One Month Later
“A little bit of blue, a little bit of pink pink pink …”
He’d been working on that same damn painting for the last fifteen years.
The tiny woman pressed herself against the far shoji, the longer of her two kodachis already drawn. She kept her eyes focused on her prey’s back as he swayed back and forth, taking in the canvas from different angles. Okita brought the wooden end of his paintbrush to his lips, adding yet another set of teeth marks to numerous others as he held it in his mouth.
The assassin who had once terrified the police of Kyoto flexed her naked left foot, curving it until only her big toe touched the ground. She’d dash when he turned to add more paint to his palette. Yes. Then he would be turned at an awkward angle, and there would be nothing he could do to defend himself.
“Ah, flowers for the pattern. Sakura or … no … not flowers at all. Stars. Hai, hai. Stars. Brilliant, Souji. Thank you very much, Souji. No, thank you, Souji.”
She’d have to be quick, very quick, or be in danger of being sensed. Nakenashi the Ghost had never had such troubles, but she would have never prevailed. No, only Jikiri had the experience and patience to win this battle. Yes, this had gone on far too long …
The evening’s shadows would assist in the endeavor.
She’d tied back both her sleeves in an effort to make the attack noiseless. She’d subdued her ki with meditation and the practiced skill of a ninja. She’d even gone through a rigorous schedule of stretching and limbering her body over the past week, all just to prepare for an opportunity such as this.
Okita-san will never know what hit him.
“The moon, the moon, as good as a spoon, to scoop up the light and put it … put it … Ah, I’ve run out of moon. Where’d I put that color, Souji? I don’t know, Souji. Under the blue, perhaps? Hai, hai …”
Jikiri leaped forward as soon as Okita turned to look through the tiny pots of color. The movement of every muscle calculated, every inch of air in her lungs expelled, Jikiri rushed toward the man at the easel. She slipped to his blind side with a final flounce, and when Okita turned back to the canvas, he found a kodachi blade under his chin.
Okita’s gaze dipped downward and then slid along the blade until he could see the arm holding it. “Not a fan of art, Jikiri?”
“You’re our hostage now, and you must meet our demands,” Jikiri hissed. “Unless you wish to face the most drastic of consequences.”
“Demands? So ka? And what would those be?”
Jikiri paused for a moment. What were her demands? Oh yes. “This Jikiri demands you fire Eiji. You must make him go.”
Okita pressed his lips together in an attempt to keep himself from smiling. “But who would teach botany and horticulture? Who would keep the gardens? Who would drive Jikiri to wit’s end on a daily basis?”
“Feh, Okita-san, this isn’t supposed to be funny. You’re my hostage.”
Okita held up his hands and put on his best possible serious face. “Oh yes. I’m quite frightened, I promise. Do continue …”
“We also demand a feast in the form of dumplings and kampyo.”
“Ah, Jikiri, are you asking me to accompany you to dinner?”
Jikiri withdrew her kodachi and put her hands on her hips, pouting through her scowl. “You knew this Jikiri was there, hiding in the shadows. You knew, didn’t you, Okita-san?”
Okita shook his head as fervently as possible. “No, no. I was completely surprised this time.”
“Mmm.” Jikiri leaned forward to sniff her mentor’s shoulder. “You smell of lies!”
“Well … I …” Okita decided to change the subject.
Jikiri’s attempts to sneak up on him, so far, had failed. She tried to defeat his ability to sense ki on a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis but could not seem to prevail. Still, he definitely enjoyed the ritual nonetheless. “Say, weren’t we speaking of dinner?”
“Yes. Can Jikiri drag you away from your beloved painting long enough to indulge in a feast? Naoya-san made it before I returned.”
“Hai, hai. Mustn’t paint on an empty stomach. Shall we have a picnic here in the office?”
Jikiri chuckled as she crossed the room to retrieve the basket of food. Okita grinned. The years had not changed her much. She’d grown a few inches in her late teenage years, thankfully, but still stood a good half head shorter than he. Her hair had gained some length but no matter how much Naoya fussed at her to wear it in a more contemporary style, Jikiri just kept it in a thick and practical braid, which she twisted into a loop that hung at the nape of her neck. Unfortunately, she hadn’t filled out in more womanly ways and still looked sometimes like a boy trying to pass as a girl.
Okita took a small blanket out of the cabinet and spread it on the floor. They ate like this often, neither of them having much time for a formal dinner. Jikiri worked now as the school’s headmistress of both security and discipline. The job was demanding, as many of the girls came from wealthy families, leading to attitude problems as well as longstanding pre-existing rivalries and outside enemies looking for easy targets. At first, Okita had attempted to have Jikiri teach kendo. It turned into a disaster. Apparently Jikiri was no good at teaching sword skills, only using her own to dispatch opponents. Several of the girls had ended up hospitalized.
But the school was growing, and for that, Okita was thankful. They had added several new buildings over the last fifteen years, notably a Western greenhouse. And Okita could think of no one better to take care of it and teach the young women botany than Mishima Eiji.
Okita almost giggled at his own craftiness. Him? Play matchmaker? Never. It was a coincidence. Yes, just a coincidence that he had maneuvered two of his favorite people into working together.
“Now, that’s not a good smile at all, Okita-san. Are you being wicked behind those eyes?”
Okita knelt down on the blanket beside Jikiri as she began to unpack the food. “I’m hurt, Jikiri, truly I … oh … there really are dumplings.”
“Aa. Naoya-san said you’d like that.” Jikiri passed the bowl to her mentor.
Okita pulled out one of the dumplings and popped it into his mouth. Naoya really had turned into such a great cook, and her dumplings were divine. Everyone agreed, even Tokio. Such an odd thing, the knowledges of women, secret skills passed from one to another much like swordfighting styles. You could definitely discern the influence of master on student in both. And now, Eiko would be next. She’d conquer the basics and then add her own flare into the mix.
“How did it go? With Naoya and Chou, that is? Did they approve of my plan?”
Jikiri nodded as she lifted one of the kampyo with her chopsticks. “Quite. Naoya said, ‘Tell Okita-san that he’s brilliant, and if he weren’t so short and so old, I’d kiss him.’”
“Aie! I’m not that old. I refuse to be old. Now, Saitou-san, he’s old.”
Jikiri said nothing.
“I’m not fifty yet. I still have some years to go!”
Still nothing.
“I’ve got all my teeth. See?”
“Yes, yes, Okita-san, yes, yes.”
“Don’t placate me like I am an old man.”
“No, this Jikiri is placating you like a little boy.”
Okita laughed quite hard at this and ended up almost choking on his food. He liked this. Yes. This was the best—just sitting here with Jikiri, eating, talking, not a care in the world to be had. You could go to the ends of the world in search of delectable earthly pleasures, fight a thousand battles for your ideals, and witness the dawning of a new era. And still, nothing would compare to a simple meal shared with a kindred spirit.
“Is that unagi?”
“Yes.” Jikiri slid the container in Okita’s direction after pulling out a piece for herself. “Anyway, after Naoya-san said that, Chou-san said, ‘Tell Kita-san it’ll never fuckin’ work, and he’ll end up with a katana through his throat.’ He said he won’t try to stop you, though.”
“And Eiji?”
Jikiri blinked and put her hand down, resting her chopsticks on the edge of the bowl.
“What about Eiji, Jikiri?”
Okita watched as Jikiri’s entire face became taut. Her eyes clouded over, not with joy or anger, but just with extremely deep thought. Finally, she leaned back slightly and put her fingers to her forehead, as if trying to use pressure to defend against a headache. “Eiji … he … Eiji said he’d help us if I would marry him.”
Okita’s eyes grew wide. He dropped his chopsticks and grabbed Jikiri’s hand excitedly. Finally! It had taken years, but Eiji had finally asked her. “Really? What did you say?”
“This Jikiri said no. And then Eiji said that of course he would do it anyway. Then he said that he didn’t mind my answer. He’d just wait and keep asking until I say yes.”
“He’s very patient, Jikiri. He learned from the best. I doubt he will give up on you.” Okita released Jikiri’s hand and tried his best to give her a reassuring smile. Deep down, Okita believed, Jikiri really did enjoy Eiji’s company. She possibly even loved him. Jikiri trusted no one with ease, especially those who proclaimed their love for her. The terrors of her past caused her to keep most men at arm’s length. Unfortunately, the men she had killed, they had stolen her most precious innocence. And frankly, if they weren’t dead already, Okita would have done everything in his power to send them screaming to their graves.
“And what about you, Okita-san? Did I not see the widows Kanjuriko and Tabaki on the school grounds yesterday?”
Okita looked like someone had just shoved a smelly fish under his nose. Those widows, they came around every week for tea. But they were such officious, gossipy women. “I already have over four hundred students,” Okita declared. “That’s enough women for any man. I don’t need to marry someone just to have a woman’s touch on my world. And if I want my bed warmed at night, I’ll put my blankets by the fire.”
Jikiri quirked an eyebrow at the speech and shook her head, changing the subject. “Do you really think this plan will work, Okita-san?”
“Don’t you?”
Jikiri’s eyebrows crinkled in thought. “I agree with Chou-san. You’re going to end up with a katana through your throat, and this Jikiri will be locked in prison. But …” Jikiri leaned forward and tapped her mentor on his head with the end of her chopstick. “This one doubts she has the wherewithal to deny you anything, Okita-san. You could talk a lion into having tea with lambs.”
“Good. Then, we’re set.” Okita gave the tiny woman a wink, and turned back to his food. Oh yes, and what a plan it was. They’d be so surprised. And so what if Saitou got angry? For once, that man was going to do something romantic with his wife, even if it killed Okita to force him into it.
“Aie! You’ve eaten the last dumpling, old man.”
“No,” Okita said, indicating Jikiri’s bowl with the end of his chopsticks, “I gave it to you.”
“Oh.” Jikiri smiled sheepishly as she picked up the stuffed noodle. “So you did.”
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