Mariko laughed outright, then turned to Isa for assistance. The girl’s stature was smaller than Mariko’s, as was often the case. For most of her life, Mariko had found herself among the tallest girls of her acquaintance. With the added bulk of her jūni-hitoe, she was sure to look like a colorful demon set on devouring everything within reach.
When Mariko angled her head to help Isa reapply the rose-petal stain on her lips, her intricate headdress slid to one side, almost jerking her neck in an unnatural fashion. Mariko refrained from letting loose a chorus of Ren’s choicest curse words.
“Why won’t this monstrosity stay on straight?” Mariko grumbled.
“My lady?” Isa began. “Perhaps …”
Mariko waited for her to continue.
Isa swallowed before speaking. “I believe it is a result of your hair’s length. Usually a bride’s hair is quite a bit longer than yours, and it helps to hold all the necessary ornaments in place. We tried to use a piece of tufted brocade to bolster the style, but I am certain it is quite uncomfortable.”
Mariko sighed to herself and closed her eyes. She knew this was the way of it. This was how it was done. How a girl marrying into the imperial family comported herself.
For a moment, Mariko allowed herself to dream of what a wedding would look like if she were to dictate its terms, instead of having them dictated to her. She’d never been like Chiyo, her maidservant at home, who’d often fantasized aloud about the colors she would wear or the way the sky would look on the day of her wedding. But just this once, Mariko allowed herself the luxury.
She kept her eyes closed, as though she were composing herself.
In her dreams, her wedding would be during the fall, in a pavilion at the end of a tree-lined lane. Though many believed spring to be the loveliest time of year—with its pale pink cherry blossoms tumbling like silken snow—Mariko always preferred the way the trees looked in fall. Deep red leaves that resembled bleeding stars. Alongside them, there would be ginkgo trees, bursting with golden yellow fronds. If a breeze were to brush through their branches, the leaves would flutter like tiny fans.
Mariko breathed deep.
At the end of a lane strewn with red and gold leaves, there would be a boy with scarred lips and a sly smile. He would be dressed in black, his hair flowing into his face. He would watch her as she walked toward him, his eyes for no other.
Ōkami.
Together they would step inside the simple wooden pavilion at the end of the lane, secluded from any wandering eyes. Even though tradition dictated that others be present—a chief ritualist to run the ceremony, a chamberlain wearing a centuries-old weapon, a court lady, and an unwed priestess as a symbol of purity—that would not be the case for Mariko and Ōkami. They would exchange symbolic sips of sake to declare their union, and no one else would be there, save for the swaying trees and the whispering wind.
How would I look?
Her kimono would be simple, but of the finest silk.
And her hair?
“I wish you could just wear it unbound and loose,” Suke said, interrupting Mariko’s reverie. “At least then you’d be able to hold your head high and move about without having your neck twist in such unnatural angles.”
Like Raiden’s mother.
Mariko’s eyes flashed open. She glanced toward her maidservant. “Isa, will you please request that Lady Kanako join me for a moment?” Satisfaction warmed across her skin. If Mariko wished to buck tradition, she would need an ally. And something told her that her future husband’s mother—a woman who’d made it a point to sneer at tradition—would be the best person to assist in this endeavor.
Mariko’s body had been purified from head to toe, in preparation for the steps she would take in her next life.
It was time for her mind to make a statement of its own.
Mariko began her ceremonial walk, pacing slowly through the ornamental forest toward the shrine to the sun goddess, her head bowed, her fingers trembling in her rainbow sleeves. The sky above was grey. No rain had fallen yet, but the setting sun seemed determined to remain hidden. As though it did not condone what was about to take place.
The blood rushed through Mariko’s veins. Her nerves wound tightly in her chest. Any moment now, those in attendance would notice her small act of defiance.
Not a single soul said a word, but Mariko sensed the tenor change in the air when they caught sight of her unbound, unornamented hair. She eyed the attendants lining the pebbled footpath and the nobles watching and waiting behind them. For an instant, she locked gazes with her brother. Kenshin’s features were somber, as though he were present at the commemoration of a death, rather than the uniting of two powerful clans and the rising tide of his family, of whom he alone represented. The wedding had been planned too quickly for their parents to make the journey.
Mariko watched Kenshin struggle to conceal his frown. Around him, those of the nobility looked away, discomfort rippling through the crowd. The sight imbued Mariko with strength. She lifted her head—again flouting tradition—her gait fearless, despite the immense height of the lacquered zori on her feet. Though she appeared at peace, her mind spun in constant turmoil. Calculating. Considering. Wondering if the Black Clan had received the messages she’d passed through Yumi. Wondering if the rudimentary map she’d sketched had made its way to Tsuneoki’s hands.
Ignoring all else around her, Mariko centered her thoughts on Ōkami. If her plan failed today—if those she trusted did not take advantage of the distraction her wedding provided—Ōkami would die tonight. He would take with him so many of their hopes and dreams.
Yumi’s dream for revenge on those who had destroyed her life.
Tsuneoki’s hope that his friend would become more than the Honshō Wolf.
Mariko’s dream for a world with a place for her in it. Not as someone’s daughter. Not as someone’s wife. But as a woman who made her own choices. Lived without fear. Even if it meant being married to Prince Raiden, Mariko wanted to live in that world. A world in which the boy she loved still lived. A world in which she could bring about lasting change.
Her hope blazed bright at the thought, despite the fear lurking in her heart. The final strides she took toward the shrine were not shrouded in darkness. It did not matter that the sun refused to shine. Mariko was not beholden to its light.
When she mounted the steps, she was surprised to discover only the participants of the ceremony present, as well as the emperor and Raiden’s mother. The dowager empress was not there. Neither was any member of her retinue. Mariko removed her shining black sandals, and a light rain began to fall, misting everything it touched. A good omen.
Heads turned once more to watch Prince Raiden make his entrance, dressed in a sokutai dyed in the brilliant hues of a setting sun. The elaborate kanmuri on his head was fashioned of black silk. His features looked chiseled from stone. Upon his arrival, the prince was presented with a sacred sprig.
Mariko drowned out the sound of the emperor offering them his grace and protection. Of Raiden pledging his unending loyalty. She instead gazed upon the solemn figure of his mother, watching them closely. When their eyes met, Kanako smiled, the ends of her hair lifting in a passing breeze. Though Mariko still did not trust her fully, she felt a strange sense of solidarity with her. As though they fought alongside each other, bearing the same standard. It comforted Mariko. When she’d requested assistance with her hair—in tossing aside decorum—Raiden’s mother had offered nothing but enthusiasm, almost to the point of amusement.
The emperor witnessed the occasion with a small smile pasted on his face. When the chief ritualist moved to finalize the union, Mariko hid her shock at the glimmer of emotion that passed across Roku’s features. It was clear these feelings were reserved for his elder brother. A bolt of lightning could strike Mariko down where she stood, and the emperor would simply go about his day. But he genuinely cared for Raiden. Odd how such a cold and calculating young man could harbor true affection for his elder brother, especially one raised to be his enemy.
As the ceremonial cup of sake was passed his way, Raiden looked down at Mariko, his brow furrowed. Uncertain. A pang of indecision unfurled in her chest. It had been a mistake for her to imagine this moment with Ōkami. The ache that settled in her throat refused to fade. Raiden touched his lips to the rim of the cup, his gaze locked on Mariko’s face. She wondered what kind of thoughts he might be hiding behind his eyes. What worries or regrets he might be concealing.