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Lay me down in a bed of camellias.
There are some things that I’ll never have.
The feeling of being woken up by the first rays of sunlight, in an unfamiliar bed, covered by unfamiliar sheets; to look to my side and see a friend still sound asleep, but less than ideally covered by their blanket after tossing and turning during the night.
The feeling of getting close enough to tease them; to be thwarted by their peaceful expression; to want to pamper them to the point of thinking about what to make for breakfast—for two.
The feeling of listening to their still-sleepy voice, for the first time, as they walk into the dining room; perhaps not as compliment, but teasing; to have them join me none the less.
The feeling of having a friend; to feel close enough to be vulnerable around them; to be me.
I can’t help but imagine what that should feel like, being in such society. Warm, I must assume. ‘Tis how all the books I’ve read describe it. ‘Tis how the lone heroine, clad in her boring day dress, in the boring estate she had not long before moved in—far from as much in civilization as one may wonder, and far from as little as another inhabited estate as she might have wished for—how this lone heroine feels entirely overjoyed at the visit of a mysterious guest, to whom she quickly takes to, and is taken to in return.
But, as I stare at the mirror in the corner of the room, I’m once again reminded: there are some things that I’ll never have. No matter how many books I read. No matter how much I wish for them.
Clad in my own boring day dress, in my own boring estate—far from as much in civilization as one may wonder, and far from as little as another inhabited estate as I could wish for,—in my own boring room; I am but painfully aware: I shall never have a friend.
* * *
There were things she regretted. Today was one of those things.
From the moment she saw light beyond the trees that surrounded her, Ena thought nothing else than “I’m saved.” Walking towards that light was not at the root of her regrets presently, though it was making its way there, to the top.
Her thoughts went back to her discussion with her father. It was foolish to ask the carriage to stop. It was more foolish to open the door and jump from it, stomping the ground and muttering her disagreements. It was beyond foolish to—once her father’s head appeared through the carriage’s door—to run into the woods, away from any path that could guide her somewhere—anywhere that wasn’t surrounded by trees.
She did regret all that, too. And yet she made no motions to simply walk back whence she came. Her feet carried her exactly one way—or so she hoped, for she knew not where she was going amidst all the trees. That way had taken her to what looked like an estate. Inhabited, she’d hope, for there was light coming through one of the windows at this hour.
At first she had stopped in front of the main gate, calling out to whomever might listen. She called not for help—her pride would never allow—but merely for attention.
No one came.
In her fit of desperation, when the full moon hid behind the clouds every now and again, she had noticed that the gate was ajar, unbound by any locks that Ena’s eyes could see. Her fears moved her hands before her reason could; there was a loud creaking sound, of iron hinges that hadn’t been used or maintained for a long time; then the gates were open.
The front yard of the estate was not of any particularly impressive nature; not if you’d compare to the Shinonome state, with its carefully designed gardens and exquisite architectural choices. To the contrary: as Ena surveyed her surroundings while she made her way to the main entrance, there was a growing sense of anxiety in her chest. Somehow distinct from the fears that besieged her—for those she at least knew.
But this anxiety, bubbling from her chest, stuck in her throat, was in the way the patches around the trees were covered in fallen leaves and petals. Or the way in which the guardrail around the stairs in the front porch had fallen victim to still growing mould. Or yet in the way the door knocker felt distinctly rusted now under her hand.
She knocked three times.
There was no immediate response from inside. No maid or butler whose footsteps she could hear coming closer. No reassuring voice that she would be welcomed in.
Indeed, no matter how long she waited, no one came.
The wind now felt colder than before; reason had finally caught up. Ena stood in front of the big wooden door, a foolish girl wearing nary a coat over her velvet dress in late October. Having no possessions to rely on, no meals to look forward to.
Alone, in the middle of nothing.
As she dwelled on this, there was something warm touching her cheeks, tracing down her face, and falling all over her dress. She tried her best to wipe away the tears with the back of her hand, but the more she did, the more she wept. Soon she was crouching atop the staircase, a sobbing mess.
Then there was the sound of the front door opening. A little head peeked from inside the estate. With exquisitely pink hair, gathered in a side ponytail, the person looking at the girl shouldn’t have been much younger; or much older.
“Are you okay, young lady?”
Yet they spoke in a manner unbefitting of their apparent age. Upon this Ena was taken aback. She lifted her eyes, meeting the other person with a mixture of respite and shock.
“Would you rather come inside? It must be an awfully cold night when one is underdressed as such,” The host stated, offering their hand to the girl. “Come, I shall light the fireplace for you. Are you travelling with any other companion...?”
“Ena Shinonome,” the girl replies, taking her host’s hand upon hers. She didn’t know if her hands were too cold, or if her host’s was; and she was momentarily concerned for their pale complexion, and their flushed face. She wished not to impose on someone who was already unhealthy, but she kept such thoughts deep inside. “I’m by myself—I got separated from my father on our way home, and now I find myself here.”
“That’s quite unfortunate; I hope you’ll be reunited soon,” the host said, leading Ena through the entrance hall and into the grand room. “I’m afraid we don’t have a servant to spare, and it’s past a time I would suggest venturing into the woods by yourself, so I must ask you delay your searching until the morning,” they paused for a moment, observing a stiff Ena by their side. “Please do make yourself comfortable... Lady Shinonome?”
“Just Ena is fine.”
Unlike the picture the exterior of the manor had painted, the interior seemed well taken care of and lived—Ena shouldn’t be surprised when she had just met her host, but she was still having trouble adapting to it. For the moment, she had decided, she’d take her host’s offer and sit by the fireplace. Being inside had already done wonders for her disposition, but she was also made more aware of all the things that had thence happened.
All the aimless walking through the forest, all the sobbing. She just prayed her host would be charitable upon seeing her in this state—she put much effort and took great pride in her appearance, after all.
“Ena it is, then. I’m Mizuki Akiyama, though just Mizuki is fine.” The young host proceeded to light the fireplace. Then, turning to Ena, continued, “Perhaps your father will succeed in finding you here to-night; I am to imagine he’s looking for you as we speak. But none the less, you’re welcome to stay as much as you need—want. If you’ll allow, I shall go and prepare a room for you.”
In the pleasantly warm company of the fireplace, Ena watched her host bid their leave, and she must have dozed off in the couch. It had been a long, tiring night, and she didn’t seem to have much of a recollection of the events that followed. What she did remember was a gentle tapping on her shoulder and some small conversation made of words that eluded her. But, looking around the unfamiliar room she found herself in, she surmised her host must have helped her to this room the night before.
There was a freshness to the sheets in her bed that she wouldn’t expect for an uninvited guest; and there was a neatness to how she was covered that she was wholly unfamiliar with. She must have been more tired than she first thought, to sleep in such non-tumultuous manner that her feet should remain covered in the morning.
She didn’t dislike it; if anything, she allowed herself to linger in bed for a moment more. Through the window she could see that the sun had long since risen. It might have well been close to noon, she guessed, not bothering to find her pocket watch.
As she wondered about all these things, there were a few knocks on the door. She bade them enter, the same young host with exquisite pink hair came into the room. She didn't pay enough attention the day before, but Mizuki seemed to put as much effort in the way they presented themselves. The white camellia in their hair made their pastel blue dress feel even more delicate.
“Are you feeling better now? I had hoped you’d join me for supper the night before, but when I came back you were already half-asleep. I led you to your room, and thought you’d sleep in an uncomfortably rigid bodice and less pleasant crinoline, but I’m happy to see you’ve changed into the nightdress I had prepared for you.”
Ena nodded, absent-mindedly. She had a vague recollection of stumbling up the stairs, leaning on her host to keep herself up. Now she wondered why it was her host doing all of these things; why she hadn’t seen any servant around the place as of yet.
“If you’re awake now, would you like to join me for a morning meal? I shall be waiting by the dining room, should you wish for it,” Mizuki turned to leave, but stopped, suddenly remembering something. They didn’t turn around, so Ena couldn’t see their expression as they continued, “Regarding your father, I’ve asked my governess to look into the matter. I shall introduce you later, when you’re ready.”
And so Ena got ready; washing herself and, with a fair amount of struggling, getting in her dress. There was some more struggling as she tried keeping her hair orderly before the girl was out of the room, her usual braid amiss. When she finally reached the dinning room—but not before second-guessing herself and hesitating at every room she passed through—Ena was surprised to find only her host seated by the table.
They got up, “Good morning, Ena.”
Mizuki elegantly walked to the other side, where they pulled the chair and motioned Ena to sit. On the table Ena found her plate covered by a few pancakes, and copious amounts of strawberry jam along with it. Mizuki was the first one to start eating, though Ena followed not long after. She could certainly appreciate the sweetness first thing in the morning; unfamiliar as she might’ve been with how pancakes were prepared in the north.
Once they were done, Ena had many questions she wished to ask. But every time she thought of bringing up one of the things in her mind, there was a distinct feeling in her throat—she couldn’t quite place it, or give it a name; being around her host filled her with an anxiety she had not experienced before.
There was an almost ethereal aura to how Mizuki twirled their glass of water in their hand. To the dainty way they held the fork. As if one moment they could be there, and the other, gone. Ena had barely met them, but the idea of her host disappearing somehow made her heart ache. So much that she chose to forgo asking all the questions troubling her at the moment.
And—this very well could’ve been her own misinterpretation—there was a hesitation to the way her host interacted with her; that she couldn’t distinguish the night before, tired as she was, but now, with the clarity morning had brought to her, was apparent on every gesture from Mizuki. On every word.
Perhaps it was Ena’s own unmatched enthusiasm of meeting someone around her age in her travels, but Ena would have expected her host to be more pleased with her company. Instead she was treated to fortuitous glances that were quickly averted, and an almost intentional distance being placed between the two of them.
“Say, Mizuki,” Ena tried getting their attention, their eyes met momentarily. “Would you like to accompany me outside after this? I’d much enjoy a morning strol—”
No sooner had Ena posed her question that she could notice a dark expression befalling her host’s face. One that lasted but an instant, being quickly replaced by a smile and a light inclination of their head.
“I’m afraid my governess forbade me from venturing outside without her supervision; and she has now set to the post office, meaning to send a telegram to your father’s estate—regarding your arrival here.”
“I... see...” Ena replied, despondent. Unsure to which extent she was overthinking things at this point—her mind had this unfortunate tendency of reaching out for supernatural explanations to every thing surrounding her; it was how all of her fears were born.
“If you so wish for it, you should go for your morning stroll, Ena. I’m afraid that, with recent times, our gardener has not been able to maintain much of the yard; but if you take the eastward path you should find yourself in a small clearing in the woods, which descends into a small lake. My sister used to take me there every so often.”
Mizuki paused, waiting for a positive reaction from their guest; but as they saw none, they continued, “I will be by the drawing room if you need me, but do not feel obliged to keep me company. I imagine you must be worried about being separated from your father as it is.”
“No, I...” Ena hesitated. The words of disagreement she wanted to express left stuck in her throat. It was true that she was worried about her father, and she could imagine the opposite was true, but that was not where her mind was presently. Still, she nodded, unable to say anything else.
Later that day Ena found Mizuki sitting by the window in the drawing room, as they had mentioned. The young host had a book resting on their skirt and perused it with undivided attention, stopping from time to time to flip the page.
Ena thought it rude to interrupt them, so, at first, she sat on a chair by the large piano and watched Mizuki read. They must have spent a long time like this, saying nothing and moving little, that when Mizuki closed their book and got up, slowly walking towards Ena, stopping a few steps before her; the girl was taken by surprise.
“It is almost time for dinner. I shall be waiting by the dinning room, if you wish to join me. I’m afraid my governess will still be a few days away—the town she departed to is but three or four days away from here by horse, but she has other business to attend while there.”
When Mizuki turned around to leave, Ena got up and reached out for their hand. She didn’t quite thought through what she wanted to happen after that, so when Mizuki turned around, their face more flushed than usual, Ena could only think of how warm her hand felt upon theirs, and how warmer still her own face felt. The only thing she managed was a shy “s-sorry” before letting go of Mizuki’s hand.
The two lingered there still for a couple of moments more before parting ways; Mizuki heading to the dinning room, and Ena staying still, wondering if all her forest-walking the day before had given her a light fever and mushy feelings.
The days went by without many changes. Mizuki’s governess had not yet returned from her trip, and there was still a wall between Mizuki and Ena that the girl didn’t know how to cross. She had not seen any other servants during this whole time, and she had not had much success in the way of finding any traces of her father with her late morning strolls; but now she had more pressing matters in her head.
“Say, Mizuki, would you mind posing for a portrait?” She started a conversation in the drawing room. It could have been her own misguided impression that her host had become more comfortable with her around, but she had an idea for testing it.
From the other corner of the room Mizuki raised their head from the book they read and looked at Ena. This time there was a distinct expression of surprise in their face; as if Ena had asked something unsightly—unthinkable.
“If you wish not to, I will not feel hurt,” she lied.
This time Mizuki returned a troubled smile. One that felt less like a mask and more like they didn’t know what to make of this situation. “I did not take you for a person who would be interested in painting someone like me,” they replied, awkwardly.
“Why not?” Ena retorted, but there were no further explanations. Mizuki held one of their arms, as if shielding themself from Ena’s gaze. The girl became rather forceful, “I would quite like to paint you. And the way your hair gently drapes over your dress. The way your long eyelashes elegantly curl. The way your choices of colour neatly accentuate your features. The wa—”
Ena stopped, abruptly. Her fever must have gotten worse over the last days, for she felt her face burning like never before; a strong compulsion to hide behind her hands, likewise warmer than they should be. As Ena thought more and more about what she had just said to Mizuki, there was this growing sense of realisation that it sounded an awful lot like a confession.
She didn’t want Mizuki to get the wrong impression; she wasn’t quite certain which impression it was she wanted Mizuki to get. She just felt like Mizuki distanced themselves from everyone—and themself—and she wanted them to feel... perceived? Understood? Closer? The exact feeling eluded her.
“...kay,” the voice that reached Ena’s ears was faint, hesitant, but unmistakably Mizuki’s. When she peeked at the young host from behind her fingers, she saw them sit on a chair opposite from her, resting the book they were reading on their lap. “I don’t think I’ll make a good model, but if you insist in having me...”
Ena resisted the urge to reply. Words tended to come out of her mouth before she had given them proper consideration, and she didn’t want to risk hurting Mizuki and pushing them away again. She would reply in the one way she knew; through her art.
The portrait took longer than Ena had expected. Over the next couple of days she agonised over how to best express her feelings—how to express the Mizuki she saw. And she shielded many requests from her host to see how things were coming along; there was a part of her, amidst all the perfectionism, that was too vulnerable to show. In that sense, she thought she could understand Mizuki a bit.
That’s what she had in mind while she painted.
In the dawn of the fourth day she had finally finished her piece. It was not a large portrait; the canvas she had at her disposal allowed for but a small window to capture her feelings. So she aimed to fill every centimetre of it with what she had to say. And, hopefully, she could finally ask the person filling her thoughts the question that hitherto plagued her.
After her father finds her, and after she and Mizuki were inevitably parted, Ena wanted to ask her host if they would consider being her friend. If the two of them could exchange letters once Ena found her way home.
This was the only thing in her mind as she led Mizuki into the drawing room for a change, and walked towards the canvas sitting at the corner, facing away from the two of them. It was her most vulnerable moment yet.
But there was a knock on the door. Or two. Three. Someone who sounded rather impatient. Then, if Ena’s ears didn’t deceive her, there was a familiar voice calling out—and calling out her name in particular.
Mizuki turned around, saying something about getting the door, when Ena held them back by the hand. “I’ll... get it. Can you wait here for me?”
She didn’t wait for a reply from Mizuki; her feet carried Ena to the door almost instinctively. And when she opened it, she was surprised to see her father standing on the other side, holding his top hat on his hand with an exhausted and, if Ena’s mind wasn’t imagining it, apologetic look on his face.
He almost extended his arms to hug his daughter, but restrained himself. “I’m sorry,” he managed. Ena apologised in return.
There was an awkward silence invited by their reunion that neither knew how to break, when it finally occurred to Ena that this was her father’s first time at the Akiyama’s estate. “Ah! I should introduce you to the host who kindly took me in the other night,” and turning around she started making her way to the drawing room.
“Ena,” her father called out to her, his voice a mixture of confusion and incredulity. The girl turned back to face him, meeting his gaze with her own confused expression. “There’s no one living here. There hasn't in years.”
She had to suppress the urge to fight him again, “What do you mean?! I just said I was going to introduce you to my host.” She turned towards the drawing room again, ignoring her father for a moment, and called out, “Mizuki!”
Her voice carried through the hall and echoed in the nearby room, but there was no response. She tried again, and again, and again, to no avail. When she turned to meet her father, crestfallen, she wasn’t sure what kind of expression she was making; but his expression was washed with concern.
“They’re… a bit shy, sometimes,” she reasoned, at this point more to reassure herself than anything. “You’ll just have to come with me, they should be waiting by the drawing room. This way,” she started walking before her father could reply, with steps that turned quicker the closer she got, and with tears that she fought as they welled up at the corner of her eyes.
And once she reached the room, she stopped. Through her blurred vision, the room she had spent most of the past days had changed beyond recognition. Gone were the pretty chairs, the grand piano, the many canvases she had helped herself to. In their place there was rugged flooring, growing mould, and a stagnant air.
Mizuki was nowhere to be found. She had searched up and down the manor, and now she stood still near the front door, warm tears tracing down her face. The last days felt so real that she didn’t know what to do with herself. With her feelings. When her father wrapped his arms around her, in a hug, all she could do was cry.
It took another week by carriage until Ena and her father reached home, leaving the Akiyama’s estate, abandoned decades ago, behind. Ena’s spirits took long to recover, though never fully; she dared not mention Mizuki’s name to anyone, but it would always linger on her mind.
Later, in the same week, they’d receive two telegrams from an unknown sender, belatedly delivered by the local post office, seen first by Ena’s rather confused father. The first consisted solely of Ena’s name, followed by unintelligible scribbles, which he thought might once been some sort of address. The second, of a simpler and more direct nature, contained but a wish, “I hope you’ll be able to show me the portrait, someday.”
fin.
* * *
This might be mere hearsay from the northfolk; unsubstantiated gossips, as we know the lesser nobles to be keen in engaging when they drink to their dinner at The Violet. I have not been able to verify any of the sources, but compelled only by the frequency and coincidence of these stories, thought it to be in the interest of this journal that I relay here the events.
As you may know, there was once a painter who would submit the same work to any exhibition she could; that is to say, the same subject matter, the same composition. Though her submissions never overlapped, and the canvases were always returned to her as the galleries rejected the work, some still believed it not to be the same painting—but a recreation of her own work.
I have little motive to believe one would engage in such recreation—of painting the same scene over and over; and to submit a different painting of this scene to every exhibition. Yet rumours had it she was obsessed with the subject. Some ventured her to be possessed; I must remind the reader that there is no reason to believe any of these to be more than just hearsay.
Still, more than the coincidences, what jumped at me in these stories was that, when a certain gallery—which the more incredulous of you may certainly dislike, or deem unconcerned with the science of the arts—when they accepted her submission, she stopped sending the work to any other gallery.
Indeed, I would expect one to move on at such event; but the painter in question stopped sending any work to a gallery. Her one known work remains in exhibition there, but she herself, after attending her own exhibition, seems to have vanished from the artist circuit.
Would a painter, one who wants to be well-liked in the noble society such that they may enjoy the patronage; would they not take the opportunity, of being seen and accepted, to submit more and varied works? To make a name for oneself?
It occurred to me that this painter must have had a distinct motive for her submissions. One that is nary motivated by the capitalistic momentum of our society. And here, dear reader, I present my own hypothesis to this question.
Do note I make my analysis based on the only work presently available—let’s put past us the rumours of repainting this scene. If one were to inquire on which feelings the painter had in her mind, there’s only one that should fit: longing.
The love for her subject can be felt in her careful brushstrokes, in the delicate choices of features, in her unusual choice of colours, and abundant use of pink; but less abstractly in her choice of symbology. The flowers that surround the subject—these particular camellias—have long been associated with waiting; with longing; with love. Not here, but in the east.
It is then not a stretch to think this whole endeavour one of love. Perhaps, moved by a desire to find someone resembling her pictured subject, she thought to submit to as many venues as she could. Yet, as much as I don’t dislike it, this decidedly romantic interpretation is an ill fit for a journal such as this one; a simpler explanation is that she was dared by her lover to go through with it; to submit her work somewhere.
Once she had achieved what had been asked, there was no need to continue to submit any other works; she stopped sending them. Still, perhaps a more charitable interpretation is that she stopped sending them under the same name. That her sole work under this identity would stand for her feelings.
When I interviewed the gallery which accepted her work, they said she had recently moved into a distant estate with an intention of renovating it; though they refused to divulge her address or a name, I can’t help but think we may hear from her again, some day.
— Minori Hanasato,
Journal of Psychology of Art, ed. 39, pg. 7-10 (893 A.R.)