Chapter 11

11

Sericulture should come with multiple warnings.

Warning one: the event involves facing off with ultra-perfect twin princesses to whom you can’t help comparing yourself.

Warning two: there will be photographs. The occasion will be documented and released to the press (in other words: don’t eff it up).

Warning three: worms. Worms. WORMS. Nobody mentioned sericulture was the production of silk through rearing of silkworms.

I stand in front of a table. Akiko and Noriko are across from me, their gazes hawklike. It is truly an art form to look down your nose at someone the same height as you. Between us is a piece of parchment paper filled with leaves and the writhing bodies of about a thousand silkworms. Surrounding us are imperial minders: ladies-in-waiting (mine and the twins’), chamberlains, photographers, and a guard or two. Akio included. We’ve taken to giving each other the silent treatment, communicating exclusively through third parties.

A flash erupts. Picture number four.

Japan is surly this morning. A storm swept through outside Tokyo last night. Howling winds and rain threatened to whip the cherry buds from their branches and kept me tossing and turning. Now, the air in the open room hangs heavy like a frown. Also it smells sour, like wet tatami matting.

Noriko—or is it Akiko?—whispers to her twin. They both possess the same high cheekbones, winning smiles, and even teeth. Blunt bangs frame their perfect faces.

Their lips twitch with laughter. My God, even their laugh is pretty, reminiscent of the sound of temple bells. “Cousin,” one says, voice low enough so only I can hear. Another camera flashes. I fix my face into an easy smile. Mariko is watching—with concern? Mild annoyance? Hard to tell. But I see her, and it feels as if she sees through me.

“We were just commenting how lovely your dress is,” the other one purrs.

I look down. Smooth the light pink fabric over my stomach. Feel the pinch of the elbow sleeves. “Oh. Thanks—”

“Yes,” the other twin agrees, all snide and snotty. “It makes you appear so slim.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms. I want to punch their noses. How hard is it to get blood out of linen? A million curse words fill my mouth.

The royal silkworm breeder and his assistants enter the room. They’re clad head-to-toe in khaki like exotic zookeepers, carrying baskets filled to the brim with mulberry leaves.

One of the imperial photographers whispers something to Mr. Fuchigami. The chamberlain smiles. “An excellent idea. We will take a photo of the three princesses together.”

Akiko and Noriko step around the table in unison, and it makes me jump. I shall now forevermore call them the Shining Twins.

A bold silkworm has left the safety of the mulberry and parchment cradle. It inches its way toward my pinkie nail. The little chalk-colored fella is slightly hairy and fat—its rotund body reminds me of how my stomach feels every Thanksgiving. Forget the AGG and the Black Bear Diner, these suckers are really living their best lives, crunching on mulberry while being gently warmed under lights.

Another flash. The Shining Twins pose demurely for the camera, but the picture has caught my face downturned. “Your Highness,” Mr. Fuchigami says. I tip my chin up. The Shining Twins move in closer.

“I admired you at the family dinner,” one says.

“I wish I could eat like you,” the other says.

Whoa. Shots fired. Still, I smile sweetly for the camera. Flash. I turn slightly left. This twin has a little mole beneath her eye, a beauty mark. “I bet I could make you.” I say it loud enough for both to hear.

Finally, one says behind me. “Oh, Aki-chan, our cousin is funny.”

I focus back on the silkworms. The one making a run for it has disappeared.

“You must have learned that from your father,” says Akiko.

I did not learn that from my father. Could not have learned that from my father. We just met. The Shining Twins are reminding me I am the Crown Prince’s mess. They’re here to clean me up. My eye twitches. What is their deal? Is it the limelight? They can’t stand sharing it? Am I stepping on their silk-covered toes? Either way, I am now positive this day is going to end up with a girl in jail. It’s me. That girl is me.

Baskets of mulberry leaves are held out. The cameras go wild. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for—we’ll place the branches on top of the silkworms, feed them, and take part in an ancient ritual six thousand years old. This picture will state I am but the spoke in a wheel on a car of a train where everything is working perfectly. It’s wonderful and slightly terrifying to be part of something bigger than yourself. This institution, this title will outlast me. My knees buckle. I feel small, not up to the task.

Something tickles my arm. I glance down. It’s the Thanksgiving silkworm. His back arches and he thrusts upward like he’s a bloodhound, sniffing for the scent of mulberry. He can’t find it, so he resumes a steady course up my arm. Rationally, I know he can’t hurt me. Emotionally, I feel as if it’s a full-out declaration of war. I want him off me. Now.

I shake my arm. Thanksgiving refuses to budge. Damn those sticky legs adapted over decades to climb trees. Right now, I hate evolution more than anything.

The twins are placing mulberry branches on the silkworms, easy as you please. They’re way too calm. It makes me suspicious, but there’s no time to dissect if they may be responsible (they totally are). Thanksgiving is digging under my sleeve. Oh my God. If he makes it into my dress, I’ll die. Die.

I get a flashback to summer camp, sixth grade. A bee crawled under my sweatshirt. Panicked, I’d stripped the garment off, only I hadn’t been wearing an undershirt or a bra. I ended up flashing the entire lunchroom of Camp Sweeney. Now, I am at the precipice of a similar situation.

I raise my hand, ready to flick the rare Koishimaru silkworm. As far as I’m concerned, it’s him or me. I don’t care if the cocoon you weave is used to restore priceless ancient artifacts or if you’re considered a national treasure. Sayonara, silkworm.

A body wedges itself between me and Akiko. A hand sweeps over my arm, capturing the silkworm. I look up. It’s Mariko to the rescue. Lips pinched, she opens her hand and dumps the silkworm back onto the mulberry leaves. Thanksgiving has disappeared into the masses. Mariko melts into the background again.

Mr. Fuchigami waves his hands and says something in Japanese. The imperial photographers put their cameras down. They exit the cocoonery. I’m a thousand percent sure I’ve messed up. Mr. Fuchigami confirms this when he says, “Don’t worry, Your Highness. If we didn’t get a good shot, we’ll edit the photographs.” I’ve ruined the carefully constructed photo opportunity.

The Shining Twins are smug. Now I understand the power dynamic between us. I am at the bottom. Time creeps on. I feel the blood drain from my face, pool at my toes, then out of my body. Here they come. Tears, hot and sticky gather in my eyes. As if it couldn’t get any worse, I cry right in front of the Shining Twins.

---

That afternoon I lounge in the living room and watch Mariko like a cat as she sorts through a pile of gloves. A text comes through. At the alert, Mariko fixes me with a shrewd look. She has a thing about my phone and my pathological attachment to it. My eyes are still a bit puffy. I wept some of the car ride back to the palace. Mariko and Mr. Fuchigami kept up a steady conversation in Japanese. Wow. Talk about uncomfortable. Now, Mariko is giving me a wide berth. I shrink down so I’m in full recline, legs dangling over edge of the couch.

Unknown number

Are you ready to step out of the celestial limelight?

Me

Who is this?

Unknown number

You don’t know your favorite second cousin?

Unknown number

I am devastated. Insulted. Deeply wounded.

Despite my gloomy mood, I smile. Yoshi.

Me

How did you get this number?

Yoshi

Google is your friend.

Me

Srsly?

Yoshi

No. I asked for it. Nobody questioned why. Amazing what people will give you when you’re royalty.

Yoshi

But a warning: you really can find anything on the Internet these days. The right YouTube video and I could give myself a vasectomy.

Me

Would you really do that?

Yoshi

Course not. Deprive the world of my superior sperm? Unlikely.

Yoshi

You didn’t answer my question.

Me

What was your question exactly?

Yoshi

Are you ready to step out of the celestial limelight?

Me

Dunno what that means.

Yoshi

Tokyo, darling. I’m talking about a night on the town.

My gaze shoots to Mariko. She disappeared and brought back more gloves. Good Lord.

Me

Can’t. I’ve got a glove fitting.

Yoshi

That’s a real thing? Never mind. Not talking about right now. Nothing good happens until after 9 p.m., after all.

Me

I don’t think it’s a good idea.

Yoshi

I disagree. This is probably the best idea I’ve ever had.

I look out the window and consider his words. Trees sway in the breeze. It promises to be a nice evening weather-wise, but escape is impossible. The landscape is dotted with at least a dozen imperial guards, Akio included, and an equal number of cameras. But I am stuck and restless and still a little sad.

I purse my lips. All events outside of the palace have to be sanctioned. Though no one has said it outright, it’s understood that I am not allowed to leave alone. Princesses belong in heavily guarded towers.

Me

Say I wanted to. How would I get past all the security?

Yoshi

You just leave it up to me. Come. Let us break rules and hearts. Have a wake-up-with-a-tiger kind of night.

Yoshi

You in or out?

I recall how the ride from the airport to Tokyo was like peering through a keyhole. Yoshi is offering me a way to unlock the door and open it wide. Isn’t this what I wanted, the city spread at my feet? Noora and I would do this together. If she were here, we wouldn’t hesitate to sneak off into the night with the promise of adventure just around the corner, so it’s totally on-brand for me. In the name of all best friend relationships everywhere, I am practically obligated to say yes. Plus, I need a friendly face. I tap out my response, my chest light with anticipation.

Me

I’m in.