Wrapped in a clean white bath towel, Sakura sat on a small stool, head bowed, letting Shigure fuss with her hair.
The hairdryer hummed on.
A pale-white veil of steam drifted, lapping at her ankles.
Perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps from the slightly elevated water temperature, the girl’s soft skin had been warmed into a vivid, blooming pink.
Shigure gently combed Sakura’s hair through her fingers, drying it until it was half-dry.
The comfortable warmth against her scalp drew small, contented murmurs from her, and she ducked her head to play with the old black switchblade in her hands.
She had the feeling she’d heard the name Nanaya somewhere before — but she couldn’t quite place it.
Shigure’s eyes rested on the old blade in Sakura’s hand, soft.
She smoothed pale pink essential oil between her palms and began Sakura’s hair treatment.
Sakura mimicked the grip for a dagger, pressing her thumb against the small metal latch fitted into the hilt.
“This blade… isn’t held that way.” Shigure’s fine, soft voice sounded right at her ear; a soft puff of breath grazed her earlobe and made her eyes go wide.
Sakura’s chest tightened with a sudden nervous shyness — her heart fluttering wildly.
Shigure drew her arms around Sakura from behind, her right hand closing over Sakura’s.
Even through the towel, Sakura could feel her pressing against her back.
Maybe not as exaggerated as her sister — not the kind that even hands couldn’t fully contain — but it was a wholly different sensation.
Shigure corrected Sakura’s grip.
“The Nanaya family holds their blades like this.”
Sakura quietly committed Nanaya to memory.
The girl’s hand was small.
What might be just right in Shigure’s grip was a little too large for hers.
Sakura’s index knuckle braced against the cool metal latch.
She held her breath, eyes flickering with a small, frantic embarrassment.
Shigure’s chin rested at her shoulder, and her still-damp strands brushed along the sensitive skin of Sakura’s neck.
It was ticklish, threaded through with the scent of shampoo.
She could feel droplets sliding from the tips of Shigure’s hair, that small wet trail tracing the curve of her shoulder.
Sakura didn’t know quite what to do with her hands.
Shigure’s grip tightened over hers, urging her to press down.
Click—
The double-edged blade flicked out, held in a reverse grip, drawing the cold, glinting menace of a viper’s fang.
Sakura turned the switchblade over and over in her hand.
By what Big Sis Shiki had taught her, it was a fine blade — clearly well-cared for, too.
She studied the fuller, the bottom of it stained with a black that no cleaning could lift.
This blade had truly seen blood.
“This blade… it must be something very important to Shigure-nee,” Sakura said softly, pressing on the latch to retract the blade.
To wear it always at her throat, even into the bath — it had to be something cherished.
Shigure let her hand fall away from Sakura’s, though she stayed pressed close against her back.
“Mm,” she murmured, and took the blade from Sakura’s hand.
“It is something as precious to me as my own life.”
For Sakura it had taken some effort, but Shigure hooked the latch with no trouble at all, the black hilt spinning nimbly between her fingers.
And then, to Sakura’s startled gaze, Shigure lifted the thin chain and looped it around Sakura’s throat instead.
“Shigure-nee!” Sakura was flustered.
Hadn’t Shigure-nee just said this thing was as precious to her as her own life?
How could she just hand it over—
“Does Young Miss remember what I’ve taught you?” Shigure lifted Sakura’s hair aside, head bent, and fastened the clasp.
“I remember,” Sakura answered in a small voice.
The constant brush of warm breath across the skin of her throat from behind kept her cheeks burning, her thoughts growing hazy.
“Then keep it.” Shigure smoothed the tips of Sakura’s hair.
The corner of her mouth turned up.
“You never know when you might need it.”
A Dead Apostle had already shown up at the Young Miss’s side.
It was only sensible to give her something for self-defense.
“But…” Sakura hesitated, her fingers resting on the hilt.
“This blade is as precious to me as my life,” Shigure said softly, combing through Sakura’s hair.
“But—”
“Eldest Miss and Young Miss are more precious to me than this life.”
Sakura froze.
The near-vow quality of those whispered words stirred something subtle and strange in her chest.
Shigure watched the small back of her head with quiet tenderness, the oiled fingers gliding along the column of her throat — wiping away, bit by bit, the trace that the Dead Apostle had left.
There was a faint sting, just enough for her to notice; Sakura stiffened, thinking only that she’d been too rough during her bath earlier.
Shigure patted Sakura’s cheek lightly.
“There — Young Miss is all washed clean.
Ready to be delivered to Eldest Miss’s bed.” She teased, gesturing for Sakura to get up and go.
“Shigure-nee!” Sakura whined, turning to give her a small hug — and then, like a startled little rabbit, she fled the bathroom red-faced, leaving behind a string of soft, pattering footfalls.
Click—
Shigure pushed the bathroom door gently shut and turned, a little wistfully, to face the mirror.
She glanced back over her shoulder at her own reflection.
The bare back in the mirror was striking — the faint outward sweep of her shoulder blades like butterfly wings, the smooth line of her waist tracing a quiet rhythm.
On either side of that slender waist, two neat little hollows curled like eddies in water.
Shigure touched her own back lightly.
It was a flawless, snow-white back, as though painstakingly carved by the Creator — except for the long, thin scar that ran clean down the line of her spine.
That was the reason she always stood behind Sakura.
She didn’t want Sakura to see her imperfections.
In Young Miss’s eyes, she should be the most flawless maid there could be.
Her hand drifted, by habit, to her chest — and only then did she remember.
The blade was no longer at her throat.
She had given it to the Young Miss.
She sank slowly into the bath and gazed up at the ceiling.
Those deep indigo eyes were like the predawn sky, a starlit night that could never quite be crossed over into morning.
…
In the parlor of the Ryōgi house, Yumizuka Satsuki sat across from Ryōgi Shiki, her throat working ceaselessly.
On the small low table between them, Ryōgi Shiki was producing blood bag after blood bag from a portable medical case.
“This one… Type A.”
“This one… Type O.”
The rich scent of blood filled Satsuki’s nostrils, and her body swayed unsteadily.
Shiki’s ink-black eyes rested on the girl in front of her — Yumizuka Satsuki, swallowing again and again yet holding herself in check — and she had, suddenly, the absurd impression of watching a cat right before its dinner bowl was set down.
“Mmf—” Satsuki sipped at the blood bag in small mouthfuls, eyes contentedly slitted, a soft, kittenish purr of satisfaction pressed out of her throat.
So this is what they mean by ‘rich enough to do whatever you want.’ You can even just go buy blood bags.
“If you’re thirsty, come find me or Akitaka at the Ryōgi house.” Shiki looked at Satsuki, voice cool.
“But — if you so much as bare a fang in front of Sakura…”
“I never would!” Satsuki nearly choked, hastily lifting her mouth from the bag to answer.
“I hope you remember those words.” Pressing down the urge to cut down the Dead Apostle before her in a single stroke, Shiki rose slowly to her feet and made for the dōjō.
That I can allow a Dead Apostle in front of me and not kill her…
So it’s true after all…
People do change.
But it can’t be helped.
If I killed her, Sakura would… be sad.
I’ll just go practice swordsmanship at the dōjō to work it out.
(New cover, full image!)