Chapter Text
For more than two centuries, Japan had existed in deliberate isolation. Under the sakoku policy, the country had closed its ports, restricted foreign contact, and preserved a rigid social and cultural order that placed stability above change. Foreigners were regarded not merely as outsiders, but as potential threats to the balance that sustained the Tokugawa shogunate.
That balance began to fracture in the early 1850s.
In 1853, American warships appeared in Edo Bay—black-hulled, smoke-belching vessels unlike anything the Japanese had seen. Their presence was not a request, but a demand: Japan was to open its ports to trade, supply, and diplomacy, or face consequences it was ill-equipped to resist. Commodore Matthew Perry’s arrival forced the shogunate into an impossible position—submit to foreign pressure or risk military annihilation.
The treaties that followed marked the beginning of the end of isolation. Ports were opened. Foreign envoys were permitted entry. Unequal agreements were signed under duress, granting Western powers privileges that undermined Japanese sovereignty. To many within Japan’s ruling class, this was humiliation disguised as diplomacy.
The country stood divided.
Some saw adaptation as survival, believing that adopting Western technology, customs, and political structures was the only way to preserve Japan’s independence. Others viewed this shift as betrayal—a slow erasure of tradition, hierarchy, and identity. The presence of foreigners in treaty ports became a constant reminder that the old world was collapsing, replaced by something unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
Relations between Japanese officials and foreign diplomats were strained, cautious, and often hostile beneath their formal politeness. Every interaction was layered with suspicion. Every concession felt irreversible. Japan was opening its doors, but not its heart—and the cost of that opening was still unknown.
As factions formed within the elite, so too did movements among the people. The slogan sonnō jōi — “Revere the Emperor, Expel the Barbarians” — captured the fury of those who saw the West as a corrupting influence and a threat to Japan’s soul. In 1863, even the emperor issued an edict calling for the expulsion of foreigners — a declaration that, while never enforced, signaled how deep the division had become.
Amid this turmoil, the foundations of Japanese society shook. The state that had been built on centuries of isolation and feudal hierarchy found itself pulled toward a future that demanded modernization, international diplomacy, and cultural adaptation. Many within the samurai class and political elite began to question the old order, sowing the seeds for the revolution that would soon transform the country entirely: the Meiji Restoration.
The building stood above the city like a deliberate challenge to the sky.
Rising several stories higher than the surrounding structures, it was an anomaly for its time—its height sustained by thick stone foundations and reinforced timber, a rare concession to modern engineering. From the outside, its tiled roof curved with familiar elegance, eaves heavy with authority and age. Yet its scale alone marked it as a place where decisions were made, not debated.
Inside, incense coiled lazily through the air.
Tatami mats stretched wall to wall, immaculate, bordered by sliding doors painted with scenes of cranes and distant mountains—symbols of permanence that felt increasingly fragile. Low tables formed a wide circle. Around them sat elders of Japan’s most powerful clans, men whose influence did not rely on titles spoken aloud.
Silence held until the Zenin elder shifted, silk whispering softly.
“This hall grows taller with each passing year,” he said. “Yet Japan shrinks beneath the shadows of foreign sails.”
“The Americans speak of trade,” murmured another voice, “but they arrive as tutors, correcting us in our own court.”
The Gojo clan’s elder lifted his gaze. “They shape the Emperor’s perception carefully,” he said. “Not with force, but with familiarity.”
A low scoff came from the Zenin side. "This Emperor is weak," he said. "Shaped by promises and imported fantasies that have done nothing but leave us more exposed to foreign hands. He no longer listens to reason." He paused, weighing his next words. "He claims to revere tradition above all else—yet he will never heed the counsel of those who still embody it, no matter how loudly we speak."
For a moment, no one answered.
The silence held weight—not empty, but laden with the understanding that the complaint was shared, even if the words went unspoken. Japan's political landscape had fractured entirely. The ‘bakufu’ that had ruled for centuries was crumbling, its authority eroding daily as power shifted toward the imperial court. Domains that had once remained neutral now chose sides. Former allies turned against one another. Samurai found themselves obsolete, their swords made ceremonial by imperial decree, their stipends cut or eliminated entirely as the government poured resources into Western-style armies and modern infrastructure.
The old hierarchies were dissolving faster than new ones could form. And in that chaos, everyone scrambled for position—seeking influence, protection, or simply survival in a country that no longer resembled the one they had been born into.
Then the monk, seated slightly apart from the circle, inclined his head. “There are voices the Emperor listens to,” he said softly. “Voices not bound by our customs.”
Several elders turned toward him.
“The foreigners,” the Gojo elder said.
“Specific foreigners,” the monk corrected.
The Kamo elder folded his hands into his sleeves. “Then name one.”
The monk did not hesitate. “Henry Whitmore.”
The Zenin elder frowned. “I do not recognize the name.”
“He is an English commissioner,” the monk replied. “A Christian, yet not rigid of mind. Curious. Observant. He has visited my temple more than once.”
A faint ripple of interest moved through the room.
“You allowed a foreigner into sacred ground?” the Zenin elder said sharply.
“I observed him,” the monk answered calmly. “And he allowed himself to be observed. His health is fragile. He tires easily. The physicians who accompany him grow increasingly concerned.”
The Gojo elder’s expression sharpened. “A weakening pillar,” he murmured.
“In conversation,” the monk continued, “he spoke freely. Of his work. Of the strain of living in a land that is not his own.” He paused. “And of his daughter.”
Silence thickened.
“She is his only child,” the monk said. “Born of his only wife, who passed years ago.”
“Unmarried?” the Kamo elder asked.
“Yes.”
“In this country,” the Gojo elder said quietly, “that is perilous.”
The monk inclined his head. “She would have no true protection once her father’s influence fades.”
The Zenin elder’s jaw tightened. “You suggest binding one of our clans to a foreign woman?”
“It would be a disgrace,” another elder muttered. “Our blood diluted for convenience.”
“We are not merchants,” the Zenin elder added. “We do not trade lineage.”
The Kamo elder spoke then, his tone measured, unyielding. “This would not be a union of reverence,” he said. “Nor one of sentiment. Its value would be singular.” He lifted his gaze, meeting each of them. “Through her, we gain proximity to the intruders who now shape the Emperor’s thoughts. Their dinners. Their conversations. Their quiet assumptions that we do not understand them.”
“A strategic marriage,” the Gojo elder said.
“A necessary one,” the Kamo elder corrected. “The girl herself holds no value beyond the access she provides.”
The monk folded his hands. “We have suitable candidates,” he said. “Members whose position allows such a bond without disturbing the internal balance of the clans.”
“And if she refuses?” the Zenin elder asked.
The monk’s expression did not change. “She will not,” he said. “Not if she wishes to survive in Japan.”
No one objected. The meeting ended without announcement.
Screens slid back into place, lacquered wood swallowing the weight of what had been decided. The incense had burned down to ash; its scent lingered faintly, clinging to sleeves and hair. One by one, the elders rose, their movements economical, rehearsed by generations of restraint.
No one departed alone.
The Zenin elder moved first, a younger clan member falling into step beside him as they passed beneath the long corridor lamps. Their footsteps barely disturbed the polished floor. Behind them, the Gojo elder adjusted his sleeves, pausing just long enough for his attendant to follow. Their path led toward the eastern gardens, where winter air dulled sound and scattered attention.
The Kamo elder lingered only a moment longer, exchanging a final, unreadable glance with the monk before turning away, his own shadow already waiting. The monk bowed to the empty hall. Another monk joined him in silence, their robes brushing softly as they descended the stone steps toward the outer grounds.
Only once distance and architecture had done their work—once walls, courtyards, and night air had scattered the risk of attentive ears—did thoughts begin to surface. Not as speeches. As fragments.
The Zenin elder spoke without turning his head, gaze fixed ahead. “They believe they have found a solution,” he said quietly. “In their minds, an alliance will suffice.”
Elsewhere, along the garden path, the Gojo elder’s voice surfaced, low and precise.
“A woman.”
“A marriage?” his attendant murmured.
The gravel absorbed their steps. “They think that through it,” the Gojo elder went on, “they will gain advantage over the Emperor’s decisions.”
“Access,” came another voice, barely louder than the wind.
“To foreign tables. To private conversations.”
The Kamo elder, passing beneath the outer gate, completed the thought. “Influence over those who whisper into the Emperor’s thoughts.”
Silence followed—not uncertainty, but assessment.
One voice broke it, cautious.
“And we are willing to surrender that advantage?”
The question hung, unanswered, for the space of several breaths.
“No.”
The response came from a different path.
“Nor can we allow them to hold such power,” another voice continued.
“It would be as dangerous,” said a third, “as opening the gates of our own estates.”
Their steps slowed.
“We will send a candidate.”
“Our best.”
“One she cannot refuse.”
A pause.
“That will grant us permanent advantage,” the Zenin elder said at last.
“In exchange for a temporary stain,” the monk finished softly, his words dissolving into the night.
They separated then, voices swallowed by distance, by stone, by design.
Behind them, the compound returned to silence. Ahead of them, preparations had already begun. And at the center of every calculation stood the same figure—unaware, untouched, and already claimed by intent if not by name.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
The house sat at the edge of where Tokyo ended and countryside began.
It was not a traditional estate—nor was it entirely foreign. The walls were plastered white in the Western manner, tall windows framed with wooden shutters that opened outward rather than sliding aside. Yet the roof still bore dark tiles, curved subtly at the eaves, and the entryway retained its raised step and genkan, a concession to the earth that could not be denied. It was giyōfū—a hybrid architecture that belonged fully to neither world, born of necessity and compromise in a city still learning what it wanted to become.
The gardens reflected the same tension.
Stone pathways wound through carefully pruned pines, their branches trained into shapes that spoke of patience and restraint. But near the kitchen entrance, rows of herbs grew in neat European lines—rosemary, thyme, basil—practical rather than contemplative. A gardener moved between them now, shears in hand, trimming back growth that had crept beyond its boundaries. His movements were methodical, practiced. He did not look up when footsteps passed along the gravel path behind him.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of beeswax and tatami.
A woman knelt in the corridor, cloth in hand, wiping dust from the baseboards with slow, deliberate strokes. Her sleeves were tied back with cotton cord. The wood gleamed where she had already passed. Behind her, another servant moved through the sitting room, lifting ornaments from a low table—a porcelain vase, a brass candlestick—setting them aside to clean beneath. Neither spoke. The rhythm of their work was its own language.
In the kitchen, voices rose and fell.
"—three more bags of rice, and the merchant swears the quality is better this season—"
"He always swears that."
"Then why do we keep buying from him?"
A pause. The sound of something heavy being set down.
"Because his son delivers on time."
Laughter, brief and knowing. The clatter of ceramic. Somewhere, water was being poured. A knife met a cutting board in steady, unhurried beats. Provisions had arrived earlier that morning—daikon, dried fish, miso wrapped in cloth, vegetables still faintly damp from the market. They were being sorted now, stored in cupboards and baskets, the kitchen slowly returning to order after the disruption of delivery.
A younger woman appeared in the doorway, carrying a wooden tray stacked with empty bowls.
"Is the tea ready?" she asked.
The older cook glanced at the iron kettle suspended over low coals. Steam rose from its spout in a thin, wavering line.
"Nearly."
"She'll want it soon."
"Then she'll have it soon."
The younger woman hesitated, then nodded and turned back toward the main house, her footsteps light against the floorboards. The cook watched her go, then returned her attention to the vegetables, her knife resuming its rhythm without missing a beat.
Outside, the gardener straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
The city's edge was quiet here. No street vendors called out their wares. No festival drums echoed from distant shrines. Only the occasional creak of a cart passing on the dirt road beyond the gate, the rustle of wind through the pines, the distant hammer-strike of construction somewhere deeper in Tokyo's expanding sprawl.
The house breathed around its occupants, a structure caught between what it had been asked to be and what it could not help but remain. Servants moved through it like blood through veins—silent, essential, unseen by anyone who did not need to see them.
The door opened with a sharp slide—not the whisper of shōji paper, but the decisive click of a Western handle turning, wood swinging inward on brass hinges.
"No, no, no!" The exclamation cut through the house's quiet like a stone through still water.
Footsteps followed immediately—rapid, purposeful, the hard strike of leather heels against polished wood. Tak-tak-tak-tak—each step a small percussion, amplified by the corridor's bare floors. Fabric rustled with the movement, layers of skirt and petticoat sweeping against themselves in a continuous whisper of silk and cotton, the sound gathering momentum as the woman crossed the threshold into the music room.
A young maid knelt before the piano, cloth in hand, moisture darkening the ivory keys where she had just wiped them with careful, dutiful attention.
The woman descended on her.
"You can't use wet cloths on the wood, it will damage it and completely change the sound!" The words came in English, sharp and urgent, each syllable shaped by genuine distress rather than anger. She gestured toward the piano's polished surface, then at the damp cloth, her hands moving in quick, explanatory arcs that needed no translation.
The maid looked up, cloth still pressed against the keys. Her expression was polite. Attentive. Utterly bewildered.
A beat of silence stretched between them—comprehension failing to bridge the gap.
The maid straightened slightly, bowing from her kneeling position. "I'll clean it," she said in Japanese, her voice soft, well-trained, the smile on her face perfectly calibrated for reassurance. Another small bow, this one apologetic, as though the foreign woman's agitation were merely a misunderstanding she could smooth away with proper service.
"What? No…" The woman stared at her, confusion replacing urgency for just a moment. Then understanding landed—not of words, but of the situation itself. She shook her head quickly, almost frantically. "It doesn't matter." The English gave way to halting, careful Japanese, each word selected with the caution of someone still learning the shape of the language. "You can't touch the piano. Don't touch it. You understand."
She pointed at the piano. Then at the maid's hands. Then shook her head firmly. The maid's smile remained, but uncertainty flickered behind it now.
The maid's smile remained, but uncertainty flickered behind it now.
"Argh!" The woman pressed a hand to her forehead, frustration collapsing into something closer to defeat. "I hate this place."
"What's all this fuss about?"
The voice came from the corridor—measured, amused, carrying the particular weariness of a man accustomed to such scenes. "I could hear you from my office."
Henry Whitmore appeared in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame as he surveyed the room. It was a simple space, furnished in the Victorian manner—a writing desk against one wall, two upholstered chairs positioned for conversation, a small bookshelf lined with leather-bound volumes. The piano stood near the large window, where afternoon light could fall across the keys without harshness. Lace curtains framed the glass, filtering the view of the garden beyond into something softer, more familiar.
His gaze moved from the kneeling maid to his daughter, taking in the scene with the kind of patient assessment that came from years of diplomatic service.
"I'm starting to think your only purpose in bringing me to this place was to punish me for not being born a man." Eleanor turned toward him, her tone sharp but not quite serious, balanced on the edge between genuine complaint and theatrical accusation.
Henry's mouth twitched. The smile broke through despite his attempt at composure, and he stepped fully into the room, the floorboards creaking faintly beneath his weight. "It's good to know that my despair pleases you," she added, watching him approach.
"Don't be so dramatic, Elie." His voice carried the gentle reproach of a father who had heard this particular performance many times before. He turned toward the maid, his expression shifting into something more formal, more careful. In Japanese—fluent, precise—he explained what she could not do, his words apologetic but clear, gesturing toward the piano with the kind of respect one might show a fragile artifact.
Understanding struck the maid like a physical blow.
Her eyes widened. She dropped lower, bowing so deeply her forehead nearly touched her knees, the damp cloth still clutched in one trembling hand. Words tumbled out in a torrent of apology—formal, desperate, repeating phrases of contrition that grew more fervent with each breath. She bowed again, and again, each movement sharper than the last, as though the depth of her regret could only be measured in the angle of her spine.
The apologies continued, overlapping, almost frantic—not directed at Henry, but at the young woman standing beside him, begging forgiveness from someone she had unknowingly offended.
Eleanor drew a breath, forcing her shoulders to relax, and offered the maid a small, carefully controlled smile. "It's okay," she said in slow, deliberate Japanese. "Just try not to repeat the same mistake."
The maid nodded frantically, still bowing.
Henry spoke a single word—dismissal, gentle but firm. The maid rose immediately, backing toward the door with her gaze lowered, the damp cloth pressed against her chest like a shield. She disappeared into the corridor, her footsteps hurried, urgent, fading quickly into the deeper recesses of the house.
Silence settled.
"Ugh." Eleanor turned away from the door, circling the piano with the focus of a physician examining a patient. Her fingers traced the edge of the fallboard, checking for moisture, for damage, her touch light and assessing. "I still don't understand why we left the comfort of our country to stay in this place, in this country of barbarians."
"Eleanor!" The name came sharp, immediate—a father's reprimand that carried real weight.
She glanced at him, unfazed. "But it's true, Father, and you can't deny it."
Henry's expression hardened, the earlier amusement gone entirely. "The fact that you don't understand the culture of these people doesn't make them barbarians."
"But they are barbarians!" She straightened, abandoning the piano, her frustration finally finding its target. "The other day I watched a woman bathing with her son—a boy who must have been at least ten years old—in full view of anyone passing by their house. In England, that would be cause for scandal, possibly arrest. Here? No one even blinks."
She began pacing, her skirts swishing with each agitated step.
"And the merchants—they spit in the street as though it's perfectly natural. They relieve themselves in public ditches, Father, right there in the open, and no one finds it remotely shameful. I've seen men urinating against walls in broad daylight while women walk past without so much as averting their eyes."
Her voice rose slightly, indignation building. "They eat with sticks—wooden sticks—and slurp their food so loudly you can hear it from across the room, which they seem to consider a compliment to the cook. And their idea of bathing is to sit in the same water as everyone else in the household, one after another, in some communal tub that's been used by half a dozen people before you."
She stopped, turning to face him fully. "They don't shake hands, they bow at every possible opportunity as though they're perpetually apologizing for existing. Their women blacken their teeth and shave their eyebrows—shave them—because apparently that's considered beautiful. And let's not forget that until very recently, their warriors were permitted to cut down any commoner who offended them, in the street, without trial or consequence."
Eleanor crossed her arms. "So yes, Father. Barbarians."
Henry rolled his eyes—a gesture worn smooth by repetition, the particular exhaustion of a man who had fought this battle many times before and knew he would fight it many times again. "I find it funny that you say that, with such pride and composure, but you've forgotten how deplorable things also happen in our country."
He moved toward one of the upholstered chairs, lowering himself into it with the careful deliberation of someone whose body no longer obeyed as readily as it once had. The leather creaked softly beneath his weight. "England also has its negative aspects, and there are quite a few." He reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing his pipe and tobacco pouch with practiced ease. The familiar ritual began—tamping, packing, the quiet scrape of a match against the striker.
"You shouldn’t smoke." The words came sharp, immediate.
Henry paused, the lit match hovering near the bowl of the pipe, flame dancing. He glanced up at his daughter, one eyebrow raised. "The day will come when my daughter will tell me what to do or not to do," he remarked, his tone carrying no real authority—only the gentle mockery of a father who knew the battle was already lost but would enjoy the theater of resistance anyway.
"The doctor said you couldn't." Eleanor crossed the room in three swift steps, her skirts rustling, and knelt before him. Her hands reached for his—one still holding the pipe, the other the match—covering them both with her own. The match extinguished itself between their palms, a thin trail of smoke curling upward.
His hands were older than she remembered them being. Veins prominent beneath papery skin, knuckles swollen, fingers that had once held fountain pens with unwavering precision now trembling faintly even at rest. Her own hands—younger, steadier—pressed against them, as though she could hold the passage of time at bay through sheer will.
She looked up at him, her face close enough to see every line carved by years of service in foreign courts, every shadow beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and decisions made in the margins of empires. "I don't want your condition to worsen."
The playfulness drained from his expression. For a moment, he simply looked at her—his only child, his daughter, the one constant in a life spent navigating the unstable ground between nations.
"I'm fine." His hand lifted, trembling slightly, and came to rest against her cheek—the curve of bone and skin that so reminded him of his deceased wife. The same delicate line of jaw. The same way the light caught her face when she was worried. Catherine's ghost lived in Eleanor's features, a bittersweet comfort he could never quite escape.
"No army or disease will take me to another world, separating me from you." The words came firm, resolute, carved from conviction—but his voice betrayed him. It wavered, thin and papery, as fragile as the hand against her skin. "God wouldn't do such a thing."
"God." Eleanor repeated the word as though testing its weight, finding it wanting. Her gaze drifted away from his face, toward the window, toward the garden beyond where foreign soil grew foreign plants in arrangements she still didn't understand. "God abandoned this wretched place the day He created the world. I fear that no matter how much I pray and call His name, He will never hear me here." The words settled between them, heavy with a loneliness she rarely voiced.
Henry studied her for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "You know, you should visit the temple with me."
Eleanor's head snapped back toward him, searching his face for the joke, the gentle mockery, the paternal tease. She found none of it. Only sincerity, and something that looked almost like peace.
"I'm serious." He shifted in his chair, his hand slipping from her cheek to rest on her shoulder. "I've been going to the Buddhist temple on the north side of the city—the one with the stone garden. The monks there have allowed me to observe their practices, to sit in their meditation halls."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I won't pretend to understand their theology, Eleanor. Their beliefs are not ours. But there is something in that place—a stillness, a clarity—that I haven't felt since we left England. Perhaps before then." His eyes grew distant, remembering. "When I sit in those halls, with the incense burning and the monks chanting their sutras, I feel closer to God than I have in any cathedral. The silence there isn't empty. It's full. Purposeful. As though the Divine isn't absent from this place at all—only speaking in a language we haven't yet learned to hear."
He looked at her directly, his grip on her shoulder tightening just slightly. "Come with me. Just once. See if you don't feel it too."
"I'll think about it." Eleanor rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts with practiced efficiency.
"Are you warmly denying your father's request?" Henry asked, amusement coloring his tone, the smile returning to his weathered face.
"No, I'm saying I'll think about it before venturing into your schemes." She returned the smile, already moving toward the door, her footsteps light against the floorboards.
"Are you going back to the city?" Concern crept into his voice, replacing the levity.
"Yes, I have some things to deliver." She paused at the threshold, adjusting her blouse over her Victorian skirt, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "There weren't many donations for the charity."
"There's a lot of poverty in this country." Henry took a long draw from his pipe, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. "Another reason for Eastern culture to merge with Western culture."
"See, you agree with me. Barbarians, after all."
She stepped into the corridor, but his voice followed her—indignant, theatrical—complaining about her deliberate misinterpretation. His words grew fainter as she moved deeper into the house, but she could still hear him muttering protests to the empty room she'd left behind.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
The kago waited in the courtyard.
Eleanor stood before it, staring at the palanquin with the same mixture of necessity and revulsion she felt every time she was forced to use it. A simple wooden box suspended between two long poles, a sliding door on one side, a small window covered with bamboo lattice. No wheels. No horses. Only human labor.
Two bearers stood at either end—silent, patient, their faces impassive as they waited for her to climb inside. They were not old men, but neither were they young. Muscle and tendon showed through their thin cotton garments, bodies shaped by years of carrying weight that should have been borne by beasts.
She hated it.
Hated the way they bowed when she approached. Hated the efficiency with which they lifted the poles onto their shoulders once she and her maid had settled inside. Hated most of all the gentle sway of motion as they began to walk, their footsteps synchronized, bearing her through the streets as though she were cargo too delicate to touch the ground.
A maid sat across from her in the cramped interior—young, quiet, hands folded neatly in her lap. Behind them, following on foot, came two male servants carrying the charity donations in cloth-wrapped bundles. Blankets, rice, dried fish. Not nearly enough, but what they had managed to collect.
The kago lurched slightly as the bearers adjusted their grip.
Eleanor looked away, fixing her gaze through the lattice window. Tokyo unfolded around them in shades of brown and grey.
The streets were narrow, unpaved, rutted with cart tracks and stained with refuse that no one seemed inclined to remove. Wooden buildings leaned against one another for support, their facades weathered by rain and neglect, roofs patched with mismatched tiles and thatch. Laundry hung from second-story railings, faded and damp. Shop fronts opened directly onto the street—no glass windows, no proper doors—just sliding panels pulled aside to reveal dim interiors where merchants crouched beside their wares.
It was nothing like London.
London had cobblestones, gas lamps, broad avenues where carriages moved in orderly lines. Here, the streets twisted without logic, branching into alleys so narrow two people could barely pass. There were no sidewalks. Pedestrians, carts, animals, and palanquins all shared the same cramped space, negotiating passage through a combination of patience and shouting.
The smell hit her first every time—fish, sewage, smoke from cooking fires, the sour tang of fermenting soybeans. It clung to everything, impossible to escape.
And the people.
They filled the streets in a way Eleanor still found overwhelming. Merchants calling out their prices, laborers hauling loads on their backs, women with babies strapped to their chests, children darting between legs and wheels. Most wore simple cotton—kimono in shades of indigo and grey, tied with plain sashes, sleeves rolled back for work. Some went barefoot despite the cold. Others wore wooden geta that clacked against the ground with each step, adding to the constant noise.
No one wore shoes like hers. No one wore dresses with structured bodices and layered skirts. No one had blonde hair.
The stares began the moment the kago entered the merchant district.
Subtle at first—a vendor glancing up from his stall, his hands pausing mid-gesture. A woman stopping in the street, her child clutched against her hip, eyes widening as Eleanor's face passed behind the lattice. Then more openly. A group of laborers halting their work to watch, murmuring to one another in rapid Japanese she couldn't follow. Children running alongside the palanquin, pointing, laughing, calling out words she didn't understand but could interpret easily enough from their tone.
Foreigner. Strange. Different.
Some bowed as the kago passed—not from respect, she suspected, but from uncertainty about what else to do. Others simply stared, their expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion to something harder to name. A few turned away deliberately, as though her presence were an affront to be ignored.
Eleanor kept her gaze forward, her posture rigid, refusing to acknowledge the attention even as her skin prickled with awareness of every eye that tracked her movement through the streets.
The kago came to rest before a modest dwelling tucked between two larger structures.
It was a small house—wooden walls darkened by weather, a sliding door that had been repaired more than once, visible in the mismatched grain of the panels. A thin stream of smoke rose from somewhere within, carrying the faint scent of cooking rice. The building leaned slightly, settling into foundations that had shifted over years, but it stood. That alone was something.
The bearers lowered the palanquin with practiced care, their movements smooth despite the hours of labor already behind them. Eleanor waited until they had fully set down the poles before sliding the door open and stepping out into the street. Her maid followed immediately, adjusting her own garments as she emerged.
The narrow lane was quieter here, away from the merchant district's chaos. Fewer stares. Fewer voices. Only the occasional passerby who glanced once and moved on.
The door of the house slid open.
A woman stepped out—perhaps thirty, though hardship made such estimates unreliable. Her kimono was clean but worn, the fabric thin enough to show the outline of the undergarments beneath. Her hair was pulled back simply, no ornament, no pretense. She was not alone. Several children emerged behind her, clustering around her skirts like chicks seeking shelter—three, perhaps four of them, ranging from barely walking to perhaps eight years old. Their faces were clean, but their clothing told the same story as their mother's: mended, faded, carefully preserved.
The woman's eyes widened slightly as she took in Eleanor's presence. She bowed—not deeply, but with genuine respect—and when she straightened, surprise had softened into something warmer.
"Whitmore-sama," she said, her voice carrying the particular cadence of someone translating thoughts from one language into another. "I did not expect your presence today."
The English came smoothly, shaped by years of practice. Her accent bore the marks of her teacher—an American colonel, Eleanor had learned during their first meeting, for whom this woman had worked as a housekeeper before his reassignment left her without employment or reference in a city that had little use for either.
Eleanor grimaced, though the expression held no real displeasure. "Kaoru, it's Eleanor. Or Elie. None of that Whitmore nonsense."
Kaoru's mouth curved into a smile—small, amused, the look of someone who had heard this protest before and knew it would be repeated many times more. "Of course, Eleanor-sama."
Eleanor sighed, accepting defeat, and turned toward the servants who had followed on foot behind the kago. "Please—bring the bags inside."
They moved immediately, lifting the cloth-wrapped bundles with care and carrying them through the doorway into the dim interior of the house. Blankets unfolded from their wrappings, their wool foreign and thick compared to the thin cotton quilts most families here relied upon. Clothing followed—simple garments, practical rather than fine, but intact and clean. Rice, carefully measured. Dried fish. Miso paste wrapped in paper.
Not enough. Never enough. But something.
The maid stepped forward then, placing a small cloth bag into her mistress's hands. It was light, tied with simple cord, unassuming in every way except for what it contained. Eleanor crouched down, gathering her skirts carefully to keep them from the dirt of the street, settling herself at the children's level. They watched her with wide eyes—some curious, some shy, one bold enough to edge a half-step closer.
She loosened the tie.
The scent escaped immediately—warm, sweet, unmistakable. Sugar and butter, foreign and rich, the kind of smell that had no place in a neighborhood where meals were measured by necessity rather than desire.
The children leaned in, drawn as though by instinct.
"Since you liked the cookies I brought last time," Eleanor began, her Japanese slow and deliberate, each word carefully selected from the limited vocabulary she had managed to acquire, "I asked our cook to make more for you."
Her grammar stumbled. Her accent was thick, shaped by an English tongue that had never been designed for these sounds. The sentence structure was wrong in ways she couldn't quite identify, but the meaning carried. It reached them.
A few of the children smiled immediately—unguarded, genuine. One let out a small, involuntary gasp, her hand rising to cover her mouth as though the sound had escaped without permission. Another boy, bolder than the rest, stepped forward and bowed with exaggerated formality, the gesture so earnest it bordered on comical.
Kaoru's expression softened further, something unspoken passing behind her eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or the complicated emotion of accepting kindness from someone who would never fully understand what it cost to need it.
"Thank you," she said, her voice steady but quieter now, weighted with something beyond mere politeness. She bowed her head—not the shallow acknowledgment of earlier, but a deeper inclination, held longer. "Both to you and to your father. Your kindness is not forgotten."
She straightened slowly, and for a moment seemed to consider whether to continue. Her hands folded together at her waist, fingers interlacing with the practiced stillness of someone accustomed to holding difficult truths close. When she spoke again, her voice carried the careful tone of someone sharing a reality they had tried to bear alone.
"These days, help has been… scarcer." The words hung in the air between them, understated in a way that made their weight more apparent rather than less.
"The government is investing heavily in new buildings and roads in the city—modernization, they call it. Foreign-style offices, rail lines, gaslights for the main avenues." Her gaze drifted briefly toward the narrow street around them, where no such improvements had reached. "Support has been cut in many places. Programs that once provided rice distributions, shelter assistance—" She paused, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "They say the resources must go toward Japan's future."
Her eyes returned to the children still clustered near Eleanor, their small hands already reaching tentatively toward the bag of cookies.
"And so we receive more requests than ever," Kaoru finished quietly, "with fewer resources to answer them."
Eleanor's smile faded—not into displeasure, but into something more somber, the understanding of someone confronting a problem too large to be solved by blankets and biscuits. The street around them continued its rhythm—footsteps, distant voices, the creak of a cart somewhere out of sight—but the sounds seemed muted now, as though the small house and its occupants had briefly become the center of something fragile and necessary.
She straightened from her crouch, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. Her expression shifted, determination replacing sympathy. "Kaoru, I have more free time today than usual," she said, switching into careful, deliberate Japanese. "I would like to help with more than just delivering donations."
Kaoru's eyes widened, genuine shock breaking through her usual composure. "Eleanor-sama," she said quickly, reverting to English as though the formality of the language could reinforce the impropriety of the suggestion. "I could not possibly ask such a thing of you."
"Nonsense." Eleanor was already rolling up her sleeves, pushing the fabric past her elbows with practiced efficiency, exposing forearms that had never known manual labor but would learn quickly enough. "There must be something I can do to help."
Kaoru hesitated, her gaze moving from Eleanor's determined expression to the house behind her—the sliding door that no longer closed flush with the frame, the section of roof where tiles had cracked and been temporarily patched with oiled paper, the step leading to the genkan that had rotted through on one corner and now tilted dangerously when weight was placed upon it.
"The house…" Kaoru began slowly, reluctance and need warring in her voice. "There is much that requires attention. The door needs planing—it swells with moisture and no longer slides properly. The roof leaks when it rains. The step is unsafe." She gestured vaguely toward the interior. "Inside, the tatami in the back room has worn through in places. The children could be hurt."
Eleanor turned immediately toward the two male servants who stood waiting beside the now-empty kago, their posture patient but attentive. "Follow Kaoru," she instructed in English, her tone brooking no hesitation. "Help with whatever repairs are needed—the door, the step, anything she indicates. If tools are required, send word and we'll have them brought from the house."
The servants exchanged a brief glance—not uncertainty, but the silent communication of men recalculating their expectations for the day. Then they bowed in unison and moved toward Kaoru, awaiting her direction.
Kaoru looked between them and Eleanor, something like disbelief still lingering in her expression. "Eleanor-sama, this is—you should not—"
"I should," Eleanor interrupted gently, but with finality. "And I will." She smiled then, softer than before. "Now, show me what needs doing."
…
An hour passed in the peculiar rhythm of unfamiliar labor.
Eleanor had swept floors that resisted the broom's touch, dust rising stubbornly from corners that had gone unattended for months. She had scrubbed surfaces with borrowed rags, her hands growing red from the cold water Kaoru drew from the well outside. The maid who had accompanied her worked alongside in silence, her movements more efficient but no less determined. Outside, the sound of hammering punctuated the afternoon—the servants repairing the broken step, their voices calling to one another in low, practical tones.
The house was larger than it had appeared from the street. A central room opened onto smaller chambers—sleeping spaces, a cramped kitchen, a room that might once have served as a study but now held only stacked bedding and a few wooden chests. Eleanor moved through it with the careful attention of someone learning its geography, carrying cleaning cloths from one space to another, her arms full of damp fabric that smelled faintly of lye.
She passed a doorway.
Half-open. Not quite closed, not quite inviting entry.
Her steps slowed.
Inside, dim light filtered through a paper screen, casting the small room in shades of grey and amber. A man lay directly on the tatami, no futon beneath him, his position awkward—one arm bent beneath his torso, legs drawn up as though he had collapsed there rather than chosen rest. His kimono was simple, undyed cotton, the kind worn by laborers or those who had no need of ornamentation.
As Eleanor watched, he stirred. A low breath escaped him—not quite a groan, but close. He shifted, pushing himself upright with visible effort, his back still turned toward the door. His shoulders rose and fell unevenly. One hand reached across his body, fingers pressing into the space near his shoulder blade, probing for something that wouldn't release. He rolled the joint carefully, testing its range, and winced.
Eleanor stood frozen in the corridor, cloths still clutched in her hands.
"Instead of standing there," he said without turning, his voice low and rough with disuse, "you could come help me."
The words were Japanese—casual, direct, carrying no deference.
Eleanor's breath caught. Her heart kicked once, hard, against her ribs. For a moment she couldn't move, couldn't respond, her mind struggling to translate not just the words but the situation itself.
"Yes," she managed finally, the single syllable trembling as it left her throat.
He reached for the collar of his kimono then, pulling the fabric down from his shoulders with the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before. The garment slid to his waist, exposing his back.
Eleanor's hands tightened on the cloths.
The marks were recent. Raised welts, some still dark with healing blood beneath the skin, others faded to purple and yellow. They ran across his shoulders, down the curve of his spine, intersecting in places where the blows had landed twice. Not random. Not accidental.
She had seen marks like these before.
Mississippi. Three years ago. Her father had taken her to visit a cotton plantation—diplomatic necessity, he'd called it, though his face had been grim throughout the visit. She had watched from a distance as an overseer inspected the laborers, had seen the scars that marked their backs like topographic maps of suffering.
These marks told the same story.
Her gaze dropped to the floor beside him.
A wooden bowl sat there, filled with clean water that caught the dim light from the window. Several folded cloths rested beside it, white cotton stained faintly at the edges from previous use. Someone had prepared this—had intended to tend his wounds—but had likely postponed the task when they found him sleeping. The water was still clear, untouched.
Eleanor's eyes returned to his back.
The man was powerfully built—not in the lean, graceful manner of dancers or scholars, but with the dense, practical muscle of someone whose body was a tool honed by use. His shoulders were broad, the kind that came from years of lifting, carrying, enduring. The muscles of his back shifted beneath his skin as he adjusted his position, each movement revealing the architecture beneath—trapezius, latissimus dorsi, the clear definition of someone who knew labor intimately and had been shaped by it.
His waist tapered sharply from those shoulders, the kimono pooled at his hips in a way that suggested he wore nothing beneath. The line of his spine was visible, a ridge of bone flanked by muscle that tensed and released as he breathed.
Heat rose in Eleanor's face.
In England, unmarried women did not see men like this. Did not stand in doorways observing the naked backs of strangers, the curve of muscle and bone, the vulnerable expanse of skin. A lady who found herself in such a situation—even accidentally—would be the subject of gossip, speculation, ruin. Her reputation would be dissected in drawing rooms, her name whispered behind fans, her prospects destroyed by the mere appearance of impropriety.
But England was an ocean away.
And this man was injured.
Eleanor set down the cleaning cloths she had been carrying, her movements careful, deliberate. She knelt beside him—not too close, but near enough to reach the bowl. Her skirts pooled around her knees, petticoats rustling softly against the tatami. She selected one of the clean cloths, submerging it in the water. The fabric darkened immediately, growing heavy with moisture.
Her hand hesitated.
Then, with the same careful precision she had used earlier when addressing Kaoru's children, she pressed the cloth against the uppermost mark on his shoulder blade.
The water was cool against his skin. She worked slowly, gently, cleaning the wound with small, methodical strokes. The cloth came away stained—not with fresh blood, but with the residue of dried sweat and dust that had settled into the broken skin. She rinsed it, wrung it again, and continued.
His muscles tensed beneath her touch, then gradually relaxed.
Eleanor focused on the task, her gaze fixed on the marks rather than the man himself—though the distinction felt increasingly meaningless. Each welt told a story she didn't want to read. Each pass of the cloth revealed more of what had been done to him.
She moved to the next mark, then the next, her movements gaining confidence even as her heart continued its unsteady rhythm against her ribs.
"You're unusually quiet today."
The words broke the silence so abruptly that Eleanor's hand stilled mid-motion, the damp cloth pressed against his shoulder blade.
His voice was different now—not the rough command from before, but something closer to conversation, edged with the dry amusement of someone making an observation rather than starting a discussion. "You're always complaining about something. Have you finally lost your voice, Kaoru—" He turned his head slightly, just enough to see her from the corner of his vision.
The movement was economical, deliberate. His eyes tracked to where she knelt behind him—took in the foreign features, the blonde hair, the utterly wrong shape of the woman tending his wounds—and his expression shifted. Not surprise, exactly. Something more measured. Assessment.
"Hm." A pause. "You're not Kaoru."
Heat flooded Eleanor's face again, deeper this time, crawling down her neck. She dropped her gaze immediately, the cloth clutched between fingers that had gone rigid with mortification. "No," she managed, the single word barely audible, embarrassment thickening her accent until the Japanese syllable came out clumsy and foreign even to her own ears.
"Hm."
He faced forward again. Said nothing more. The silence that followed was neither welcoming nor hostile—simply present, filling the space between them like a third occupant of the room.
Eleanor remained frozen for several heartbeats, unsure whether she had been dismissed or merely tolerated. Then, gathering what remained of her composure, she lifted the cloth once more. "You have wounds that need treatment," she said quietly, the words firmer now despite the continued tremor beneath them.
"Medicine costs money."
The response came immediately, blunt and matter-of-fact. Not defensive. Not bitter. Simply stating a reality that required no elaboration.
Eleanor understood at once. Her lips pressed together, trapping the questions that wanted to surface—why, who did this, how often—all of them pointless, all of them irrelevant to the moment at hand. She lowered her eyes and returned to her work without another word, the cloth moving across his back with renewed purpose.
She worked more carefully now, her touch lighter, more deliberate. The pad of her thumb traced the edge of a particularly dark welt, testing its heat, judging whether infection had begun to set in. Her fingers moved with growing confidence, learning the geography of his injuries—where the skin had broken, where it had merely bruised, where the damage went deeper than surface marks.
Then her hand pressed too firmly.
The cloth sank into a patch of skin that was darker than the rest, swollen and hot to the touch, the kind of inflammation that spoke of wounds refusing to heal cleanly. Her fingers slipped, applying pressure directly to the center of the injury. He hissed—sharp, involuntary—and jerked forward, pulling away from her touch. The sound that followed was low, guttural, caught somewhere between his teeth and throat.
"Tch."
Eleanor's breath stopped.
"I—" Her hand recoiled as though burned, hovering uselessly in the air between them, the cloth still clutched in trembling fingers. "I'm sorry." The words tumbled out in English first, then Japanese, her voice cracking on both attempts. "I didn't mean to—"
She couldn't finish. Didn't know how to finish. Her hands remained suspended, uncertain whether to retreat entirely or try again, paralyzed by the fear of causing more harm.
He exhaled slowly through his teeth—a controlled release of air that spoke of practiced endurance. His muscles remained tense for a long moment, coiled tight beneath the skin, then gradually forced themselves into stillness. Not relaxation. Submission to necessity.
Eleanor waited, barely breathing, until the tension in his shoulders eased enough to suggest she might continue.
She resumed her work slower this time, each movement lighter, more cautious. The cloth barely grazed his skin now, her touch so deliberate it bordered on hesitant, as though the wound itself might retaliate if handled too roughly. She cleaned around the inflamed area rather than directly over it, her fingers learning to read the subtle differences in heat and texture that warned of deeper damage.
After a moment, curiosity overcame restraint. "Why…" She hesitated, the question half-formed on her tongue before she forced it out. "Why are you like this? What happened?"
His jaw tightened—she could see it from where she knelt, the muscle jumping beneath the skin near his ear. Silence stretched between them, long enough that she thought he might not answer at all.
"Imperial soldiers," he said at last, his voice flat and humorless, stripped of inflection, "don't tolerate a good joke."
He made a point of the words—imperial soldiers—letting them hang in the air between them, sharp and deliberate, weighted with a bitterness she couldn't quite miss. The new government's men. Modernizers. Traitors to the old order, depending on who you asked. His eyes flicked toward her just briefly, a sideways glance that lasted barely a second but carried its own message: the lines had been redrawn, and everyone stood on one side or another now, whether they'd chosen to or not.
Eleanor said nothing. Her hands continued their work, touch even gentler now, as though softness might somehow compensate for the tension embedded in those two words. The silence that followed pressed in around them, thick with things neither intended to explain and both understood partially—him from the inside of Japan's fracture, her from the bewildered outside.
"Even if they were soldiers,” she said finally, keeping her eyes fixed on the wound beneath her fingers, "you should file a complaint. They can't inflict this kind of punishment."
"Even after I broke one of their arms?” The words came easily, almost cheerfully, edged with something that sounded disturbingly close to satisfaction. There was a sharpness to his tone—pleased, gleeful even—that made her hands still against his back.
For a brief, unwelcome moment, Eleanor regretted being alone in the room with him.
He laughed then—low, rough, unmistakably amused by the way her posture had gone rigid. "Relax," he said, the word carrying just enough mockery to make it clear he'd noticed her discomfort and found it entertaining. "I don't have any inclination to hurt women." The pause that followed was too perfectly timed to be accidental. "Unless," he added, his voice dropping into something lighter, almost conversational, "they happen to like that sort of thing."
Eleanor's brow furrowed, confusion momentarily overriding embarrassment. "That sort of thing?" she asked, the question genuine, innocent in a way that would have been impossible if she'd understood the implication.
He shifted then—not away from her, but toward her—turning so that he sat upright, facing her fully for the first time. The movement forced her to see him completely.
Up close, his torso was impossible to ignore. Broad shoulders that seemed even wider now without the frame of reference his back had provided. Muscle layered over muscle—pectorals, obliques, the defined ridges of his abdomen—all of it built from use rather than vanity, strength without polish, power without pretense. Scars crossed his skin like careless calligraphy, some old enough to have faded to silver, others still dark with recent healing. Three distinct whip marks cut across his chest, angrier than the rest, the flesh around them still swollen and discolored.
Heat flooded Eleanor's face immediately, a rush of blood so sudden it made her dizzy.
She dropped her gaze—instinct, propriety, self-preservation—but the movement offered no refuge. Her eyes fell to his abdomen, to the sculpted definition there that reminded her, absurdly and inappropriately, of marble statues she had once studied in museums. Classical forms carved to celebrate the human body in its idealized strength. Apollo. Hermes. David.
Except those had been stone, lifeless and safe.
This was flesh. Living. Close enough to touch.
And there—her traitorous eyes caught it before she could stop them—a faint line of dark hair tracing downward from his navel, disappearing beneath the fabric pooled at his hips, drawing her gaze in an unconscious descent she only realized she was following when her pulse stuttered against her throat.
"Those need to be cleaned as well."
His voice cut through her spiraling embarrassment, matter-of-fact, almost bored.
"W-What?" The word came out awkward, strangled, her accent thickening with confusion.
"The wounds." He gestured toward his chest with the same casual economy of movement he'd shown before, indicating the marks that crossed his torso. "They need cleaning too."
But he had noticed it then—the hesitation in her hands, the way her fingers had gone still against the cloth, the faint flush that had crept up from her collar to stain her cheeks a shade that looked almost painful. His gaze lingered, no longer perfunctory. Sharper now. More attentive. Assessing.
Blonde hair, pale and almost luminous even in the dim light filtering through the paper screens. It caught what little brightness existed in the room, reflecting it back like spun gold—a color so foreign here it might as well have been a flag announcing her otherness. Skin so fair it looked unreal against the worn tatami and weathered wood, like porcelain that had been misplaced, set down carelessly among things that belonged.
And her eyes—he caught them when she glanced back at him, unable to help herself—were an uncertain mix of green and blue, the color shifting depending on the angle of light. Clear enough to betray every thought she failed to hide. Readable in a way that suggested she'd never needed to learn how to conceal herself.
A slow smile curved his mouth. Not kind. Not cruel. Something in between—knowing, perhaps. Entertained. "Yes," he said quietly, his voice dropping into something more conversational, almost intimate. "There are women who like… rougher things."
Her breath caught—audible in the small room, a sharp inhale that she couldn't quite suppress. She said nothing, couldn't find words that wouldn't make things worse, and instead forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Her fingers moved toward the wounds on his chest with renewed determination, though her hands trembled faintly now.
She was acutely, viscerally aware that she was being studied—not as a caretaker performing a charitable act, but as something else entirely. Something she didn't have a name for and wasn't sure she wanted to understand. And that realization unsettled her far more than the wounds ever could.
"I can't imagine a lady wanting to be hurt," she said finally, the words emerging with careful deliberation. She tried to sound steady, to give them weight and conviction—but the effort only exposed the faint tremor running beneath them, the uncertainty she couldn't quite mask.
He caught it immediately.
A short breath left him—not quite a laugh, more like an exhalation of amusement tinged with something darker. "That's because you're imagining from comfort," he said, his tone neither gentle nor harsh, simply observational. "From silk sheets and clean hands."
His eyes moved over her slowly, deliberately—taking in the quality of her dress despite its simplicity, the way her posture spoke of years of training in how a lady should sit, the unmarred smoothness of her skin that told its own story of a life without manual labor.
"A rich girl," he continued, each word landing with casual precision. "A foreign girl. Probably raised under a cross, taught the world bends out of the way if you ask politely enough."
The assessment wasn't cruel, exactly. But it was accurate enough to sting.
He leaned back slightly, shifting his weight onto one hand, the movement casual but calculated to put more distance between them—or perhaps to give himself a better angle to watch her reaction.
"Things were always offered to you, weren't they?" His tone remained conversational, almost thoughtful, as though he were solving a puzzle aloud. "Protection. Choices. The luxury of believing some lines are never crossed."
His gaze hardened then, something colder seeping into his expression, and his voice flattened into something more cutting. "People like you don't learn what desperation does to desire. Or what power looks like when it's taken, not given."
Eleanor's hands stilled against the cloth. For a moment, she said nothing—absorbing the words, turning them over, feeling the way they landed somewhere between insult and truth. Then she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly for the first time since he'd turned to face her.
"You say that because you've probably never had the opportunity to be with a lady," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt, each word deliberately chosen and placed with care. "Someone who demands more from you than just your body."
The cloth fell aside, damp and forgotten. She reached for the folded fabric she'd set nearby—clean strips meant for bandaging, prepared earlier by whoever had left the water bowl. Her movements were brisk now, efficient, the earlier hesitation burned away by something sharper.
"Raise your arms."
He complied, brows drawing together in mild confusion, though he said nothing as she positioned the bandage against his ribs.
"Carnal desire isn't important," she said, wrapping the fabric around his torso with methodical precision. Her tone had shifted—not quite prim, but carrying the weight of lessons learned in Sunday sermons and drawing-room propriety. "On the contrary—it's considered a grave sin, according to the words of our Lord."
He laughed—low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath her hands. "Beautiful convictions," he said, amusement threading through every syllable. "Coming from someone who's probably never been touched."
"And that's a problem?" she replied immediately, not missing a beat. She pulled the bandage tighter—deliberately this time, more force than strictly necessary. The fabric cinched against his injured ribs and he hissed despite himself, a sharp intake of breath, shoulders tensing involuntarily against the pressure.
Eleanor didn't look up. Didn't apologize. Simply continued wrapping, her expression set.
"Considering you'll probably end up with someone who's never touched a woman—or even knows what to do with one," he said, voice thick with mockery now, deliberate provocation in every word, "I wouldn't worry about what you're missing. Spare yourself the disappointment."
She tied the final knot in the fabric with perhaps more force than required, securing it firmly against his skin. Her fingers lingered for just a moment against the bandage, checking its hold, before she pulled back and met his gaze squarely. "You're despicable."
His smile widened, slow and utterly unrepentant. "I've been called worse, hime."
The endearment landed like a small slap—familiar, diminutive, deliberately inappropriate. His eyes held hers, still amused, still assessing, waiting to see how she'd react to this latest transgression. She stilled then, really looking at him for the first time—not at his wounds or his bare skin, but at his face.
Up close, his appearance was deceptively unremarkable at first glance. Nothing polished. Nothing carefully arranged. No attempt at presentation beyond basic existence. And yet, the longer she looked, the more it unsettled her—not because of what was there, but because of what wasn't. No artifice. No performance. Just the unvarnished reality of a man who had never learned to soften himself for an audience.
His face was angular, features sharp enough to cut but relaxed to the point of carelessness, as though tension had never found a permanent home there. Sharp eyes rested beneath slightly heavy lids—dark, unreadable—carrying the calm indifference of someone who had survived too much to bother proving anything. They watched without seeking, observed without judgment, held the quiet certainty of a predator that no longer needed to hunt because it had already established its place in the hierarchy.
A thin scar cut through his lower lip—subtle but unmistakable once noticed. Old. Poorly healed, the kind that spoke of violence endured rather than avoided, damage that had mended on its own without the benefit of care or attention. It broke the symmetry of his mouth just enough to draw the eye, especially when he smirked, giving his expression a rough edge that no amount of refinement could soften.
There was a laziness to him, almost misleading in its casualness, but it only emphasized the sense that he could move with lethal efficiency if he chose to. His features weren't elegant; they were functional. A strong nose. A firm mouth marked by that scar. A jaw that suggested stubbornness or endurance or both. And a gaze that never lingered where it wasn't necessary.
He looked like a man who had no interest in being noticed—and yet commanded attention regardless. The kind of man shaped by survival, not comfort. By necessity, not choice.
Eleanor drew in a steady breath and rose from the floor, her skirts rustling as she straightened fully. "You know," she said, her voice level, controlled, "I'm not going to yield to your words."
Seated below her now, he watched without comment, expression unchanged, waiting.
"I am a lady," she continued, chin lifting just slightly, reclaiming the dignity he'd tried to strip away with casual cruelty, "and I was raised in a Christian home—one where we are taught not to hate, but to accept our neighbor."
A pause, deliberate, weighted.
"Even when that neighbor happens to be a wild baboon."
Before he could respond—before his expression could shift from mild surprise to whatever would have followed—the door slid open with a sharp clack.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Kaoru began, stepping inside quickly, words already tumbling out in apologetic explanation. "But since you were sleeping, I thought—"
She stopped short.
Her eyes flicked from the man—who very much should have been alone—to the foreign woman standing beside him, still wearing her dress, her blonde hair slightly disheveled, her face flushed in a way that could have been exertion or embarrassment or both.
"Eleanor-sama?" Kaoru's voice pitched higher with genuine shock. "What are you doing here?"
Only then did she fully register the scene, the man seated on the tatami, his torso bare, though properly wrapped now in fresh bandages that hadn't been there before. The bowl of water. The discarded cloths. The proximity.
"Aaah—!!" Kaoru clapped both hands over her face at once, fingers splayed across her eyes as though she could retroactively unsee what she'd just witnessed. A groan escaped her, muffled by her palms. "Toji, I sincerely hope you haven't done anything to Eleanor-sama!"
"If there's a victim here," Toji said lazily, reclining back onto his side with the unhurried grace of a cat settling into sunlight, one arm propping his head, "it's me."
"You idiot!" Kaoru's hands dropped from her face, her expression transforming instantly from mortification to fury. She strode toward him, looming over where he lay. "Show some respect to the lady!"
"Kaoru," Eleanor interjected gently, stepping between them before the scolding could escalate further. "I told you I would come to help—and I did." She glanced once at Toji, her expression carefully neutral, then turned back to Kaoru with a polite smile. "If you don't mind, I think I should retire for today. I can't allow my father to worry."
Kaoru straightened immediately, her anger dissolving into gratitude. She bowed deeply, holding the position longer than courtesy required. "Thank you, Eleanor-sama. Truly. We are grateful for your kindness."
Eleanor returned the bow—shallower, appropriate to her station—then turned to leave without another glance at the man still sprawled on the floor behind her.
Her servants waited just outside, along with her maid, all of them carefully not looking at anything in particular. They fell into formation immediately as she emerged, escorting her back toward where the kago waited in the narrow street.
One by one, they boarded.
Eleanor settled into the cramped interior, her maid taking the seat across from her. The bearers lifted the poles without ceremony, and the palanquin began to move, swaying gently as they navigated back toward the wider streets.
The maid watched her mistress with quiet concern, noting details that would have been invisible to anyone less familiar: the unusual rigidity of Eleanor's posture, the way her hands lay folded too precisely in her lap, the lingering flush that stained her cheeks despite the cooling evening air.
"Is everything all right, miss?" she asked softly, her English carrying the careful enunciation of someone for whom it was a learned language.
Eleanor's expression remained composed, perfectly arranged. "Yes," she replied calmly, her voice betraying nothing. "It must be fatigue. And the humidity in this country—it takes some getting used to."
The maid nodded, accepting the explanation without question, though her eyes suggested she understood more than the words conveyed.
The carriage rolled on, carrying Eleanor away from the small house and its complications, back toward the hybrid architecture of her father's residence, back toward the familiar constraints of propriety and expectation.
Behind them, in the fading afternoon light, the narrow street returned to its usual rhythm—as though nothing remarkable had happened there at all.