The air inside the House of Silver Waves had grown heavier, a mingling of spiced smoke and the warmth of too many bodies crowded in one place. Sabrina followed Miura through the sliding shoji screens and into a quieter, more intimate room adorned with intricate silk tapestries. The room was empty save for a low table, a bottle of sake, and two cushions facing one another.

“You enjoy solitude as much as I do,” Miura said softly, kneeling gracefully onto one of the cushions. Her pink-and-black kimono caught the faint light, the embroidered plum blossoms glinting like frost.

Sabrina hesitated at the doorway, a hand clutching the fabric of her blue skirt. “I didn’t mean to follow,” she murmured. “I… only wished for air.”

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Miura tilted her head, her dark eyes sharp but inviting. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you are more honest with yourself than you care to admit.” She gestured toward the empty cushion. “Join me. This tea house is no place for masks.”

The Englishwoman finally moved, sitting awkwardly across from Miura. Her back was stiff, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “You speak as though you know me,” Sabrina said, though her voice carried little accusation.

“I know enough,” Miura replied. “You are a woman out of place, much like myself. You speak English but walk through Japan’s shadows, your gaze always searching, always longing.”

Sabrina’s lips parted, but no response came. Miura smiled faintly and poured them each a small cup of sake, sliding one toward Sabrina.

“To shadows,” Miura said, raising her cup. “And to those who see through them.”

Sabrina hesitated, then raised her cup in a soft clink against Miura’s. The liquid burned her throat, but the warmth felt oddly comforting.