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On a street that skirts around colorful shopping alleys and low burning lanterns of districts best visited after sunset without quite dipping a toe into either, close enough to reach on foot, far enough not to be seen in the process, there is a small shop.
Behind light doors and heavy beaded curtains, delicate bells chime a greeting. The candlelight prefers to toy with the shadows instead of chasing them away, and richly decorated cushions invite you to sink into their soft embrace.
A rustle of robes brings with it memories of the silk pillows of your past lovers, spices in your mother’s cooking, lands you've always wanted to see but never did.
“Welcome to the Wisteria Parlor.”
* * *
Really, it is no surprise that he doesn’t want to go back. Anyone would agree with him, if they too could just walk in on this .
“Congratulations, Ko-chan! That’s a very good decision you made there. Shiro really knows what he’s doing when he’s on his knees like that,” Anri says with delight as he closes the door to the dodgy umbrella workshop behind him.
Shiro gives him a cute scowl, but anything more than that seems to be beyond him for the moment, with his face half-buried in the ties that are still, regrettably, holding Yamada’s uniform pants together. Anri takes a long minute to appreciate the firm lines of Yamada’s stomach before he raises his eyes to Yamada’s face, all strong jawline and clear-eyed innocence.
On the second thought, no one should see this, Anri decides. He can have it all for himself.
“Shiro-kun is helping me sew back a button,” Yamada says, and then breaks out in a beautiful blush. “Apparently, there is one household chore he can teach me something about!”
Shiro snaps a thread with his teeth, bracing a hand against Yamada’s hipbone, and stands up in a slow, threatening motion. Anri would applaud the elegance, but the needle in Shiro’s casually outstretched hand is unerringly pointing at Anri even while he addresses Yamada.
“I’m an artisan, officer, sewing is not a chore in these walls. Niiya, why are you here?”
“Where else would he be?” Yamada frowns. “He’s your brother, Shiro-kun.”
“I’m sure he has other places to be,” Shiro shrugs, letting his yukata slide off one shoulder. Yamada tsks and moves to tuck it back into place. Yamada’s movement places him right between Anri and Shiro, interrupting the trajectory the needle would have flown if sent Anri’s way; judging by Shiro’s face, his adorable brother also has his doubts in just how accidental things like that are with Yamada. But Shiro’s gone soft in his years on the outside: quickly enough, his features smooth out in what must be the benefit of the doubt. It’s unfitting, it’s beautiful. Anri wants to wreck it.
“It’s because I missed you,” he says, wrapping an arm around Shiro. He counts three knives strapped around Shiro’s ribcage; good, not all is lost. “And you too, of course, darling Ko-chan! Haven’t seen you in a while.” Anri reaches out to ruffle Yamada’s hair - he looks pleased, a golden boy basking in the glow of the simple happiness of the moment - and moves in to land a wet kiss at the edge of his jaw, because it’s fun to rile Shiro up, and because Yamada’s got a fine neck.
Predictably, Shiro hisses and presses something sharp just between his ribs; predictably, it sends a thrill up Anri’s spine, so he arches his back to press even closer into Yamada.
Who steps back too quickly, the spoilsport.
“Sorry, I guess I was busy with my latest case,” Yamada says, straightening his already immaculate cuffs. It’s only then that he notices the undone buttons on his jacket, and hastens to fasten them up in brisk, efficient movements. It makes a man consider what other tasks Yamada was efficient in.
Anri smiles beautifully. “Anything interesting?” Unlikely, of course - he has been laying low for the most part.
“Interesting is not a word I’d choose to describe any death, actually - Saotome-san might, but that’s Saotome-san, of course,” Yamada adds, faithful to the facts and respectful as ever. Anri nods in sincere agreement: Inspector Saotome is not someone you forget or ignore easily; if Anri’s skin was in the habit of retaining any scar tissue, his back would be itching now.
“We have two deaths, weeks apart,” Yamada continues. “Food poisoning symptoms that look too similar to be coincidental. Business partners in silk trade for the last twenty years or so. Our team has been looking into their history and trade paper trail for the last month, and still no clue.”
“Really? No one benefits from a few competitors out of the way? No newly minted widows, with a little heap of money as their only consolation in grief?”
“Their wives only retain their houses and a modest allowance. And of course, they are both grieving, poor things - talking to them wasn’t easy, and we crossed them off the suspects list already.”
“Do these bereft ladies require any consolation?” asks Shiro, lips parted just wide enough to almost tip Yamada into a lecture. Anri hides a smile in the sleeve of his flowered kimono.
“Not any of yours, Shiro-kun.” Yamada frowns but satisfies himself with a stern tug at the loose knot at Shiro’s waist. “I was saying, with just one of the merchants dead, the second one would have been an immediate suspect - their business are heavily linked. But with both partners out of the way, it looks less like cutting down competition and more like losing a key link in the chain that kept the supply routes together. The witnesses we talked to all say that with time, new people are bound to come and fill the niche, but in short term, the silk trade is in disarray. More than two thirds of all silk came here through their hands, apparently.”
“That’s a pity,” sighs Shiro. “I just finished a sketch for a new spring umbrella. The theme I had in mind was a new blossom.”
“Just how much silk would you need for one umbrella?” Yamada asks. He looks around as if to find proof that an umbrella maker shouldn’t be so distraught about silk supply routes, but his eyes quickly find the latest concoction of white paper and gauze, spilling in extravagant shapes over the wall where it hangs, and he doesn’t continue.
“Accessories are important,” says Shiro seriously.
“Shiro knoooows his accessories and how to pull them off - don’t you, brother dear?” Anri picks up a scrap of fabric and reaches out to tie it into Shiro’s hair. With a feral snap that sharply grazes Anri’s hand, Shiro pulls away, the ribbon caught between his teeth.
“I just don’t think others know the art well enough to do justice to your creations.” Anri shrugs and raises his hand to inspect the scratch, then slowly drags his tongue over it. Shiro’s eyes glitter like angry diamonds. Yamada -
Yamada looks between them, shakes his head and drags Anri by the hand, grumbling about basic hygiene. Anri turns his head to blow a kiss at Shiro before letting Yamada take him into another room. There is just something both very wholesome and at the same time pampering in letting him take care of you, Anri thinks as he watches Yamada find his way around the kitchen and disinfect Anri’s hand. He really can’t hold it against Shiro.
They are almost done, and Anri is about to kiss his profuse thank-yous to his valiant caretaker, when the main entrance door opens with a bang.
“Officer, Aragami-dono’s here for you,” Shiro’s voice comes in; not that the newcomer needs the introduction.
“Saburota, what’s the matter?” Shiro has drifted into the kitchen, but Yamada is already at the door, the very image of efficiency and readiness to serve the general public. A pretty attractive one, at that.
“Another death, Kojiro! Same symptoms - food poisoning, no one else affected, no motive or suspect in sight! It’s a mystery! An epidemic?!”
“Calm down, Saburota! Is the victim also from the silk merchant circles? Or some linked occupation? I was wondering if we should we take the investigation into competing trades now.”
Saburota shakes his head wildly. “It’s a mystery, I’m telling you! The new guy is a writer, he is as far from any moneymaking as you can imagine!”
“Are his books any good?” Shiro asks. “Any blood-chilling dramas?”
Saburota continues shaking his head, in an increasing likeness to a big, excitable, and a very wet dog. “A poet, he was! A good-looking fellow - at least before he went blue in the face. Poor as a church mouse.”
“I need to go look at the scene immediately. Talk to the witnesses again, maybe they remember him.” Yamada adjusts his hat with a decisive movement, tips his head in a salute. “Shiro-kun, Anri-kun, thank you for the hospitality. Saburota, lead the way.”
The door closes behind them. Anri sprawls on the floor, his peony robe spilling in a silk pool around him.
“Isn’t your officer just dashing, Shiro,” Anri draws out. Through the curtain of his dyed hair, he can only see Shiro’s crossed ankles. “Rushing in to save day at the first sign of trouble.”
“He’s not my officer, Niiya.” Tap, tap.
“Ohh, did that hurt? Let me kiss it better, brother dear.”
“Get out, Niiya.”
“Maybe I shall, Shiro. And maybe I shall take him with me, too.”
“Get. Out. ”
* * *
A woman sits, alone. The world moves on, but her eyes are blind to that, fixed on the point when it stopped turning for her.
A knock on the door, an apologetic cough. Who would want to see her now? The servants know to keep to mourning silence, the well-wishers and grievers trickled out weeks ago, and the nosy ones came and left with their answers.
“Excuse me, madam. One of the policemen is here to see you again.”
A disinterested handwave, and the housekeeper disappears. The woman lifts her heavy eyes - all questions feel so useless, must they make her go through it? Her throat is so dry it feels like any syllable could scratch it raw.
“How do you do, madam? I was wondering if I can have a minute of your time.”
“I thought the police had already heard all they want from me.” Not that it matters. “How may I help you?”
“Let’s start a little way off, madam. Could you please tell me a little about yourself?” The officer makes himself comfortable on her couch, stretching his long legs as if he plans to spend the rest of the day in this room. She doesn’t even bat an eye.
“I told everything I possibly could to your colleagues before. Didn’t you read all of that in case records already?” Born, bred, married, widowed. Nothing interesting. Nothing worth reading about.
“You could say that I’m new to the case. And one has to see what’s behind the words on paper, wouldn’t you say?” The officer smiles and drapes an arm along the back of the couch, turning a little in his seat to face her. She registers the slant of his lashes, the whiteness of fingers playing absently with the cuffs of his uniform; this alone feels like having admitted to something she never wanted to share. She nods, curt and noncommittal.
“You never quite know what to make of the cover when it doesn’t match the book,” he continues. “Sometimes you want to give a golden glossing to lines printed on cheap paper, at times you want to tear the expensive leather covers off meaningless, endlessly reprinted words.”
She nods again.
“Not one for a small talk, are you?” The officer smiles and props his chin against his hand. “Do you know that by the time they found Umehara-sensei, he had tried to cut his wrists instead of waiting to be killed slowly by poison-induced seizures?”
It’s less of an aborted nod and more like a yank of the noose.
“Seizures? Cut his wrists?”
“Imagine the mess he made with the letter knife there, haha.”
Impossible. Impossible.
“Impossible.”
Her eyes gain a wild focus, and too much information wants to register at once: a letter knife leaving jagged marks across smooth skin, the officer’s languid hand over the satin fabric of the couch, a crease in the book lying face-down on her table, a glint of light on golden spectacles that mirror the flash of white teeth.
“Impossible,” she says again, louder this time. “You’re lying to me.”
“Now, why would I lie to you. We were just having a small talk, you and me, about a man that neither of us knew. Idle gossip, practically.”
“You’re LYING,” she screams, not caring about the secrecy anymore; what did it matter, when nothing mattered anymore? “Lying, lying, lying!” Her fingers dig into the frills around his collar. “He’d never kill himself!”
The officer laughs and gently strokes his fingers over her bone-white fist. “But does it matter, when you did that for him?”
“You’re lying,” she repeats, but her voice lacks conviction. “You’re all lying. She lied to me, too. Liars.”
The officer untangles her hand from his clothes, not unkindly. “That, we do.”
“He’d never leave me. I’d never kill him. She lied!”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she would help. She helps women in need.”
“Did she help you?”
“Yes! No! She killed him! She lied!”
“Did you think that maybe it was because you weren’t really in need?”
The woman doesn’t cry, but the air feels as dry as dust. She looks into the man’s eyes, unsympathetic but interested, and suddenly remembers that the pupil is a hole.
“Did she help her?”
“ She did. Do you know, he beat her. That soulless man beat her, for years, and she wore the bruises under her expensive dresses at all these tedious parties we were forced to sit through, side by side. You haven’t seen the bruises on her wrists. She had to smile while her hand trembled under the weight of cutlery. You don’t understand. She needed help. She helps. I just asked for help, too.”
“Then why didn’t she help you?”
Silence.
“Your husband, he wasn’t a soulless man, was he?” The officer’s voice is companionable. He shifts his weight a little, casually drapes one leg over the other, scissor lines in her field of vision. “He liked you well enough, gave you plenty of space. Just look at this place - it barely has a trace of anyone’s hand but a woman’s. Yours.”
“He was boring,” the woman whispers. Born, bred, married. “Unbearable.” Widowed.
“He was successful, rich, dull - everything Umehara wasn’t.”
“We were going to be together. He was different, not like everyone else. He was going to be great. He wasn’t supposed to die .”
“So you’re telling me it wasn’t your poison that curdled his guts?”
“It wasn’t my poison! It didn’t hurt! She told me it didn’t hurt! Food poisoning, she told me, doesn’t hurt, doesn’t hurt, goes with the food, doesn’t -”
The words are a chant in her head, but they are an empty prayer; she remember the triumphant kisses they exchanged, when they thought they were free, and refuses to think about a cold body with torn-up veins. They can’t belong to the same person, they don’t.
“So you messed up something as simple as dunking some poison into the bugger’s food?” The officer’s laugh is an obnoxious glitter of diamonds, cutting skin.
“I didn’t! I did all she told me! Same bottle, a drop on my skin, two in his food. And now he’s dead, too, dead and cut his own wrists and- “
Abruptly, the officer stands up, as if he suddenly lost all interest in conversation. At the door, he stops to give her a little bow.
“He didn’t cut himself, actually. Died curled on his bed, or something boring as that.” He winks and blows her a kiss. “I lied. We all do.”
* * *
“Welcome to the Wisteria Parlor. How may we be of help?”
The place is dark and cluttered, but not unkempt. Kojiro takes in the care that went into the arrangement of colors and lights. It reminds him of Shiro’s shop, in a way: mismatched trinkets, placed seemingly haphazardly all over the place, weave together into a colorful tapestry, a chaotic harmony of creation. The air smells really nice, too, like Aguri’s favourite tea desserts, or clean sheets, or the paints in Shiro’s workshop.
“Good day, madam!” Kojiro salutes. “Ladies,” he corrects himself, as two women enter the room from different doorways - or rather, from behind different curtains. “I’m Yamada Kojiro, from the police.”
“An officer, a rare guest in our shop,” smiles one if the women, no longer young but wearing her years like a luxurious coat. “I’m Kikuchi Kumiko , a perfumer by trade. This young lady here is Inoue Aika, my apprentice.” Inoue, tall and straight like a whip, nods curtly, and busies herself with the contents of one of the shelves in far end of the room. Kojiro spares a curious glance to the row of glass bottles in different shapes and colors that Inoue’s hands dance over, and turns his back ot Kikuchi.
“Sorry for troubling you, I was wondering if you could help us with an investigation.”
“What can a perfumer know that would be of use to the police?” Contrary to her words, the tone of Kikuchi’s voice is inviting. She sits down on one of the cushions and gestures Kojiro to join her. With thanks, he chooses the most plain and sturdy-looking seat in the room, and sits gingerly at the very edge of it - or at least, he makes an honest attempt: the cushions are too soft to maintain a proper posture.
“What your shop offers, it’s not just perfumes, is it?” Kojiro starts.
The woman gives him a long stare, and then laughs. “ Just perfumes? Just what kind of things have you been hearing, Officer?”
The bottles clink when Inoue puts them some of them down on the glass shelf and picks up others.
“Well, they are good perfumes, or so I’ve heard! Advertised to bring miraculous effects, rumoured to make aging women more youthful, to give the young ones irresistible allure, things like that.”
“Well, there is such a thing as good advertising, too,” Kikuchi says, “and then there is the mystery of the craft - still, do you really think that we can make age disappear? There is, however, no such thing as just perfume.” She purses her hips, visibly displeased by the mere notion.
“I know, I know, my apologies,” Kojiro gives an embarrassed smile. “My little sister always tells me I don’t listen when she explains things like that, but I do. I just don’t understand them very well.”
“She has an adoring brother in you,” Kikuchi says.
Kojiro rubs his neck. “My Aguri is a spoiled child,’’ he admits. “But back to the matter at hand, if you don’t mind. After I heard that you make unusual perfumes like that, I thought you must know a lot about many different chemicals and other substances. So I’m here for your expert opinion.”
Kojiro doesn’t like lying, even by omission, but the full version would have taken much longer, and he still isn’t convinced he understands all the threads that led him here. The hunt for a likely suspect continued to yield nothing; the paper trail didn’t suggest anything conclusive. On top of that, they got the news that one of the wives of the first victims actually lost her senses in grief, which was a setback to investigation as well as a sign the police weren’t doing their job. Eventually, they had decided to focus their efforts on investigating the symptoms. Library research and science division tests hadn’t found a match with any known poison, and visits to the chemists and apothecaries left him with an impression that it had to be something more unorthodox.
It was this last idea that led him here, to this parlor; he remembers bringing it up at Shiro’s house. Shiro was reserved, as if he was holding back anger; on the contrary, his brother was even more energetic and flamboyant than usual, clapping in delight and causing Shiro to frown even more. The brothers spoke their own language that Kojiro didn’t always understand - came with the intimacy of the bond, Kojiro thought fondly, and theirs wasn’t an easy one. But Shiro refused to say anything, and once Kojiro set his course, he was going to follow it though.
“How helpful my knowledge will be to you depends on what you want to know,” Kikuchi says, bringing Kojiro’s attention to here and now instead of the room where Shiro steeps hot tea and silent resentment and Anri drapes himself in laughter and the silk of his peony robe. “My skills are quite specific, after all.”
“Of course, I understand,” Kojiro nods, “but in just in case. Do you happen to know if there is any substance that when ingested, brings about food poisoning symptoms, leaves no traces in food - no precipitation, no chemically identifiable components - and leads to a quick death within twelve hours?”
“Well, I don’t know much about substances other than what eventually make it into fragrances,” Kikuchi starts, propping her chin in one hand, “but there are a few quite rare herbs, which, when mixed together, dried on some red mine salts, and eventually soaked into oil, can have similar effect when consumed with food. Their main value is not that, however - they give off a very delicate smell, like orange flowers on the surface, but when mixed in the right proportion with skyflower honey and salts - “
“Really?” Kojiro almost manages to sit upright in his chair in excitement of the moment, but then cushion drags him back into a slumped position. “So you could make a poison from all that, if you knew how?”
Kikuchi looks back at him. “It would be, to use your own words, something above just a perfume. A complex, unique smell that has an unexpected side effect.”
“Or precisely the expected side effect.” Kojiro stresses, but Kikuchi doesn’t seem to be impressed. “One could wear the perfume, and then tip a few drops into someone’s food to kill them.”
“But I wouldn’t recommend it,” she shrugs. “There are better perfumes and, I assume, better poisons. This method is just too crude.”
“Would it hurt the murderer? Is it toxic on skin?”
“No, it’s not absorbed through skin to make any damage to the wearer. But it’s still an unfitting way to disguise a poison - if it gets from the skin into the mouth, the results would just as lethal as when taken with food.’’ Kikuchi’s voice is thoughtful. “A simple kiss, or a formal touch of lips to the hand could get someone killed by accident. That’s not a very efficient way to go about things.”
“Well, and maybe that’s a very bold assumption, Shishou. It’s not like you know all about what goes into that mix.”
Inoue’s voice jolts Kojiro in surprise. He had almost forgotten she was there: the delicate clinking of glass and rustle of boxes organically melt into the whole atmosphere of the place. “What do you mean?”
“I just mean, we’re working with a hypothesis here, so it’s all just guesswork. Get a proportion different in the most minimal of ways, pick the ingredient at the wrong time, mix them together in the wrong order - and you might as well have discovered the wheel again.” Inoue looks combative, ready to continue listing arguments until sunrise, but Kikuchi just smiles.
“That’s Aika-chan for you! I’m blessed with such a bright, promising apprentice. I think she takes it close to heart that some people can be sloppy about their job in our trade.” She winks at Inoue, but Inoue doesn’t seem to enjoy the joke. She huffs and turns her back on the two of them again, changing her spot to a nook by a different shelf.
Kikuchi turns her attention back to Kojiro. “Aika-chan is quite right, however. This knowledge is very approximate, and as method, it would be very unreliable. I personally wouldn’t recommend it,” she concludes with a smile.
“I understand,” Kojiro nods. “That was very helpful to know all the same, thank you for your time.”
He stands up to leave, grateful to escape the cushions, if not the pleasant company.
“In fact, now that I think of it,” Kikuchi’s words catch him in the back, mild and pleasant as before, “if anyone was in the business of looking for untraceable poison from a perfumer stall, I would suggest pouring into an ear canal. And as a safety precaution, use liquids from two different bottles - harmless when kept apart, toxic when mixed together. A neat way to rule out accidental death. And symptoms would be just so much more varied .”
“Thank you,” Kojiro offers, after a pause. “It does sound more - efficient.”
Kikuchi nods, accepting his dubious compliment gracefully. Kojiro turns to leave, but is stopped again before he reaches the exit.
“Officer, if I may be so bold.” Inoue approaches him, with a small flask in her hand. “A little gift for your sister.”
Kikuchi gives a delicate, pearly laugh.
“Oh my, I think Aika took your words as a challenge. You should accept it, she’s a real miracle worker with fragrances tailor made to suit a person. It’s her creations that are getting us the reputation of making fragrances that are, as you said, not just perfumes.”
Inoue shrugs off her teacher’s words with a sharp shrug, but her eyes are trained on the floor. “There is no catch to this one. I just thought officer might like a little gift for his sister, if he came all the way here on her advice.”
Kojiro takes the small bottle from her; it’s a delicate thing, but the thick glass is a hefty weight in his palm for its size. “Thank you,” he says. “You really shouldn’t - you should let me pay -”
“It’s on the house, officer. A gift from Wisteria Parlor.”
* * *
On a street that’s winding its way, unnoticed, between major districts of the city, not too far from the bustle of life, and not too close to the shops where one meets and greets their neighbors in open daylight, there is a small house wedged between two just like it.
There is a knock at the door, a quiet, urgent rap of knuckles that brings out a young woman to the doorstep. It is way past the shop’s working hours, but the rumor is, for those in need of more than just perfumes, the shop’s doors will always open.
“Who’s there? Come inside, Wisteria Parlor welcomes you.”
The hour is dark enough to swallow everything except the roughest silhouette, but once the visitor is inside the room, the candlelight brings to attention the delicate beauty of the woman’s features, thin waist, wrapped tight in an obi, and the sorrowful line of her neck.
“I am sorry for coming here at such hour,” says the woman, her hands tightly clasped together. A glossy sheen of black hair obscures her expression, but the crack in her voice fills in the gaps. “I just- I couldn’t wait in silence anymore, and I remembered - the advice, I overheard a conversation once - I’m sorry -”
“Please, madam, calm down a bit - find a comfortable seat, let’s have some tea first, and you can tell me what brought you here.”
The woman nods, once, and half-sinks and half-collapses into the soft cushions. She hides her face in her hands, and sits still as a statue until Inoue comes back with tea. With another silent nod, she accepts the glass cup; at the bottom, a delicate blossom slowly opens up, hot water coaxing translucent petals to unfurl.
“Tell me what happened,” says Inoue. Her mouth is a taut, worried line. The woman hangs her head even lower, still silent, and cradles the teacup in her hands, so Inoue tries again. “Did anything bad happen? Did - someone wrong you?”
“It is shameful,” the woman starts off reluctantly, as if speaking against her own will. “It is a private, family matter, and shouldn’t be brought to strangers, or to anyone, but I just - I can’t handle it anymore.”
Inoue reaches out to the woman and strokes her gently on the hand. “We might be strangers, but we’re not strange to what plagues you.”
The woman takes a shuddering breath and continues. “Thank you, they said you’d understand, but I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for what happened yesterday, it was just the last straw…”
“What happened yesterday?” Inoue’s voice goes quiet and unhappy, too, as if she already knows the answer.
Instead of saying anything, the woman sets the cup aside and rolls over the sleeve of her beautiful kimono. She doesn’t look at Inoue, head turned shamefully to the side, so she doesn’t see the horrified expression Inoue’s face takes on seeing an ugly constellation of dark bruises and angry welts that go up the arm and disappear under the folds of expensive fabric. But the woman must be aware of the effect the sight is bound to have, because quickly enough, she lets the sleeve fall down again.
“My husband,” she says simply. It’s the only explanation that she offers, but Inoue doesn’t press further.
“Do you know why you came here,” she asks instead. “What did you hear from other women?”
“That you help. That when you need help badly, and you can ask no one else, you can go to Wisteria Parlor.” The woman hides her face behind her sleeve. “I have no one to ask for help.”
“Then you shall have it,” Inoue says, firmly. “You shall not suffer anymore. I will never turn back anyone who needs my help, and whatever’s within my hands, it is yours.”
She stands up and takes a few paces across the room.
“Women are perceived as weak, helpless,” she says, agitated. “We’re put in a position where nothing is expected of us but obedience and silent acceptance, and we’re judged by how good we are at not acting!”
The woman straightens in her seat, and looks directly at Inoue for the first time.
“And sure, in most circumstances we don’t have the leverage to argue our position, and a woman’s only strength is that blasted silence. It is terrible!” Inoue makes a round across the room, picks a few bottles from different shelves. “But what is truly inexcusable, is having the knowledge, the power to change things, and not using that leverage to help others.”
She grips one of the bottles so hard her knuckles go bone-white.
“When I joined - when shishou accepted me as her apprentice, I thought it was the biggest thing, the change that would fix everything. I was out of my parent’s house, no longer doing numbing chores until my fingers bled and hiding from my father’s drunken anger. Shishou was knowledgeable, and free, and powerful, she could change cities like dresses, and answered to no one. I wanted to be like her, I admired her, I listened to her every word like she hung the moon and the stars.” Inoue laughs, bitter. “I worked willingly, learning around the clock, soaking up the trade like a sponge, because all I wanted was to be like her. And the better I got, the greater my understanding grew that she was not using even the tenth of what she had, of what she knew.”
Inoue kneels in front of the woman in one quick moment, grasps her hand and places a small silver box into it.
“Here, use this on yourself first. Medicine is not my forte, so I have it ordered and keep it around, for situations like this - it should help with the bruises. Do you want me to apply it on you right away?”
The woman pulls her arm to her chest and shakes her hand, but accepts the box gratefully. Inoue presses two small glass phials in her hands next.
“What I can do for you, however, is this. A drop of either on your skin, and you can use them as a perfume, quite soothing and good for calming the senses. Mixed together and put into food,” Inoue smiles sardonically, “they act as a strong poison. Use at your discretion. It is your choice, what to do. My choice is giving you one.”
The bottles disappear in the sleeves of the woman’s kimono. “I understand. Thank you.”
Inoue reaches for her hand, once, and then moves to stand by the shelves again.
“It is a crime, to know as much as she does and do nothing,” she says quietly. “She is my master, but I won’t be disappointed with myself as I am with her.”
“You sound heartbroken.”
Inoue whips her head to the woman, meets her eyes.
“I guess - I wanted to say I understand,” she says, eventually.
“And I thank you for your honesty,” the woman bows her head. “And the help.”
“Wisteria Parlor welcomes you.”
The woman leaves the shop. She hurries down the street at a quick, worried pace; but with every step that takes her further from the stop, her walk slows down and her backs straightens up. Rather than afraid, she now looks lost in thought, and doesn’t see the figure that has observed her from above, following from one rooftop to another, until a man jumps off a ledge and lands in front of her in one smooth, cat-like movement.
“Well well well, would you look at that! Shiro, you’ve still got game - that looks absolutely delectable on you.”
“Niiya!” Shiro turns around to see if Anri has made a scene again, but the street is quite empty. “What the hell are you doing outside, I thought we agreed that you would stay out of this!”
“I’m not interfering with Ko-chan’s work anymore, am I? You’ve been pretty strict about that one, nevermind that I’m your older brother.” Anri shakes the dust off his flared pants, inspects the hem of his cape. “But you convinced me, your officer is doing pretty well on his own. Clearly he’s a capable one.”
Anri gives him a smile that’s all teeth and child-like greedy delight. Shiro doesn’t like any of it; Anri doting on Yamada like a favourite toy is no better than Anri actively trying to kill Yamada. Quite often the difference between the two is just a matter of timing, Shiro knows that well.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Well, I got bored lying around at home, so I thought I’d drop by to see the lady who made this lovely perfume that Ko-chan brought from the shop.”
That would explain why Shiro didn’t sense him; the scent he would recognize anywhere, anytime, the oil that Anri has rubbed into his skin and each of Shiro’s senses - it is now barely detectable under the rich fragrance of peonies, fresh as if picked right after the summer rain.
“Did you just pocket it off the officer? He brought it back for Aguri-dono!”
“I think it suits me better,” Anri says with a little twirl. “Do you like it?”
“Absolutely not.” Shiro says, flat, but he knows he can never match Anri with petty arguments like that.
“Good,” Anri purrs, “Your emotions are strong as ever, it’s thrilling to be able to excite those.”
Shiro gives him a look that he knows won’t stop Anri, but he is done with this conversation. Instead, he sidesteps Anri and continues walking.
“I was just on my way to visit the shop,” continues Anri, as if nothing happened, “so imagine my surprise when I saw you enter it just before me, and in this wonderful getup no less. Are you doing it for Ko-chan?” Completely fascinated by a completely irrelevant tangent that he just made up himself, Anri pouts and drags out, “Why won’t you dress up for me anymore, but will doll up for the officer like that? Look, you even applied the paints - did he see you like this? Did you want him to see you like this?”
Shiro tries to dodge Anri’s hand that reached out for his face, ends up with one of his wrists captured instead. Anri twirls him around and dips him, easily holding Shiro’s weight with one hand, and then cradles Shiro’s face with the other.
“Why is it not okay for me to poke my nose into Ko-chan’s work, and you are dressing up in expensive silks, painting your face - “ Anri’s hands drops from his face, and unties Shiro’s robe until it opens loose, sliding off his shoulders - “and your arms before going to talk to some murderers?”
“Because I wanted to see what kind of people they were.” Shiro twists his body out of Anri’s hold, yanks his robe back on. “And I didn’t say it was prohibited to help the officer. I said you couldn’t do it. Look what you did to that widow!”
Anri shrugs, unapologetic and serene. “That got me answers quickly. Wasn’t that the whole point?”
“Yeah, and the officer got there without having anyone go mad.”
“And potentially created another murderer. That would be you, princess,” Anri laughs, delighted.
“That’s more likely to be your doing, Niiya.”
“Now, now, don’t be petulant. Are you going to tell him?”
Shiro reaches into the folds of his woman’s kimono, finds the little phials by touch.
“I liked her, you know,” he says, thoughtful. “She’s strong, for someone so young. Strong, and open - that makes her a beautiful person. I’ll tell the officer, but he will come to his own conclusions.”
It’s not like he ever settled for anyone else’s. Shiro smiles.
The smell of peonies is rich and sweet in the air.
* * *
Tucked in a nondescript stretch of a road that is a lot like many others in the city, it is the same shop that carries its fragrances and secrets in silver boxes and glass bottles within its ornate rooms hidden behind heavy curtains.
No one, however, rushes to greet the newcomer when the chime bells announce an arrival. The rooms are quiet, and their only inhabitant sits still in her chair, frozen with grief.
“So this is the famous Wisteria Parlor,” says Anri as he strides inside and chooses the biggest sofa to stretch out on. “I was wondering how the place looks.”
“We’re not working,” replies the woman. Her voice is coarse - she was either crying, or sitting in silence for long hours. Likely both.
“I’m not buying,” Anri says cheerfully. “Though I really like this perfume you made. Maybe you can make me more of that some day.”
The woman looks at him, uncomprehending. Anri sighs and tries for a delicate approach. Pity Shiro’s not here to appreciate the effort.
“Have you been sitting here like this ever since your master gave herself up to the police? Were you thinking, perhaps, of doing the same? Well, I can tell you right away - that’s stupid, and also nothing your shishou would want you to do.”
The girl pales, her face draining of blood as well as all signs that she was starting to gather dust in her catatonic state. “How do you know that?”
“Because she told me, of course. I broke into the police station and had a little chat with her while she’s still there.”
The young woman gives off a strangled cry and slumps in her chair. “She’s there, because of me. She is there because of what I did. This is terrible. I must do something about it.”
“Well, to be fair, it’s not like she lied to the police about having killed people, so you could very well say she’s there for what she did - it’s just not about the bunch you supplied with poison. She did off her husband years ago, just like she said, and his grieving servant died by accident after she kissed the dead man’s hands, still bearing traces of her poisonous perfume. It’s all right there in police archives of cold cases, they requested the files from that no-name town where it happened. It’s all true.”
“This can’t be! Does that mean - “
“That means she’s learned to be more subtle ever since,” Anri confirms, pleased. “As you can, too, given time. Which is what she wants you to do. Speaking of, here’s something for you.”
He produces a small piece of paper, covered by neat lines of handwriting that look perfectly readable, but make no sense to him. Must be their professional jargon, he assumes.
“Shishou!” she exclaims, and reverently accepts the scrap of paper, turns it in her hands. “Shishou…” She bites her lip, almost drawing blood. Her eyes are fever-bright.
“Is that anything useful?” Anri’s not particularly interested, but both women have treated it like the secret of turning water into gold.
“She wants me to continue. Even now, she wants me to keep on learning, and to move somewhere else to continue the trade. She left me more instructions, too, so I can continue on my own, with her notes and tips.” The girl’s eyes are pained and bright, but she holds back the tears as well as she can. A passable effort, but a shoddy job if she wanted to conceal her feelings - she really has a lot to learn still, Anri decides.
“Well, in that case, it should solve your drama over what to do, right? And if you don’t have a good idea of where to go next, head here.” He passes her another piece of paper, with an address in a different city. “If you leave by tomorrow, you should make it there in time to meet my friend. She can help you hone your skills further, if you want. Ask for Mutsukuchi, and tell them I sent you.”
The girl picks up the address, clutches it in her hand.
“Why are you helping me? And who are you?”
“Name’s Anri. I just think it’d be a shame if you stopped experimenting.” He salutes her and moves to leave. “Told you, I’d be wanting more of your peony perfume.”
* * *
“One thing I regret,” says Yamada, “is that I couldn’t talk to her apprentice again.”
“Oh, did the officer fancy the girl?” Anri cooes, raising his head up from the floor where he is lounging. “Shiro, shouldn’t you be concerned?”
“I had no claims on the lady ,” Shiro says, stepping over his body to offer Yamada some tea. He punctuates the statement by landing his foot over Anri’s wrist, his heel digging painfully into the tendons. Anri lets out a soft cry and tries to grab Shiro by the ankle, to pull him to the floor for this little display of petulance. Unfortunately, his little brother slips off before Anri’s fingers can curl in a proper grip. “Did she leave town?”
“Packed up the shop and left, the neighbors tell me. Not unusual for people of their trade, but I didn’t expect her to leave so soon.”
“I wonder if she took the news about her master hard. Did you have some questions for her?” Shiro asks, a picture of innocence worth his own weight in gold on a black market.
“Yeah, don’t the police have the confession of the old lady?” Anri meets Shiro’s sharp gaze with a wide smile. Full of dark suspicion, his cute little brother leaves his post by Yamada’s shoulder in favour of monitoring Anri from up close. Adorable; Anri laughs, pleased with the attention, until Shiro comes to sit on his chest, unceremoniously dropping all of his weight on him, and nearly cuts off Anri’s air supply.
“She wasn’t old, Anri-kun.” Yamada looks at him with a frown, which loses its righteous edge when he catches Shiro’s antics. “And yes, they are very detailed, and she came to the station and gave herself up before we could even round up their shop, but that’s what’s been bothering me.”
“You think she’s covering up?” Anri says in a single breath. A second too late, Shiro digs his fingers into a pressure point on Anri’s neck. It sends a jolt of pain through Anri’s body, and he strains against the hold with a pleased groan. Disgusted, Shiro jumps off him and walks away. Anri laughs again; there is nothing quite as fun and foiling Shiro’s attempts to subdue him. Well, outside maybe succumbing to attempts, occasionally.
Yamada continues to watch them with a warm-hearted - for some Yamada reason, no doubt - expression. Anri makes a mental note to fill him in, one day, just for the joy of scandalizing him. Not today, however.
“She did strike me as someone who cares for Inoue a lot,” Yamada nods; he’s still twirling his cup into his hands without drinking the tea. “But she is also a very clever woman. I’m sure that if she had wanted to, she could have easily gotten both of them out this situation. She didn’t have to walk into the noose for that.”
“Unless she had something else on her mind, besides diverting suspicion from her apprentice?” Shiro asks, intrigued.
Yamada hums in agreement. “Something like - graduation. The last lesson of apprenticeship, before setting her best student out into the world on her own.” As soon as he says it, a color goes up his cheeks, and he rubs his face with a sheepish laugh. “I’m overanalyzing it, aren’t I?” He doesn’t see Shiro look at him, wide-eyed and stripped of all pretence.
“That’s a delightful theory, but I suspect it’s too much fun to be true,” Anri waves him off; it comes off more brusque than he intended, so he turns his eyes from Shiro and sends Yamada his most dazzling smile. “I never thought someone as pragmatic as you had fondness for such drama.”
Yamada’s blush grows darker; Shiro looks practically besotted. Anri’s hands itch to stroke or strike someone, he isn’t very sure.
It is just another quiet evening at the small umbrella shop.