Seiko’s voices kept her trapped in a nightmarish sleep for the whole day. She didn’t wake up until the next morning—and even then, it was by Miss Shiharu giving her some breakfast. The voices were still louder than usual—mocking the royal family, lamenting the situation, repeating that her life didn’t belong to her—but they were manageable. Or maybe several days of their constant chattering just hardened her to them.

Miss Shiharu helped her with the younger children, but Seiko couldn’t tell if it was out of sympathy for Seiko or trying to make up for the king’s death to her children. The voices were conflicted—although the king’s voice, in particular, seemed to suggest the latter.

He popped up, clear and distinct, every now and then. Seiko had to half-choke to keep his words from escaping through her mouth, scared of Miss Shiharu’s reaction. The woman only seemed to notice it as a point of concern.

Princess Maenomi sat outside with them, entertaining her little brother’s whims in ways that both confused and elated him. Princess Rinatsu drew on a piece of paper, but then she tore them off and let her younger siblings—Princess Akemi especially—crudely color them, even if she shuddered when they disregarded the lines. Miss Shiharu kept hold of the sleepy Prince Dazuki, but he liked to reach over and toy with Seiko’s long hair, so she stayed close.

Seiko, by Princess Akemi’s insistence, helped color in a simple drawing of a blooming tree. The toddler chose to make the leaves pink.

“Ma,” Princess Akemi said, looking at Miss Shiharu. She pointed at the mess of pink on her paper, then the cherry and peach trees above them. “Trees aren’t pink?”

“Do you want to know why they’re green now?” Miss Shiharu asked kindly, that absent look in her eyes vanishing. It was one of the better ‘why’ questions her daughter could be asking.

At least she’s still watching the kids, the king’s voice murmured. I knew I could trust her in that. Erumi prefers to give them toys and things.

Princess Akemi nodded. Miss Shiharu slightly shifted her position, holding Prince Dazuki gently in her arms. She smiled, prepared to tell a story—it would be easier for the toddler to understand than science—but footsteps behind her served as an interruption.

“Tsujihara bastard.”

Seiko half-responded, tensing, but didn’t turn around after Miss Shiharu looked behind her and frowned.

“Try again, Jukazu—nicer. You’re setting a bad example.”

The eldest prince gave a heavy sigh—the sentiment was shared by the king’s voice, although his came more out of aggravation.

“Tsujihara Seiko.”

She glanced at Miss Shiharu, who nodded; then she obediently stood up and bowed towards the eldest prince. He glared at her, cold and unfriendly, and he didn’t acknowledge anyone else.

Usually he would insult Maenomi, the king’s voice murmured.

Maybe he just thought she was easier to tease—or maybe he knew the reason Lord Gin chose to send her away, and that the same argument could still be made. Maybe he knew that she overheard his conversation with his uncle, or even sensed that the whole time the king told the true story.

It would be foolish of you, of all people, to fear a murderer, a few voices said. But stay naive if you wish. There’s still some time yet…

Prince Jukazu blinked and she realized she hadn’t responded yet.

“Yes, sir? Am I needed somewhere?”

“Ozuru wants to see you,” Prince Jukazu said simply. He turned around and gave a dismissive wave. “His priorities are skewed, but Lady Aimiki forbid I’m allowed to have an opinion.”

He left before she could do more than listen to the voices laughing.

I’m sorry, Seiko. That boy will never learn respect, the king’s voice said. Then, with the rest and in a distorted tone that made her shiver—That’s why he’s not worthy.

“You should go,” Miss Shiharu said kindly. “Ozuru knows what I can and cannot handle.”

“He might just want to check on us,” Princess Maenomi murmured, looking up from the game she was playing with Prince Kyuru. “He mentioned it during breakfast—getting Miss Tsujihara’s view of the work.”

Seiko nodded. There wasn’t a reason to delay for too long, even if she didn’t like the thought.

…

Seiko had to rely on the voices to actually guide her towards Lord Gin’s study; she had yet to explore the side of the palace reserved for work, if only because she never felt like she had a reason to. She would have preferred to go back to ask Miss Shiharu, but the voices grew louder. To avoid coming into a conversation pained, she listened.

She lightly knocked on the door when she got there. Papers shuffled on the other side.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Tsujihara?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come in.”

Seiko slid the door open, meekly entered with a bow, and closed the door again behind her. Lord Gin pushed aside some books—the voices identified them as biographies left behind by previous kings, and a citizen ledger.

If only I could assure him… the king’s voice started, ending with an echo of the rest, His efforts are futile. Even if he tries a relative, it won’t work. Only one person is ready—but Lady Aimiki wants to deny it, just like him.

“It’s reassuring that you’re awake,” Lord Gin admitted. He leaned back in his chair, looking at her with a version of how he regarded Princess Maenomi. She wondered how much he knew, or how much he guessed she could remember. “I can definitely say you’ve made a positive impact on the children, based on their reactions yesterday when you were absent. Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, sir.” She frowned a little. “Were they worried about me?”

“They were—Maenomi and Akemi, especially, although Kyuru was disappointed.”

“I’m sorry.”

Lord Gin shook his head. “No need to apologize. Like I said earlier, I see this as a good thing.”

It means they trust you, the king added. I’m glad I was able to convince him to invite you.

“That being said,” Lord Gin continued, his expression softening for a second, “If you even think you might have migraines again, let Shiharu know. I still have some medicines that worked for your mother.”

Seiko looked away. “...Thank you, I suppose. I will.”

He nodded and a little smile broke through for a second. Funny how he still cares for a monster like you, a few voices murmured.

Lord Gin glanced at his books, then continued on with a graver tone.

“What happened yesterday was…unprecedented. I know I’ve given my side, but I want to hear yours—having seen the failure of a coronation, do you still trust us?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t say she trusted everyone, but she trusted a majority and the walls that surrounded them. But the voices still murmured doubt.

Lord Gin must have noticed. “Let me put it this way, then.” He leaned forward on his desk, resting his head on his cupped hands. “If you heard fighting outside the palace and were asked to stay put, would you feel safe knowing that the soldiers will be protecting you as well?”

The voices’ cynical answer bubbled up before she could swallow it down. “Does it matter if a ‘governess’ dies?”

Lord Gin grimaced and pulled back, lowering his eyes to his desk.

“...Just answer the question as a hypothetical.”

“In that case…” She paused, but the voices had nothing to comment. She was forced to form her own response, so she kept it honest. “More or less. I can believe that I would be protected by proxy, but not directly—but danger is still a possibility, so I couldn’t be at ease.”

“...I see.” Lord Gin looked at his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took something out. “Would this help?”

He showed her a knife—sheathed, decorated with silver and gold and a handle painted blue, meant for the royal family—with the blade facing him. Seiko tried to suppress a wince, tried to keep her breath from hitching as the voices both screamed and laughed at the sight of such a danger.

No witnesses, they murmured. And you could frame it as a suicide…

Seiko shook her head, mostly to dismiss the voices. It didn’t work.

“I…can’t, sir.”

“Don’t be intimidated by the decor,” Lord Gin reasoned, misunderstanding her hesitation. “No one will notice if you keep it hidden.”

“No, it’s…” Her voices completely abandoned her. They must want to see her struggle for words—and honestly, she couldn’t think of the best way to explain it. She couldn’t even read Lord Gin’s expression to see what he thought the reason was; he held out the knife with a kind of patience.

After a minute, Seiko settled for a half-truth. “I might hurt someone by accident.”

“That’s what the sheath is for,” Lord Gin pointed out.

“Do you expect a shrine maiden’s daughter to know anything more than basic self-defense?”

“It’s not a hard thing to learn,” Lord Gin reasoned, although he didn’t seem to doubt her question. “Just stab someone who tries to stab you first. It doesn’t have to be pretty or clean, just effective.”

Maybe she had to admit another portion of her thoughts for him to understand.

“...Having that will make me feel less safe. I associate knives with danger and death—it might hinder my work.”

Finally, something like sympathy showed through. Even if he still looked confused on why someone would deny a weapon.

“Maybe I shouldn’t push you,” he murmured. A bit louder, he said, “How about this—it will stay here for you. If your mind changes, or if something happens, just come in and take it. There’s nothing confidential here.”

“...Thank you.” She tried to make it sound meaningful, but if she failed he didn’t show any signs of it. “Is that it, then?”

“Yes.”

Seiko bowed in acknowledgement and turned back towards the door. Lord Gin spoke up again when she put her hand on the door.

“Actually, if you could humor me for a moment?”

Seiko glanced over her shoulder at him. Lord Gin’s eyes looked at everything but her.

“Ignoring your upbringing—if you were with us the entire time, actually had a position here—what would you say to Lady Aimiki if you were to be crowned? I heard something from everyone else, but I’m…curious, to say the least.”

The voices mocked the question, but she answered evenly.

“Less conflict with Kuro, if possible,” Seiko said. “I doubt true peace is attainable—the day we stop fighting is the day both kingdoms fall—but something close would help. Make an agreement so they’re not ‘wars,’ per se, but rivalries.”

Interesting, the king’s voice hummed. I vowed something similar, albeit in private.

She could rattle off a few more things—the difference between east and west Gin, the economic distance of small villages and the capital, the lack of support bastard’s mothers get unless a man agrees to marry her out of pity—but she didn’t want to stay here long. She didn’t know when Lord Gin’s patience would end.

Lord Gin looked at her again for a second, then waved her off.

“Thank you. You’re free to head back to Shiharu now.”

Seiko gave one final bow, then left. Lord Gin continued shuffling papers from behind her.