Shadows on the Moon by Zoe Marriott Read Free Book Online Page B

anyone to talk to or anything to do would have bored me into a restless rage within half a day. Instead I found myself dozing and daydreaming, too drained for temper. It was four days before I felt well enough to get dressed, and even then I was wan and listless: forced to move carefully for fear of dizzy spells. If my mother had observed my slow, careful movements, she would very likely have approved, all previous attempts to instill grace in me having failed.
    Of course, Mother was not there.
    The weeks that Terayama-san and my mother were gone should have been a miserable and lonely time for me. I took all my meals alone — except for Mai, sitting watchfully in the corner in case I choked on an eel bone or was attacked by spiders. If I needed something, Mai arranged it — but the sharp efficiency that Terayama-san inspired was notably absent, and I thought the servants must be treating it as a kind of holiday. I did not mind; it felt the same to me.
    I read a little, walked in the garden a little, and tried to improve my painting skills once my arms had healed somewhat. Mostly I enjoyed the chance to be . . . whatever I wanted to be. If I was sad, I could stare out the window without guarding my face. If I was cross, I could stamp my way through the garden and throw stones in the river. There was no one to ask me what was wrong or to tell me that I must forget the past, be happy, be grateful.
    Once I was strong enough, I made my way down to the kitchens each night and sat cross-legged on the floor with Youta. I listened to him talk for hours, and he taught me to turn a drifting piece of ash into a fluttering black butterfly, to transform his wispy pale hair into a glossy wave that reached his waist, and to hide him with a cloak of darkness that turned him into nothing more than a shadow. The control necessary to keep my arms concealed soon became second nature to me. I also learned to pierce Youta’s illusions, to detect them and see through them, though I could never see through my own.
    If there was a part of me that asked why, with such an astonishing talent, I had made no attempt to save my cousin, my father, my home . . . I tried not to hear it.
    After nearly five weeks had passed, Mai woke me early one morning. Since I spent almost all my nights wide awake and talking to Youta, I normally stayed in bed until nearly midday, and Mai let me. On that day, midmorning had barely arrived when shaking hands folded back my coverlet, and the screens at the window were pushed away to let in the sun.
    “Nakamura-sama, the master and mistress are home. The mistress has sent a message for you to join them; she is anxious to see you.”
    Mai’s face clearly demanded some expression of delight from me, so I smiled and thanked her and let her dig me from my warm bed, while inside my stomach dropped. It might be disloyal and ungrateful, but seeing my mother suddenly seemed a poor exchange for my solitary peace.
    The kimono Mai helped me into was a new one; a soft, pale pink embroidered all over with red and blue chrysanthemums and tiny brown thrushes. The sleeves were long enough to brush the ground as I walked. The obi and
obi-age
that wrapped my waist and rib cage were crimson and pale blue, with patterns of tiny flowers, and a new red
obi-jime
belt was tied carefully over the top of these. My hair was coiled into a smooth knot at the base of my skull and held in place with more new things, a tortoiseshell-and-gold comb and an elaborate tortoiseshell pin that dangled tiny coral plum blossoms over my right ear.
    “The honored mistress sent these things,” Mai told me, obviously giving up on me asking for myself. “She brought them back for you.”
    “They are beautiful,” I said dutifully, but really I was surprised that Mother had thought of me at all on her trip. A sneaking twinge of pleasure found its way into my depression.
    When Mai was finished, she helped me to my feet. I stood still a moment, gathering my balance —