#poor obi

A boy’s room might first be your purview, but soon enough it would cede to your husband, all your sea blues and bottle greens shoved aside for more stately hues. The sort that would convey that a Young Master lived within these walls, that he was but the larval form of the lords that came before him. Even if his cheeks were round and his limbs chubby, he should be treated as such.

But a girl-- oh, how you would have delighted in a girl. Curtains of the most delicate rose, woods painted only the most pristine of whites, carpets plush and hardware shined to a glimmering gold. The sort of room even a princess might envy, should the Wisteria line ever deign to make one.

And last night, you saw its mirror. Only within the bed was not a precious daughter but...

Your eyes clench shut, as if that would ward off your thoughts. Your father’s stubborn insistence to keep any guests from touring the nursery had been a joke between you and your brother-- Father can’t let them know how messy we are behind closed doors-- but now it takes on a far more sinister edge. One you’re afraid you won’t soon forget.

“My lady.” The guard at the door bows, blond head bobbing nervously as he brings himself upright. “His Highness will see you now.”

Your teeth grit into the seeming of a smile. “Then let us not keep him waiting.”

It is no great surprise to see Sir Lowen seated inside-- he is, after all, the prince’s foremost aide; one can hardly hear of Prince Zen without hearing of the great giant at his shoulder, as mild-mannered as he is mountainous. As a guard, your mind could make sense of it; there were few men who would look at Lowen and make the decision to harry him. But to see him here, tucked beneath the desk like a clerk, busying himself with paperwork--

It’s absurd. Delightfully so.

“My lady,” he says, standing-- no, towering over his ridiculous desk. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Rarely have you been glad of your veil, but you must admit, it is a luxury that you do not have to smother yet another smile in its cradle. “No, Sir Lowen, it is all mine.”

“All ours, considering what Sir’s contributing to this conversation,” Obi crows from his sill, curled up as tight as a cat on a cushion. Another anticipated presence, some familiar good humor to greet you, but--

But it is not his grin that greets you as your gaze lifts, oh no, but a grimace. He’s not so much curled as cramped, his fingers gripping the casement, white as the wallpaper itself, the only thing keeping him anchored to this room. Not a cat lazing in luxury, but one braced above the bath, terrified of falling in.

“So you keep promising,” drawls a voice, cultured and feminine-- and also wholly unexpected. “I’d hate to be disappointed.”

It had been quite the scandal nearly five years past-- Earl Seiran’s daughter setting aside her dancing shoes for a duelist’s gloves, taking up the position of the second prince’s aide. The society pages had been filled with tales of disappointed young men, doing the sort of dramatic play only those with money and position can afford. Your husband recounted the whole of it to you as you lay beneath the covers, and you had laughed, wondering what young lady would spurn such a charmed life as the one meant for Kiki Seiran.

Ah, but time had shown which one of you had played her hand best. It was an inevitability that you would meet, given your acquaintance with His Highness. And yet still, you are unprepared.

There is a second desk in the room, positioned parallel from Sir Lowen’s own,  but it’s not behind it that she sits, oh no, but perched upon the prince’s. He shows no sign of noticing, merely looking on with a weariness that speaks of long conversations and even longer hours, as if a young woman with the face of a doll and a sword at her hip seating herself on the same surfaces as edicts and amendments were signed was but an every day occurrence. As if it were nothing for a lady to hold herself with all the coiled threat of a whip.

But of course, for him it must be. It had never occurred to you that Seiran’s heir would do more than simply balance the royal ledger, but nothing of Lady Kiki’s posture spoke of an unfamiliarity with her blade. No, she might as well have been born holding it, for all that she marks it.

You should be scandalized; only months ago you would have been. But now, now-- there is a part of you that is jealous. Your brothers’ lessons in the yard had bored you to tears, but perhaps if you had stayed--

“My lady.” The second prince does not yet have the commanding presence of his brother, but his voice is stern enough to bring your thoughts to heel. With a sweep of his hand, he draws your attention to the chair across from him. “I’m eager to hear about your mission.”

“Aw, Master,” Obi whines pitifully from his post. “Haven’t I already told you all about--?”

“What I’d like to hear is the truth,” His Highness grouses as you sweep into your seat, finding it a perfectly passable place to bide. Not precisely comfortable, but then, you would not trust one that was, not with a Wisteria in your sight. “ And between you and L-- Countess Bederin, I know who’s more likely to give it.”

“I, for one, like your version of events,” Lady Kiki drawls, never once moving her gaze from you. Seiran’s crest might be a great tree, but she is less the stately oak and more the lion in its branches. “I hope they turn out to be true.”

Sir Lowen groans, beleaguered. “Kiki.”

Ah, you had not known how to approach such a delicate topic as your doings last night, not in a room with a lady as well as a prince royal, but it seems Obi had already beaten you to the broad strokes. Or perhaps, a very detailed portrait of at least one part of their night.

“It all went as planned, Your Highness.” Obi sits still in the window, still poised to throw himself out it at any moment. “Your messenger proved himself quite resourceful. Sir Mitsuhide was hardly step into the hall before Obi stole him away to the right room, and with no one the wiser.”

“And Sir spent the night with four of the most expensive women in the city.” Obi leans over the sash, hand cupped around a whisper that hardly earns the name. “One of them even offered to give the money back.”

“It’s not what it sounds like.” Sir Lowen’s gaze darts to where Lady Kiki sits, her mouth curled in the barest hint of amusement. “No one ever--”

The knight hauls himself up short, reining in the protest before it can get much further from his lips. “I mean,” he mutters, wearily. “Nothing happened.”

“Our young women did vouch that Sir Mitsuhide was the very image of a gentleman.” You refrain from commenting on their audible disappointment in the fact. “The evening as a whole was above board.”

As Himawari allowed it to be. Another detail you will not be appending to your report, out of deference to Sir Lowen’s peace of mind.

“Really?” The second prince fixes on his aide, eyes too wide, lean a shade to acute to be anything but morbid interest in the goings-on behind red doors. Typical of his age; Atoshi had gone through much the same, despite yours-- and your husband’s-- lectures on the topic. Though in retrospect, perhaps only yours were heartfelt. “Nothing?”

Obi snorts. “Nothing but finding out what scintillating topics young ladies like to read about these days.”

The prince blinks. “You asked them about books.”

“I don’t see why not.” Sir Lowen pulls his spine Sereg-straight, tugging at the bottom of his jacket. “Miss Kikyo gave me a very good recommendation for--”

“Aw, don’t bore him with that one.” Obi’s mouth parts into a grin so honed it could cut. “Tell ‘em about the one Himawari showed you.”

It’s strange to see so delicate a blush on so large a man, especially one who so emphatically stated that he had prior history with bawd houses, no matter how tame. It would certainly make for an entertaining mystery to unravel, if he did not dart his gaze to the young lady across the room, nerves so openly displayed His Highness could charge admission.

“No,” Sir Lowen manages, the flush twining its way around his ears. “I don’t think I will.”

Lady Kiki hums, curling her nails for inspection. It is the studied sort of disinterest most ladies could only dream of achieving, especially in front of a suitor so earnest as hers. “That seems like a waste of the countess’s generosity.”

Ah, so Wisteria’s penchant for cruelty did breed true in Seiran’s line. “Kiki--”

“Your Highness.” Your voice lifts above the din, and for the first time, quiets it. The silence left in its wake is not scandalized but...anticipatory, as if words you speak have weight. No, that they are worth waiting for. “I must ask you something.”

You had never thought you would see eyes this particular shade so guileless. “Anything, my-- countess. You are always free to speak your mind.”

“Oh, you say that, Master,” Obi grouses from his sill, all for show. “But when I say--”

“You--” the prince twists in his seat, patience wearing thin-- “can never seem to remember how to behave in polite company--”

“--well, maybe if everyone was nicer, then I’d think it was--”

You cannot hold your thoughts behind your teeth any longer. “Were you aware that there are children in these houses, Your Highness?”

There is a stillness in the wake of your words; not the way the air lacks a breeze but the way a body lacks a breath, as if you had stolen them from their lungs. Not a single muscle moves, not until the prince ventures, “Excuse me. Did you say...children?”

Sir Lowen turns to you first, his brow drawn with a confounded concern. “Do mean the children of the, er...ladies? They’re often kept in the back rooms when their mother are...working.”

Lady Kiki snorts. “You seem to know quite a bit about it.”

You expect him to flush, to stumble under the weight of her attention-- and disbelief-- but instead he is fixed on you. Hardly a surprise; it was he with whom you switched rooms with last night.

“No,” you reply, so even, despite the way you want to tear into those striped curtains, to rip the innocence off those walls. “I mean working.”

It is Lady Kiki who straightens now, gaze resting as heavy as a hand on your shoulder. “Girls before their bleeding?”

“No.” It is as generous an answer as you can allow yourself. “I gather that they are only debuted once their first cycle has run its course.”

The prince is pale when he replies, “Then by law they are no longer children. it states quite clearly: sixteen, or at a woman’s first flowering--”

“The one I saw could not have been much over thirteen, perhaps fourteen, if I were of the mind to be generous.” Your tone implies quite clearly that you are not, and you hope that you never will be on such a front. “Do you mean to tell me that she is a woman?”

His mouth works, but still only manages a weak, “By law--”

You may have never birthed a child from your own body, but you have raised a boy to manhood, and with all the authority that you can summon, you inform the second prince of Clarines, “You cannot hide behind a law and claim you serve your people, Your Highness.”

His jaw clenches, the way you remember his father’s had at your debut, tight and unkind. But unlike the old king, it eases within a breath, thought the gaze he fixes on you is still hard. “I am not my brother, countess. I don’t make the rules, I merely uphold them.”

“An easy thing to say when you are above them.” The words fly from you before you think to catch them, and once said, they sit heavy between you, a strain on your brief acquaintance. “Your Highness--”

The bells ring, marking the end of morning, and the beginning of--

“The council meeting,” you yelp, sweeping from your seat. “It was to start--” you press a hand to your face-- “ah, but I’ll be late.”

“Please, countess.” The second prince waves his hand, every motion weary, heavy. “Do not let us keep you. We can...speak of all this another time.”

You know courtspeak too well to believe this is anything but a politely-worded never. “Of course, Your Highness. Shall I wait for you, or...?”

He shakes his head, baby-fine hair sliding across his forehead. “No, no. I have...things to handle here. But do tell me when you’re giving your next report to the council.” He tries a smile that hardly deserves the name. “I want to keep up with your progress.”

And allow the lords to tear you to pieces when you do. Your mouth pulls thin, but you keep your thoughts to yourself. A miracle with how hard they fight to fly from your lips. “Of course, Your Highness. I will let you know.”

Despite your boldness, it seems you have not fallen so far from His Highness’s favor; he sends Obi as your escort even though the council chamber is only a few halls away.

“Poor Mister.” Obi’s fast on your heels, more a shadow than he’s ever been. “He was sweating bullets having to talk about his night with those ladies. Especially in front of Miss Kiki.”

Or perhaps Prince Zen considered his messenger’s presence punishment enough. More the fool him; ten years ago his pranks might have sent your nerves into a tizzy, but now you only sigh, shaking you head as you remind him, “You were the one so keen to mention it.”

“Well, sure,” he wheedles, “but that’s my job, my lady, I keep the mood light.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem.” The rustle of your crape echoes after you as you bustle down the hall, ire egging on your steps. “It is all light moods in that room, and not enough thought.”

“Aw, now, my lady...” The sounds he makes are pitiful, but you will not be moved. “Master will come around. He makes a good show of being married to the rules, but he always finds a way around them if you give him enough time. You’ll see.”

“That’s all well and fine for him, but while he tangles himself up looking for loopholes, it is girls like Sumire who pay the price.” It galls you that there is no recourse, nothing that you can do besides apply pressure to the right places and hope. “Surely there’s some crime to be had in this. Where do they find these girls, for one? If they are taken off the street, stolen from their beds--”

Obi grates out a laugh, harsh and humorless. “Oh no. They do not have to look that far at all...”

The great stair looms before you, but your feet still before the first step, turning you back instead. “So you have some idea then, I take it?”

“Me?” He presses a hand to his chest, but you doubt even as child he looked innocent. “No, my lady, only...”

Your brows raise. “Only...?”

“Do you really not know, my lady?” he says, incredulous. “They find them right in the arms of their mothers.”

You cannot make sense of it. “The women themselves? But those are their own babes, surely...”

Obi clucks his tongue. “Everyone in a whorehouse is for sale, even the children.”

You know only the barest hints of your shadow’s past, of who he was before the second prince scooped him up and polished him into a royal messenger. But beneath that sheen of respectability, sometimes you wonder--

“Bederin.”

Obi flinches back, looking as if he would prefer to become a shadow in truth rather that face the man at the top of the stair. You, however, hardly have the luxury-- you instead turn to face him head on, Arluleon’s disapproval radiating palpably from his grave countenance.

“Your Grace,” you grate out, hardly gracious. “What a surprise to see you. I thought you would be in the council chambers already.”

“I came to find you.” He deigns to descend a stair as you begin your foray up. “Perhaps if you cannot find it within your schedule to attend, you might consider finding another to sit in your stead.”

“What a polite way to tell me to leave business to you men,” you laugh, your banked anger from last night flaring to the fore. “I assume you think my nephew would make a much more obliging occupant.”

“No,” he says steadily, meeting you at halfway. “Just a more punctual one.”

“Perhaps if more of the council involved themselves in the affairs they voted on with such unconcern, they would find themselves likewise engaged,” you suggest, pausing only when you have ascended to a height that puts you even with his eyes. “But until then, I will do my business as I like, and you will all have to excuse me if I am but a few moments late for your social hour.”

Above his ridiculous facial hair, Arluleon has gone a particularly becoming shade of crimson. “Social hour--”

“You better hurry, Your Grace,” you hum sweetly. “It would be a pity if you missed the cocktails.”

He stares at you, so intense it is like a touch, like he has reached out and put his hand upon your throat, his thumb settling in the dip of your clavicle before he--

“Fine.” His thrusts out his arm, more like a man expecting a snake’s bite instead of a lady’s hands. “Come then.”

How foolish he must think you, to believe you might come as he called, as if you were no more than a bitch in his kennel, eager for his praise. “I must thank you for the honor, Your Grace, but I am afraid I already have an escort.”

He blinks, brows drawing heavy with confusion before he follows your gaze, straight to where Obi stands. “You.”

“Ah!” Your shadow jumps, eyes darting toward the nearest exit. “Your Grace, I--”

“You have to be joking,” Arluleon rumbles, halfway to a roar. “That man is hardly fit to shine shoes, let alone--”

“And yet I find his company more pleasant than yours.” You smile, though you know he can not see it, a simper and a mockery all in one. “It seems that for all your fine airs, you still cannot breed an agreeable personality. Obi?”

You call, but your shadow shrinks. “Ah, now, that’s fine enough, my lady. I think if the-- er, Marquis Haruka takes you the rest of the way, Master will consider my job well done.”

You frown. “But Obi--”

“Really.” He casts a thoughtful glance between the two of you, eyes white around the edges. “I’ll see you later, my lady.”

Arluleon huffs as Obi slips away, shaking his head. “I see why Zen’s set that boy on you now. He certainly has more sense.”

His arm hovers before you, rising as he does to stand beside you, your high ground lost. Your palm itches, anticipating the cloth of his coat, of the way it will burn when you touch.

You turn away instead.