Chapter Text
Taking up the skull-crested pin - an ornament she might easily have forgotten, had her father not reminded her - she turned the tiny metal clasp at its back with careful precision. Slowly, so as not to prick herself through her satin, elbow-length gloves, she drew the needle free from its hook and set the point against the ribbon beneath her breast. The sharp tip met with brief resistance before piercing the mahogany silk. She fastened it swiftly, then gave it a small side-to-side motion to ensure it sat secure.
The design of the heirloom, now passed down to her, stood out rather conspicuously. It was a singular, somewhat peculiar thing; yet she would not be without it. However oddly it appeared - however much it jarred against the emerald-branched embroidery tracing the hem of her skirt - she always chose to wear it.
For though it was but a small thing, it was steadfast and familiar - a fragment of a woman she had never known in life, yet felt she understood through lullabies half-remembered, through recipes penned in a looping hand, through oil portraits whose painted gaze seemed almost to follow her from wall to wall. In wearing it, she bore at once the proof of her mother’s absence and the comfort of her nearness. The living evidence of a death long past.
The pin had not always been among her mother’s possessions, though. It had simply - so the family said - “appeared” one season amongst the rest of her effects, nestled beside the neatly arranged trinkets and jewels she kept within a box scarcely larger than that in which one might store a pair of shoes. From that year forward, it had never left her keeping. There was something undeniably strange in that; a singular air about the ornament that resisted every sensible explanation. Yet whatever its origin, it possessed a subdued and persistent charm that none thought to question overlong.
Yashiro, however, harboured her own suspicions as to how it had found its way into that velvet-lined trove. There were moments - late at night, or in the hush between conversations - when her thoughts would circle perilously close to conjecture. To the flickering shadows that only seemed to disappear when it noticed her looking at it too. But now was not the time for such indulgence. She forced her mind firmly back to the present.
Seated within the carriage as it lurched and jolted along the uneven country road, she lifted her gloved hand and lightly patted the ornament fixed at her sternum, as if to assure herself it remained. The wheels struck stone and rut in uneven rhythm, sending tremors through the vehicle that rocked her with each jolt. She scarcely felt it. Her gaze remained lowered, fixed upon the small, tangled pattern of gold and navy blue carpet at her foot, like it might soothe some unspoken anxiety stirring within her chest.
When two sudden, resounding raps upon the folding head from the driver above shattered her reverie, announcing their imminent arrival. At once she gathered herself, pressing down the rapid, sinking tide of her thoughts as though they were no more than creases in her skirts to be smoothed away. With renewed composure, she settled the gifted treasure firmly against her bodice.
Opposite her, Kou - who had been gazing idly from the window - drew himself upright as the carriage passed beneath the first shadowed archway and into the swelling bustle of London. Taking her cue from him, she shifted nearer to the glass, leaning forward to peer out for herself - and beheld-
The broad street was alive with conveyances - private carriages bearing polished crests upon their doors, hackney coaches splashed with mud from earlier rains, drays piled high with barrels, and riders mounted smartly upon glossy hunters. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of horseflesh, damp stone, and coal smoke drifting low from a forest of chimneys. Every surface seemed dusted in a faint grey, as though the city wore its own perpetual twilight.
They passed rows of tall Georgian houses, their facades of brick and pale Portland stone standing in dignified symmetry. Windows rose in neat succession, glittering faintly despite the soot that clung to their panes. Black iron railings enclosed shallow basement areas, and uniformed footmen stood sentinel upon polished steps, awaiting their masters’ return. Here and there, shopfronts interrupted the line of residences - milliners displaying silks and feathers in crowded windows, booksellers with pamphlets and broadsheets set out temptingly, a confectioner whose sugared wares caught what little light managed to penetrate the haze.
Pedestrians thronged the pavements. Gentlemen in dark tailcoats and high cravats navigated the bustle with brisk assurance, while ladies in empire-waisted gowns lifted their hems just clear of the mud, their bonnets bobbing amidst the tide. Apprentices darted between wheels with reckless agility; chimney sweeps, their faces blackened, called out to passers-by; flower girls held up modest posies in hopeful offering. A crossing-sweeper hurried forward at each congested turn, broom in hand, eager to earn a coin by clearing a path through the mire
“You expected something a little more from London, did you not?” Kou asked, glancing briefly away from the window to look at her. “It is not quite so pretty as people make it seem.”
And for all the excitement that clung to the city of opportunity - she could not deny the disappointment widening quietly within her. The London of rumour and pamphlet had shimmered in her imagination; the London before her appeared smudged with soot and shadow.
“The Thames-” she nodded toward the broad, darkened river cutting through the city, its waters running thick and restless from the rainfall of days prior, which they had thankfully missed beneath the carriage roof. “Is… is that where that awful smell is coming from?”
“Yep,” Kou answered lightly, a short chuckle following. “With all the rubbish and sewage and nowhere else for it to go in a place so compact as the centre of the city, the government sought an alternative means of disposing of it.” He tipped his chin faintly toward the river. “And, as you see… they have rather succeeded in making the whole place stink.”
She wrinkled her nose despite herself, pressing a gloved hand discreetly nearer her face as the carriage rolled along the embankment. The scent, faint yet persistent even through the closed windows, seemed at odds with every romantic account she had ever heard of the capital. London might promise advancement and brilliance - but it did not, she thought, trouble itself greatly with sweetness.
“It is one of the many reasons why, despite my father’s status, he decided the countryside would be more appropriate for his children - and for his business,” Kou added.
“Now that I see it for myself-” She faltered, a faint wince touching her features, as though condemning the city for its condition were akin to censuring some unfortunate creature for its misfortune. For though the streets were neither so tidy, nor so clean, nor so elegant as those she had known in her own town - many hours’ journey from here - it was not the fault of brick and stone. A city could not help what was done within it. It would not look, nor smell, nor sound as it did, were greater care taken by those who inhabited it.
“I quite understand why,” she finished softly.
And beyond the riverbanks and principal streets, the city revealed still more of its restless character.
Narrow lanes branched away from the grander roads like veins from an artery - tight passages where washing lines were strung overhead and the upper storeys of houses leaned so close they seemed nearly to confer with one another. Children darted barefoot between doorways; vendors cried hot pies, roasted chestnuts, and morning papers in voices made sharp by competition. Somewhere nearby, a smith’s hammer rang steadily against iron, while the shrill whistle of a distant watchman cut briefly through the din.
A costermonger’s barrow rattled past, heaped with cabbages still damp from the market gardens. Apprentices in ink-stained sleeves hurried along with bundles of ledgers beneath their arms. A nursemaid struggled to manage two small charges determined to splash through a puddle the size of a pond. Everywhere there was motion - urgent, unceasing, purposeful.
Above it all hung a pale veil of smoke that softened the outlines of church spires and domes in the distance, so that they rose like apparitions against the spring sky. Sunlight, where it managed to pierce the haze, flashed unexpectedly upon gilt carriage lamps, polished boot tops, and the brass buttons of passing officers. The sound of bells - some from churches marking the hour, others from tradesmen announcing their presence - mingled into a constant metallic chorus.
As the carriage advanced toward the court district though, the pavements grew more orderly, though no less animated. The houses grew grander, their entrances broader, their stonework more imposing.
Liveried servants stood in discreet clusters beside polished carriage doors, while the flow of traffic slowed into something more measured, almost ceremonial in its restraint. Messengers in tidy uniform moved briskly through the throng with sealed packets clasped in gloved hands. Sedan chairs, borne steadily between their poles, carried carefully concealed occupants above the press of boots and hems below.
Even the murmur of voices seemed transformed. Gone was the coarse bargaining of the market streets; in its place lingered the softer cadence of courtesy and calculation, where every word appeared weighed for consequence. Harnesses shone to a mirror’s brightness. Feathers and plumes dipped and swayed atop well-bred horses.
Through the wavering glass, She caught sight of the palace frontage rising pale and commanding against the dim sky - its ordered windows and measured proportions exuding authority. Guards stood in scarlet and gold at their posts, unmoving despite the clamour about them. The rhythmic clatter of wheels upon stone softened as their carriage joined the measured procession approaching the entrance.
And to Yashiro, it seemed the court breathed differently here - less hurried, more restrained - yet no less formidable for its composure. It did not roar as the city did; it murmured, observed, calculated. Court did not sleep; it watched, it remembered, it judged.
It was not the gentle pageantry she had imagined from afar, all glitter and gracious smiles, but something far more intricate: a living theatre of silk and ceremony, favour and consequence, into which she was now being steadily drawn - whether she felt herself prepared for it or not.
They were finally here.
The sharp crack of the whip split the air, followed by the firm pull upon the reins and the metallic jangle of the bit as it caught against the horse’s teeth. With a heavy stamp of its hooves, the animal drew the carriage to a steady halt. Its brown flank quivered beneath the harness, breath steaming faintly as it loosed a low, impatient huff, its muddied tail swishing against its haunches.
The wheels settled with a final groan upon the gravel.
Kou was quick to move. Pressing down the handle, he eased the carriage door open, the hinges giving a faint protesting creak. Without hesitation he descended the narrow steps with youthful agility, boots striking the ground beside the lacquered, gold-trimmed wheel. Straightening at once, he turned and lifted his gloved hand toward her. A quiet offering, a small, almost playful smile touching the corner of his mouth as he waited for her to place her hand in his.
“My lady,” he intoned, the formality softened by unmistakable teasing.
And though long accustomed to his manner, Yashiro could not suppress her laughter. Leaning forward, she placed her gloved hand into his offered palm, her fingers curling lightly over his. With her free hand, she gathered her skirts, lifting the fabric neatly toward her waist as she shifted to the carriage’s edge. Then, with a composure suited to their surroundings - though mirth still trembled at the corners of her mouth - she permitted him to steady her as she descended the shallow steps to the gravel below.
The instant her slippers met the firm, textured ground, he released her with brisk propriety and moved smartly to her side, raising his elbow in silent invitation. Her hand slipped through the offered space by instinct, fastening securely about his arm.
Her gaze swept about them at once. The sweep of the grounds, the carefully arranged beds of spring flowers lining the approach, the broad stretch of pathway leading toward the towering entrance - she very nearly tugged him in the direction of the blossoms, drawn by their ordered colour amidst so much stone and ceremony. Numerous pairs and family parties of nobility advanced the same way, silks and polished boots moving in steady procession toward the palace doors.
But just as swiftly, a small inner voice cautioned her. Such impulsiveness would hardly suit the dignity of their arrival. She smoothed her expression, tossing her hair neatly back over her shoulders, and allowed Kou to guide their pace instead.
Behind them, their carriage rolled away from the curb to make room for the next arrival, wheels crunching over gravel as footmen further along the approach began the orderly task of unloading trunks and hatboxes to be conveyed to the appropriate wings of the palace.
And now, having presented their letter of invitation, their names duly confirmed against the list of expected guests, and their family connection to a Lady or Lord of baronial rank or higher properly declared, they were permitted to pass within.
Yashiro’s composure, so carefully assembled, gave way to undisguised curiosity. Her gaze moved swiftly - almost helplessly - from one spectacle to the next.
Matrons hovered close at hand, murmuring final counsel to their daughters and nieces in low, fervent tones - reminders of precedence, of the exact depth of a curtsy suitable to Her Majesty. Gloved fingers straightened sashes and retied ribbons with military precision. A misplaced curl was swiftly subdued; a nervous tremor discreetly clasped between maternal palms.
While brothers and male guardians stood at the periphery of the line, solemn in fine-tailored coats and immaculate top-hats, their duty plain: to escort their sisters or female friend forward to the brink of presentation, and there relinquish them. For once a name was called - clear and resonant by the chamberlain’s voice - the young lady must advance alone.
The line edged forward with quiet inevitability.
Beyond the towering doors lay the presence chamber itself, radiant beneath chandeliers and gilt. And there - at its appointed centre - sat the Queen.
Waiting.
Observing.
Criticising not merely the elegance of a gown, nor the precision of a curtsy, but the bearing, the breeding, the unspoken promise of every girl who crossed the polished floor toward the throne.
“Nervous?” Kou asked quietly, his hand settling over hers where it clung to his arm, a steadying weight against the tremor he alone seemed to notice.
“Well-” She drew a careful breath, though it did little to calm the quickening in her chest.
Her gaze wandered once more along the assembled line, and the longer she looked, the smaller she felt. The young ladies before them appeared less like mortals and more like living portraits stepped cleanly from gilded frames. Silks shimmered beneath the chandeliers in shades of ivory, blush, and palest blue; gauzes floated with every measured shift of weight. Some gowns were trimmed with delicate Brussels lace that lay like frost upon sleeves and bodices; others glittered faintly with seed pearls stitched so densely they caught the light at every turn.
Their hair was a study in artifice and patience - sleek coils pinned with jewelled combs, intricate braids woven with ribbon, soft curls arranged to frame luminous faces. A faint scent of rosewater and violet powder lingered in the air, mingling with beeswax and polished wood. Even their posture seemed rehearsed: shoulders relaxed yet erect, chins lifted with effortless grace, fans opening and closing in restrained, rhythmic motions.
When her eyes lowered to her own reflection in the polished floor’s faint sheen, self-consciousness crept over her like a chill. Her gown - though beautifully made - was simpler in design. The silk was rich, yes, but unadorned save for its careful tailoring. No extravagant lace cascaded from her sleeves; no constellation of pearls traced her neckline. It was tasteful. Proper. Respectable.
But in this room, respectability felt perilously close to invisibility.
Her father’s rank had afforded quality - sound fabric, a skilled seamstress, gloves unblemished by prior wear. Yet it did not stretch to imported trims or Parisian embellishments. She had thought herself splendid when she first beheld her reflection at home. Now, amidst such calculated brilliance, her attire seemed almost… restrained.
“I-I suppose I am,” she admitted under her breath. “Only… look at them. They are all so very beautiful.”
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around Kou’s sleeve, the fine wool creasing beneath her grip as she stepped nearer still, until the warmth of his arm anchored her fully at his side. It was not envy that pricked at her so sharply, but the sudden fear of being measured - and found wanting - before she had even taken a single step toward the throne.
“Ne-” Kou’s voice faltered for just a moment, and he cleared his throat quickly, glancing around as if to make sure no one had noticed. “Miss Yashiro,” he said, steadying his tone.
“Yes?” she squeaked, as the line inched forward.
He leaned slightly closer, careful to keep his words quiet. “Don’t think yourself less than them,” he murmured. “All the gowns, the lace, the hair - none of that decides who is truly noticed. It’s how one carries herself… and you - you have that, more than you realise.” If she had been less consumed by nerves, she might have caught the faint warmth creeping into his cheeks, a subtle crimson that betrayed him for the briefest second.
He offered a small, almost casual shrug, letting his hand remain over hers. “Trust me,” he said softly, his eyes meeting hers just long enough to convey a reassurance he didn’t bother explaining. “That’s the sort of thing ribbons and pearls can’t give. You already have it.”
And as their conversation dwindled, Kou’s gaze darting between her and the back of the lady ahead with a faintly awkward hesitation, Yashiro found herself smiling despite herself. The urge to press even closer to her longtime friend - flooding him with the warmth of her affection in silent thanks for his steadfast presence - rose again as the line edged forward. The heaviness of her earlier anxiety, the prickling sense of impending embarrassment, seemed to ease, becoming lighter, almost bearable, compared to the suffocating dread she had felt on the carriage ride over and the walk up the courtyard.
And before she could quite gather herself -
“Miss Yashiro Nene, daughter of Lord Viscount Yashiro,” the herald announced firmly from within the chamber.
Now, it was her moment. Her time for judgment.
Exiting the Queen’s presence chamber, the massive doors, carved with elaborate arabesques and gilded ornamentation, slammed shut behind her with a weight that felt almost accusatory, as though expelling her from the sanctum. The herald’s voice already rang crisply, proclaiming the next lady’s name, while behind Yashiro, she adjusted her neckline and fanned the feathers along her collar until they lay in immaculate, flattering order. The gentleman who had escorted her withdrew silently, just as Kou had, leaving her to the hall’s austere grandeur.
Lady after lady entered, each bearing a composure and radiance that made Yashiro’s own presence feel tenuous, and she remained rooted, caught in the reflection of the lofty ceiling upon the polished floor. It stared back at her - equally hollow, equally vacant, and unbearably pallid - magnifying her own self-consciousness.
I never should have come here, she thought, her rose-tinted eyes flickering like misaligned clockwork. The swirl of her gaze across the floor seemed marred by a subtle residue of decay - the muted orange and brown patina of wear and neglect, faintly acrid, metallic, almost like rusted iron or rotting wood.
Then, at last, Kou approached, having waited patiently for her as he always did. The sight of him brought tears unbidden to her eyes. The moisture blurred the harsh impression of the Queen - the thinly veiled contempt, the dismissive flick of a hand, the cold, evaluative glance that passed over her without so much as a word of introduction. In that gilded, ceremonial space, Yashiro felt the weight of being so easily dismissed pressing down.
I never should have come here.
“W-What happened?” Kou seemed uncertain how to help without breaching the code of the court, his hands floating between them but never touching. He and her both knew why, but it hurt that while she despaired in silence and as a single tear dropped to wet the floor, she couldn’t reach over either. Her entire form quivering with unleashed anger, embarrassment, contempt, all the ugly feelings that swirled relentlessly inside her like a sickness.
“Miss Yashiro?” Kou stepped a fraction closer, careful to preserve the proper distance. His knees bent slightly as he lowered himself into a half-crouch, keeping his posture formal yet offering what comfort he could. “Nene?” he whispered this time, gentler still, but she could only shake her head, too overcome to answer.
She remembered the moment she had entered the chamber. And had performed her part flawlessly, as though the role had been written for her alone. Every step had been deliberate, rehearsed almost instinctively. She had moved in perfect synchrony, careful not to catch the hem of her gown or let a glove brush incorrectly against the floor. Her hands had been flat at her sides, her eyes wide - not in awe of the Queen, but because such openness was expected of a debutante, a gaze that suggested poise and attentiveness. The crowd lining the walls murmured softly, watching her, their whispers like a gentle wind guiding her through the room.
And she had done it - perfectly.
Not a single thing was out of place.
Not a single movement had faltered. Not a gesture misaligned. Every inch of her had adhered to the unspoken choreography of courtly presentation. She had done exactly as instructed by her teachers, had followed the mantra of lectures engrained in her mind to a T. And Yet all of it, all the care and composure, had not shielded her from the sting of the Queen’s cold appraisal, nor the hollow ache of inadequacy that gnawed at her from within.
“Walk yourself out, girl.” The only words the queen had offered were those, a chuckle booming out of her breathlessly, and the crowd as if linked to her, followed suit. Laughed harder, and louder as her shoulders, so meticulously squared moments before, slumped under the oppressive scrutiny, and a solitary strand of hair slipped free from the comb that held the upper coil of her coiffure in place.
She had executed every motion with flawless adherence to decorum, so why? -
“Let us find somewhere private, hm?” Kou interjected, his hand hovering just above the curve of her upper back, stopping mere inches short of touching - as if the intent behind it alone might guide her forward.
And guided she was.
Her fragile dream of having been among the few deemed acceptable by Her Majesty crumbled beneath her feet as she strode briskly through the palace corridors, each step echoing sharply. Behind her, Kou followed closely, an unspoken anchor keeping pace as she propelled herself deeper into the sanctuary of the palace’s quieter halls.
“Hey, it’s not the end of the world,” Kou said, perching on the edge of his cushioned seat in her room. His gaze flicked nervously left and right, following her every step as she paced like a caged bird. The faint scent of her citrus and elderflower fragrance lingered in the air, mingling with the heavy velvet curtains and the soft rustle of her skirts.
“I-I know it isn’t… ideal,” he continued, voice careful, “but the Queen’s opinion isn’t absolute. One encounter doesn’t define you, Yashiro. People forget more quickly than you think - especially in a court where gossip moves faster than a carriage on cobblestones.”
“Kou, have you been wandering around deaf?” Her words weren’t quite a shout, but they teetered on the edge, sharp with frustration. “My name is on everyone’s lips. Ladies and lords alike are whispering about my failures. I’m a laughingstock - the girl to be avoided at all costs!” Her hands twisted at her skirts as she stopped mid-step, her pink eyes glistening with both exasperation and a simmering, unspoken fear.
“All hope is not yet lost,” Kou assured, rising with quiet determination. He could feel the tension coiling off her in palpable waves - hours of near-constant panicking, muttered anxieties, wrung gloves, and halts mid-step as though the very air of the room pressed against her. Her nerves had frayed long before now, each moment building upon the last until she teetered on the brink of exhaustion.
With certain hands and a measured voice, he guided her about. She stiffened, resisting, but a gentle nudge of his knee against the back of hers - and a soft oomf - sent her collapsing gracefully into the seat before her vanity. The tabletop was a studied chaos: brushes, lip stains, combs, ribbons, and trinkets strewn across the surface in an almost meticulous disarray, a testament to her preparation and her nerves alike.
“Now,” he said, crouching slightly to meet her gaze, a calm, encouraging smile tugging at his lips, “how about a dab of powder to settle that nose, so I can summon a maid to tighten the back of your gown? Then we shall proceed to the welcome ball. We’re already behind schedule.” he squeezed her shoulder.
Yashiro exhaled sharply, her breath a mixture of frustration and lingering panic, while Kou threaded his fingers through her disheveled hair, coaxing errant strands back into place. His composure radiated steadiness, a quiet anchor in the storm of her emotions.
“I have a few friends at court from my visits that I would like to introduce you to,” he continued, his tone gentle, measured, and patient as he pulled away. “Networking will prove essential for your stability during your stay. I cannot, after all, be your sole companion over the coming weeks.”
“They’ll think me a fool,” Yashiro protested, her voice small, half-hearted. She picked up the spherical box of powder, twisting the cap free with slightly trembling fingers. Pressing the flat cushion into the powder, she tapped off the excess with a faint sigh before pressing it lightly to her cheek, smoothing the pale dust across her skin
“No, they won’t. They’re lovely - though perhaps… an acquired taste,” Kou said, his voice light. “They were married just last autumn and have been residing at court ever since.”
Yashiro slowed her movements for a heartbeat as she applied her powder, then resumed with renewed speed - a subtle, unspoken signal that she was listening, even if she wouldn’t admit it. But also a declaration of what she saw, a pink-hued shadow slithering at the foot of her bed with a stray brush in its grasp, before it ducked under, disappeared, and what she ignored. A tiny figure that went unnoticed by Kou.
“The gentleman is Aoi Akane,” Kou continued. “He’s the son of a Marquess, like myself, but… remarkably intelligent. I mean, beyond understanding kind of smart. His education alone is enough to make other scholars sweat. Through his accomplishments in advising, he’s earned a promotion as a semi‑official royal adviser alongside his father.”
“Mm,” Yashiro murmured, setting down the powder and lifting two smaller tubs of cream - one a dusty pale pink, the other a richer rose - and opening both. “But… what is he like as a person?”
Kou’s smile softened, the corner of his lips twitching just slightly as he watched her hesitate between shades of pink. “He’s - well, he’s earnest. Sharp, obviously, but it’s not mere intellect. He listens, really listens, and doesn’t waste words unless they matter. He can be blunt, but not unkind. People tend to respect him… or fear him a little.”
He paused, eyes flicking to her as if gauging her reaction. “But he’s not the sort to mock someone for being unprepared. He’ll give frank advice, but never in a way that’s meant to belittle.”
She dipped her applicator brush into the lighter shade, then froze mid‑stroke, the make-up half-spread over her left eye-lid “And his Lady? What about her?”
Yashiro watched as Kou leaned back slightly in the mirror, arms crossed, his gaze wandering over her hair as if he could tease the answers from the strands themselves. “Her name is Akane Aoi,” he began, voice steady, “and yes, their names are literally interchangeable. Don’t mention that to her, though - she seems to dislike it.” He paused, scanning her carefully as she resumed her delicate powdering. “She married up from an Earl’s family, and… well, she’s practically a court lady’s ideal. Popular, charming, clever, and - plainly - beautiful. She can hold her own in any conversation, enjoys gossip, but never with malice. She’s… well, she’s objectively admirable.”
“And as embarrassing as it is,” Kou continued, leaning forward slightly, “because every gentleman and lady at court knew, Akane had eyes only for her. He’s been pursuing her for as long as anyone can remember. Not casually or politely - no, he practically lived for the day she might finally accept him. It’s almost absurd how long he clung to what was, for so long, unreciprocated.”
He exhaled softly, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Anyways… Akane has been after her since they were practically children. He pursued her patiently, tirelessly, picking up every skill, every scrap of knowledge, any accomplishment he thought might win her regard - books, sports, courtly arts - he took it all in stride to gain even the smallest step into her heart. And in the end, it wasn’t for nothing. One day, he performed a feat - scored a perfect ten in a courtly competition - and finally, after countless proposals, she said yes.”
Kou shook his head, a mixture of admiration and disbelief in the gesture. “Relentless, yes - but never cruel or overbearing. It was the sort of devotion that earns respect, even if watching it can be… exhausting. And she… she’s remarkable. Poised, clever, able to navigate court without strain. Together, they are… quietly enviable.”
Yashiro’s brush hovered over her cheek, the pale powder forgotten for a moment. She raised an eyebrow, curiosity softening her features. “And she really said yes… after all that?”
“Yes,” Kou said, voice flat but edged with the faintest awe. “Persistence pays, apparently. Though personally…” He shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible flick of exasperation in the gesture. “…I can’t imagine enduring that much determination and finding it entirely charming.”
Yashiro snorted softly into the brush, a tiny smirk tugging at her lips, the intimacy of courtly gossip settling around them like a familiar, comforting cloak.
“Don’t let them know I said any of that - Akane would throttle me if he knew,” Kou added with a half-grin, as Yashiro finally set her brush down, finishing her makeup. He was already moving to pull her chair out, his fingers brushing lightly against the polished wood.
“I feel as though I should share it now,” she said with a playful tilt of her head, “if only to entertain myself at the ball.” Her head bobbled playfully, , a teasing glimmer in her eyes.
Kou’s grin widened as he leaned closer, mock-serious. “If you shoot me for giving you secrets, I’ll be taking you down with me, Nene!”
“As if.”
“Hm, now that I think about it, I’m sure they’d love to know of the gentlemen you write about in your-”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I definitely would.”
They laughed together, bright and unrestrained, the sound slicing through the tension that had clung to the room for hours. And when Yashiro pouted her lips at the door, Kou caught her unspoken signal, gave a final half-smile, and departed, leaving Yashiro to her preparations. Almost immediately, as if on cue, a maid appeared, moving lightly across the polished floor with a basket of pins, ribbons, and silken ties, ready to fasten the back of Yashiro’s gown and set her for the evening.
Once she was cinched into her dress - tighter than usual, drawing shallow breaths from the constriction - Yashiro draped a thin, sheer shawl over her shoulders, tucking it under her arm to match her plum-dyed, floor-length gown. Magenta rose embroidery spiraled up the puffed sleeves in delicate tendrils, while a necklace of silver and pink-stained diamonds gleamed across her chest. Matching earrings dangled lightly from her ears. For the ball, she had instructed the maid to assemble her hair into a fashionably tousled bun, a bit tighter than she preferred, and once alone, she gently teased out the shorter fringe framing her face to soften the effect.
“Okay, Nene.” She slammed her palm against the vanity table, leaning forward until her reflection filled her view. Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as she jabbed a finger at the mirrored image, muttering under her breath: “You’ve got this! You’ve got this!” - again and again, until repetition dulled the words’ power.
Outside, Kou’s impatient knocks sounded at the door, urgent and rhythmic. Yashiro straightened, took a deep breath, and whispered one last time to herself: You’ve got this, Nene
“Oh - one final thing,” Kou said, turning toward her when she walked into the hallway. His tone carried the familiar lightness, yet Yashiro immediately noticed the subtle transformation in his countenance: his features had stiffened, his shoulders squared with a quiet tension, and his eyes - ordinarily warm and teasing - were now shadowed with a measured gravity that unsettled her. “If you happen to speak with Miss Aoi, and she brings up… any rumours, simply steer the conversation elsewhere.”
Yashiro halted mid-step, the whisper of her gown against the polished floor the only sound between them. “Uhm? I… I can do that, but why?” she asked, tilting her head. She sensed the import behind his words, yet its significance eluded her entirely.
Kou exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting toward the corridor beyond the door, as though the mere sight of it demanded contemplation. “It’s… not important on the surface. But at court, some things are much easier to handle if you simply don’t talk about them.” he said, his explanation deliberately oblique - enough to hint at consequence, yet revealing nothing of substance.
Yashiro’s brow furrowed, her fingers brushing absently along the hem of her gown, her curiosity piqued but her understanding incomplete. Before she could press further, Kou’s shoulders relaxed and the rigidity vanished, supplanted once more by his habitual grin and casual composure.
“Just…some cautionary advice.” he added, the words carrying a weight she felt but could not define. Yashiro followed silently, unsettled by the abrupt shift, the lingering impression that she had been entrusted with something significant, though she could not yet grasp its meaning.
The ballroom was waiting.