Chapter 9

9

Seventy-two hours in Japan, and I am no closer to reaching the imperial height. In fact, my growth is distinctly stunted.

From my seat, I stare up at Mariko. Mariko stares down at me, her honey-colored eyes cool and assessing. “Focus, Izumi-sama.” Her voice implies I am doing anything but. Her look also implies I am the human equivalent of a Band-Aid found in someone’s salad. Others are also present: Mr. Fuchigami smiles benignly, and a butler, eerily efficient and polite, stands ramrod straight. Rain splatters against the windows.

In front of me is a place setting. I take a deep breath, feeling my waistband stretch on my exhale. This morning, Mariko wrestled me into a matching twinset and pleated skirt.

I glance at the table. It’s a selection of crystal glasses, gleaming silverware, and porcelain plates inlaid with a gold chrysanthemum. My hand drifts over the second fork on the left. Mr. Fuchigami sucks in air through his teeth. He’s dressed in a staid suit, silver-streaked hair neatly parted and styled.

My hand changes direction. Mariko frowns.

If we were in Downton Abbey, Mariko would be Mary—churlish, a little cold, and serious to a fault. She is the driving force behind my three-hour etiquette lessons each evening. We practice bowing and different ways to say thank you. There are dress and glove fittings. Based on her frosty attitude, I have drawn the conclusion she does not like me. Quick fact: as a member of the royal family, I have no right to vote, carry cash, or have social media accounts.

Mariko speaks. “We won’t be able to accompany you to the wedding.”

Prime Minister Adachi will be wed in just over a week. I’m attending as my first official duty.

“Yes,” Mr. Fuchigami agrees. The two are in total cahoots. “You’ll be seated with your father. You are expected to know this.”

“You won’t be able to look to other family members for support,” Mariko adds. She must have spied me on the first night at the family dinner when Yoshi took me under his “leg.” Despite my royal blood, nothing is inherited. I need a pick-me-up. I reach for the plate of senbei crackers in the middle of the table. They’re made of rice and still warm, fresh off the grill. “No more crackers.” The plate is whipped from the table. My mouth hangs open as Mariko holds it hostage. “Now, which is the fish fork?” She nods at the table.

Again, I stare at the place setting. At the extra small, small, medium and large forks. I start by eliminating the possibilities. The extra small utensil is an oyster fork. The next size up is the salad fork. That leaves medium or large. My odds are fifty-fifty. Not bad. But in a blinding moment of clarity, the answer comes to me. “This one.” I hold it up proudly.

Mariko arches her brows. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure?” I say it like a question.

“You’re right.” She doesn’t seem happy about it, but she does place the plate of senbei back on the table.

Mr. Fuchigami clears his throat, stepping forward. “Perhaps we should practice your Japanese. Ogenki desu ka?” He launches right in.

Mariko crosses her arms, clearly ready to enjoy the show. The butler begins to clear the place settings.

Table etiquette to a second language. I shake off the whiplash. In addition to a crash course in culture and table manners, I have to learn Japanese, starting with the hiragana and katakana alphabets and memorizing common phrases, such as: “Genki desu.” I’m fine. A perfect response to his question, How do you do? Truly, it’s been a blur of conjugating verbs and perfecting the palatal d. Japanese is hierarchical to boot. There are different levels of formality, all depending on the speaker and their relationship to the person.

Mr. Fuchigami nods approvingly. “Ojōzu desu.” He nods to the table; along with the senbei, there is a dried fruit platter and selection of nuts. “Nanika meshiagarimasu ka?”

I cock my head, thinking hard. “Ano…” That’s a space filler in Japanese, the equivalent of saying um. A genius word. I use it a lot.

Mr. Fuchigami takes pity on me. “Nani ka meshiagarimasu ka? Would you like something to eat?”

I perk up. “Hai. Ringo suki desu. Oppai tabetai!” Translation: I like apples. I want to eat a lot of them. Only … Mr. Fuchigami’s face turns the color of a tomato, and he can’t meet my eyes. Mariko chokes. The butler drops a crystal glass. It doesn’t break, but it clinks against a place setting, taking a chip out of the priceless china. “What?” I ask, alarmed. Mr. Fuchigami can’t even look at me.

Mariko rubs her eyebrow. “You’ve mispronounced the word a lot.”

“A lot? It’s oppai, isn’t it?” I say it a few more times to get the hang of it. “Oppai, oppai, oppai.”

Mariko’s eyes go wide. “Stop. Saying. It.”

“Your Highness,” Mr. Fuchigami says slowly, carefully, quietly. “The correct pronunciation is ippai. The word you said refers to…” He can’t say it. His eyes flicker to Mariko.

Mariko can’t say it either, but her hand drifts up, fluttering around her breasts.

“Oh.” My eyes grow wide. I’ve just sung “boobs, boobs, boobs” to the royal chamberlain and my lady-in-waiting. “Oh!” A knot twists in my belly. “Sorry,” I murmur. The butler is gone.

Mr. Fuchigami checks his watch. “I need … I have a meeting.” I glance at the antique clock on the wall. Zodiac animals mark the time instead of numbers. We were scheduled for another hour, right up until lunch with my father.

“Sorry,” I call out again as Mr. Fuchigami hastily bows and leaves. Eye contact is too much to ask.

“We’re done,” Mariko says abruptly, then trots after him.

Alone, I push away from the table. I wander from the dining room through the living room, catching my reflection in a black and gilt mirror. I still look pretty good—my makeup hasn’t budged, and every hair is still in place. But isn’t that how it always is? Pretty on the outside, slowly crumbling on the inside?

My steps take me to the entryway. After slipping on shoes, I’m out the door and sitting on the concrete step. I hug my legs. My vibe is glum, totally insecure. The air is cool and it’s drizzling, but I stay dry, protected by the porch overhang. Movement catches my eye—Akio. He’s as handsome as ever. The wind lightly tousles his damp hair. He’s wearing some sort of dark coat. All in all, he’s fit to be on the cover of Vogue. Whatever. So annoying.

He eyes me, brows lowering into a definitive glower. Yesterday, I overslept, and a tour of the wild duck preserves and a fishing party had to be rescheduled. Later on, a clock was delivered to my room … by Akio’s request. I cross my arms and return his frown. His deepens in response. I’m pretty sure he’s commanding dark forces to gather upon me. Likewise, buddy. Likewise.

I shift away from him and covertly dig my phone from my bra. I succumb to my pathological need to share my humiliation and text Noora.

Me

Today I mispronounced a word and accidentally told my chamberlain I want to eat boobs.

I wait for her response, turning the phone over in my hands and wondering what the AGG has been up to. I wish I could stalk them on social media, but their accounts are private, and Mr. Fuchigami made me delete all mine. Royal protocol. There’s also a ban on consuming media on imperial property. No tabloids. No newspapers. No television.

Finally, Noora’s name lights up my phone.

Noora

Bah. Could happen to anyone

Me

I’m not sure I can do this

Noora

Strongly disagree

Noora

Remember that time Glory said you couldn’t eat a whole pie from Black Bear and I bet you could and you actually did?

Me

Your point is…?

Noora

My point is: I believe in you.

Me

Riiight, because being a princess is the same as eating pie.

Noora

It’s not. But you’re still fantastic. Men weep at your feet. Women want to be you. Birds fall from the sky stunned by your glory.

Noora

That help?

Me

A little.

Noora

Good.

Noora buoys me. She’s never steered me wrong. Okay, there was that one time she convinced me to shave my eyebrows and draw them on. My phone buzzes.

Noora

Also still waiting on that bodyguard picture

Glory

Ditto

Hansani

Yes please.

She’s added the girls to the text thread. Ever so discreetly, I check Akio out over my shoulder. He’s staring off into the distance, hands clasped in front of him. I hold my phone, snap, then send. His head swivels. “Nani o shite imasu ka? Did you just take my photograph?”

I rise, brushing off my skirt. “No. Of course not.” My voice is heavy with a dose of as-if-I’d-ever.

The screen lights up. I glance at it.

Noora

OMG. Make out with him already.

Hansani

I’d go down with that ship.

Glory

I bet he smells amazing but kind of rare, too, like his cologne is made with panther tears. #sexpanthercologne

I mute all. Akio grunts. Such a poet this man is.

He shifts away. Not so fast. Remembering the clock sitting on my nightstand, my blood heats. I sidle up next to him. He’s making a show of canvassing the estate, like he can’t see me.

“Akio?”

“Your Highness.” So stiff. So formal.

“I’ve been wondering. How does one become an imperial guard?”

He scowls, as if this is the worst time he’s ever had. One can only hope. “I prefer close-protection officer. I believe Mr. Fuchigami supplied you with my qualifications.”

“He did, but it was mostly police credentials.” I toe the cement with my sensible navy heeled shoe. “Is there like some imperial—sorry, close-protection officer school you have to attend?” I widen my eyes and put a hand over my mouth. “Have you ever killed someone? And if so, did you like it? I bet you have, and I bet you did.” It’s always the strong and silent types who are hiding something. “Tell me, do you have a locked room where no one’s allowed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His hands are folded in front of him. His back is perfectly straight. “It’s a basement. Better temperature control down there. You know, for the bodies.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “It’s scary because I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

He breathes a deep, impatient sigh.

“I think we should establish the chain of command. Am I, like, your boss?” Please say yes. Please say yes.

The muscle in his jaw twitches. He may have cracked a tooth. If so, I know an excellent royal dentist. Mr. Fuchigami squeezed in a physical and a full dental exam yesterday. I’m still wearing the Band-Aid from the blood test. Crime shows hold true. DNA doesn’t lie. I am the Prince’s daughter. “Your security and safety are paramount,” he says. “They come first.”

“Meaning…”

Now I have all his attention. “Technically, I am the boss of you.”

Oh, he is smug.

I purse my lips. I don’t care for that at all. “Has anyone ever told you charm isn’t your strong suit?”

His patience has run out. “Charm doesn’t keep royalty alive.”

Touché. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” I was late. You had a clock sent to my room. Let’s just call the whole thing off. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Why do you want to know that?” His gaze is sharp, suspicious. The rain starts again. Fat drops hit the pavement.

“I just think we should get to know each other better. You tell me something about you, and I reciprocate. You know, it’s how you make friends. It’s bonding.” Then, once I find out all your secrets and vulnerabilities, I will use them to destroy you. Just kidding. Kind of.

His lips twitch. He scans the estate again. Silence stretches on until he finally says, aggrieved, “I am fond of Die Hard.”

I blink twice. “Die Hard? Like Bruce Willis, ‘Yippee-ki-yay, mothereffer’?” I would have taken him more for an American Psycho fan. You know, suits, business cards, a predilection for order, and hiding bodies in closets.

He sighs. “My parents worked a lot. It was on television when I was young.” My stomach twists with sympathy. He nods. “Are we finished, Your Highness?”

Akio gestures to the entrance. Chatter comes through his earpiece, and lines form around his mouth. “Everything okay?”

“There is some commotion at the gate,” he huffs.

“Commotion?”

“Reporters hoping to get a glimpse of you.” The chatter in his earpiece increases. “Are you ready to go inside? I’m needed at the gate.”

I shrug. Seems unnecessary since I can’t even see the gate from the palace, but I say, “Sure.” It is easy to acquiesce when it’s your only option. Plus, apparently, he’s the boss.

He touches two fingers to the back of my elbow, steering me indoors. There’s a little spark. So what if he looks like The Rock and Daniel Dae Kim had a baby and raised it in the Japanese wilderness? I’m sure this attraction is only one-sided. I’ve had too many unrequited crushes to waste my time on another. I decide to focus all my energy on hating him. Good thing he makes it easy.

“Hey,” I say to Akio. “I had a thought.”

“A dangerous pastime,” he murmurs.

I choose to ignore his comment. “Don’t feed the bears” is a saying in Mount Shasta. “Do I have a code name? I’m pretty sure I get a code name. I’d like to choose it.”

His fingers fall from my elbow. A pity. “Yes,” he says. “As a matter fact, you do have a code name.”

“I knew it!” My twirl is the glee-filled kind. “What is it? Sidewinder or Lightning or maybe Pegasus?”

“We were calling you Butterfly.”

Huh.“That’s nice, I guess.” A little soft, but okay.

“Then, the tabloids gave you the moniker The Lost Butterfly, so we had to change it.”

I perk up.

“I suggested it,” he baits.

“What did you suggest?” I look up at Akio with stars in my eyes. The possibilities are endless—Sunshine, Moonflower, Cherry Blossom. My thoughts are a runaway train. Maybe he likes me. Maybe he’s not as mean as he seems. Maybe I’ve terribly misjudged him and this is just a rocky start to a friendship that turns to love that will last the ages. Our affair will inspire folksy campfire ballads.

It’s the first time I see Akio smile. It’s part evil, part satisfied, as if he’s just won a bet with himself. “Radish.”