The House of Silver Waves was alive with laughter and tension. Its tatami floors groaned under the weight of European boots and Japanese sandals, the mingling of cultures an uneasy truce. Sabrina Timberlake, however, sat apart from the crowd, her classic blue-and-white dress a stark contrast to the ornate surroundings. Her pale hands rested on her lap, her posture stiff and deliberate, though her gaze wandered to the paper screens dividing the garden from the hall.

She had been dragged here by her brother, Lieutenant Robert Timberlake, who now mingled with his fellow officers, their voices booming over the delicate hum of shamisen strings. Sabrina was not like them, and she had no desire to be. She’d spent her life on the edges of polite society, first as an overlooked daughter, then as a spinster sister. Here in Japan, she was a curiosity–a woman too plain to notice yet too foreign to ignore.

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When Miura entered, the room seemed to breathe in unison.

Her pink-and-black kimono glowed in the lamplight, the delicate embroidery of plum blossoms and cranes a testament to her status. She carried herself with the confidence of a queen, her gaze sharp and assessing as it swept the room. Sabrina’s eyes locked onto her immediately, unable to look away from the figure who seemed to command the very air around her.

Miura noticed Sabrina just as quickly. Among the sea of men puffed up with arrogance and women concealed behind fans, this Englishwoman sat uncovered, unguarded, and painfully out of place. There was no pretence in her pale blue eyes–only a quiet intensity that spoke volumes.