Shadows on the Moon (31 page)

“Oh,” breathed Akira, reading over my shoulder. “I am very glad Otieno came to call on you. Very glad, indeed.”

“Anyone would think you want my heart broken,” I whispered.

“Anyone would think I want your heart saved.”

I pressed my lips together on the various retorts that wanted to spring out. Despite everything, Akira was still a romantic. How she envisioned a happy ending here I did not know, but I could not repay her genuine kindness and concern with spite.

Instead I asked, “Have you heard anything from Lord Takakura yet?”

“How funny you should ask,” she said. “That was the message which delayed me earlier. You have been invited to view the
sakura
in Lord Takashi’s gardens, and to play for his guests if it pleases you. Tomorrow night. Excited?”

I clasped my hands neatly, ignoring the crackle as the haiku was crushed between my palms. “Of course.”

By the time we reached the
sakura
viewing at Lord Takashi’s house I was trembling with nerves. It did not help that Akira insisted we be the very last to arrive and time our entrance so finely that just one more minute of delay would have made us horribly rude.

This was my second excursion into society and, from what Akira had said, the most crucial one. Lord Takashi could make or break a girl’s reputation with one sarcastic comment. If I did well here, I would be a success. If not . . . I did not even want to think about it. And I was required to do much more tonight than simply sit and look pretty. I had to play my
shamisen
in public for the first time. I was worried about Akira, too.

“This is not too dangerous for you, is it?” I asked. “I know you said being back at court would probably be safer, but this is not precisely court —”

“Do not worry. I have let it be known that my mourning period is at an end and I intend to take a place in society. My return after all this time, alive and well, has created quite a stir. If I were to be murdered now, the old princess’s reputation would be horribly damaged. She is unpopular enough anyway, and now that the prince is old enough to take power, her influence is on the wane. She cannot risk it.”

The sun was setting as we entered the gardens, and the stone lanterns placed along the paths had been augmented with paper lights that hung from the lower branches of the trees to illuminate the delicate shades of the petals above. Shin, one of Akira’s servants, followed behind us, reverently carrying my
shamisen
. I had to stop myself from looking back to check on him.

We greeted our host. Lord Takashi was a tall, thin man who had no doubt been good-looking in his youth. Now deep, harsh lines carved his face into haggard sections, giving the impression that he was constantly hungry. He spoke to Akira politely enough, but the way he looked at me made me worry that he was about to squeeze me to check my ripeness. He directed us to a tiny pagoda at the center of the garden, exquisitely carved in the style of the Old Empire. This was to be my stage.

Blankets and silk pillows had already been spread over the grass beneath the trees so that my audience could sit in comfort while I played. Not many people were in this area now, and none of them paid us any attention. Akira sent Shin to place the
shamisen
on the stand in the pagoda, but instead of staying with her, I followed him and carefully checked the instrument.

“Stop,” Akira said after several minutes. “If you fiddle with the strings once more I may give in to the temptation to snip them all off, just to give you something real to fuss over.”

“I am sorry.” I wished I could get the performance over with, but it was to be saved for later, when full dark had fallen. Lord Takashi wanted to make a spectacle of me.

“Do not be sorry — but do come along,” she said, fluttering her fan, which was painted to look like a lupine butterfly, in shades of indigo and yellow. It matched her
kurotomesode
kimono, which was embroidered with butterflies in blue, yellow, and gray. Her obi was the same deep blue as the fan.

For the first time it occurred to me as odd that Akira wore the formal kimono of a married woman, since she did not have the status of a widow in law. Of course, as a former Shadow Princess, she was not allowed to marry, making a
furisode
— the unmarried woman’s kimono, with its very long sleeves — inappropriate. I looked at the yards of material trailing from my own sleeves and wondered if there was some kind of Shadow Bride etiquette that I would need to learn. I would ask her another time. A time when she was not leading me out of the deserted little clearing into a twilight garden filled with chattering, laughing strangers who held my revenge in their hands.

“Remember, your watchwords are silence and mystery. You show up perfectly against the shadows in that outfit. Everyone will be horribly curious about where I’ve been for the past few years, so I am going to mingle and subtly spread tales of your perfection, and you are going to glide over there and wander through the trees like the essence of spring. Try to avoid talking to anyone. Yes? Good.”

“Glide —?”

But she was already turning away, making her way through the guests and turning heads as she went.
She has no difficulty gliding,
I thought. However, unlike me, in my ice-blue kimono and white obi, with white cherry blossoms in my hair, Akira blended into the darkness quite well. I felt a rush of gratitude and affection toward her. Although she was less and less enthusiastic about the plan, she was still doing everything possible to keep her word.

I knew I had not earned such loyalty. Anyone would have done what I did for Akira that night in the cell, while few people would put themselves to such trouble as Akira did for me now. I was reminded of another friend. Quiet, bent old Youta. He had risked so much to save me, time and again. I had not even been grateful much of the time. I wondered if he ever thought about me, or if remembering what I had done was too painful. Would he disapprove of what I was doing now? Perhaps. Or perhaps he would understand it. I hoped so. I hoped he was well, in spite of me.

I took a deep breath. Very well, I would do my best.

I arranged my mask into an expression of grave contemplation and walked slowly along the outskirts of the lighted area, weaving in and out of the trees, letting myself be seen only in brief, enticing glimpses. I wove the warm lantern light into my illusion, creating a faint glow to my skin and hair that I hoped would shine against the gathering darkness.

It was working. As I passed, conversations faltered. Heads began to turn. Eyes followed me. It made my skin prickle with a strange combination of excitement and unease.

“Who is that . . . ?”

“Hmmm. Pretty girl.”

“Who is she?”

I kept my expression of melancholic contemplation in place, but internally I grinned. Akira was right. She really was a genius.

I told her as much a little while later when she rejoined me. The two of us walked together now, through the crowds instead of around them. No one approached us, but everyone seemed to be looking.

“I know,” she said. “You have created the perfect impression. It needs only your performance to set the seal upon it.”

My stomach lurched. How odd that music — always a source of comfort and peace to me — was now the cause of my anxiety. Otieno’s words had unsettled me. Although I felt reasonably confident in the skill of my fingers and the clearness of my voice, I was worried about that other thing that Otieno had hinted at. More than hinted at. The danger of ignoring my so-called gift. I did not understand how I used that gift when I played, and was anxious that now I was aware of it, I might stop doing it and ruin everything. It was an unhappy thought.

“You are worrying,” Akira said, her sharp eyes resting on the movement of my hands, which were gripping and regripping each other under the cover of my sleeves. “There is no need. Yue, in my former life I listened to hundreds of professional musicians. Ouji-sama had the best that the Moonlit Land could offer. And I have never been as moved by any performance as I have been listening to you pick out a simple lullaby on my veranda. You will enchant them.”

My stomach lurched again at the use of that word. I nodded, pretending to be reassured, and tried to distract myself by running mental fingers over the material of my illusion for the hundredth time, checking that no wrinkle or blemish marred it.

I approached the little stage on unsteady legs, the curious whispers rising around me like the roar of the high tide. I pretended that I did not see them stare. I pretended that the way they parted before me was only my right. Akira selected a blanket close to the front of the stage and sank gracefully onto it. Our host moved to sit next to her.

I walked past them and climbed the three low steps to where my
shamisen
waited under a cluster of paper lanterns. My shadow was stark black on the light, polished wood. I bowed to my audience, took my instrument from its stand, and knelt in the formal
seiza
position, laying the bowl of the
shamisen
against the outside of my thigh.

The guests did not quiet down as I pulled the ivory plectrum from my hair and lifted my hands to the strings of my instrument. If anything, the voices grew louder and more speculative.

You know how to do this,
I told myself firmly.
These people are important, yes, but no matter what happens, we will not give up tonight. This is not the end. Just play.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the wild scent of
sakura.

I let my fingers move, the poignant notes trembling out through the darkness and over the rustling and muttering of the crowd. I let myself flow out with that sound, let it carry me as I began to sing. My audience ceased to exist. I played in silence, in darkness.

“
Sakura, sakura,
covering the sky . . .” I thought of the way the spring breeze had tangled Otieno’s hair, of the sunlight and shadows dappling his skin as the canopy of trees danced overhead.

“Drifting like mist and clouds . . .” Leaning on him as I laughed, knowing he would not let me fall.

“Sakura, sakura . . .”
Otieno’s warm, spicy cassia smell mixing with the sweetness of the cherry blossoms.

I reached the end of the song in that quiet, protected place inside me. The last note seemed to linger for a long time. Finally I laid my hand over the strings and brought their vibration to an end. I opened my eyes, expecting the noise and movement to rush back.

It did not.

The silence had not been in my head. The guests were still, wide-eyed, staring as if mesmerized. I flicked a look at Akira. She was smiling, eyes closed, as motionless as the others. They were all under a spell.

My spell.

A woman near the front shifted, wiping tears from her cheeks. A gentle sigh seemed to ripple through the clearing, and more people began to shift, slowly, dreamily. Then someone started clapping, and soon everyone joined in. The applause had a hushed quality and carried on for a long time. It stopped only gradually, slowing a few times before coming back in little spurts and then finally dying away. When they were quiet, I rose and bowed again, and placed my
shamisen
back on the stand.

Akira stood and came to meet me as I left the little pagoda, and the gathering began to break up. People rose and moved about, though their voices were still hushed and their faces were still peaceful. Had
I
really done that?

Lord Takashi appeared beside us. The change in his face was remarkable. He looked like a man who had just woken from a beautiful dream; the deep lines were smoothed, and his expression was calm and refreshed. Yet more striking was the change in the way he looked at me. It was no longer the speculative gaze of a man who is inspecting an object he might wish to buy. Now he seemed certain he wanted to buy, and that the merchandise was of the highest quality, too. He looked at me the way my father had looked at his beloved scrolls and papers.

“My very deepest thanks,” he said to me, bowing. “I am honored to have had my home graced by such an extraordinary talent.”

I gathered myself to reply, bowing formally as I said, “It is my honor to have provided some small measure of entertainment to your distinguished guests.”

“Lord Takashi, thank you for a lovely evening,” Akira said, subtly nudging him back and away from me. “Yue is tired now from her performance. I think we should return home.”

We both bowed to him again, and he returned the gesture. “I hope you will visit my humble home again. Soon,” he whispered as I passed him.

Rumbling home in the carriage, I cradled my
shamisen
safely in my arms while Akira burst into delighted laughter. She tossed her fan up, caught it on one finger, and flicked it open in the same movement so that it spun around in a blur of blue.

“Takashi has fallen in love!” she crowed. “It was a triumph. I have never heard you play like that before. Your voice was . . . I felt as if I were your age again. I cannot describe it.”

“I accomplished what was needed, then?”

“More than. Much more than! No one who was there tonight will ever forget you, or how you made them feel. You will be the talk of this city by tomorrow morning.” She paused, as if struck by a sudden idea. “Have you ever tried playing any other instruments, Yue? You have such a strong talent, you might enjoy developing it. I would love to hear you play a thirteen-stringed
koto.
Or perhaps a
shakuhachi
— the flute would be something completely different.”