Chapter Text
Running through the doorway, the wood struck the familiar dent it had carved over the years of the same mishap. Wedging the shallow divot deeper as her feet stumbled and the toe of her flats caught on the floor-mounted doorstop. The basket of fresh vegetables hooked in the bend of her arms, pale greens peeking from beneath a stubborn checkered cloth that refused to lie flat - tilted precariously, threatened to spill as she carried her hurried momentum straight into the corridor wall.
“Ouch!-” The air punched from her lungs, hissed a pained sound as she hugged the white painted structure for support. Her knee’s already emitting a dull ache as she straightened herself up, with a brief glance to her shopping, and whether she’d lost any of it in her haste. She didn’t.
Carefully, tugging the hem of her skirt up, Yashiro pressed her foot onto her heels and ceremoniously slipped out of her shoes one by one. Breathing evenly - if slightly shakily - as she tried to settle her fluttering heartbeat from jumping up her throat. The fine sheen of sweat breaking over her temples, dampening her fringe as she listened for anyone, and rounded down the narrow passage down through the kitchen, and deeper into the back of the house where she would deposit her purchases in the larder.
The envelope upon the dining table scarcely registered in her mind, and went unnoticed, as here - she muttered to herself, cheeks still burning as she unpacked and relived the mortifying instant in which she had bowled a child very nearly straight into the dust while turning beside the candle stall she had been admiring.
They had been very pretty. Their gentle fragrance had softened the harsher smells of the market - the sharp sting of spices, the refuse carelessly cast aside by the less fastidious, and the heavy vapours of unfamiliar dishes she would never dare to taste on appearance alone. Some had even been fashioned with the greatest ingenuity, for tiny moulded figurines, also of wax, had been set within the neat, cubic candles, as though little ornaments were waiting to be revealed as they burned.
But just as she had turned with proper modesty, drawing aside the outer fold of her skirt to reach the small coin purse tied within its lining by a stout cord, her side collided with something solid and unsteady. And had it not been for the sun sinking so low, the hour growing improper for her presence on the streets, the mother scolding her sharply as she helped her child up, and a pot of water waiting to boil at home, she might’ve lingered to beg forgiveness as only was right.
But no - if the situation had not been dreadful enough, she had startled like a frightened hare. She outright leapt, very nearly dropping everything, as a sharp, blood-curdling cry escaped her. The unmistakable alarm, drawing the attention of several passersby, who slowed or stopped altogether to stare.
In the end though, she had done nothing so dignified as offer a proper apology. And instead had nearly shrieked her sorries as she fled in no particular direction at all - only away.
“Father would have your head for conduct so imprudent, Nene,” She whispered to herself, as though the words might chastise the colour from her cheeks. The bundle of hair, earlier tied up but unfrazzled by her sprint down the road, lay limply on her shoulder. She quickly tossed it back, and pressed the palm of her hands to her brows, trying in vain to will the warm, guilty heat that lingered there away.
And if Yashiro hadn’t been so focused on searching the bottom of her basket for the single red onion for tonight's dinner, she might’ve heard when the flooring creaked behind her.
“And what, pray tell, would I do?” came a deep voice at her ear, far too clear, coloured with curiosity and a touch of mild confusion. And for the second time that day, Yashiro started violently, giving a scream loud enough to rouse the whole household as she whirled about.
“Father!” she gasped, the word sharpened with startled indignation. Her hand flew to her pearl necklace while her breaths came quick and shallow, as though she struggled to steady her very heart. With her other hand she caught at the larder’s doorframe to keep from swaying, the sudden voice still echoing through her.
“W-When did you return?” She managed at last. “I believed you and Lord Minamoto were to be occupied with the leasing of that barn house across town until the later hours.”
“Oh, yes - but the matter was concluded earlier than expected.” He nodded, fingers absently smoothing the curled end of his greying moustache. “I meant only to surprise you with my return, though it seems I have done rather more than that.”
He gave a soft, self-satisfied chuckle as he gently took one of her hands from the wall and helped her stand properly. “Forgive me, my dear. It was never my intention to steal upon you so.”
She shook her head slowly, her hand slipping from her necklace to rest lightly upon his gloved one. “No, it is I who should beg your pardon. I was lost in my thoughts.” Yashiro replied, her gaze following her father as he leaned in to close the larder door, and then gently drew her along with him toward the arched passage that led back to the front of the manor.
“I ought not to grow so at ease in my own solitude.” She added. “We do keep servants in the house, after all.”
“Nonsense!” He exclaimed with a gentle reproach, giving her cheek a light, teasing pinch. “A lady shouldn’t need to feel on her guard within her own home.”
Yashiro answered with a small, plaintive whine, attempting to bat away his affection with a careless flick of her hand, but he only shifted his attentions to her ears, tugging at them with equal mischief. “And now that I have quite captured your attention - however unintentionally - at least I may be certain that you are definitely listening.”
He guided her toward the gray settee placed near the front window and allowed her to take her seat. The dark, polished arms of the furniture - carved to an elegant spiral - seemed made to receive her hands as they came to rest upon them without thought. She crossed her ankles at once and leaned back in comfortable ease, while her father settled himself upon a neighbouring sofa with a lower back, better suited to the stiffness of his troublesome joints.
“Now then - did you happen to notice the letter addressed to you?” he asked, and when she answered only with a vacant blink, he smiled, reached into the pocket of his coat, and drew out the very envelope she had so thoroughly overlooked. The one on the dining table.
Taking it from his hands, she drank in the details of the parchment. The small, but angular print with which her name was written in. the subtle, but reflective gold that twirled over the corners in sprouting lines that mimicked lily stems. How sweetly the fragrance of that flower rose in the air when she finally slipped her finger beneath the sealed flap and broke it. Yet before she could unfold the contents, her breath caught, her pulse quickening as her eyes fell upon the insignia impressed in the wax: the royal crest.
Her eyes darted to the calendar hanging above an ornate, art-nouveau style, glass stained lamp. May 4th - It read. And then, like the final piece of a puzzle slipping into place, her gaze returned to Lord Yashiro’s eager grin. His hands clasped tightly over his lap as he leaned forward, silently urging her with a tilt of his chin, the spectacles upon his nose slipping slightly down its bridge.
“Father - is this? -”
“Go on, go on,” he pressed instead. “I cannot promise my excitement will restrain my impatience for very long.”
And when he neither confirmed nor denied her suspicion, Yashiro tore open the envelope and drew out the sheet within - the portion that truly mattered. Pausing only to lift the paper to her nose, her knees bouncing with nervous anticipation, they shared a hopeful glance between them, and finally she unfolded the page and read it with the breathless earnest of a love letter.
The Honourable Miss Nene Yashiro,
Hereby their most gracious majesties orders, the king and the queen, you are most humbly entreated to attend the court during the month of May, in the year eighteen hundred and fourteen, culminating in the celebrations of the summer solstice on the twenty-first day of the next month.
In consideration of your permanent residence and standing, you are permitted to remain at Court for the duration of the month, and to be accompanied by any high-born relatives of your choosing, that they may partake in the entertainment and assemblies of the season.
As is customary, their Majesties do most graciously encourage the ladies of the Court to cultivate acquaintance with the eligible gentlemen in attendance, and to conduct themselves with the elegance, wit, and discretion befitting their rank. As is “the season” to enhance the succession of matchmaking, participation in the various morning, afternoon, and evening entertainments - assemblies, dances, and formal dinners - is expected throughout your stay.
It is indulgeable to make all necessary preparations for your attendance, including appropriate dress for the several daily occasions, and to present yourself promptly at Court on the final week of May, that your presence may be duly noted and your service to the Royal Household observed.
By command of Their Majesties,
Lord Chamberlain of the Household
Yashiro’s voice faltered towards the end of the letter, the words running together as tears gathered along her lashes. A distinct shake trembling through her as she dropped her hands holding the letter down, and looked back up the master of the house who’d sprang to his feet, clapping his hands together and as he turned bright, shining eyes upon his only daughter. Her eyes faintly staring back with blank astonishment.
“Splendid! Absolutely splendid! A whole month at Court - Why, this is better than I dared hope.” He blabbered with disbelief and shock equally mixed together. He spoke in a rush, disbelief and delight mingling in equal measure. “My dear, this is extraordinary! We must see to new gowns at once; I shall have them sewn without delay, and I will lecture you in the proper court customs, and -”
He broke off to pace the room, rubbing at the back of his neck as he began, in his mind, to tally silks, ribbons, sparkling trinkets, and delicate reticules that must be procured for her wardrobe. With every item he named, her expression grew a shade more troubled, each vision of finery ringing with the cost her father laboured day after day to afford.
“Invited directly by Their Majesties - for the Season, and the Summer Solstice itself?” he breathed, half to himself. Then he stopped before her and lowered himself onto the settee at her side. “Do you know what this means, Nene?”
And as she froze with widened eyes, she swallowed down a sob, her heart burning fiercely behind her ribs. One hand of hers rising to cover her rosy face, her fingers pressing against the healthy fat as though to hold herself together, and almost like she lost the ability to move her tongue, she gave a slow, trembling nod. A fragile, brittle smile crept up to the apple of her cheek.
“It means…It means I might finally find myself a suitor,” She whispered, her voice wavering. “That I may return with a proposal and a ring.”
He nodded at once, pleased - but then, as though something in the air had shifted and brushed against him, he paused. The brightness in his expression dimmed into mild concern; his brows knit together as he leaned forward again and gathered her hand gently back into his own.
“But…?” he prompted, his knee nudging hers.
She looked down, giving a small sniff, her hair slipping forward to hide her eyes. “It means I shall have to leave home. For an entire month.”
The summer solstice was welcomed each year as a most agreeable turning of the seasons, when the long, dim mornings of spring at last surrendered to warmth and light. It marked the sun at the height of its favour, the fields swelling with promise, and the first hopeful stirrings of the harvests that would, in time, fill storehouses and tables alike. Even those of humbler station felt its blessing, for the markets grew livelier, produce more abundant, and the price of provisions, if only briefly, kinder to the purse.
At this time of year the country seemed to breathe with greater ease. Meals were no longer thin or flavourless, but bright with herbs, tender greens, and the first fruits of the season. Market stalls remained open well into the golden evening light, and the roads, dry and sunlit, welcomed travellers from distant towns and ports. Foreign visitors arrived with bolts of unfamiliar fabrics, curious trinkets, and new fashions, lending the streets a cheerful air of colour and novelty.
Fairs, dances, and open-air fêtes sprang up across the countryside, from humble village greens to the sweeping lawns of great estates. Maypoles were raised, musicians played beneath garlands of flowers, and children ran laughing between the stalls. At Court, the season was observed with equal splendour - garden promenades, musicales, and elaborate entertainments held in honour of the sun’s longest day.
All of this unfolded alongside what society simply called the Season - that glittering stretch of weeks when the nobility and gentry gathered in the capital to be seen. It was a time of introductions, assemblies, and endless balls, where daughters were presented and sons paraded, each family quietly weighing alliances of affection, fortune, or advantage. Matches were made for love as often as for duty, for the strengthening of bloodlines or the joining of estates, and the fate of many a household was decided beneath the glow of chandeliers and the music of a country dance.
And this…this is what Yashiro feared.
The season.
Her father chuckled softly, his rounded middle rising and falling with the sound as he looked down at her. For a moment, the young lady before him blurred into a fond memory, replaced by a smaller, softer child curled at his side - bearing the same eyes she wore now, only wider, and filled with unquestioning trust as she pouted. He remembered, with a heaviness at his heart, how brightly she had once spoken of such festivities, and how eagerly she had longed for the day she might set her own foot inside the court.
But as he studied her now, he saw the shadow of doubt creeping into her thoughts. Her shoulders had begun to slope forward, as though she carried some unseen burden across her back. “What is it, my dear?” he probed again when she fell silent.
“I know it is foolish to be afraid now,” she murmured, exhaling a long, shuddering sigh as her gaze fell once more to the letter in her hands. “I have written countless entries about this very moment since the day I first mastered a proper grip on a fountain pen - of becoming a debutante, of hoping the queen might regard me with favour, of twirling across the ballroom with a gentleman even half as kind as you were to Mother.” She bit her lip, the faint sweetness of her salve catching in her throat along with her qualms. A shiver, like a phantom of old, long-held pains, ran through her as she forced any thought of her other parent deep down into the shadows.
“But now that the opportunity lies before me - after all those excuses, all the reasons given for why I was never invited after reaching the designated seventeenth year - I feel as though I should return the letter to its sender. To spite them. To show them I do not need this…even though my heart has long dreamed of it. Perhaps…perhaps I am not ready for court at all, and would only be met with ridicule should I attend. For you and I both know I am not enough to -”
“Nene,” Her father interrupted gently, though there was a note of hurt beneath it, “do not speak so unkindly of yourself. It pains me to hear it.” The disappointment in his voice was not for her, but for himself - for all the times he had let such thoughts take root without correcting them. And as he squeezed her hands he waited as her eyes came back up to his again.
“Besides,” He continued, with a spark of concern, and intrigue for the truth she held. “Is this not the very thing you have dreamed of? Why should my daughter shrink from the prospect of the happiness she has so long desired?”
But as the glassy light returned to her eyes, a tremor threaded through her voice. “I am hesitant, Father. I fear that the vision I have long held is far from the reality that awaits me. That I…may prove insignificant beside the higher ladies of the court, nothing more than a mere placeholder. Why else would they have waited so long to send me an invitation? I had even resigned myself after last year’s empty letterbox, and was content - though only just - to accept it.”
A knot choked her for a second before she mumbled tightly: “It will feel as though every eye in the kingdom is upon me. I am not certain I can bear such pressure, when even my age alone will invite endless speculation.”
She folded the corner of the letter, unfolded it, and folded it again in an endless, restless cycle. “No one will wish to enter a courtship with me,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“That is not true!” her father interjected sharply, a frown knitting his brow as he huffed in frustration. “Nene, you have but just reached your nineteenth year, and you are beautiful! Any gentleman would be blind not to notice that.”
“You only say that because I am your daughter,” she replied, the words tight with self-doubt. “Of course you think me fair… but my ankles-”
“-are perfectly normal,” he cut in, his voice firm yet soft, as though laying a steadying hand upon her worries. “Do you think any fine gentleman truly judges a lady by her ankles? Decent gentlemen don’t ponder on such trifles.”
He tilted his head, smiling at her with his eyes. “You have the world before you, Nene, and far more charm than you give yourself credit for. Do not let imagined faults cloud what is very real: your own worth.”
And with a tremor of hesitation, she lifted the letter once more and pressed it back into his hands, her pale fingers pointed at a particular line. “Then,” She paused and watched as he read it in silence, and a brief, knowing smile touched his lip.
He knew she wanted this despite her complaints.
“Then, if…if you advise that I should still attend…would you accompany me? Their Majesties have graciously allowed a relation to come with me. My heart would not race so wildly if you were there to steady it. I should not feel so alone.”
But to her disappointment, he only shook his head. Folding the paper shut carefully so the corners touched, and set it aside behind himself. “I am afraid that cannot be. My business affords me very little liberty, and a month’s absence would be far too costly. I must remain here.”
Yashiro straightened at once, her hands curling into small fists near her shoulders as though to plead - but he spoke again before she could find the words.
“A house is meant to send its children out into the world, not keep them tucked away forever. I would be a poor father indeed if I tried to shield you from your future. It is the natural course of things.”
“And is there no way I might change your mind?” she moaned, gripping his sleeves, slightly pulling them as if the action would force something to shift.
But - “No.”
Yashiro sank back against the settee, the linen of her gown settling in soft folds around her as the coral ribbon tied beneath her bust loosened and trembled with the motion, its tiny bow askew. She stared up at the painted mural that stretched across the ceiling, her expression full of quiet defeat. Her arms folded around herself as she sighed, already knowing that no more argument she might devise would move him; her father was as stubborn in his practicality as she was in her romantic fancies, and once resolved, he was not easily swayed.
“After today, however, I have learned you shall not be entirely alone,” he continued, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. “It is the very reason I hastened home. Lord Minamoto informed me that his youngest son has also received an invitation to join the Season leading up to the Summer Solstice.”
“Kou?” she asked at once, her head lifting from the cushions.
“Yes. Though I must caution you to mind how you address him in company. The use of his given name may invite whispers, and certain gentlemen might assume the two of you share an attachment of a rather… premature familiarity.” He rose as he spoke, drawing out his pocket watch and checking the time, the metal of the fob chain giving a faint, tidy clink.
“Not that I would object to such an arrangement in the least,” he added with a mild, amused air. “Lord Minamoto and I have long agreed that the two of you would make a most charming pair. And, indeed, you would be marrying well enough that I need not trouble myself with-”
“Father,” she whined, drawing out the word in protest, “Kou and I are friends. Friends! It shall never, ever come to pass. I watched him grow up beside me, and if he is anything at all, it is unsavoury rather than charming.”
“It was worth the suggestion, at least before you depart for Court.”
“Well, I certainly do not wish it and nor does he. I thought our discussion of that supposed ‘marriage’ last year had buried the matter well enough that it would never again see the light of day!”
He inclined his head toward her, a hint of apology softening his expression. “Forgive me. It is only that the two of you get on so very well.”
“We do,” she admitted with a small nod. “But I mean to find love for myself - and not in the boy who was sick all over my gown after shooting his first duck on his tenth birthday.” She shuddered physically, her face twisting at the memory. “I swear I can still smell it sometimes…” she muttered, scrubbing irritably at the bridge of her nose.
Her father burst into laughter, quick and unguarded. “Well,” he said once he had caught his breath, “in that case, I suppose your objection is entirely reasonable.”
“Precisely!” she huffed, her cheeks puffing out in a sulk as she turned her face away.
The image of Kou’s sunlit, blonde hair and bright blue eyes rose unbidden in her mind - along with that crooked little fang that showed whenever he grinned at her with everything but love. He was her equal in years, yet his birth placed him comfortably above her; a young gentleman of a reputable family (a Marquestes), trained in propriety and duty, and far too inclined to involve himself in affairs that did not strictly concern him - particularly when those affairs involved her.
He had not simply intruded upon the quiet, solitary course of her life; he had planted himself firmly within it, all stubborn kindness and well-meaning interference, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And when the moment came for him to step away - as any sensible passer-by stranger ought - he had instead clung to her side with a persistence that was equal parts exasperating and… reassuring.
It was, she supposed, a most irritating comfort to have become so accustomed to such a steadfast pillar
But for all his rank and upbringing, there was nothing of the aloof noble about him. Kou possessed neither the hauteur nor the calculating reserve that seemed so natural to young men of his standing. Instead, he carried himself with an almost embarrassing earnestness - speaking his mind without guile, offering help before it was requested, and blundering headfirst into trouble with the most heroic of intentions and the least amount of foresight.
He was, in truth, entirely too good. Too honest by half, and far too ready to believe the best of others, even when they had given him every reason not to. And worst of all, he seemed to expect that same goodness from her, as though she were some gentle heroine out of one of those dreadful sentimental novels he was forever borrowing from his sister. It was a most inconvenient sort of faith - one she had neither asked for nor quite knew how to shake.
For no matter how plainly she reminded him that she was hardly the sort of sweet, blameless creature he imagined, he only laughed it off, as though it were some poor jest, and went on treating her just the same. Not with stiff bows or rehearsed compliments, but with that easy, familiar warmth that belonged only to him - offering his arm without thinking, scolding her without ceremony, and standing at her side as though he was meant to always be there.
It was thoroughly vexing. And yet, she took it as it was, with a small smile she did not quite bother to hide. For what kind of person would she be if she turned away such open, unguarded affection - especially when it came from the one companion who had chosen her so stubbornly, and never once thought to let her go?
And so he remained, as he ever did: at her side during long carriage rides, leaning far too eagerly from the door to extend his hand the instant the wheels so much as faltered, as though she might dissolve into thin air if he did not assist her down himself; lingering at the periphery of conversations with the air of an overzealous sentinel, poised to intervene at the slightest provocation; and addressing her with that same artless sincerity, which rendered every careless compliment undeserved, and every trifling concern of his an inconveniently tender weight upon her heart.
And though he was impulsive, occasionally foolish, and far too easily stirred into righteous indignation on her behalf. He was also brave in that quiet, head-strong way - never the sort to abandon a promise, nor to leave a friend behind, no matter how inconvenient the circumstances. All with that same determined look in his eyes, as though the entire world were a simple matter of right and wrong, and he meant to stand squarely on the proper side of it.
He never seemed to notice the subtleties that others prided themselves upon. Whispered insults, sly glances, the delicate manoeuvrings of rank and favour - all of it passed over him like rain off a tiled roof. If he did notice, he paid it no mind. Because to Kou, a thing was either kind or unkind, honest or deceitful, proper or improper. And the rest was unnecessary complication.
Heaven help anyone who should fall into the latter categories in his presence. His temper, though quick to kindle, was never cruel - only fiercely protective. He possessed an utter intolerance for injustice, and least of all when it touched upon those he held dear; and he would meet it head-on, with a reckless sincerity that left her heart seesawing between acute mortification and the most unwilling gratitude.
It was a naive way to live, in a society so fond of pretence and polished falsehoods.
It was absurd, she thought, to have grown so accustomed to such disarming, sincere loyalty. And more annoying still to realise that, should he ever withdraw that warm, infuriating presence, the world would feel a far colder and lonelier place for it.
She loved him, though not in the fluttering, manner that resembled the breathless romances whispered over teacups. There was nothing dramatic or uncertain about it. It was steady, familiar, and entirely without pretence - like breath in her lungs, or the rhythm of her own footsteps beside his. He was simply Kou, and that, in her mind, was reason enough.
The thought settled over her with a quiet, steady warmth, lingering like the faint hum of a familiar tune - comforting, if a touch inconvenient. After a moment, however, it soured at the edges.
He would never know, she reflected with a small flicker of guilt, that she had, in fact, stolen that book from him and only returned it once she had read it clean through from beginning to end. He would likely have been delighted, had he known - press another into her hands with that same lopsided, fang-baring grin. And then, no doubt, he would insist upon discussing the plot in exhausting detail, all eager enthusiasm and thoughtful opinions, as though her thoughts on the matter were of the utmost importance.
It was precisely the sort of thing he would do - tiresome, well-meaning, and impossible to take offence at for long.
The notion, drawing the ghost of a smile to her lips.
But her gaze drifted, almost in spite of herself, toward the letter resting behind her father on the settee, and the lightness of the thought ebbed away. With a quiet breath, she pushed herself up onto one elbow, curiosity and unease stirring where warmth had just been.
“…will they truly expect me to dance every evening? Even though I do not know how?” Her voice came out small and tight.
“Undoubtedly, but I’ll hire the best instructor so you need not worry.” her father nodded.
“And speak to strangers?”
“Constantly.” he replied with a light laugh. “Particularly if you hope to secure a husband.”
“And I must be pleasant while doing it?” She lifted herself a little higher, frustration creeping into her faint glare.
Her father winced. “Well. That may prove the greatest trial.”
“Father!”
He let out a short breath of amusement. “You will manage. You always do - after a suitable measure of complaining.”
“You are the worst,” she muttered, cheeks puffed again in wounded indignation.
“And besides,” he added more gently, “if the gentlemen prove insufferable, you may simply return home and tell me so. I shall consider it their failure, not yours.”
And for a moment, neither spoke. It was as if even a single word were to dare disturb the thick, apprehensive tension, it would threaten to collapse entirely upon them.
“You would not be disappointed?” she asked, her voice tiny as her fingers toyed with the scalloped edge of her sleeve. The fine lace gathered and released beneath her touch, as though it too shared in her unease.
She would not look at him - would not risk the tenderness or the sorrow she might find there. The corners of her eyes drew tight, her mouth trembling faintly, for he had not yet spoken. He only stood at her feet in silence, hands folded neatly behind his back, as though he too feared what might follow.
But before she could brush it aside with a strained, forget it, he moved. Not to the settee, nor to the space beside her, but down - onto his knees before her. He bowed his head slightly so that he might catch her averted gaze.
“You could tarnish your name,” he said gently, “undo every expectation placed upon you, and never marry at all - and still I would wait only to hear you call me father, because I hold you too dear to wish you any life but the one that brings you peace, Nene. And your mother-” his voice softened, almost wistful, “-your mother would say the very same, if she were here to tell you herself.”
Yashiro looked up at once, her lips parting in quiet stupefaction. She re-folded her legs in the other direction with careful grace, as though the moment deserved a certain solemnity. And quietly asked -
“Are you certain?”
“I am,” he answered, with calm conviction. “We are proud of you regardless. Whether you enchant the whole of the court or return just as you are, you will be remarkable there, Nene. I have never once doubted it, and I never shall.”
She felt the tears brewing over the edge again and smiled, laughing “Thank you. I think… I needed to hear that.” Her hands fumbled, fixing the pin tucking the front strand of her hair deeper into the coils. A distraction in a frozen frame of vulnerability.
“Anytime, my dear.” He gave her knee a fond pat. “Now then-” he straightened, purpose returning to his shoulders “-I must send word to the dressmaker at once. If I leave now, I may still catch them before they close for the evening.”
He bent to kiss the top of her head, lingering for a heartbeat, then turned away with a brisk farewell. His steps echoed down the passage, growing softer and softer, until the front door shut with a solid, echoing click.
From the kitchen, the kettle gave a sharp, indignant shriek.
She had completely forgotten the water she had set to boil before all this commotion began.
From the very instant the great doors of the manor had been thrown open to welcome Kou, he had been striving - patiently, doggedly, and with a persistence bordering on inhumane - to force the truth upon Yashiro.
He hadn’t even crossed the threshold before Lord Yashiro himself had seized him by both arms, yanked him inside, and drew him aside with a desperation so plain it needed no words to explain. They were in trouble, of that much, there could be no doubt. And the old man’s composure, usually so pristine and carefully maintained, had come undone at the edges. His voice trembled as he spoke, and his grip tightened to something approaching a vice, as though Kou himself were the last solid thing left to hold onto. His eyes shone with a thick, glassy sheen - one that spoke of a long, fruitless day, of arguments that had led nowhere, and of a mounting dread that had only deepened with every passing hour. It was the look of a man who had tried everything, and found nothing that would move his daughter even an inch.
And as Kou flung his arms up, as though to ward himself from the onslaught of the growling man before him - begging, imploring, and all but forcing the burden into his keeping - he could only stare on in helpless dismay. His features drew tight with strain, a grimace settling across them as the muffled sounds of protest carried from deeper within the house, soon joined by a second, gentler female voice attempting to reason in soft, measured tones.
“You must enlighten her, Kou,” Lord Yashiro urged, his voice low and frayed, as though he were plucking the duty from the air itself and thrusting it squarely into the boy’s back with a desperate shove. Kou dug in his heels at once, resisting the sudden advance toward the distant voices. “She will not listen to me. She never does when her temper is roused so, but you… you might just be able to-”
They strained against one another, momentum locked in opposition - the viscount pressing forward with surprising strength, seeking firmer purchase against the floor.
“Uncle-” Kou hissed, teeth clenched, genuine bewilderment flashing across his face. He could not fathom where the man - who had long since become family through years of familiar visits - had discovered the strength to overpower him so thoroughly. A flicker of irrational alarm crept into his widened eyes as he shot his arms out, gripping the edge of the corridor for dear life. Their contest - push against pull - stalled for a fleeting instant.
“You ride this afternoon to London. We have no time!” Lord Yashiro’s arms drove forward again and again, relentless in their urgency. Kou’s elbows trembled as he held his ground, the ache of strained muscles wrenching a sharp gasp from him as he twisted his neck back.
“It’s hopeless. If I go in there, it will only worsen matters!” he protested. Yet in the brief moment he spent fumbling for further excuses, his hold faltered. His joints gave, and he was forced bodily back into the corridor.
“Just smooth her spirit. Please!”
And though his best friend’s father had asked -
it had not felt like a request.
It had felt like a plea.
And so Kou had, with no small reluctance, given his assent - of course he had. What else could he have done, when a father pressed such trembling hope into his hands? What choice had he, when it concerned Nene? It was only proper that he try.
And yet, as he regarded her now - Yashiro with her chin lifted in that infuriating, defiant fashion of hers, eyes alight with stubborn indignation, her mouth drawn into a severe line that promised resistance to the very last - he could not help but suspect the task would prove far more formidable than either of them had imagined.
Lord Yashiro, for his part, had made himself scarce almost the moment the responsibility settled upon Kou’s shoulders, retreating with a haste that bordered on cowardice. It was as though the fear tightening in Kou’s chest were not merely some foolish fancy of his own, but a solid, palpable thing - one that had taken root in her father as well, and driven him to flee the scene the instant another soul could be made to bear it.
“God,” he groaned under his breath, giving chase after the retreating figures as they hurried down the corridor ahead of him. “Nene, please - wait!”
He pressed on after them, the effort sending a hot, protesting ache through his already fatigued calves, his spiked hair bouncing with each hurried step. Yet the corridors seemed determined to betray him. The manor’s upper floor twisted and branched like a labyrinth - hallways bending unexpectedly, doors appearing in neat, identical rows, passages splitting away at the most inconvenient moments.
Since when, he wondered in growing exasperation, had the Yashiro residence become so impossibly vast?
Yashiro, however, pressed on relentlessly, utterly undeterred, calling back a sharp, unequivocal, “No! Absolutely not!”
Kou felt the tension deepen between his brows and the corners of his mouth as he pursued her. She was not merely displeased - she was immovably resolute. Every word he offered struck a silent, unyielding wall; every carefully measured attempt at reason slipped past her as though it had never been spoken. It was like trying to divert a surging river with nothing but bare hands - an exercise in futility. She flowed around every effort, unbending, unmoved, and utterly certain of the course she had chosen.
He had tried gentleness. He had tried humour. He had even, in a moment of poorly concealed panic, attempted a rather feeble sort of sternness that sat upon him like an ill-fitting coat. None of it had made the slightest dent.
And in truth, he had made an impeccable lack of progress.
Yashiro swept through the corridor of her manor with such force that the light muslin of her gown trembled about her ankles like disturbed water. The pale sage skirts, fine as breath, whispered across the wooden floors as she went, and the ribbon sash at her waist quivered with each indignant step.
Behind her hurried the unfortunate seamstress, engaged only that very morning. Her cheeks were flushed, her neck damp with anxiety, and a needle already threaded with mahogany silk trembled between her fingers as she struggled to keep pace. The small instruments of her trade - scissors, thimble, and pin-case - jingled faintly within the deep pocket of her oversized apron, the sound like a nervous countdown with every step she took.
“Miss Yashiro, the back fastening has slipped - I implore you, stand still but a moment,” she entreated, fingers trembling as they fluttered over the bodice, striving to coax the stubborn clasp back into place. Yet her mistress would not pause. The autumn-hued string trailed through the air as she reached for the wandering hooks, which had pulled free from the seam. With every determined step, the delicate fabric strained perilously, threatening to betray her lady’s haste.
“Nene, I did not invent the rules,” Kou said, casting the seamstress a fleeting look of pity. He tried reason once more, though every prior attempt had been met with obstinate silence or sharp retorts. “You cannot fault the court for enforcing them.”
Yashiro’s nose twitched with a sharp, irritated motion, but she did not so much as glance over her shoulder. The sheer outer layer of her gown brushed against her wrist with a faint, impatient rustle, like silk whispering secrets she had no intention of hearing. Her silence fell colder and sharper than any retort she might have spoken.
Behind her, the seamstress was near tears.
And as he fumbled to extract his pocket watch from his trousers, the seconds seemed to mock him, stubbornly marching on with no regard for his plight. London waited. The court awaited. Expectations loomed, thick and threatening, like storm clouds gathering along the horizon - and he alone stood between her and the cascade of disappointment - or worse - that might follow should she enter that world unprepared.
The weight of it pressed down upon him like a physical force. He could almost still feel Lord Yashiro’s desperate grip on his sleeves, hear the tremor in the older man’s voice, feel the urgency that had been thrust upon him. Kou had promised. He had meant to uphold it. Yet now, as he watched her - all fire and eyes blazing with stubborn pride, every gesture a declaration of defiance - he felt a sharp coil of frustration tighten within his chest
“Miss, if you would only stop, I could secure it properly - only a moment, I beg you! At the very least, allow me a pin!” Nene’s seamstress pleaded, half-running, half-stumbling in her attempt to keep pace.
And at last, just before the door of her bedchamber - her sanctuary, her final refuge - Miss Yashiro wavered. The thought struck her unbidden, sudden and sharp as a chill draught slipping through a shuttered room, and she came to a halt in the middle of the corridor.
Kou had been far behind enough to stop in time, but her seamstress, who had been rushing after her in brimming agitation, nearly collided with her back. She checked herself at the final instant, though not without consequence; her skirts tangled about her ankles, and she sank to one knee with a startled cry, clutching her equipment as though it were a thing of great value.
And had Yashiro not been so thoroughly entangled in her own thoughts, she would have stooped at once, offered her hand, and helped the poor woman to her feet. Under ordinary circumstances, she would scarcely have hesitated. But now, she hardly seemed to notice at all. Instead, she lifted a finger to her chin, her brows knitting into a troubled, inward concentration.
Yes - she was angry. Deeply, unmistakably frustrated, and Kou required no great intellect to perceive as much. It showed in the rigid set of her shoulders, in the tight, drawn expression that had not left her face throughout the entirety of their one-sided quarrel. Yet even so, it was plain to him that something had shifted. There was a different weight in her gaze now - quieter, more uncertain - as though some unwelcome understanding had crept upon her.
She had realised something. Something unpleasant enough to still her temper, if only for a moment.
For if she allowed herself the full honesty of it - if she set aside, even briefly, the sting of betrayal and disappointment she felt toward Kou and her father - then she could no longer persist in this defiance. Not with quite the same certainty. Not with quite the same righteous indignation.
She was not ignorant of the tyranny of appearances - least of all within so exalted a sphere as the court. To present herself in a gown half-fastened would invite precisely the species of scrutiny no young lady could hope to withstand. And though her reputation was neither favourable nor ill - indeed, scarcely formed at all, carried as she was from a modest village on the distant fringes of London society - she knew she must weigh the risk with sober consideration.
If she were to stand before the queen herself as a debutante, how would such disorder be received? What judgement would be passed upon a bodice left imperfectly secured, a fastening astray, beneath the sharp and merciless gaze of the court?
She knew the answer without needing to dwell upon it. It would be intolerable - utterly, inescapably so. Least of all upon an occasion of such consequence.
“Listen to me.”
Kou reached them at last and stepped neatly around the seamstress, who had seized upon Yashiro’s sudden stillness as a merciful opportunity. She was already at work again, fumbling with a small pair of sewing scissors and a cushion of pins, her hands moving with renewed urgency.
Too incensed to disguise it, Yashiro turned sharply toward the sound of his voice. Her eyes narrowed as they travelled up his slouched form, watching him lean against the wall beside her and fold his arms across the front of his tailored, moody-blue tailcoat. The neat line of black buttons, edged in silver at their rims, caught the faint light of the oil lamps hung beside a sombre hallway painting.
He lifted one foot to rest against the ivory skirting board, attempting to project a careless sort of nonchalance - the same boyish posture he often assumed when he meant to look unbothered. Yet the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him, and the tight set of his mouth spoke more honestly than the pose itself. His patience, ordinarily so generous, had been worn thin by the long, fruitless exchange.
After nearly an hour of this, even a dear friend might falter. And Kou, for all his warmth and earnestness, was hardly made of stone.
“Look,” he said, the word leaving him on a long, exasperated breath. “I know you prefer to do things in your own fashion. Believe me, I am well aware of it. And if there were any conceivable way for me to spare you the inconvenience of my escort, I would seize upon it gladly.”
He shifted slightly, rubbing at his hip as he leaned back, the cool wallpaper pressing against the nape of his neck. “But London is not our quiet village. It is stricter, far more harsh…and less inclined to kindness.”
She, however, seemed quite unable to grasp what he was trying to convey without stating it outright.
“I simply-” She drew in a sharp breath, flinging her gloved hands upward before letting them fall with a frustrated thud against her thigh. “I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend the necessity of an escort,” she continued, her voice edged with wounded pride. “I have managed perfectly well on my own thus far. So why must I now be conducted to and from every corner of the court as though I were incapable of taking a single step unaccompanied? It is absurd - nothing but an excess of irrational concern, parading about under the dignified name of protection.”
She paced toward him, then retreated again, as though stillness were impossible - trapped with no true escape, yet unwilling to remain too near him either. “You do me a grave disservice, Kou,” she said, her voice tight with offence. “You are my friend, and yet here you stand, insulting both my competence and my independence.”
But quickly, he pushed himself back off the wall and stepped towards her. Reaching for her trembling hands, but drawing back at the last second. His eyes widened as they fixed upon her rounder, hazel ones.
“Nene, I insinuate nothing of the sort.” he said softly. “But you, as well as I do, know the importance of the season.”
And as her head dipped, the weight of his words settling upon her, her gaze fell to the disordered cravat at his throat - the knot and navy ribbon slightly askew from their frantic pursuit through the corridors. Without quite realising it, she stepped closer, the space between them narrowing as her hands slipped free from the tangle of her skirts and rose to the task. Her fingers brushed lightly against his skin before retreating, gently unwinding the loosened folds.
The linen gave a faint, delicate rustle as she straightened each crease and began winding it once more about his neck, smoothing the rolled lengths with careful precision until they lay neatly intertwined, forming a tidy knot beneath his Adam’s apple. With quiet concentration, she tucked the remaining fabric into the front of his dark grey waistcoat, ensuring every edge sat in its proper place.
Kou looked down at her from his height, a faint frown softening his features - not of sorrow, but of silent, solemn understanding. Because he knew all too well the precarious station she inhabited, and the countless sacrifices demanded of her so that society might not turn its back on her. He knew, as only someone who cared might, how difficult it had been - and how still it was - for Yashiro to accept the innumerable things denied of her for simply being a woman.
This was one of those denials.
Freedom itself.
As her escort - something he had volunteered for before her father could even form the request - he was, in some small but undeniable way, taking that last sliver of space from her. And though he did not regard such expectations with the same rigid solemnity as the world around them, he felt their weight all the same.
He saw her apprehension: the sharp edge of unease threading through every movement she made. He recognised the way she would pause, if only for a heartbeat, to measure whether the words about to leave her mouth were suitable for a lady. He knew the frustration that sometimes slipped free when she forgot herself - emotions that could only be safely expressed within the privacy of her own home. He knew the irritation that smouldered beneath her skin whenever she was laced into garments that felt more like restraints than clothing.
He knew she hated these rules.
That she had never consented to their invisible iron bars.
That, if it were left to her, she would tear them to shreds - reduce them to such fine fragments that no amount of time could ever piece them together again.
He knew she had grown accustomed to a life less fettered, where such strictures were neither so frequent nor so suffocation.
And he knew, too, with uncomfortable clarity, how he must appear to her now. Not the easy, reliable companion she had always known, but something dulled and uncertain - an image clouded by disappointment. He could see it in the way her hands lingered at his cravat, slower than necessary, as though the simple task carried an unspoken weight.
She was hurt.
She was wounded by it. Heartbroken. For she might have expected such rigid expectations from her father, a man shaped by older and more conventional habits - but never from Kou. Never from the friend who had always stood at her side, not between her and the world.
And as she drew back, he could almost feel the line between them tearing, splitting with quiet, jagged sounds. The light in her eyes shifted - no longer bright with elation, but glossed with tears. So, as if to stop it, or at least slow it, he moved in quiet desperation and clasped her fingers between his, holding tight. Even if what he was doing was wrong, he was doing it with the right intention.
He needed her to know that.
He treasured the intimacy of her confidence - the unsightly, untamed feelings that would be frowned upon, forced beneath a polite, unyielding mask that never quite suited her face. He loved the way she gestured so fiercely at things that irritated her, how loudly she spoke of her passions. The way she screamed at the smallest frights, and how adorable he found her shrieks as she squeezed her eyes shut, as though not seeing the object of her fear would spare her from it.
He kept every moment with her in the pocket over his heart. From the day they met, when she had been taller than him, to this very moment now, he carried them beneath his ribs. Every image, every sound, every emotion tied to those memories - kept safe as though they were small, fragile relics he alone had been entrusted to guard.
He remembered the first time she had laughed at one of his terrible jokes, the sound bright and unrestrained, as if she had forgotten for a moment how she was meant to behave. He remembered the way she would lean too close when she spoke, as though the rest of the world ceased to exist when she had something important to say. Even her silences with him were different - soft, comfortable, unafraid.
And he adored how every part of her - flawed or radiant - was something she shared with him so freely. How she spoke to him with certainty, unashamed; how, when she was unsure, he was the first she turned to, her thoughts laid bare before him. Even beneath the watchful eyes of their families, where judgment might trail them in raised brows and clipped whispers, she had never hesitated. Not with him. Never with him. She would weave her fingers through his warm-toned hair, pat his cheek with careless fondness, strike his arm in playful exasperation at some lame jest, or seize his hand and tug him to her quiet chamber to confide her newest discoveries and hushed secrets.
Sometimes he wondered if she even realised how rare that trust was - how easily she placed it in his hands, as though she had never once considered the possibility that he might drop it. As though he were something steady, something safe. And perhaps that was why the thought of losing it now felt so unbearable.
And he - so quietly, so fiercely - was grateful that the man she trusted in that way was him.
Grateful… and terrified of the day she might look at him and decide he was not worthy of it after all.
He needed her to know he loved her.
That he loved her and has for a long time.
And that was why, for a heavy, suspended moment, he remained silent. Why he forced his most consuming desires back down into the deepest chamber of his heart, where they would never see the light of day. He smothered those futile, romantic notions of holding her - not as a friend, but as a woman. Because that would… it would never come to pass. Not with him. Never with him.
He had accepted that truth long ago, just as he had accepted the quieter, more painful one beside it - that he might never fall out of love with his dearest friend.
And that was also why he could not remain silent. Why he had to make her see - truly see - the uncompromising reality of the world she lived in, even if it meant placing a blade between them and cutting through the fragile comfort they shared.
For should she ever be discovered alone at court, without the quiet guardianship of a proper escort, the consequences would be swift and merciless. Her future reputation - so delicate, so carefully nurtured - would be shattered like glass underfoot, and with it would vanish every hope she had dared to cultivate: a marriage chosen for love rather than convenience, a household of her own to fill with warmth and laughter, the gentle serenity of growing old among those she cherished most.
These were the dreams she had confided to him, in whispers behind closed doors - the luminous colours of love she imagined, the delicate thrill of being touched by it, the careful outlines of a life lived not in duty but in devotion. How, if she could not marry for love, she would rather remain unwed, a solitary bloom refusing to bend to the harsh wind of expectation. And yet all of it - the tender possibilities, the fragile hopes - could be undone in an instant by the cruel ripple of a false report, the quiet venom of a malicious whisper behind a fan.
He knew, with unerring certainty, that he could not allow it. And so he had crossed the line she had drawn between them, the invisible boundary she had maintained over the weeks leading to the summer solstice.He had stepped over it with reluctant resolve, knowing she would feel the trespass because he would not, could not, permit such a fate to touch his dearest friend - not when the world was so ready to take from her what was hers by right of heart and hope.
“I understand…that it is the way of things,” She murmured at last. Her gaze lifted, sharp and defiant, catching his with a fiery intensity. “But must I accept it so easily?”
“Am I to be watched like a child? Ushered from door to door as if I might vanish between the carriage and the doorway? Do you say such things because I’m a wom-” Her voice rose ever so slightly, trembling with indignation.
“No! That is not what I meant and you know it,” he said, stepping even closer, the careful weight of his voice attempting to steady the storm between them. Behind them, the seamstress finished her work, her discreet bow almost a whisper as she retreated, leaving them to their confrontation.
“Then explain it plainly,” Yashiro pressed, a faint flare of frustration dancing in her hazel-pink eyes. “For all I see is mistrust. I have walked these streets alone since I could lace my own boots, and never once faltered.”
“You have,” he admitted softly, his blue eyes steady upon hers, earnest and unwavering. “And you have done so admirably. No one disputes your capability - least of all I.”
“Then why?” she asked, her voice dropping, shaking between frustration and disbelief. “Why do you insist I cannot be trusted beyond the threshold of your vigilance? Why does Father seem to stand with you and not me, when he has always - always - stood beside his daughter?”
“Because he is both a noble and a man,” Kou said gently, inclining his head, the words measured and calm. “He understands the law by which the monarchs govern. And we wish only the best for you, Nene. The opinions of those who have lived long amid the grounds of this city are harsh, unyielding. We shelter you from them because we care, not to diminish you.”
“Then let London keep its liberties to itself,” she said, the faintest crack in her tone betraying both anger and hurt. “I did not ask to be made smaller for the sake of appearances!”
“You are not made smaller,” he replied carefully, the warmth of his presence brushing against hers. “You are made visible.”
She stiffened, her hands clenching slightly at her sides, her heart hammering. “And visibility is meant to comfort me?” she asked, incredulous, the edge of irony lining her words.
“No,” he said gently, his gaze softening, the faintest tremor of emotion beneath his calm. “It is meant to protect you - from being spoken of.”
“Spoken of,” she echoed, disbelief curling her lips. “For walking?”
“For walking…” he began, then caught the rest of the sentence between his teeth. His voice dimmed beneath a veil of unease as he released a quiet sigh. His fingers closed around hers in a gentle, reassuring pressure, and he held her gaze - steady, unflinching - hoping she might glimpse the serious concern and tenderness beneath his words.
“For walking alone.”
And it seemed, though she had already known it in some distant, unspoken corner of her mind, that once Kou gave the thought voice, the truth could no longer be evaded. Should she appear by herself, without the modest safeguard of an escort, the court would not hesitate. They would affix a label to her - one wholly undeserved, yet cruelly difficult to shake.
“They would think?-”
“Yeah.”
A pause hung between them, thick with the faint clanging of cutlery and the distant echo of servants’ footsteps moving in the corridor leading to the kitchen.
And at last, Kou felt the tension in Yashiro ease. Her shoulders slackened, and her fingers curled more firmly around his, returning the gentle pressure of his hold as a quiet breath escaped her lips. With a subtle, encouraging nudge, he guided her forward, and together they moved down the hall toward the sitting room, their footsteps softened against the polished wood.
The spring morning streamed through the tall windows, sunlight caught in the white lace curtains and scattering delicate patterns across the floor, as if the world itself were bearing silent witness to their quiet conversation.
“I resent that my standing should be so fragile - so easily unsettled by something as trivial as the absence of an escort,” she murmured, her voice tight with lingering frustration, but with no more confrontation.
“So do I,” he replied without hesitation, his words falling in a soft, almost confessional murmur. He tilted his head in a small, solemn nod, lowering his gaze to hers, the quiet earnestness of his agreement written plainly across his features.
She looked away, jaw tightening, a flush rising to her cheeks. “It feels like surrender,” she murmured, voice threading with vulnerability, “as if I must pretend I am weaker than I am, simply to appease the court.”
“Then do not pretend,” he replied quietly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, encouraging smile. He cast her a brief glance as they rounded the edge of the hallway and descended a short flight of stairs, the warmth of his presence brushing against hers. He lightly stroked his thumb across the back of her hand, the gesture intimate yet unobtrusive, grounding them both. “Let them believe it, if they must. You will know the truth.”
She studied him then, her eyes wary, softened by the steady certainty in his expression. “And you - are you content to play gaoler?”
“I may be your escort,” he said, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips, “but I will allow you freedom. Between the halls, I will accompany you, tease you, distract you, brighten your expression - then I will let you melt into the crowd to mingle. Should you grow weary, you must tell me, and I shall leave without complaint. I am hardly fond of these events myself.”
“Then why remain unmarried, while our parents press us toward matches?” she asked, her eyebrows arching with a faint spark of curiosity, amusement threading the edges of her tone as the residue of their earlier quarrel slowly dissipated. “Does it not trouble you?”
He faltered, a faint blush warming his cheeks. “Y-yes… though I suppose, given the closeness of our connection, the unusual… familiarity we share, it is not surprising they might imagine otherwise.” And it wasn’t a lie. They did sometimes, undeniably, act awfully like a wedded pair.
The thought stinging slightly where their hands remained clasped.
“Agreed,” she said, a sly grin tugging at the corner of her lips, “but I will not allow them to perpetuate delusions. You would forget me the moment the ceremony ended, off in search of a glass of sparkling wine.”
“Hey!” he exclaimed, laughter breaking free, the sound bright and unguarded, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “I would make a brilliant spouse! Take that back!”
She laughed lightly in return, a clear, ringing note that seemed to chase away some of the tension that clung to the morning, and he could not help but mirror her expression, heart lifted by her teasing tone.
“But you…” He hesitated for a moment, the words catching, then recovered, softer now, returning to the question that had brought them here. “May I… escort you, Nene? For if you deny me this, I fear I would-” He whined faintly, closing his eyes and scrunching them as a child might when faced with an unfair decree.
“And if I were to refuse?” she asked, tilting her head, a playful smirk lifting one corner of her lips, the faint curve of her expression daring him to defy her.
“Then I will still walk beside you,” he stopped and spun to face her as he said simply, unwavering, eyes meeting hers without hesitation. “Because I would rather you be angry with me than unprotected in a place that would not forgive even a moment’s indiscretion.”
And he would not yield on that point.
“Then I suppose,” she said at last, a mischievous glint in her eye, “you will be forced to follow close behind.”