Chapter 22: Echoes of the Past

“That’s how it happened,” Seimei said, seated at a low table.

Abe no Yasunari set down his cup. “As I suspected, your mother was wronged. I never believed she’d curse the world, even betrayed by her followers. The shrine sealed Styx water. Whoever orchestrated this knew it. Who could it be? She had no enemies.”

Seimei produced the now-dull white fur. “A god’s memory splits in two after death. Perhaps the other half holds answers.”

“Strange how you got this one from a Rain Woman,” Yasunari said.

“Divine memories scatter unpredictably. Anyone could pick them up,” Seimei replied.

“I see.” Yasunari nodded.

“Keep this safe.” Seimei offered the fur with both hands.

Yasunari took it, gently stroking the white bundle, his eyes reddening.

Riko returned to her room, closed the sliding door, and took a small wooden box from a low cabinet.

It held the scentless incense Seimei gave her, capable of neutralizing all odors.

She pulled out the small wooden tablet.

Was this the lock sealing the Asura Path’s demons? A deity incarnate?

She shook it, then said, “Hello?” feeling foolish.

When would it be filled?

Her gaze drifted to the incense’s faint smoke, and she paused.

Maybe the tablet’s purpose was to attract demons for her to defeat.

But her strength was too weak—releasing its scent now would be like shouting “dinner’s ready” to demons.

After just one day at home, Yasunari urged them back—one to the Kamo clan, the other to Ise Shrine.

“Little Riko, you’re better?” Minamoto no Hatsuki patted her shoulder, grinning. “I visited, but Lord Abe said you had a fever and wouldn’t let me in, worried I’d catch it. My brother said Lord Seimei was bedridden too. What happened? You both got sick?”

Riko flushed.

So Yasunari used that excuse for their absence. Catching the same illness was ridiculous.

“Uh, yeah, Lord Seimei infected me.”

“I see.”

“By the way,” Hatsuki added, “you missed last class. The instructor had us connect with the gods. Only Nanako succeeded. I heard a god cough, but the instructor said I imagined it. Have you heard gods speak during private practice?”

“Nope,” Riko said without hesitation.

“Like anyone could do that?” a girl passing by scoffed. “It takes talent and kindness for gods to favor you, right, Nanako?”

“Oh, no,” Nanako waved her hands. “Everyone’s kind. I’m just a bit lucky.”

“Luck’s a skill too. You’re too modest, Nanako.”

Hatsuki turned to Riko, mimicking a gag.

The instructor arrived, handing each girl a sheet with Chinese characters.

“Ugh, calligraphy again,” the girls groaned.

“I’m terrible with characters. So many strokes, it’s impossible.”

“Yeah, learning Wu and Tang pronunciations is too hard.”

“Quiet,” the instructor snapped. “Learning Chinese characters is refined. Shrine maidens from Ise who can’t read a single one—aren’t you ashamed?”

Silenced by her anger, the hall fell quiet.

“As usual, Nanako will assist me,” the instructor said. “She knows many characters and can skip the lesson.”

Riko looked at her sheet, eyes widening.

It was “Mooring by Maple Bridge,” a poem she’d memorized in school.

After a few lessons, the instructor and Nanako patrolled the room.

“Shimizu,” Nanako said, stopping by Riko. “You’ve been staring blankly. Didn’t understand? It’s okay, I’ll teach you.”

Hatsuki rolled her eyes openly.

Riko planned to halfheartedly study to brush her off, but Nanako continued, “Copy it a hundred times first. I think your foundation’s weak. I’ll teach you after.”

Riko blinked, stunned.

How did Nanako know her foundation was weak without teaching her?

“A hundred times? You sure you’re not picking on her?” Hatsuki asked.

“I’m not,” Nanako said, looking wronged. “Her foundation is weak. I heard the Shimizu clan fell long ago and moved to the countryside. How could she learn characters there?”

“So pitiful,” others chimed in. “She must not know any characters.”

Hatsuki’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you know she had no chance to learn? Only you did?”

“I know characters. I’ll read for you,” Riko said quickly, wanting to dismiss Nanako as the instructor glanced over.

“Don’t force yourself,” Nanako said kindly. “I know characters are hard for you.”

“They’re fine,” Riko said with a sweet smile. “I can at least recite the Ballad of Mulan and the Memorial to Send Troops.”

“What are those?” Nanako asked.

“You know Mulan and the Memorial?” the instructor turned, intrigued. “I studied those complex texts. Recite a bit.”

Riko realized she’d forgotten the Memorial and only recalled parts of Mulan.

Her face fell.

Nanako asked gently, “Can’t recite, Shimizu? I’ll ask the instructor to let you off.”

“No, I’ll do a bit of Mulan,” Riko said as the instructor nodded.

Phew, good thing it’s Mulan.

Fearing a change of mind, she started reciting from “Ji ji, fu ji ji,” slowing deliberately, praying for a stop.

She could only manage up to “I hear the Hu riders’ cries at Yanshan.”

As she recited, the girls’ eyes widened, and Nanako’s face grew darker.

At “buying a whip in the north market,” the dismissal bell rang, and the instructor stopped her.

Riko exhaled, planning to review the poem later.

“Well done,” the instructor praised, nodding. “I didn’t expect Shimizu to know so much. Even I can’t recite such a long poem. When did you learn? Weren’t you raised by your grandmother in the countryside?”

“My grandmother taught me,” Riko credited Sushi Granny.

“I see,” the instructor nodded. “She taught you well.”

Nanako forced a smile, nails digging into her palms.

Outside, unnoticed, the High Priestess stood in the shade, nodding approvingly.

After class, the girls whispered. “Shimizu’s amazing.”

“Yeah, Nanako can only read aloud, but Shimizu recited so much.”

“She seemed so small before, but now she’s eight feet tall.”

Nanako packed up, feigning calm as a friend comforted her. “Seimei must’ve tutored her at night.”

Nanako’s face darkened further.

The High Priestess bragged about her talented trainee to the palace, fluent in Chinese poetry.

Soon, the palace sent for Riko, saying someone wished to see her.

“How odd. Why would the palace summon you?” Seimei sat on the veranda, one knee up, leaning against a pillar as usual.

Riko sat under the cherry tree, its blossoms nearing their end, and recounted the classroom incident.

“Little Riko knows that many characters?” Seimei said, surprised.

“Just reading,” Riko clarified quickly.

“That’s not impressive enough?” Seimei laughed. “We can read books together now. My ancestors went to Tang and brought back many Chinese texts.”

Seeing her worried look, he added, “Don’t stress about the palace. No one dares offend Ise Shrine folk. They’re probably just curious about a young girl reciting Chinese poetry.”

“Really?” Riko still felt uneasy.

The attendant led her to a courtyard. “The Lady awaits inside. Go in alone.”

Riko nodded, thanked him, and climbed the stone steps.

The vast courtyard gleamed with layered pavilions.

A woman sat by an old maple, feeding pond ducks with pastry crumbs.

Riko’s eyes widened—it was Tamamo-no-Mae, from the bathhouse.

Dressed in red Tang robes, Tamamo-no-Mae looked up, surprise flickering in her eyes. “It’s you. No wonder—I thought you seemed fond of Tang back then.”

Riko nearly asked why she was here, then recalled Seimei mentioning the Emperor’s new consort.

“I miss my homeland and wanted poetry read to me. The nobles’ pronunciation is laughable. I heard an Ise Shrine girl knew Chinese poetry, so I thought I’d try,” Tamamo-no-Mae said.

“I see,” Riko nodded, approaching. “What do you want to hear?”

“This one.” Tamamo-no-Mae handed her a paper.

‘Clouds recall her robes, flowers her face’?

It was Li Bai’s poem for Yang Guifei, lush with beauty.

The big fox wants this?

Seeing Tamamo-no-Mae’s expectant look, Riko focused and recited it.

After, Tamamo-no-Mae gazed at the pond, her eyes tinged with melancholy. “Beautiful consorts often meet bad ends. I saw Yang Yuhuan in Chang’an, dancing the Hu whirl in a pearl-studded skirt under the night sky. I watched from a rooftop, sipping wine. Two years later, I heard the Emperor had her killed.”

Her red-nailed hand idly stroked a duck’s head.

The duck trembled but didn’t flee.

“Your scent’s gone. It was nice,” Tamamo-no-Mae added.

“I haven’t thanked you for telling me my scent attracted demons.”

“No matter, don’t worry about it.” Tamamo-no-Mae kept petting the duck.

Riko’s eyes flickered with curiosity. “What scent did you smell?”

“Roast chicken.”

Riko: “…”

The afternoon passed leisurely.

Tamamo-no-Mae shared tales of eating osmanthus cakes in Jiangnan, lamb hooves in the desert, beggar’s chicken at the Great Wall’s beacon towers, and drinking from a glowing cup atop the palace.

“I don’t know why, but I feel close to you. Come read poetry again if you’re free.”

At dusk, the attendant escorted Riko out, handing her a flat box. “A gift from the Lady. It’s valuable—don’t lose it.”

Riko took it, catching a glimpse of the attendant’s shadow with a fluffy tail.

She tried to look closer, but he’d returned to the palace.

Across the street, under a camphor tree, Seimei sat in a carriage, smiling at her.

“Huh?” Riko rushed to the window, delighted. “You don’t usually finish class this early.”

“Hm, dismissed early today.”

“Really?” She glanced at the dozing driver, suspecting he’d waited all afternoon.

“Get in. Let’s go home.” In the orange sunset, Seimei extended his hand, eyes warm with a smile.

Her heart bubbled with joy. “Alright, coming!”