Chapter Text
She stands outside the teahouse, clutching an umbrella.
It’s drizzling. Rain falls gently around her, turning the air damp and cool. The hem of her kimono is wet—she glances down with a sigh, studying the flowers embroidered in the satin. The rain has soaked the fabric, turning their rich colour dull.
She turns her gaze back to the teahouse. It’s an innocuous little building, elegant but unassuming. A place that most wouldn’t notice, but she knows what it contains and the knowledge leaves her uneasy. Her fingers tighten on her umbrella.
But then she remembers what her mother told her. That all her fears, weighty as they seem, will eventually pay off because anything she goes through in this place will be far kinder than what she can expect from her future husband. It’s a fact of life, her mother said. Fighting men love their swords more than they do their wives.
She cradles those words of warning to her heart and steps forward, her hand reaching hesitantly for the door. It slides open without her touch, a smiling older woman looking down at her as she freezes where she stands. “Ah. You must be Lumine,” she says with a bow, stepping aside so she can go in.
She nods, taking off her shoes and walking into the teahouse. The door is only closed when she’s firmly within the building; she looks around as she sets her umbrella down, wondering what she’s gotten herself into.
The place looks, for all intents and purposes, like a regular teahouse. But she’s never been tenser, her nerves coiling low in her stomach. Try as she might, she just can’t seem to relax.
“Your mother, she asked me to take care of you.” The woman nods at a young girl watching them from a corner—the girl nods back before scurrying away, and the woman returns her attention to Lumine. “And I can see why. You’re a lovely child. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
She doesn’t know how to respond to such compliments so she murmurs her thanks and bows her head, clasping her hands before her. The woman’s smile widens. It makes her eyes crinkle. “Is there anyone you have in mind?”
“Not particularly.” Her mother’s words echo inside her head, and she reaches for her purse, dangling freely from her arm. “I hear your taiko shinzô are very talented. I was wondering if they could entertain me for today.”
The woman’s expression doesn‘t flicker. “Of course. Stay as long as you’d like.” As she speaks, the girl from before returns, carrying a tray. On it, there’s a teapot, a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of snacks.
Lumine receives the refreshments with thanks, and the girl smiles before she turns and skips away. The woman hums, taking a step back in the same direction as the girl. “Wait here. I will call for the taiko shinzô.”
And then she too leaves. Lumine waits for a moment, then settles behind the low wooden table, where the girl had placed the tray. She looks over the refreshments—green tea, hot and calming, and botamochi. Both her favourite treats, and she picks up a piece of mochi, sighing in bliss as she pops it inside her mouth.
Well, this isn’t going too badly. Perhaps she might enjoy her visit after all.
At her mother’s behest, Lumine visits the teahouse every day for the rest of the week.
The owner always receives her with a warm smile and delicious snacks. She likes visiting for those if nothing else—though she can’t deny that the taiko shinzô live up to their reputation. Their singing and dancing are delightful, and sometimes she finds herself mourning the fact that she cannot stay and watch for longer.
“So young,” she says now, listening to their melody, “and already they are such talented musicians.”
“Indeed,” the teahouse owner agrees. It’s rare for her to sit with Lumine when she visits—usually, she entertains her for only a while before leaving to handle other matters. Perhaps she has free time today. “We are fortunate to have such skilful youths with us. But we must thank our oirans for that. Most of them adore music, and are just as wonderful at playing their instruments—they make excellent mentors to these children.”
“Oiran?” The word slips out without her thinking, and the woman nods.
“Would you like to meet one?” She appraises Lumine, her gaze sweeping her up and down; suddenly, she feels rather self-conscious, and she puts her dango down. “You’ve been coming here regularly, and have spent a tidy sum at our establishment to date. If you wish to meet an oiran, that will be no trouble.”
This is what her mother told her to work towards. A meeting with an oiran. Courtesans well-versed in the art of pleasure and entertainment, refined and graceful as any noblewoman. But she hesitates. “I don’t know.”
Again, the teahouse owner’s face doesn’t change. Her expression is always so placid, so impossible to read. “Your daily visits have drawn the attention of our oiran. He would like to see you if you are so inclined.”
She opens her mouth, intending to say no, she needs time to consider, but then she recalls her mother’s words—that anything she experiences here will be far kinder than what her husband can ever give her. Her heart thuds, fear running cold through her veins; it feels like a knife twisting in her chest.
The woman is awaiting her answer, so she lifts her chin, making up her mind. “I would like to meet him,” she says. “Is there anything I must do beforehand?”
“Oh, no.” The owner laughs. It reminds her of wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. “Just come here at your usual timing tomorrow. We will prepare accordingly.”
“I shall. Thank you.” She turns back to the taiko shinzô, who are now playing a traditional folk song. Three boys are dancing, acting out the tale, and one of them catches her attention—his lips curve up when their eyes meet, a smile that is equal parts innocence and seduction. When he spins around, she sees the low collar of his kimono, exposing his bare neck. There’s pearlescent powder dusted across his shoulders, glimmering under the light.
A shiver runs down her back and she wraps her hand around her cup, drawing comfort from its warmth. Part of her wonders if she truly is ready for this, but then she pushes the thought away.
She has already come so far. She cannot back out now.
When she first lays eyes on the oiran, she doesn’t know what to do.
She expected him to be beautiful. All oiran are—she did her research before she entered this district, and she knew how attractive such elite courtesans had to be.
But it’s another thing to witness that beauty for herself. She feels like the breath has been stolen from her lungs—he’s just sitting there, staring down at her, but she swears she can feel his eyes piercing into her very soul.
The teahouse owner ushers her in, placing a hand on her shoulder as she settles down. Her grip is firm. “Here is our koushi, Kaedehara Kazuha,” she says, and Kazuha smiles before he snaps open a fan, waving it across his face. His gaze fixes upon her, unblinking. “Please take your time and get to know each other. I’ll be back later.”
Lumine glances up, instinctively worried at the thought of being left alone, but the older woman just turns, gliding out of the room. The door slides shut behind her, and then she’s left alone with the koushi.
She knows what a koushi is. One of the highest-ranked oiran in a teahouse, coming second only to the tayû. This fact makes her nervous—why would he request to see her? Such a courtesan would have his pick of clients; while her spending over the past week had been extravagant, surely that was nothing to a koushi.
Kazuha has yet to say a word. She doesn’t expect him to—the teahouse owner had explained that from this point onwards, all decisions would be made by the koushi. Whether or not she is accepted as a client is solely up to him. But no need to worry, the woman had added. Kazuha has a fondness for pretty little things like you.
She places her hands on her lap, looking around the room in an attempt to calm her nerves. Behind her, she can see a few boys, likely kamuro and shinzô; one of them looks somewhat familiar, and she abruptly recognises him as the taiko shinzô who caught her attention yesterday.
He meets her eyes, then smiles, inclining his head. She quickly averts her gaze, warmth rising to her cheeks, but a second later she peeks back at him—at least he is a familiar face, and she draws reassurance from that. He notices, and his smile widens. “Would your ladyship like us to perform?”
She flinches, startled by the sudden question, but then she catches herself and nods, her fingers tightening on the satin of her kimono. “That would be lovely. I quite liked the song you were singing yesterday.”
The boy’s eyes gleam. “Really? That one’s my favourite too.” He glances past her at Kazuha, who nods once, still waving his fan. The boy scrambles to his feet, the rest falling into position behind him; when the music starts she finally relaxes, allowing herself to be lulled to calm by the pleasant melody.
But even then, as she laughs and claps and listens, her attention on the performers with their crane-like grace and their vivid silk kimonos, twirling and gleaming beneath the lights—even then, she can feel Kazuha watching, and she shivers, resisting the urge to clap her hand over the back of her exposed neck.
She might be the client here, but for some reason, she feels almost like prey.
The teahouse owner catches her as she leaves the room, preparing to head down the stairs. “Kazuha would like to have a second meeting with you,” she says.
Lumine thinks of the koushi’s ruby eyes and bites her lip, her hand drifting up towards her neck. The memory of his stare lingers. “Will the second meeting be like the first?”
“Yes. It will be the final round of judging. If all goes well, then you may establish an arrangement with him.” The teahouse owner tilts her head, appraising her. “That was your intention all along, was it not?”
Her instinctive reaction is to say no, but she swallows it. This is what’s best for her—this is what her mother says is ideal, and she trusts her mother. So she nods, and the other woman smiles, her eyes crinkling. “I believe that he likes you. Or at least finds you intriguing. He has not paid this much attention to anyone in a while.”
She blinks, startled by this unexpected admission. “Do oirans not need to service their clients?”
“Oh, Kazuha has already paid off all his debts.” She leaves it at that, and Lumine decides not to probe. “We shall see you here tomorrow, then? Same time?”
She nods and is bid a cheery farewell as she leaves the teahouse. The sunlight is weak and watery, turned grey by storm clouds—as she walks, tiny droplets begin to fall from the sky, splashing down upon her, and it’s not long before the drizzle turns into a downpour and she’s diving under the shelter of a tree, the bark rough against her back as she tries to catch her breath, shoulders weighed down by her soaked kimono.
Her hair spills out from her updo, clinging to her neck, and she heaves a sigh, casting her gaze upwards. The sky is dark, and she blinks, shielding her face from the water spilling through the leaves.
With nothing to distract her, her thoughts begin to wander. Why is the koushi so interested in her? She’s no one special—just the daughter of a samurai family, and surely he must have seen his fair share of clients like her.
But speculating will get her nowhere, and she thinks her energy might be better utilised trying to stay warm. So she wraps her arms around herself and sinks to the ground, preparing to wait out the storm.
She does her best not to think about keen eyes and a pale, slender hand. A fluttering fan poised over a startlingly beautiful face; ruby burning into the back of her head, watching and waiting.
The second meeting goes much like the first, though this time Kazuha sits slightly closer. But he still refuses to speak, so she does the same thing as yesterday, calling for the taiko shinzô and requesting a private performance. They delight her to no end, though she’s distracted by the assessing gaze on her back, intense and unwavering.
Apparently, she meets whatever criteria he has because the next day there’s a messenger outside her house. “We would like to request your presence at the teahouse this evening,” he says, bowing as she gapes, surprised by his sudden appearance on their doorstep. “Our koushi, Kaedehara Kazuha, wishes to dine with you.”
Panic grips her. She can’t explain the reason, just knows that fear and apprehension claw their way up from her chest, choking her. But her mother has followed her to the door, wondering about the commotion; she doesn’t want to cause trouble, especially not after spending so much at the teahouse, so she repeats what the messenger told her and leaves the house with her mother’s blessing.
She heads to the teahouse in a daze, not knowing what to expect—it feels like barely any time has passed before she’s waiting outside Kazuha’s room. The door is firmly shut, and the messenger has long left. She is alone in this corridor, and as time passes, she begins to wonder if she ought to leave and come back later.
But before she can take a step back, she hears someone clear their throat from behind the door and she goes still, her breath catching in her lungs. “Where are you going?” Kazuha calls, and his voice is silken, smooth and sweet; she’s reminded of satin gliding over her skin, a caress that’s almost tangible. “I’m waiting for you.”
She inhales and slides the door open, her gaze darting around the room. Today, she’s visiting his personal quarters, or so she’s told—not the hall where she was entertained the past few days.
Given his status, she had thought his room would be gorgeous, filled with splendour and luxury of the likes she could never imagine. But as she stands there, taking everything in—she realises it’s the very opposite, the bare walls almost spartan in their minimalism.
The only personal possessions she sees are a few ink paintings, stark black against white depicting mountains and bamboo forests and raging waterfalls, as well as a lone bonsai, situated in a corner of the room.
Kazuha is pruning the tree, and she watches as he carefully snips a leaf—it flutters down, but his hand shoots out almost faster than the eye can follow, catching it before it reaches the floor. Her mouth falls open.
It’s only then that he swivels to face her, twirling the leaf between his fingers. His lips curve, soft and gentle—she realises at this point that it’s the first time she’s ever seen him smile. On every other occasion, his face was masked by his fan, making his expression impossible to fathom.
Now though, he looks almost sweet. She can’t feel any of his usual intensity, which brings her some modicum of relief—or at least it does until their gazes meet.
There’s something lurking in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to read it. No one has ever looked at her that way before, and she steps back, more instinct than anything else. Her nerves coil in her belly, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
If she doesn’t know better, she’d say he looks hungry. Like he wants to eat her up—like he wants to pull her close and pin her down, a cat batting its helpless prey between its claws. Like he wants to put his mouth to her, devour her so completely that he leaves not a single trace behind. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he murmurs.
His voice has lowered. Husky and sensuous, it sends warmth rushing up to her face; when she tries to talk, all she can manage is a croak. Kazuha laughs, but doesn’t comment—instead, he reaches out to her, his fingers touching her arm. A gentle, delicate weight she almost doesn’t notice, that she wouldn’t have noticed if not for her sudden consciousness of his proximity.
Kazuha leads her behind a folding screen, and she notices a table laden with enough food for two. The dishes are plain and simple—rice, vegetables, tofu, grilled fish and miso soup. “Come, eat,” he says, urging her to sit. “I had the teahouse owner prepare this meal. And use this set of chopsticks,” he adds, nodding at the plate before her.
She does as he instructs, settling beside the table and reaching for the chopsticks. They’re crafted from lacquered wood, lovely and elegant, and as she turns them around, she notices the carvings on the side—she squints, trying to decipher the letters, and realises with surprise that they spell her name.
The symbolism of this is not lost on her; she sets the chopsticks down, trying—and failing—to meet his gaze. It’s suddenly far too hot in this room, and part of her wonders if she’ll be able to leave without seeming rude.
“Is the meal not to your liking?” Kazuha’s voice is light, tranquil. He picks up his chopsticks, the long sleeve of his kimono sweeping over the table. “I can ask for something else if you’d prefer.”
“No, this is fine.” She struggles to get the words out. It feels like there’s something caught in her throat, her voice coming out faint and uncertain. He glances at her, an eyebrow raised, but doesn’t question her claim.
Instead, he takes a piece of grilled fish and places it on her plate. Its scent wafts up to her, savoury and enticing—her stomach growls, and embarrassment whips through her as his lips curve, amusement evident in his gaze.
“Eat,” he says, and his words are soft. Careful and measured, a lover’s stroke against her skin. He’s too close. “I’m a lowly courtesan, and I cannot offer the lavish meals you are accustomed to. But you will require energy for later, so make sure to take what you can.”
He sounds casual. Almost uncaring, but at the same time he plies her plate with food and she isn’t sure what else to do, so she picks her chopsticks back up and begins to eat.
When she has consumed as much as her meagre appetite will allow, she pushes her plate aside and reaches for the purse hanging, as always, from her wrist. “The najimi-kin,” she says, tugging it open, but he stops her before she can pick out her mora—she freezes, painfully conscious of his fingers wrapped around her wrist.
He’s warm. So, so warm, and it burns. A promise, a brand seared into her skin. “No need for that,” he says. She realises with a start that he has leant in and when they’re this close, she can see flecks of colour in his eyes. Bits of gold and green and black dancing within that endless red, and she can’t breathe, arrested by his intensity.
“I want you,” he says. Three simple words, but the weight of them pulls her heart down into her stomach; sends her free-falling through space as his hand slides up her wrist, slow and questioning. “You’re interesting. A young lady born into a wealthy samurai family, coming to a place like this?” His hand stops, her sleeve bunched around his fist—her mind is filled with his voice, a lilting whisper that makes her stomach churn. “One might even call it suspicious. But you harbour no ill intentions now, do you?”
“I-I’m just a customer,” she says, her heart hammering. His eyes narrow, his grip on her tightening almost to the point of pain; she winces, trying to pull away, but he refuses to release her. “Let go of me!” she cries, but he’s not listening at all. His hand reaches up, catching her chin between his fingers, and then—
She blinks as his mouth crashes into hers, a kiss so demanding that she stops struggling, her whole world coming to a standstill. Kazuha is fierce and hungry and she’s too new, she doesn’t know what to do—she jerks against his grip, trying to get away again, but her attempt is feeble and soon she finds herself collapsing into him, dizzy from the lack of air.
It’s only then that he lets go, cradling the back of her head as she leans against his chest, her lips still tingling. “If you’re a client, then take what you want,” he murmurs. His breath is warm, fluttering over her skin—she has to bite back a moan when he nips at her ear. “Take it.”
His hand is already slipping beneath the hem of her kimono, but when his fingers graze bare skin, darting below her underdress—she jolts back to mindfulness, panic rearing as she scrabbles away, finally able to break free.
Kazuha blinks, surprise clear in his expression before it morphs into something bordering on annoyance. But he catches himself, his face smoothing out so quickly she wonders if she’s imagining things. “If you are not keen on my services, then why are you here?”
“I’m…” She falters, nervous in the face of his indignation—the furrow in his brow does little to lessen his beauty, but irritation turns his features cold and brittle. She’s reminded of shattered glass; of edges that bite into her skin and reflect at her every secret she struggles to keep, laying bare her desires for all to see. “I’m afraid.”
“Of?” His face doesn’t change but he seems willing to listen, and she swallows, staring at the wooden floor.
“I’ve… never slept with anyone before,” she confesses, twisting the fabric of her kimono between her fingers. “My mother told me to lose my virginity to an oiran since they will be kinder than my future husband, but—”
A hand suddenly clamps over her mouth, and she blinks, startled—she hadn’t even seen him move. “Your future husband,” he repeats, ruby eyes narrowed. “Are you already betrothed to someone?”
She shakes her head and he exhales, letting his hand drop back to his side. “Most reputable ladies do not come to the teahouses. The ones who do usually have no choice. And the ones here of their own accord—they have their unspoken agendas, whatever they may be.” His gaze pierces right through her, and she’s reminded of their earlier meetings; Kazuha sitting high above her as he determines whether or not she’s worthy of his attention.
“I have no agenda besides what I’ve already told you,” she murmurs, too ashamed to raise her voice. He’s right in that few women visit the pleasure district of their own accord; when her mother suggested this, even she thought her mad. Though she still came here, in the end—out of curiosity? Out of hidden desires and interests?
She can’t be sure, herself.
But Kazuha suddenly begins to laugh, clutching his sides as he tips his head back—she stares at him, confused as his shoulders shake, his kimono slipping down to reveal a glimpse of bare skin. “So that’s the reason you came to this place?” he manages to gasp, amusement dripping from his every word. “How adorable. It’s not wrong to say that we inhabitants of the pleasure district are tender-hearted, but…”
He quietens, and she senses a shift in the atmosphere; a barely-perceptible change that sends a tingle down her spine. “Are you sure? It is one thing for men to grace our quarters. People will not look as kindly upon women who dare do the same. Your mother is blinded by her concern for you—if word spreads of your affair, you will never be able to marry.”
She considers his words, turning his warning over in her head. Thinks of her mother sending her away, weariness etched into every line of her once-youthful complexion. Thinks of her father fighting a never-ending war, of a face that swims in and out of her memories; thinks of her mother sitting alone at the kitchen table, waiting for a husband who never comes home.
“I’m sure,” she says, trying to inject as much bravado as she can into her declaration—it falls flat, her voice soft and weak, trembling as it dissipates into the cool air. “I want to do this.”
He regards her, his expression inscrutable; she finds herself wondering what’s on his mind. “Very well. If that is your wish,” he says, reaching once more towards her face—his movements are slow, cautious, like he’s trying to calm her down before she ups and runs away.
When his fingers graze her cheek, she holds herself still, scarcely able to breathe, and he slides down to her chin, tipping her head back so she’s forced to look him in the eye. “You won’t regret this, sweetling?” he asks. She’s more startled by the sudden pet name than anything else, blinking at him as he continues. “I would hate to ruin your future. I know very well what the upper classes are like.”
His words ring bitter, and curiosity flits through her—what does he mean by that? But her chest twists, her heart ready to burst at his nearness, and so all she does is nod.
Kazuha’s gaze drops, lingering noticeably on her mouth. “You’re too nervous,” he says, and her stomach flips as though in agreement. “Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”
The next thing she knows, he’s gliding out of the room and she remains where she sits, gaping at his back as the door shuts silently behind him. She can still feel the warmth of his palm against her skin.
True to his word, he isn’t gone for long.
She’s fiddling with her purse, trying to keep herself occupied in his absence; she sits upright once the door opens, watching as Kazuha sidles in, a tray in his hands. On it rests a single cup from which steam is wafting—as he draws closer, she can smell the distinct fragrance of jasmine tea.
“Here you go.” Kazuha sets the cup down. The liquid surface trembles.
“Tea?” she asks, a little confused but obliging nonetheless—she reaches for the cup, her fingers wrapping around glazed porcelain. He nods, his lips slanting upwards as she lifts the drink to her mouth and inhales.
“You’re nervous, are you not? This will help to… lower your inhibitions, so to speak.” He glances at the cup, eyes narrowed. “No harm will befall you should you take this drink. You have my word.”
She swallows, peering into the cup—her reflection stares back at her, shimmering, and when she swirls the cup it spills apart, leaving jade eddies in its wake. “Did you put something inside?”
“Perhaps.” He cocks his head. “But no matter your decision, I will not defy your wishes. That I promise you.”
She hesitates. Kazuha’s expression is blank, inscrutable—her grip on the cup tightens and she inhales, willing her frazzled nerves to relax. The subtle aroma of jasmine envelops her, tickling the back of her throat. “Fine.”
With that, she lifts the cup to her lips. Tea seeps into her mouth, almost scalding; she closes her eyes, wincing as the drink slides smooth down her throat. It’s a quality tea, light and clean, with just the right amount of bittersweet—when she’s done she puts the cup back, reaching up to place her hand over her chest.
It’s warm, heat gathering under her palm, radiating out to every part of her body. The sensation isn’t unpleasant, but regardless, she remains apprehensive. “What will happen now?”
“Now?” Kazuha reaches for her emptied cup, pulling it towards him. His slender finger circles the rim, a rhythm that doesn’t falter even as he meets her gaze, steady and unblinking. “Now, we wait.”