A Scandal in Edo

How long could this last?

Like this with her warm, languorous shape pressed up to his side and her long, long hair streaming across the bedding like a banner. With her low vibrant voice whispering to him in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

They had sent messages--very short ones--through Kaguya’s intermediary to arrange their meetings. He had sent gifts and cash to her relatives--something her aunt was over the moon about, according to her.

But how long could it last?

He voiced his concerns to her as they lay entwined together, bathed in the light of a solitary candle.

"I suppose we could still meet up even if I did get married.”

"I don't want to think of you with another woman," she said. But she also knew the reality of the situation. He was of age--actually over the age by samurai standards--to marry. Someday, he would marry some stranger in a match arranged for him by his uncle.

"Even if I was married, my uncle would probably have me divorce my wife and re-marry for political gain."

"But what do you want?"

"What I want does not signify--"

"What do you want?" Her eyes were trained fixedly on his.

He told her, but she did not laugh.

"Are you sure?"

"More sure than anything."

"Then I will make it so.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Eh, are you sure about this?” Kaguya had found herself asking that question a lot of late. “Oi! Don’t walk so fast!”

“Sorry, Kaguya-san,” Luluko said as they passed through another narrow side-street. “I’m supposed to be doing the shopping right now, so I have to hurry.”

“I can see that,” Kaguya muttered as they came to one particular tea house in their neighbourhood. “Just have some pity on people with short legs.”

The tea house was mostly empty at that time of the day, but for one particular customer, who was nursing a hangover in a corner.

“Ah, it is a miserable day when I am hung-over and lovely ladies come to call,” Naruse said morosely. “I cannot get up to greet you.”

“You mean every other day,” Kaguya said, rolling her eyes.

“A terrible vice. My muse drives me mad sometimes--”

“Your patron is Ogawa Hiroshi, secretary and assistant to hatamoto Omori,” Luluko cut through the impending flow of drama very swiftly. “Actually, he’s your lover and--”

“Ah, I see that someone’s been digging around . . . So what of it?” Naruse was suddenly on guard, though one could not tell from how casually he was seated.

“So I have a small request. Whether you fulfill it or not is up to you.”

“That elder sister of yours,” he began.

“--is a terrible influence, I know. But if you’ll help, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“That . . . was a pretty bad thing to do,” Kaguya said slowly as they walked back out into the market later on. “He can’t resist getting involved.”

“That’s why I asked him.”

“And you just brought me along to watch?”

“Not really. I need your help for this too.”

Kaguya fluttered her eyelashes coyly. “Oh? And why would that be? Asides from my natural helpfulness, of course.”

“Because I’ve already enlisted Oshiitsu-san to handle my aunt and you’re the best actor I know?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Several days later, the magistrate Omori Masahiro turned to his assistant for the next petitioner.

Apparently, he had an appointment with a go-between. Omori did not remember making such an appointment but it was written down quite clearly on the list. Recalling that he had sought a solution to rein in his nephew who was at a difficult age, Omori supposed that marriage was the easiest way about it. After all, Suzaku already had a woman on the side--he had to be prepared for marriage soon. Having been married to his first wife when he was sixteen and his second when he was twenty, Omori saw nothing amiss in marrying and re-marrying.

The go-between, a tiny crone swathed in voluminous veils for some religious reasons, presented her credentials and they got down to business.

A match for a young man, the nakoudo said in her slightly sing-song voice, of course, of course. Such a fine samurai too.

The old woman had done her research. She knew who his nephew was.

Omori said that he was looking for a suitable woman of good family. Of course, he had hoped that Suzaku would make an advantageous marriage, but at the moment, a girl with no political connections in the Shogunate would do. Privately, Omori wanted to ensure that the boy did not get it into his head to become too ambitious. He needed a loyal vassal, not someone who might one day be gunning for his position.

Of course, of course, the matchmaker trilled, such relationships are tricky. It so happened that she had a list of young women with her. Would Lord Omori mind if the girl was from another town? If not then she had a candidate in mind. There was a girl from Kanazawa who was living with her relatives after the plague took her parents. She was from a decent and traditional samurai family, though not particularly well off. Spent most of her days doing chores, could cook and clean, devoted to taking care of her blind and crippled sister--such a girl was obviously ripe for marriage. To this end, her merchant relatives were offering a dowry of cash and the addition of assorted goods for her to make a good match. The go-between passed over a list for his consideration.

That much in cash plus goods was nothing to scoff at. And not having any family with political associations was an added bonus. Not to mention the lack of influential in-laws would save a lot of trouble when he divorced her for a better prospect. That was the deciding factor. Surely the boy would appreciate having a wife who was capable of running his household and not some decorative vase?

He would have to investigate her background, but he had the resources for that. The matchmaker took her leave after he had agreed to the match, promising to return with good news from the woman’s family.

His nephew was stoic when he was informed of his upcoming nuptials a few days later. He would do his duty, that much Omori could tell.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He had been afraid that she might do something drastic when his impeding betrothal was announced.

“Am I that sort of woman?” she asked when he had told her. Her extravagant length of hair was draped over her white shoulders after a bath.

“No, you’re not,” he admitted, running his fingers through the dark locks.

“And what sort of woman do you think I am?”

He told her. In excessive detail. But that was later.

* * * * * * * * * * * *