The room behind the paper-screen door was a formal reception chamber, floored with pristine, fragrant tatami mats.

In the center of the room sat a low, brown lacquer table, where two women in expensive silk kimonos were seated in the formal seiza position. Two cups of hot tea sat on the table, thin wisps of steam coiling like ghosts into the still air.

Hearing the knock, one of the women called out, “Please come in,” her voice smooth and bored, before immediately resuming her conversation.

The taller woman on the left had just taken off a delicate necklace and was holding it in her palm, letting it catch the light. “It’s the Van Cleef & Arpels Starry Night. I had my husband buy it for me the moment it was released…” Before the shorter woman on the right could offer the requisite gasp of admiration, the sharp, brief sound of the sliding door cut their conversation short.

The tall woman looked over, her expression a mask of annoyance. But the displeasure on her face was quickly, artfully replaced by a welcoming smile. She ignored the maid’s soft greeting of “Good day, ladies.”

Standing in the doorway was a devastatingly beautiful young boy dressed in a simple black haori and gray kimono.

I’m sure I’ve seen this child somewhere before, the tall woman thought, a flicker of something like recognition stirring within her.

Haruka took the towel the maid offered him and wiped the few stray raindrops from his forehead. He slipped off his geta at the entrance, his clean white tabi socks making no sound as they met the tatami.

The tall woman felt the very temperature in the room shift, the air growing charged and still.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation,” Haruka said, his voice quiet but clear.

“Not at all,” the tall woman said quickly, her voice a little too bright. She felt his eyes were so luminous they made the diamond-dusted stars of the pendant in her palm seem dull and lifeless in comparison. She quickly put the necklace back on, deliberately arranging the pendant so it rested in the deep, shadowed valley of her fair cleavage.

The maid who had accompanied Haruka moved to get the teapot from a cabinet to pour him a cup of tea.

“You’re so clumsy, dear. Allow me,” the tall woman said, smoothly intercepting her. She stood up and took the teapot and a clean cup from the cabinet herself. She first rinsed the cup with hot water, pouring the used water into a waste bucket with a graceful flick of her wrist. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Haruka as he settled across the table from her. He was clearly not used to the formal kneeling position; his movements were awkward, so he simply gave up and sat cross-legged instead.

This informal posture, which would normally be considered a grave insult, seemed perfectly natural to the tall woman. Judging by his fine clothes and his ethereal looks, he must be the young master of some noble family, so a bit of casualness was to be expected, even charming.

“You must be from one of the main branches, Young Master? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” The tall woman placed the teacup in front of Haruka. Just as she aimed the spout of the teapot and had poured the cup a third full, the shorter woman beside her nudged her insistently with her knee.

“What is it?” the tall woman asked, looking over in confusion.

The shorter woman leaned in and whispered a few urgent, venomous words in her ear.

The way the tall woman looked at Haruka changed in an instant. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, hard appraisal. She stopped pouring, leaving the cup only half full—a deliberate, calculated insult. She gave him a long, deep look, then placed the teapot back on the cabinet with a soft, final click.

Neither woman said anything. They just sat there, watching him through the thin steam rising from the half-poured cup of tea, their silence a weapon.

The maid standing to the side couldn’t bear the sudden, icy tension and reached for the teapot on the cabinet.

The tall woman was about to warn the maid not to interfere, but Haruka spoke first, his voice calm. “There’s no need. You may leave.”

The maid hesitated, her hand hovering in the air.

“Leave now,” Haruka’s voice was slightly louder, firmer, carrying an authority that belied his age.

Only then did the maid bow her head, murmur “Yes, Young Master,” and slowly, reluctantly, exit the room.

Haruka’s expression was serene as he met the hostile gazes of the two women.

The shorter woman was the first to break. She glanced at Haruka’s posture with open contempt and whispered to the taller woman, “Look at the way he sits. His mother must have been a country bumpkin.”

“Probably from Hokkaido,” the tall woman said, raising her voice slightly, staring at Haruka without reservation. She was now deeply ashamed that she had mistaken him for a young nobleman. The fact that she had, in her ignorance, even offered to pour him tea was a humiliation she could not accept. Haruka was just an illegitimate child with no standing. Pouring him water was a servant’s job. She felt a surge of white-hot anger, as if she had been personally insulted and defiled.

The two women, who looked down on those of humble birth as if they were a different species, now subjected him to their silent, cold violence.

“Can you dance?” the shorter woman asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Entertain us.”

The tall woman tapped her empty teacup with a manicured nail. “My tea is finished. Pour me another cup.”

Their tone held not a shred of respect. They were ordering him around like a common servant.

Just then, the paper-screen door slid open without a sound.

Everyone looked over. It was Fujiwara Kiyohime. She wore a bright, blood-red kimono embroidered with delicate cherry blossoms, a stark, dramatic contrast that made her skin look even more impossibly white and fine.

The two women were shameless, turning on a dime.

The tall woman, forgetting her decorum, immediately stood up to flatter her. “Second Young Mistress! That kimono is absolutely breathtaking on you.”

The shorter woman followed suit, correcting her with a sycophantic smile. “It’s the Second Young Mistress who is breathtaking, don’t you know how to speak? Only a true beauty can make clothes look so lovely. An ugly person could try all they want and never succeed. Even if I wore that kimono, I couldn’t compare to a fraction of the Second Young Mistress’s beauty.”

Kiyohime ignored them both completely, as if they were buzzing insects. She turned to her blonde maid. “Sakuya, you may leave.”

Momozawa Sakuya nodded and gently closed the door.

Kiyohime walked onto the tatami in her geta, the soft clicks of the wood the only sound in the room. The two women showed no offense at being ignored; instead, they eagerly made space for her. “Second Young Mistress, please sit.”

Kiyohime, acting as if they weren’t there, sat down directly next to Haruka. She glanced at his cross-legged posture, a small, enigmatic smile touching her lips, and then mirrored him, sitting cross-legged herself and revealing her own smooth, pinkish-white feet from beneath the hem of her kimono. She noticed the other women’s hesitant, judgmental expressions and said coldly, “What, am I not allowed to sit like this?”

“Of course you can, Second Young Mistress,” the shorter woman said quickly. “Please, sit however you are comfortable. Don’t mind us.” The taller woman, her face strained, quickly agreed.

“I’m a bit thirsty,” Kiyohime said, her voice languid. “Pour me a cup of tea.”

The tall woman started to get up. “I’ll call a maid to serve you.”

Kiyohime frowned, a flicker of annoyance crossing her perfect features. “You need to call someone for such a simple task?”

The tall woman’s expression soured. “No… of course not,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll pour it for you.”

She was about to get a clean cup from the cabinet when Kiyohime stopped her. “Isn’t there a cup right here?”

The tall woman’s face became ugly. She glanced at Haruka. “That cup is for him.”

“So?” Kiyohime asked Haruka, her red eyes fixed on him. “Have you drunk from it?”

Haruka didn’t understand her game, but he answered truthfully. “No. I haven’t even touched it.”

“Then it is mine now,” Kiyohime declared with the simple, unassailable arrogance of a princess.

The tall woman’s expression shifted. “But, Second Young Mistress…”

“But what? Are you suggesting this cup isn’t clean?” Kiyohime’s face instantly darkened, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

The shorter woman tried to smooth things over. “Second Young Mistress, please, allow me to pour it for you,” she said with a placating smile.

“I don’t think so. Your hands look dirty. I might get sick. You do it,” Kiyohime said, pointing a slender, unforgiving finger at the tall woman.

The shorter woman’s smile became strained. She gave the tall woman a desperate look. Though the tall woman was seething with unwillingness, she had no choice but to get up and fill the teacup.

Kiyohime took the full cup and placed it deliberately in front of Haruka. It seems like she’s standing up for me, he thought, a wave of confusion washing over him. He couldn’t understand why she would do such a thing.

Without even looking at Haruka, leaving him with only the view of her beautiful, severe profile, Kiyohime said, “Now, pour one for me.”

The tall woman’s face immediately turned ugly. She couldn’t understand how she had so thoroughly offended the Second Young Mistress. But she had no choice. She took a new cup from the cabinet, washed it with painstaking care, and brought the teapot over, filling the cup right in front of Kiyohime.

Kiyohime gently blew on the steam rising from the cup, then set it down without it ever touching her lips. “This tea is too cold.”

The tea was clearly steaming hot. She was obviously just trying to cause trouble.

The tall woman almost exploded, but the shorter woman held her back by the corner of her kimono, her grip like a vise. They couldn’t afford to offend the Second Young Mistress.

The shorter woman forced a smile. “Second Young Mistress, this is the last of the tea in the pot. It’s not really cold, more like… lukewarm. Perhaps you could make do with it for now? There’s nothing we can do.”

Kiyohime glanced at the cabinet. “Aren’t there tea leaves and a tea set over there? Make me a fresh pot.”

The tall woman’s expression shifted through several shades of rage before she finally forced out the single, strangled word: “…Yes.”

The shorter woman went to help, bringing out the entire, elaborate tea set.

Boiling water, adding the tea leaves, warming the cup, rinsing the leaves, steeping the tea… The whole tedious, humiliating process took twenty minutes.

The tall woman’s forehead was beaded with sweat. She looked at Kiyohime, who was idly, insolently, playing with the ends of her hair, and felt a storm of anger and resentment rage within her. But she had no choice but to respectfully present the freshly brewed tea to her tormentor.

Kiyohime took the cup, sniffed it delicately, and said with a look of profound disgust, “This has no flavor. Do it again.”

Even a clay doll has a bit of fire. No matter how much the shorter woman tried to restrain her, the tall woman could no longer control her anger. She roared, her voice cracking with fury, “Second Young Mistress, are you just toying with me?!”

Kiyohime smiled, a slow, beautiful, terrifying smile. She calmly picked up the cup of freshly brewed, scalding hot tea and threw it directly in the woman’s face.

“Yes,” she said sweetly, as the woman shrieked in pain. “I am. What are you going to do about it?”