The Friday Society Read online

  When they’d first met in Japan, she had called him “Callum-san” with all due politeness. But as she’d gotten to know him here in England, her opinion had changed drastically. And the only way she could handle her inability to express her true feelings for him without losing her job, and the security that came with it, was to undermine him in a way he would never understand. So she had switched to “Callum-kun.”

  The change from “san” to “kun” really didn’t seem to affect him. He had no idea that “kun” was a term used for an inferior. He also didn’t know that a woman would almost never call a man that, even one who was her equal. Plus it had made her feel so good, so like herself again, that she hadn’t seen the harm in addressing him as one would address a young boy. After all, he behaved like a young boy. And he was, technically, her inferior in almost every way: class, education, and even ability. The fact that he hadn’t noticed the change from “san” to “kun” was enough to make her feel she’d made the right choice. He claimed to be an expert in all things Japanese, but he didn’t even know the difference between the two honorifics.

  Still, she knew that none of these reasons would excuse her behavior to the old samurai. None of it mattered. She was a girl. And girls should not be so disrespectful toward men. Not even if the men were disrespectful toward them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes still lowered.

  There was a long pause and finally he spoke.

  “Look at me, child.”

  With great effort she looked up. The old samurai took a long drag on his pipe and then exhaled slowly.

  “There is no excuse for your impropriety.”

  “Yes, I know . . .” and in a bold moment she added, “It’s just that he’s . . .”

  The old samurai interrupted. “No need to explain. I understand your motivation, as wrong as you might be to act on it. That man is a great fool. He talks of Japan as though he was born there, but speaks no Japanese and understands nothing of our traditions. He holds himself up as a great warrior, a fighter, a teacher even, to the people here in this city. And yet he bargains for weapons worth half of what he is offering.”

  Michiko didn’t say anything, though she had an overwhelming desire to just pour out all the feelings she’d been bottling up for six months.

  “And you, a young woman, almost still a girl, you come and see this sword and understand its worth.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I studied with his honor Kyoshi Adachi-sama.”

  The old samurai’s expression stayed the same, but she sensed a shift in his energy.

  “You?”

  “Yes.” Her heart was racing. How she’d longed to share that secret with the old samurai since the first day she’d met him.

  “And you serve this foolish teacher?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  Michiko wasn’t sure she could remember the answer to that question. Adventure had been the reason once. Escaping persecution another. But after half a year living this life, her heart was aching. It was a means to an end, she reminded herself, not a permanent situation. Occasionally, too, when they traveled the country to give demonstrations of Callum’s fighting technique, or performed before dignitaries, there was some fun in that.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Did Kyoshi Adachi-sama present you with your sword?”

  Michiko shook her head. She thought back to that moment, when all the boys had gotten their swords and she hadn’t.

  “What point could it possibly serve?” Adachi had asked. “You will marry soon. Do you intend to carve fish with it?”

  The other students had laughed. So had Michiko. She always laughed with the others. It was so easy for her to hide her real feelings. She’d been doing it since before she could remember.

  “I see.” The old samurai was silent again.

  Michiko was grabbed violently from behind and whipped around to find herself nose to nose with a red-faced Callum. He shouted something at her. He shouted it again. Then he shouted it slower in that strange accent of his. It sounded like “WAT WEH U TAWKING ABOWT?” but even at the slower pace she still didn’t know what he was talking about. The best she could do was bite her bottom lip and keep silent.

  Her cheek was stinging before she even registered the slap. She stared at Callum, stunned, and he seemed pretty shocked himself. It was one thing to hit her in private in his studio; it was another to do it where everyone could see.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Forgive me.”

  That she understood. Callum apologized a lot. His apologies were never sincere, more like a way to sweep the past under the rug, as if somehow an apology erased the bad behavior.

  Aware that he was still watching, even if he appeared otherwise, Michiko glanced at the old samurai. He was sitting deep in thought as usual, puffing on his pipe as if they’d never had a conversation. But then, just as she was about to look away, she noticed him nod. It was such a small gesture. It seemed like . . . like he was giving her permission to do something.

  Michiko looked back at her boss. Then, with downcast eyes and a humble voice, she said, “Yes, I forgive. Callum-kun.”

  9

  An Unexpected Guest

  MICHIKO SAT ON her bed. Her eyes closed. Trying to empty her mind. Trying to let the thoughts flow in and out like waves in the ocean. This letting the thoughts in was the easy part. But letting them go? Letting them out of her brain? That was a bit trickier.

  There was only a short hour to go before they would be heading to the gala to demonstrate Callum’s self-defense technique. It was how they got clients—showing them how impressive they would look. Michiko knew Callum got clients best by showing them how impressive she looked, that she was his secret weapon. She also knew how much he hated that this was the case.

  Still, she always tried to meditate before a performance. Tried to focus on the moves she would do, her kata. But today all she could focus on was the old samurai. He’d talked to her. He’d been . . . impressed by her. Not that he had any reason to believe what she’d told him was the truth. But it was.

  She was a warrior. A samurai.

  No.

  No, she really wasn’t.

  Stupid brain. It sometimes liked to build her up, make her feel more special than she was. But the fact was, she wasn’t a samurai. She’d never been presented with her sword; she’d never completed her training. Most of all, deep down, she didn’t feel like one. And she had to damn well accept that.

  Meditating wasn’t working today. Clearly.

  Michiko rose from her bed and opened her wardrobe. It still looked odd to her, her clothes hanging as they did, and not folded neatly in a chest. She sighed and reached for her robe. Might as well get ready for the demonstration and do something productive.

  Getting changed really didn’t help improve her mood much. She always felt ridiculous wearing the outfit Callum insisted she wear. It basically consisted of a silk bathrobe. He’d bought it for her at the market on Canal Street. Silk, yes, and embroidered with a large yellow dragon, but it was nothing like a kimono, which Callum was clearly hoping to copy. But kimonos were expensive. Silk bathrobes were not.

  It was a simple thing, flimsy, that she put on like a jacket and tied at her waist. There was no way to keep it firmly shut and there were no pieces that hid her legs when she would spin. After trying to fight with the thing on, and seeing how high it flew up and open, she’d insisted on wearing her samurai training gear beneath, a black tunic and thin trousers that were tapered and tied midcalf, to achieve some level of decency.

  Dressed now, and feeling ridiculous, Michiko moved on to makeup and hair. Which was very simple. Nothing compared to what she’d seen her old geisha mistress do. A little rouge to the cheeks, red on the lips, black around the eyes, and she was done. The hair was even easier. Callum always insisted that she wear her hair down, which meant it would whip into her face when she fought.

  There
was a quiet tap on her door. So quiet she almost didn’t hear it, and it took her a moment before she said, “Come in.”

  One of Callum’s footmen opened the door slowly and peered around it. Callum only had two, an older man, over sixty, and this one, a boy younger than even she was. Michiko had taken to nicknaming them “Shuu” (dried meat) and “Koukou” (baby chicken). Of course, nobody knew the meanings of the words, they just put up with her calling them that.

  “Yes, Koukou?”

  Koukou always tried his best to communicate with her, pairing words with hand motions. It worked a little bit.

  “Someone is in the alley to see you.”

  She understood most of the sentence except for “alley.”

  “Me?” No one came to see her. No one was allowed to come see her. “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged at the same time as he said the words even though by now she’d learned what “I don’t know” meant.

  “Show me.” She stood up and followed Koukou out into the dark narrow hallway and down the servants’ staircase to the delivery entrance. They stepped outside into the alley behind the row of terraced houses. Ah. So “alley” meant alley. Good to know.

  “You can come out now,” said Koukou toward the corner.

  Michiko watched a boy turn the corner. She was confused. It was one of the old samurai’s apprentices from his market stall. He carried something over his shoulder.

  “You are the girl from before?” he asked. Once more Michiko found hearing her native tongue spoken such a relief. But she couldn’t let this common boy know how much she appreciated it.

  “Well, clearly I am. Or do you know any other Japanese fight assistants?”

  “What are you wearing?”

  Michiko pulled the bathrobe closer together. How embarrassing.

  “I know. Please, let’s not talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look, either tell me why you’re here or leave. I’m not allowed visitors, and really I don’t need some lowly assistant judging me.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t judging you, really, I just . . .” The boy stopped talking and furrowed his forehead in thought. Then, after a brief moment, he knelt onto the ground. He removed the parcel from over his shoulder. It was narrow and long.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Michiko felt her heart beat so fast she thought it might burst out of her chest. This wasn’t happening. And yet . . . oh please, let this be happening.

  “My master wanted me to give this to you. He would have come and given it to you in person, but he is old and cannot travel around as he once could.”

  The boy pulled out a sheathed katana from within the package. Looking at the fine decoration on the sheath, Michiko knew exactly which sword this was.

  But she couldn’t . . .

  “I can’t accept this. I just . . . your master doesn’t know me. I could have been lying to him. He hasn’t seen me fight. He feels pity for the girl who was struck in front of everyone in the market.”

  The boy held out the sword toward her. With his head bowed he said, “Forgive me, miss, but you greatly dishonor my master speaking like that. He can see into the soul of any person. He sees the warrior in you. And any girl who could convince the great Kyoshi Adachi-sama to train her must be a true warrior. He wants you to have your sword.”

  Michiko looked at Koukou, who clearly had no idea what the hell was going on. He just stared back at her wide-eyed.

  She approached the boy, her legs shaking, and knelt in front of him. He laid the sword on the ground between them, and she bowed low, feeling the gravel from the pavement on her forehead. The cold soothed her, calmed her nerves. Then, with a deep breath, she sat upright and took up the sheathed katana carefully. She slowly removed the sword itself, and yes, it was the one she had admired at the old samurai’s stall. Her eyes welled with tears.

  True warriors did not cry.

  But she was not a true warrior. She was a girl being given a gift that was far too good for her. She was a girl accepting her samurai sword in a dirty back alley, with horseshit and broken glass around her. There was nothing warrior-like about any of this.

  “My master says you must do everything you can to live up to the honor of being a samurai. He says that this is more than just being a good warrior; he says that this is living an honorable life and using your skills wisely. That you must help others before you help yourself. That you must bear adversity gracefully.”

  “Of course . . .” The words barely escaped her mouth. She knew what the old samurai was trying to tell her. Especially about adversity. “Tell your master I will do everything I can to live up to the honor of his gift. And, while I don’t expect I ever will, that I shall spend every moment of my life striving toward that goal.”

  The boy grinned.

  “What?”

  “He said you might say something like that.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. So he told me to tell you to not let your devotion keep you from enjoying the pleasures of life.”

  “In other words . . .”

  “Don’t forget to have fun.”

  Michiko laughed. It felt good to do it, a release. She started to rise, when the boy held up his hand.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

  Forgetting something . . . “Of course. Koukou, money!” Koukou turned in a full circle for some reason at that order, and then looked at her, panic-stricken.

  “No, no,” said the boy. “Well, yes, thank you. But no. I haven’t told you the name my master gave this sword for you.”

  The name. Of course. She felt emotion well up inside her again.

  “Oh, yes. Please. What is its name?”

  “The name of the sword reflects the soul of the warrior.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Get on with it . . .”

  “The Silver Heart.”

  The Silver Heart.

  Well, that did it. No stopping her now. And the tears flowed freely.

  10

  So Isn’t It About Time for That Gala Everyone’s Been Going on About?

  SEE CORA ANGRY.

  See Cora tired.

  See Cora in a bright red dress that makes her look super hot but not giving a shit.

  “Miss Bell, you look charming, as always.” It was that guy. That guy who was always first to seek out Lord White at these events. Yet for some reason his name always slipped her memory. Marley? Masterson?

  “Mr. Marshall, a pleasure.” She extended her hand and he kissed it. Or rather pressed his open mouth to it, leaving a nice wet ring of saliva behind.

  Yuck.

  Quickly she was forgotten as Mr. Marshall set to wooing her boss. It was just a pleasantry, the whole “complimenting Lord White’s assistant” thing. Like answering those “questions three” to the troll at the bridge in the fairy tale. Humor the assistant; get to the man.

  But the fact was, she did look charming. She looked smokin’. Head to toe in red satin, her wavy dark hair piled high on her head. A diamond necklace around her neck worth more than what most of these men earned in a year. She knew his lordship had ordered her an outfit that would make her stand out like crazy in a crowd. She was a representation of his awesomeness. His beacon. And there was no missing her tonight.

  Even the Prime Minister, such a shy stuttering man, had to say something about her appearance.

  “Miss . . . Bell. You look . . . lovely.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. And thank you so much for inviting me to this wonderful gala. I look forward to the demonstrations of modernity.”

  “Me . . . too.”

  So, yes. She looked good. No question. But she was still upset. Things hadn’t ended too well with Mr. Harris. She’d taken him up to meet with his lordship in his room, and yup, it turned out Lord White had hired him all right.

  After Mr. Harris left, Lord White had tried to placate her by giving her the dress and the jewelry. But that only made her angrier. �
��Clearly this is all you think of me, some life-size doll for you to dress up. It’s obvious you don’t think there’s much else going on inside.”

  So, possibly she radiated beauty tonight. Or possibly she radiated rage and everyone was mistaking it for something else.

  She and Lord White took their tour around the home. It belonged to . . . someone. Some fellow from the House of Lords.

  It was big. It was baroque. It was silly.

  It was also very crowded.

  Lord White was very popular—of course he was. So they had to stop to chat with everyone. He was so good at seeming genuinely interested in every gentleman, even though it was Cora who whispered the name of each one into his ear. She couldn’t stand most of them, but you never knew when one would suddenly become important. It was totally unpredictable who would rise up and who would fall. She’d have thought intelligence, at least, would have been an important quality in a member of Parliament, but really it seemed that breathing was the only requirement.

  They finally made their way to the huge glassed-in conservatory where the exhibits were being displayed. This she’d actually been looking forward to, though she knew Lord White wasn’t as keen. Being an inventor himself—okay, a secret inventor—he was never that impressed with “modern” ideas. He’d scoffed when he’d seen the invitation: “The Prime Minister invites you for an evening of modernity.” Since his brain seemed to mostly exist in the future anyway, she guessed “modern” to him was practically outdated.

  Twisted logic that.

  But Cora loved this stuff, and she released his lordship’s arm in order to have a closer look. Her eye was immediately drawn to half a dozen toy-size mechanical men. They were made of copper and trapped in some kind of tiny corral. They walked around, eyes glowing red. When they walked into one another, they’d get into little fights. One tried bopping another over the head, but this attempt just made the bopper fall over. It was very cute.

  She moved around to the side of the room, where there was a screen with moving images of two clowns projected on it. Clowns made her uncomfortable, so she continued to the model of a dirigible with a box in front of it that said, “Place your card inside and win a ride!” Cora had never had the chance to go up in a dirigible, though she’d always wanted to. They weren’t exactly common. Only royalty were legally allowed to use them for travel. Other than that they were used for aerial warfare and emergency services. Some international agreement had been reached a couple years back preventing everyday citizens from piloting their own. Chaos. Cora remembered hearing that word a lot at the time. She slipped one of Lord White’s cards into the box.