#mitsukiki

Perhaps she should have let Mother send her to the capital after all; at least there she has the chance to be called a failure, to be declared so unmarriable that she might give up on the idea entirely. But instead she is here, wondering how she might recount dinner without Mother heaving her weary sighs, worry etching itself deeper with each detail her explanations embroider.

When Kiki finally rounds the corner, the long corridor of nearly empty guest chambers unfurls before her. No light spills out onto the carpet— or at least, none save what the sconces manage from their perches, fluted glass funneling their shine up rather than out. Even her mother’s door is dark, cast in the pale shadow between sconces, not even a hint of a candle lighting the space beneath.

Her next steps fall quite lighter as she passes, relief buoying her like a feather on the wind. She drips pearls passing through her door, eager to be rid of her elegant trappings, the luxurious details that mark her out as the daughter of a count, a girl destined to be wedded and bedded and bred with a brave face. There would be time enough to disappoint Mother with her missteps tomorrow, after she’s had a full night’s rest, but tonight—

“Milady.” It’s a soft voice that calls to her, pitched at no louder than a whisper, more a notable absence of sound than spoken word. “Is that you?”

The clasp on her bracelet springs open, sapphires melting through her fingers as she meets the maid’s gaze over her shoulder. She’s a pretty one— they’re all pretty here— hair tidily swept back to underscore the point. An observation that might have been fun to float in front of His Highness, save that the girl is old enough to have been hired during his father’s term, not his. “It is. If you don’t mind, could you get the back of this? The buttons—”

“It’s your mother, miss.”

Every muscle stiffens, making her more statue than flesh. “My mother?” Her lips nearly cut themselves on the edge of those words. “Is she…?”

All right is what comes to her first, but there’s no point in asking, not when the maid stands there wringing her hands, distressed down to the weave of her dress. They hardly came here with hopes of improvement, merely a slower decline. A pretty place to pass the time while they waited out the inevitable.

And yet she cannot bear to voice the more salient question. Inevitable it may be, but still— there’s something about speaking it that makes it more immediate, more real.

“She’s…” Those slender fingers knit together, squeezing tight before she says, “Her breathing is quite labored, miss. Should we…?”

Call the doctor. Kiki’s teeth grit hard enough to ache.

“Don’t bother.” There’s little and less he can do for her anyway. “I’ll stay with her.”

*

Mother does not sleep easy that night.

For that matter, neither does Kiki. For hours she keeps vigil at her mother’s side, watching the agonizing struggle of inhalation, only to be followed by the stomach-churning lull of an exhale. It is not her worst bout, not by far, but as the hours creep toward morning, even the moon abandons her place in the sky, and she cannot help but wonder if each breath might be the last. If with every fall of her mother’s chest, it might never rise again.

At some point, Kiki sleeps— she must, since she wakes with a wince, a hand raised to shield herself from the light pouring through the curtains. Her gown is rumpled, pearls and silvered beads having shed off in the night, mussed beyond what even a good steam might fix. A chair— a big, wing-backed monstrosity of a thing— had been draw up for her use, set beside the bed so that she might hold one of those papery hands in hers, willing life where none dared cling for long. And yet somehow she’s migrated, no longer alongside the mattress but on it, propped up on her mother’s many pillows.

Every part of her curls around the small body beside her; the same one that once labored to bring her into this world now struggling with the same effort to draw breath. It’s eased now, no longer the terrible rattle it had been in the night but more a rhythmic wheeze, one that would dissipate as soon as she woke, as if nothing had ever happened at all. Not something that would happen soon though; Mother dozes fitfully besides her, limbs trembling with the effort of her tossing and turning, only kept in place by the barrier of Kiki’s body. One she removes, slowly, carefully, beads clattering as she rises from the bed.

Red marks pepper her arms; whole clusters of circular dints twine down its softest parts, carved into her like a relief of grapes on the vine. Ah, if Father knew that she had slept in this gown— if Mother knew—

Kiki grimaces. Best to change before she wakes and hope that there was a deft enough needle amongst the maids here to repair it. A squint toward the balcony informs her that it is far too late to hope for breakfast— so late the spread has long been cleared, not even the whisper of a sausage left behind to sate her— but still too early to be underfoot in the kitchens, inquiring about luncheon. The staff would be busy with its preparation though, rushing between the kitchen and cellar and dining room without room to think of the young lady abed upstairs. Zen would surely be holed up in his room still, licking his wounds from last night, and Izana…well, wherever he might be, he wouldn’t be sparing a thought for her. No one would be, not when Kiki Seiran is already accounted for.

It would be simple to slip into her buckskins, traipsing down to the shore with no one the wiser. Mother might not approve— certainly wouldn’t, not without her royal escorts— but there’s no reason for her to know, not when she’ll be there and back before she rouses, with only the lingering scent of salt on her skin as proof.

Her mouth curls, just slightly, reaching for the door. Yes, all she needs is to move carefully, and—

And the door flies open from beneath her grip, baring a maid behind it. The same one from last night, in fact; her pretty face now rounded in shock rather than worry.

“Milady,” she gasps, a hand pressed to her chest. “I didn’t…” She clears her throat, palm skimming down to her side. “Shouldn’t you be in your room?”

Kiki lifts her chin, brows curving into their most imperious arch. She may not yet be at her full height, still too small to look down on a grown woman, but confidence bridges the gap just as well as inches would. “Should I?”

The maid doesn’t quail as she should; no, instead, her mouth furrows at the corner, consternation sinking deep into every wrinkle. “His Highness said you would be, miss. He told the housekeeper you would need a maid to help prepare something appropriate.”

“Something…?” There’s a bitter taste on her tongue when she spits out, “…Appropriate?”

“For today’s outing.” The maid stares at her, as if she is perhaps speaking a different language. “I am to help make you ready.”

“Ready?” The knot of dread that tied itself last night pulls tighter still, settle her belly to roil. “Just what outing is this?”

“For the one young master Rougis sent this morning,” the girl explains, prim. “Out on their boat.”

Kiki blinks. “Excuse me?”

The words are hardly out before she remembers his father’s blustering last night. We have a fine little ketch my boys like to race around the bay. Out to Yuris and back in only a few hours!

Silly, it might have seen to her— the last place she wanted to be was with Hisame Rougis in a room she could not escape— but…

How diverting. Oh, what a shark’s smile that man wore as he said it, probably already thinking of invitations tendered and accepted. Perhaps we should plan an excursion?

“The invitation came in with the post, right over breakfast. Wasn’t my lady…? Ah!” The maid glances at her, guiltily, as she remember just why young mistress Seiran might not have been at the table. “Yes, well, His Highness sent your reply promptly.”

Kiki’s teeth grit down. “Did he now?”

*

Kiki strides into the training room with a storm dogging her steps. “I know you Wisterias are used to a certain amount of high-handedness, but I do not remember giving you leave to answer my correspondence for me.”

Frustratingly, His Highness doesn’t flinch. Even extended as he is, legs splayed deeply lunge and arm outstretched to the length of two men rather than the one, he doesn’t even tremble. No, he simply rises; a smooth flourish that brings his blade right down from his shoulder to his side. A salute, the way courtesy demands for a woman of her rank. Or at least it would, if he were not the crown prince, and she his unfortunate hostage.

His gaze lifts, scraping up from boot heels to hairline before his mouth settles into the sparest smirk. “Why, my lady,” he hums, sheathing the blade. “As much as I might appreciate a pair of trousers, I hardly think they’re suitable for luncheon.”

Her arms fold forbiddingly across her chest. “I’m not going.”

She expects him to balk, to straighten his spine and order her to obey the way a prince should, but his mouth only twitches. “That’s hardly the sort of manners a young lady should show, don’t you think? Not attending after you so eagerly replied that you would…”

“You were the one that sent that, not me,” she huffs. Izana was supposed to be on the defensive, and yet here she is, shoulders set stiff as a yoke, wondering if she might be able to flee fast enough before his footmen could catch her. “Without consulting me.”

“If it were solely an invitation tendered to you, I would have,” he parries, as deftly as he did with his blade. “But though it came in your name, Lady Kiki, it was issued to all of our party.”

“So you answered for Zen too?” The sudden jolt of his brow is all the reply she needs to seize the initiative on this bout. “I can hardly imagine he’ll thank you for that either.”

Now he draws himself up, squaring his shoulders into the shape of authority. “It is my prerogative as host to tender and accept amusements on behalf of my guests.”

“Oh?” She pitches a brow into a skeptical arch. “So he is your guest?”

“No. Zen is my responsibility.” There’s a weight when he says it, a reluctance. She might dig her fingers into it, might peel back that ironic armor he covers himself in, if only she understood why. “As are you, Miss Seiran. Your mother so much as told me so when she permitted me to manage your social calendar. At least, as long as you are here.”

She wishes that this small betrayal could shock her, but in her heart of hearts, Kiki knew: it was only natural for Mother to see him as her ally. Who else here would be so determined to see her well-married other than His Highness, after all? That his interest was purely to keep himself from being on the marital chopping block wouldn’t hamper her in the slightest. Oh no, it would almost be better this way— with all his attention fixed on her, surely affection and regard would be soon to follow.

Kiki hardly even knows she’s gritting her teeth until they ache, a sting that only spurs her to dig in her heels. “I won’t go.”

That twitch of his mouth is far less amused now. “I would hardly think a lady of your pedigree would stoop to be so rude as to—”

“I’ve done your dinners.” She takes a step closer, fingers dragging over the pommel of each blade on the rack as she passes. “I’ve made polite conversation. I’ve played nice”—she hesitates before stepping within arm’s reach, tilting up her chin to meet his stare— “but I have no interest in encouraging that— that annoyance any further. Unless it is to take a long walk off a short pier.”

Izana’s smirk never dims, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes either. “Hisame Rougis is the second son of a perfect respectable, if not as storied family as your own, Lady Kiki. Which means that his sole means of status is through marrying well.” He leans in, voice lowered to a rumble. “He will only have the power you give him, and that boy is cunning enough to know it. It would be an enviable position for many ladies in out court.”

Kiki blinks. “But he’s obnoxious.”

Izana does not sigh so much as exhale, disappointment palpable as he shifts back to arm’s length. “I am afraid you will have to give me a much better reason than that. At least if you want to avoid luncheon.”

If you could hear him talk about your brother, it would be so easy to say, perhaps you would not be so eager to see him with a ‘lord’ before his name.

Zen would hardly thank her for it, true or not. And though he’s nearly as intolerable as Hisame, Kiki can’t quite bring herself to cross the only person here suffering quite so much as her.

“I can’t swim,” she says instead, with a lofty lift of her chin. “I can’t possibly go out on a boat.”

Izana huffs out a laugh. “And am I supposed to believe that something so pedestrian as drowning would stop you, if you truly wanted to go?”

Beady black eyes flash across her vision, a diamond head distorting in preparation for the bite. Ah, he does have a point.

“Besides,” he continues, leaning his wrist over his pommel. It’s frustrating how princely he looks without doing much more than breathing. “It’s a short cruise between the islands on a pleasure yacht. You could hardly be much safer.”

Kiki frowns, bracing herself against the rack. “I could be on land.”

His gaze slips behind her, the briefest light sparking in his eyes before he lets it wander back to her. “Let us have a wager, you and I.”

The whole thing savors strongly of a trap, but Kiki can’t help but ask, “A wager?”

“Yes. I hear you are a deft hand with a blade.” He lifts one from beside her, tossing it into her hands. “If you can get the better of me on the piste, I will make your excuses.”

Hope chokes her until all she can stutter out is, “Excuses?”

“’I must beg your forgiveness, Count Rougis’” — a hand presses to his chest, utterly contrite— “’but I fear our dear Lady Kiki has taken to her bed this morning with a stomach complaint, and cannot possibly join us for luncheon.’”

Her hands grip tight around the scabbard, keeping them from trembling. “And if I lose? What then?”

“Then you will go, gladly.” A wolf might have a less predatory smile. “And in the highest fashion with which we can conjure.”

She tests the weight of the sword in her grip. Father had started her lessons two years ago, hiring only the best blades from Sereg to teach her. She could hardly call her education complete, but she could certainly beat a boy who only casually sparred with men paid to keep his porcelain skin unmarked.

“Fine.” Her mouth stretches into a smile. “I hope you’re good at apologies, since I’ll have you on your knees soon enough.”