Haruka didn’t know how he was supposed to react. This “One-san” of his wasn’t just moody; she was a storm, a beautiful and terrifying force of nature, utterly capricious.

With the sharp, echoing slap delivered to the other maid as a fresh and terrifying precedent, the remaining servants dared not move, their bodies frozen in a state of perfect, fearful stillness, even though Kiyohime and Sakuya had already departed.

The maids outside the door exchanged nervous, wide-eyed glances. Finally, one of them summoned her courage, her voice trembling slightly as she stepped inside and bowed. “Young Master, if you please… it is time to see the Old Mistress.”

Haruka nodded and slowly rose to his feet. As he approached the doorway, another maid was already kneeling on the floor, holding his geta, ready to help him put them on. The wooden sandals, which had been dirtied by the muddy path, were now wiped spotlessly clean, gleaming in the dim light.

Seeing their terrified expressions, the way they held their breath when he moved, Haruka felt a deep sense of unease. He knew he couldn’t say anything. To refuse their service, to tell them to stand, would only be a misguided kindness, adding to their panic. He slipped on the geta. The maid who had helped him retreated to the side as if she had touched fire, and another took the lead.

Haruka followed her along the covered veranda. Before long, he could see Kiyohime and Sakuya walking ahead of them, two distant figures against the grey, rain-swept garden. The distance between them was considerable, but Haruka noticed it was steadily shrinking. It seemed Kiyohime and her companion had deliberately slowed their pace, waiting. Finally, with less than five meters between them, both parties stopped at the end of the corridor.

Outside, the rain poured down in a relentless, hissing torrent, casting the world in a dim, blurry light.

At the end of the corridor stood a shoe cabinet, and next to it, a tall, slender wooden cylinder for holding umbrellas.

Sakuya pulled a clunky black umbrella from the cylinder and opened it. “Second Young Mistress, how about this one?”

Kiyohime shook her head, her expression one of profound disgust. “It’s ugly.”

Sakuya then pulled out a purple umbrella and unfurled it. The canopy was printed with golden clouds and white cranes. As she turned it, the cranes seemed to take flight from within the swirling clouds. “This one is very beautiful.”

“Beautiful, but useless,” Kiyohime said flatly. “The rain is too heavy, and the umbrella is too small. Get another one.”

Sakuya tossed the exquisite umbrella to the ground without a second thought and pulled out a large, bright red one. This one was big enough to shelter three or four people. It was decorated with a magnificent cherry blossom tree, and as she shook it gently, it looked as if the painted petals might flutter down. “How about this one, Young Mistress?”

“That one will do,” Kiyohime conceded. “A bit of a waste, though.”

The maid behind Haruka heard their exchange clearly. She glanced at Haruka’s impassive face, a flicker of anxiety in her own. The Old Mistress had summoned them to come quickly, but the Second Young Mistress was taking her sweet time choosing an umbrella. If they were delayed, she knew she would be the one to be reprimanded.

Seeing that Kiyohime had finally made her choice, the maid was about to rush forward to grab an umbrella for them, but Haruka stepped in front of her. “There’s no need to hurry,” he said softly. “Wait until they’ve gone, then you can tidy up the umbrellas on the floor.”

The maid froze, confused. She had been going to fetch an umbrella, not to clean up. But the Young Master had spoken, so she could only bow her head. “Yes, I understand.”

Haruka walked forward. Sakuya was already holding the red umbrella steady. “That umbrella is too big,” he said.

Kiyohime smiled, a flash of her earlier amusement returning. “I think it’s just right. Perfect for the three of us.”

Sakuya, holding the umbrella, moved to walk behind them, allowing Kiyohime and Haruka to walk side-by-side under the wide, red canopy.

The maid left behind watched them go, then bent down to pick up the discarded umbrellas. A sudden, chilling realization washed over her: if Haruka hadn’t stopped her, if she had rashly gone to grab an umbrella in front of the Second Young Mistress, she would have undoubtedly earned herself a harsh punishment for her impertinence.

Kiyohime looked up through the red fabric at the cherry blossom pattern on the canopy. “So, you wanted to share an umbrella with me that badly?”

Haruka reached his hand out from under the umbrella, letting the cold rain drum against his palm. He pulled it back in. Kiyohime, he thought, was just like this rain: sometimes a gentle, nourishing drizzle, and other times a violent tempest that could tear the roof off a house.

“I just didn’t want to share an umbrella with a servant,” Haruka said, his voice neutral.

Kiyohime’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Sakuya, did you hear that? He’s saying he despises you.”

Sakuya simply looked away, her expression unchanging, offering no reply.

Haruka smiled. “Isn’t Miss Sakuya your friend?”

Sakuya’s gaze flickered toward Haruka, her calm, blue eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts.

Kiyohime’s smile vanished. “Sakuya,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “That maid who was slapped… what was her name? How long has she worked for this family?”

“Her name is Matsushita Yumi,” Sakuya answered immediately, without a moment’s thought. “She has been with the Fujiwara family for almost eleven years.”

“Eleven years. That’s a long time,” Kiyohime said, her own smile returning, now tinged with a familiar cruelty. She turned to Haruka. “You seem very concerned about her.”

Haruka’s expression remained pleasant, his smile unwavering. “Are you very concerned about me, Second Young Mistress?”

“I’m not concerned about you at all.”

“And I, like you, am not concerned about her at all.”

Kiyohime stopped walking. She let out a sharp hiss of a laugh and pointed a slender finger at Haruka. “Sakuya, did you hear him? Isn’t he just the most interesting thing?” But her laughter soon faded, dying in her throat. She took the umbrella from Sakuya and began to spin it, the fiery red canopy a blur against the grey sky. Rainwater sprayed in every direction, and the cherry blossoms looked as if they were coming alive, falling onto her shoulders.

Her expression was no longer cruel or amused. It was simply blank, lost. The look of profound desolation on her face was something Haruka would never forget. His heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a fist.

“I wish you were really my brother,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, lost in the sound of the rain.

Rainwater from the spinning umbrella splashed onto her numb, upturned face. Haruka had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to wipe the drops away. I am concerned about her, he thought, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. This capricious, impossible, broken woman…

The three of them walked the rest of the way in silence. They were occasionally greeted by passing guests or servants. Each time, Kiyohime would transform, her noble mask slipping back into place, her old cruelty returning like a familiar cloak.

They arrived at the entrance to the main villa. Maids were already waiting with fresh shoes and hot towels.

Kiyohime, sullen once more, snapped the umbrella shut and tossed it carelessly toward a nearby maid. The maid fumbled the catch, and the umbrella landed with a heavy splash in a puddle, splattering specks of mud onto Kiyohime’s face.

The maid shrieked in terror and immediately fell to her knees, begging for forgiveness, her forehead pressed to the wet ground. The other servants held their breath, not daring to make a sound.

Kiyohime expressionlessly held out her hand. Sakuya handed her a hot towel. She wiped the mud from her face, a cruel smile playing on her lips as she looked down at the shivering girl.

The kneeling maid trembled, not daring to look up, bracing for the inevitable blow.

But then Kiyohime said, her voice flat and bored, “Forget it. It was just an accident.”

Everyone was stunned by this unexpected mercy. The kneeling maid was so shocked she didn’t dare to stand, even after Kiyohime had walked far away. She was convinced this was a trap, that the Second Young Mistress would find a way to punish her later, in private, where no one could see.

Haruka walked up the stairs beside Kiyohime, and in the fleeting, unguarded moment before she composed her features to face the party, he saw on her face a look of profound self-loathing and utter, soul-crushing boredom.