"Jurou-sama, please...You must do something...For our daughter..."His responding slap rang across the silence of the bedroom. Moonlight framed the face of a young woman, now sprawled on the floor in supplication next to the open door panel. Her master rose from his repose and strode past her onto the balcony. He inspected his nails, and, without turning to her, stated, "You have no proof that b*****d is mine. Do not address me in such a way again."
Zukuri rose unsteadily to her knees. "Yes, Soga-sama," she whispered, using his more formal family name. Tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes.
Jurou grimaced. "I should dismiss you right now," he said to himself, but the sight of her face in the dim light had him transfixed. Her looks were a rare and prized thing indeed; blue eyes and brown hair attributed to her foreign ancestry, so despite her blatant disregard for protocol, she remained his favorite among his many concubines. It was a fact that, as of late, had not escaped the notice of the other, jealous beauties of the household.
Across the room their daughter Mao huddled against the door, trying to quiet her breathing. She crouched behind a decorative screen in the foyer of Lord Soga's private chambers; hiding from the other women and eavesdropping on her mother's conversation. Tears of shame welled up as she looked at the long, severed ponytail of rich brown hair clutched in her hands. Her own hair was now uneven and short, a result of a cruel jest by her mother's rivals in the court. She risked a peek around the screen and saw her mother and father framed in moonlight.
"Mao, leave us now," Jurou suddenly intoned, looking right at her.
Mao jumped up out of her cot in surprise. Not that dream again... She sighed theatrically and winced, stretching her way out of bed as the first rays of dawn lanced through the window of the maid quarters.
"Up yet, sleepyhead? Really, you are *SO* useless..." The maid that shared floorspace with her was standing over her, hands on her hips. Her long, black hair was bound tightly in a bun atop her head. Her stern expression faded a little and she helped Mao ease herself off the floor.
Mao impatiently ran a hand through her close-cropped hair. It had grown back a bit, but it was still a potent reminder of the subtle cruelties she'd suffered there.
"Come on, Mao-chan, or we'll miss breakfast." The other girl grabbed her hand and hurried out the door, moving toward their tiny dining area. Soon enough other late risers followed suit, and they breakfasted haphazardly around the old, narrow table.
As they ate, Mao eyed the other girls absently. Some were sent from wealthy families, younger daughters whose desire to become Shirabyoshi was only matched by their need to be made useful to their clans. Others, such as herself, had been sent here to be kept out of the way; if they learned something from the experience, the better for them. There were sharp tongues aplenty; a result of a stuffy, noble upbringing. But most were forthright and friendly, willing to lend a helping hand when needed. The former she ignored, for the most part, and the latter she quietly appreciated.
Being a Shirabyoshi wasn't exactly something Mao had planned for herself- but then, she hadn't really planned anything that had happened to her. She was born a b*****d child to her mother, Zukuri, who lived as a concubine in the court of one of the last remaining nobles of the once insurmountable Soga clan. The heir to their impressive legacy was little more than a fop, having eyes only for pretty women, drink, and entertainment. From the day she was strong enough to hold a broom, Mao worked for her keep in the household. The other maids seldom worried her, but her mother's legacy as envy of the Soga court was a black stain against an otherwise pleasant childhood. Jealous rivals who could not reach Zukuri herself due to her high status in the household turned to Mao instead, often demanding her to perform demeaning tasks and punishing her harshly if she did not do well. Jurou, her father and head of the remaining clan, refused to claim her, but saw fit to have her taught to read and write, sing, dance, and other niceities, for his own entertainment. The bitter competition for his adoration pleased him, and it bemused him to fawn over Zukuri's girl to incense the other ladies in waiting.
The night her hair had been cut off Mao had been performing a simple dance for her mother's most envious enemy, lady Sarachii. Sarachii had once been a noble herself before her family had fallen in ruin, and she clung to her then-lover Jurou to save her from the streets. As she grew older, Jurou turned his attention to the younger women of the house, namely Zukuri, and she had never forgiven her for ursurping her. Mao tripped on a platter Sarachii had purposefully hidden under the bamboo mat she performed on, and shattered it- and Sarachii saw fit to shear her exotic, honeyed-brown hair for her grievance. Her mother's foreign looks were equally adored and loathed by the other women in the concubine, and it was that little piece of her mother that Sarachii found most loathsome. She'd grown used to the shortened locks now, and wondered if she really missed it all that much. Soon after the incident she'd been sent to the Shirabyoshi house, away from the court drama and politics. She could still remember her mother watching the carriage roll down the lane, weeping quietly.
Mao was interrupted from her recollections by her bedmate tugging on her sleeve. "Honestly, Mao, are you always this much of a airhead? That was the first bell; we've got to leave!" She stood to go, and Mao followed suit, grabbing both their emptied bowls and chopsticks and heading for the kitchens with her new friend, into the dawn.
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