Unlike the night before, Seiko shared a table with the king’s mistress. Miss Shiharu actually smiled at her in stark contrast to the scowling royals. She’s loved, but she’s not one of them, Seiko’s voices murmured. She’s a decade older than you at most. King Gin Tsunkei has no right to wonder why his eldest son is so flippant with others’ feelings.

Miss Shiharu seemed to enjoy the company, but didn’t entertain much conversation. Her gaze was fixed on her daughter; her son, the younger of the two, was too young to eat with the rest.

The voices were kind enough to let her think while she ate, buzzing but never enough to cause pain. She wondered if being with someone else helped—that worked in the past, at least. The voices themselves never confirmed or denied the theory, insisting on irrelevant topics instead.

Miss Shiharu left as soon as she finished eating, giving a few words to the king before heading out of the room. The royal’s conversation stayed cordial—if it seemed like it would fall into an argument, Lord Gin called for a reconsideration. Most instigations were from Prince Jukazu; most comments were pointed towards Princess Maenomi or Miss Shiharu at the other table, occasionally veering to insult Prince Kyuru and a few names Seiko didn’t recognize. She tensed every time he said her name, even if he used ‘Tsujihara.’

“Please stop trying to cause trouble,” Lord Gin said tiredly.

“Blame Father,” Prince Jukazu replied with a shrug. He slowly stood up, to the visible relief of a few people at the table. “Who, I should remind you, is also the reason we’re going on an inane trip halfway across the country.”

“You’ll change your tune once we’re there,” the king argued. “For one, it’s beautiful. For another, you’ll be grateful you know the lay of the land when Kuro invades again.”

“Who’s to say Kuro will be the next to invade?” Prince Jukazu rose up with a kind of viciousness that made Seiko wince but excited the voices.

“History,” his oldest sister said passively. “Kuro’s always attacking. You’re kinda doomed if you can’t fight back, Jukazu.”

His second-youngest brother chuckled. “Then we get to call you the Last King of Gin! That’d be great, actually.”

Prince Jukazu hissed at his siblings while the youngest stifled laughter. Lady Keichiro bent over and smacked each one’s hand, earning an ‘ow’ from both children and a tsk from each one of Seiko’s voices.

“Be nice,” she said unconvincingly. “Or he’ll die and you’ll be the last ruler of Gin.”

“That fails to be threatening when women can’t inherit the throne,” Princess Maenomi commented, almost quiet enough that Seiko couldn’t hear. She only really noticed because the voices brought it to her attention, repeated it for her understanding.

Prince Jukazu pulled away from the table, looking down at his family with contempt.

“Have you seen this place? Sometimes I think we would only benefit from my rule—even if it’s the last.”

Such hubris! a voice noted. It’s a shame. He’ll never be king—and neither will Teiki or Chiki or Dazuki. They’re all too lustful, or too childish, or too young to even live.

Prince Jukazu left without another word. After he closed the door behind him, Lord Gin sighed.

“...Teach that boy a lesson while you’re out, Brother. Do your best to help, Teiki, or you’ll need a lesson next.”

“I’ll make sure he never forgets it,” Prince Teiki promised. He slid out of his spot with ease. “That being said, I should make sure I have all my things. We’re leaving tonight, Father?”

“Yes.”

The second eldest prince bowed, then left with a thin smile. Afterwards, the remaining members of the family left the main table—Princess Maenomi first, once she asked to be excused, then her mother. The king and his wife left at the same time, murmuring about Miss Shiharu.

Seiko considered her cue to stand when Lord Gin got up and glanced at her.

“Do you have a headache again today?” he asked.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“No, sir.”

“Good.” He looked back at the children behind him, anywhere between ages twelve and three. “Rinatsu, keep an extra eye out for Akemi. Kyuru, don’t roughhouse with the toddlers. All of you, be nice to Miss Tsujihara.”

The youngest—Princess Akemi, she assumed—blinked. “Why?”

“Because tengu will fly off with you otherwise,” Lord Gin replied dryly. The threat made all but Princess Rinatsu shiver. “Then they’ll keep you from ever coming home again.”

Princess Akemi whimpered, but Prince Kyuru must have stopped listening—he was already making his way towards Seiko.

“Can I play with Miss Tsujihara first, Father?” the prince asked while looking up at his caretaker.

“You have to share her,” Lord Gin answered.

The prince seemed accepting, but not wholly satisfied. Still, after another second, he beamed again and grabbed Seiko’s hand.

“Come on, let’s go! I wanna go outside!”

He tugged her as much as a six year old boy could, and the other children joined in with the chorus. Lord Gin didn’t quite smile, but he almost looked a little pleased.

“If they start to give you trouble, just ask Shiharu for help. She’s been watching them before.”

Seiko nodded, and not a second later all the other three ran towards her and pulled alongside Prince Kyuru. She allowed them to guide her; following their whims wouldn’t be as troubling as giving in to the voices’ silent whispers.

…

The children were surprisingly easy to please—they didn’t ask the impossible of her and, for the most part, they understood that her attention needed to be divided amongst the four of them. Prince Kyuru was the most active—the most ‘demanding’ by a majority of people’s standards—but he didn’t play as much with the other three either.

Seiko sat on the walkway through the sakura garden, where the children voted to be. Only the first hour or so was spent on anything resembling schoolwork; Princess Rinatsu found more interest in arranging the fallen petals than counting them, while Prince Kyuru and Prince Chiki jabbed at each other with sticks. Princess Akemi, apparently exhausted from the exciting petal collecting earlier, found Seiko’s lap comfortable enough to lay in. Seiko was both honored at the trust and horrified at what her voices insisted she did with it.

The voices were quieter around the children, yes. But that made it all the more jarring: It wouldn’t be hard to snap each one’s neck. There would be no witnesses. You could say a thief came in and you would be believed if you looked harmed as well.

The thought distracted her enough that she briefly lost track of the boys. Her slight panic bothered Princess Akemi, which in turn alerted Princess Rinatsu. The eldest chuckled after a second, but someone spoke from behind Seiko before she could ask.

“Are you a tengu, Miss Tsujihara?” Prince Kyuru. Seiko glanced over her shoulder, with both princes being there. Prince Chiki played with a bug on the path while Prince Kyuru looked at her curiously.

“That’s a stupid question,” Princess Rinatsu said haughtily. “Miss Tsujihara looks nothing like a tengu. She doesn’t have a red face or long nose.”

“But how else is she gonna take Akemi away?” the prince retorted.

“Oh! Oh!” Prince Chiki came back into view, holding a leaf with a caterpillar on it. “Are you a kitsune, Miss Tsujihara?”

“I’m not a kitsune,” Seiko said patiently. She almost wanted to smile—she likely would have, if her voices weren’t so dark in the back of her mind. “Nor am I a tengu.”

“Are you sure?” Prince Kyuru asked. He poked her back, making her tense but nothing else. “You can be a kitsune and not know it. Kuro has one now.”

“Kuro has a half-kitsune,” Princess Rinatsu corrected him. “Mother told me that once. The kitsune’s mother was a princess, so now Kuro’s royal family has a fox in it. I heard Father say they had oni blood, too, and that’s why we can’t beat them—they cheated and made themselves stronger by marrying monsters.”

“Ew!” Princess Akemi declared, throwing her arms out. “No kitsune, no oni. Not nice.”

“Not every kitsune is rude,” Seiko said. All four children gave her a combination of confusion and disbelief, almost like she had gone mad but they wanted to know how so she could retell the story. She obliged. “Someone in my hometown was saved by a kitsune once.”

“Really?” Prince Chiki asked.

Seiko nodded, nevermind the fact she could only remember half of it and heard the story secondhand; the children would accept it anyway, even if it’s only fiction.

“The man fought Kuro,” she explained. “And, once, he saw a kitsune across the river. When they crossed it, he was separated from his unit. He was in enemy territory for a full day before the same kitsune brought him back to the main army; he thought it might lead him to an enemy ambush, while the soldiers in his unit were sure he died. When all misunderstandings were cleared, he tried to introduce his friends to the kitsune, but it was gone.”

Even Princess Rinatsu gave her wide, amazed eyes. Prince Kyuru, perhaps the most involved, firmly plopped down on the stone.

“Do you have more stories?”

“What do you want to listen to?” Seiko asked. “I have stories about my mother, a shrine maiden, or folktales I’ve heard from villagers in my hometown.”

“I want to hear about more fighting and action!” Prince Kyuru declared.

“Me too!” Prince Chiki added. “I wanna hear how awesome Jukazu isn’t!”

Princess Rinatsu chuckled as her sign of agreement, and Princess Akemi simply seemed pleased at such a lively conversation. All of them were much more enthused than Seiko expected. They don’t have this kind of attention often, one voice suggested.

Still, Seiko nodded. Drawing on some half-forgotten memory, she gave another story that Mikka had told her, hoping to draw the same reaction.

It almost made her homesick, actually, but the voices soured it.

That place is no more of a home than this one...