasteless. She had passion aplenty, but no one wanted angry haikus or violent watercolors. Art was only a substitute for venting her emotions, and her irreverence showed in her works. Yet somehow, the ACSS was able to sell the majority of whatever she authored. The appeal of owning an original piece by a soon-to-be-extinct species was a fever, it seemed.
As a pair, she and her caretaker tolerated another set of guests, who gushed over Yasuko's "emotional prose."
Breeze guided her towards the next set of displays, amusement tugging his mouth. "Do you think they noticed it was about washing your hands?"
"Unlikely."
They wandered through racks of her old kimonos, their familiar patterns like a balm on her frayed nerves. She considered asking Breeze to let her sit down again, for the sake of her feet, but she was in a surprisingly good mood now. The Formula was distracted by her old clothes, she'd eaten a lovely dinner, people were complimenting her left and right, and suddenly the silly questions about her hair and costume didn't seem so stupid or tiring.
'This is good,' she thought, relaxing. 'If Sakura was here...'
They'd be together, soon. Yasuko would solve the pattern, unravel the Formula, and then she and her sister could be reunited. She smiled at the thought.
Another guest approached, and she rewarded him with a small smile. He smelled like horses and earth, perhaps a blend of species. Or a horseman who'd rolled around in the dirt. He certainly seemed to appreciate dirty topics, right from the gate. "Miss Kushida, is it true both you and your sister entertained the same men?"
Yasuko tolerated such questions only because she'd fielded them the whole of her long life. "Not at the same time. Even humans can be too selfish to share. In fact, I often stole some of her clients. And she, mine."
A lie. Men went to Sakura of their own volition. Yasuko had been the one to stoop to theft. At the time, she'd justified her actions by claiming she'd been protecting her sister. For a long while, she'd believed those assertions...and then was forced to bear witness to the damage her interference had wreaked.
"You sound like you two must have been close," the guest declared, before his smile faded into something like...pity? "My condolences, by the way."
Beside her, Breeze stiffened.
"It's a shame she passed away. Murder, terrible thing. Who would have guessed—"
Yasuko's breath stuttered. The Formula perked up.
"Yasuko!" Breeze spun, arms outstretched to grab her.
But the Formula was screaming.
'Passed away.'
'Who would have guessed—'
Yasuko clutched her mouth. A whimper escaped her lips.
'Murder.'
'Sakura.'
'No, not Sakura!'
The Formula gripped her in its fist, squeezing tight on her throat.
'Not Sakura. Anyone but Sakura.'
Emotion came. But the Formula was fast, so much faster.
❁
Yūjo — a Japanese prostitute, usually common or of lower quality/price
Ronin — a samurai who has lost or abandoned his master; honorless and usually reviled by the public
Kamuro — courtesan in training
Shinzô — courtesan in training; older and a level above kamuro
Oiran dochu — a procession across Yoshiwara, led by an oiran and her retinue; meant to advertise the oiran
Yoshiwara — the red light district of Edo (now Tokyo)