Sunday, November 11, 1990, 5:43 AM.
Tokyo, Saionji main residence, east wing guest room.
Chizuru was woken up by a bird.
It was a very small bird.
Its chirping was soft and rapid; it hopped twice in the rain gutter under the eaves and then flew away.
The sky was not yet fully bright.
The shoji paper reflected the silhouette of the camellia tree in the east wing courtyard, its crooked branches looking like casual brushstrokes of light ink.
She did not move her body when she opened her eyes, listening first for three seconds.
There were no unusual sounds in the room.
The wooden floorboards of the hallway were quiet.
From the direction of the distant kitchen came an extremely faint sound of water—likely someone washing their hands, preparing for morning duties.
She pulled back the futon.
She folded it in three, aligning the edges.
She placed the pillow on the right side, with the opening of the pillowcase facing inward.
According to the rules of the Kujo family, a personal maid's bedding setup and cleanup must not exceed ninety seconds.
She took seventy-one seconds.
In mid-November Tokyo, the water from the pipes was already cold enough, but it was still a bit warmer than the well water in Kyoto.
She bent over the sink, cupped the water in her hands, and pressed it to her face.
She did not rub; she just held it there, paused for four seconds, and then let go.
Her face in the mirror was the same as yesterday: pale, slender, and devoid of expression.
She picked up the boxwood comb she had brought with her, which she had placed by the sink last night.
During her seven years with the Kujo family, she had gone through three combs, all of the exact same style.
This was the third one, and its handle had a small, shallow indentation worn into it by her fingertips.
Once her hair was tied up in a bun, she checked herself in the mirror.
Not a single stray hair.
She reached into the very bottom of her duffel bag and pulled out a cloth bundle, opening it.
Inside was a kaiken dagger, less than eight inches long including the scabbard, with a shagreen handle and a plain copper tsuba.
The entire weapon was so plain that it was almost impossible to tell its age.
This had been given to her by her instructor.
The year she retired, he had forged it for her from his own old blade, saying, "Novices use new blades. You are no longer a novice."
She tucked the kaiken under her sash, concealing it beneath the folds of her clothes.
The knot of her iromuji sash was tied slightly looser than that of an ordinary maid by a mere fraction—this was also something her instructor had taught her.
If it was too tight, her range of motion when bending would be restricted; if it was too loose, her clothes would not hold their proper shape when bowing.
That tiny fraction of a difference had been measured through a year of beatings.
Having finished her preparations, she sat in the seiza position in the center of the room, facing the eastern shoji.
This was something she did every morning.
It was not meditation, nor could it be called any kind of spiritual practice.
She just sat there.
Thinking of nothing, doing nothing, slowing her breathing until she could hear her own heartbeat, and then sitting like that until dawn.
She called this "turning herself off."
But today, she could not shut down completely.
Something else was mixed into the sound of her heartbeat—the gaze of that person in the Japanese-style room yesterday.
Satsuki's way of looking at her was different from anyone else's.
The old matriarch of the Kujo family looked at people as if reading calligraphy—savoring them stroke by stroke, from top to bottom.
Satsuki did not savor.
When Satsuki's gaze fell upon her, Chizuru felt as though she were being sliced open along her centerline, the two halves peeled back, and the parts inside inspected one by one.
Without malice, and even without emotion.
She was simply confirming—can this person be used?
Five years ago in the funeral hall, that twelve-year-old girl's eyes had been empty.
The person sitting in the seat of honor yesterday had eyes filled with many things, yet she was even harder to read than when they were empty.
Chizuru had remembered the debt of gratitude her mother owed for eighteen years.
She had never hesitated on this path—if Lady Yuriko's daughter needed someone, she would go.
But what after she "went"?
Standing by that person's side, what was she supposed to do? To what extent?
She did not know.
Or rather, what if Satsuki did not want her?
Was it really alright for her to suddenly appear and demand to stand by her side?
This was precisely what made her uneasy; she feared that after being accepted, she would find that the words "repaying a debt" could not support what that person truly needed.
Chizuru was not afraid of hardship, death, or dirty work.
What she feared was not being enough.
Her breath sank.
Her heart beat once, twice, thrice.
Go to the study, make things clear, and lay herself bare for Satsuki to see.
As for the rest, let Satsuki decide.
Chizuru pressed this thought into the deepest part of her heart, like folding a piece of old silk, pressing it flat, and putting it away.
Then, she turned it off.
Once turned off and then turned back on, the person who woke up would have senses half a level sharper than when they normally awoke.
Light slowly brightened on the shoji, and the shadow of the camellia tree began to take on color—the leaves were dark, the flower buds light.
The camellia shadow on the shoji had brightened.
At 6:20 AM, winter mornings in Tokyo broke a little later than in Kyoto.
Chizuru opened her eyes and returned her breathing to its normal rhythm.
She stood up and walked to the window.
The air in the courtyard was very cold.
The silver osmanthus had mostly withered, leaving only a few clusters of dried stamens on the branches.
But a hint of their scent remained, held close by the cold air, unable to drift far; one had to step close to catch it.
Footsteps came from the end of the hallway.
They were very light, but with a distinct rhythm—it was Fujita.
Chizuru took a step back and stood still by the shoji.
The footsteps stopped in front of the guest room door.
"Miss Matsumuro. Good morning." Fujita's voice came from outside the door. "The breakfast ordered by the Eldest Miss is ready. Please proceed to the dining hall. At nine o'clock sharp, she will await you in the study."
Chizuru opened the door.
Fujita stood in the hallway, looking just as he did yesterday—his spine perfectly straight, looking straight ahead, with absolutely no excess emotion in his expression.
He glanced at Chizuru, his gaze lingering on her collar and her sash for less than a second each.
Chizuru knew what he was looking at.
Whether her collar was wrinkled was to check her grooming.
The position of her sash knot was to check if she was hiding anything.
He noticed my kaiken, but he did not do anything about it.
Why?
She bowed slightly. "Thank you for your trouble."
Fujita stepped aside to clear the hallway.
He led the way, and Chizuru followed behind.
Halfway down the corridor, Fujita paused.
He turned slightly, his flat gaze landing on the fold of Chizuru's clothing near her waist.
"I did not question it last night," he said in a very low voice, "because that was the Eldest Miss's decision."
Chizuru did not move.
"But if there comes a day—" Fujita raised his eyes back forward, "when you must draw it, please make absolutely sure the blade is pointed outward."
After saying this, he turned back and continued walking.
Chizuru watched his straight back, her expression unchanging.
This man was just like her; they were of the same kind.
Rest assured.
She replied in her heart, leaving the words unsaid.
Then she followed him.
As she walked down the corridor, her gaze swept over both sides.
To her left, across a courtyard, was the second-floor connecting corridor of the main residence.
The window at the far east end of the second floor was half-open, the lace curtain gently billowed outward by the wind.
To her right was a stone path leading to the backyard.
At the end of the path was a wooden door with an old padlock hanging on it.
The lock was made of brass, its surface oxidized to a green patina, but there were fresh wear marks around the keyhole—indicating that this door was opened frequently.
On the pillar at the corner of the corridor, there was a maple leaf.
It was a dark red, placed on the crossbeam by someone, and had not been blown away by the wind.
Yesterday evening, on her way to the guest room with Fujita, this leaf had not been there.
Who put it there?
Chizuru's gaze lingered on the maple leaf for half a second, then she withdrew it.
The dining hall was on the west side of the first floor of the main residence.
It was not large, containing an eight-person long table made of old teak.
When Chizuru arrived, the meal was already laid out on the table—white congee, pickles, grilled mentaiko, a plate of dashi maki tamago, and miso soup.
The tableware was Oribe ware, with a green glaze and simple shapes.
She ate alone.
There was no one else in the dining hall, but the sliding door to the kitchen was half-open, and the occasional sound of clinking dishes drifted out.
The congee was freshly made, the grains of rice cooked until they were semi-dissolved, allowing one to taste the natural sweetness of the rice.
The Kujo family used Omi rice for their white congee; she could not tell what kind of rice the Saionji family used.
But the heat was perfectly controlled, and the water-to-rice ratio was just right—the cook in the kitchen was clearly an expert.
She ate quickly.
She even used the pickles to scoop up and clean the remaining grains of congee at the bottom of the bowl.
She placed her chopsticks back on the rest, with the tips pointing to the left, which was the custom in Kyoto.
In Tokyo, the habit was to have the tips pointing forward.
She hesitated for a second, then turned the chopsticks around.
8:52 AM.
Chizuru stood outside the study door.
She was eight minutes early.
The hallway was very quiet.
The study door was closed, but the light was already on, casting a thin line of light from beneath the door.
She heard a sound from inside.
It was very soft—the rustling of a pen tip on paper.
The writer seemed to be writing while thinking, the intervals irregular.
Eight minutes was a subtle amount of time.
Arriving too early would seem overly eager.
Arriving exactly on time would look calculated—which is impolite for a junior attending a formal appointment.
Arriving three to five minutes early was the standard, but it could easily make it seem like she did not take it seriously enough.
She had arrived eight minutes early, but she did not knock upon arrival, choosing to wait in the hallway instead.
She would wait until there were only two minutes left before knocking.
This way, the person inside would only know she was two minutes early—positioning her perfectly between "polite" and "solemn."
8:58 AM.
She knocked twice on the door.
The rustling of the pen tip stopped.
"Come in."