Miyu’s first memories are sharp. More so than she imagines many three-year old’s to be.

  She knows she had been three, because it was the last year her mother actually remembered her birthday. They sat at their old table, two skewers of dango between them.

  “Three for each of us,” her mother had murmured, “to celebrate three years of your life.”

  Miyu had watched her mother eat hers before she reached out for her own. Being around her father had taught her not to start eating until he was finished. Usually it was safe to take a bite if mother got through her first few without a fist to the face.

  Even without father, the house feels… heavy.

  She can remember the stickiness of her fingers and the grin that she had tried very hard to hide.

  “That’s my girl,” her mother had said with a barely-there smile, “don’t show what you truly feel. It only helps those who wish to hurt you, my sweet. Keep it in.”

  As she steps into the streets in the weeks following her match with the Daimyo, Miyu carries the memory with her like a shard of glass. Not tightly enough to cut, and with enough care to keep it intact. She keeps her head level and her face clear of any worries and uses her courtesies to keep those who would pry away.

  The capital always has been a pit of vipers, and working at the Okiya had already made her target enough. The Daimyo’s spectacle at the Fire Festival gives Miyu more practice in evasive responses than she cares to admit.

  Who knew common grocers would want to know if she really said that, or if the Daimyo had done this. Rumours spread, and only seem to get wilder as time goes on.

  Miyu, apparently, had tried to bewitch the Daimyo with a love potion right at the very game table, but his trusty attendant had realised and spilt it all over her instead!

  The Daimyo’s mother had forbidden him from his one true love Miyu, and so he had staged the game as a chance to talk to her face to face just one last time.

  The entire thing, a plot from Iron to destabilise the court – one that had been thwarted when Makishima’s love for Miyu caused him to storm out, giving away his role in Iron’s plan.

  All of them, wrong.

  Miyu isn’t short-sighted enough to dismiss them. Outwardly, of course, she denies making comment, but internally she keeps track of every single one.

  She knows the Daimyo’s advisors will be keeping track just as closely.

  “Hey sugar, you seem to be the talk of the town.” The woman’s sultry tones only make Miyu laugh.

  “Good morning, Rin-chan.” She sets the bag from the bakery atop the stage to her left, and watches with a smile as the woman opposite her tears into it excitedly.

  “Oh, you got me the custard buns, you absolute angel!”

  Her blonde hair stays perfectly styled in structured waves as she dances happily to herself on the spot, inspecting the rest of the bag’s contents. Miyu waits patiently, surveying the rest of the club with observant eyes.

  “You have a few new patrons, by the looks of it,” she comments as Rin hops up on to the stage to dig into a custard bun.

  The upholstery on the booths has been redone, and the back bar has new deep pink lighting. Miyu wonders if the private rooms have been redecorated too.

  “Hmm,” Rin finishes her mouthful and says, “about four frequent big-shots, but we’ve been busier than usual lately.”

  Miyu hums, leaning against the stage as she yawns. It’s almost midday, and the club is empty aside from the two of them.

  “Any new dancers?” she asks lightly, slanting a look to Rin out of the corner of her eye.

  The woman pauses, and Miyu looks towards the poles on her left to distract herself.

  “Three, actually,” she sounds like she’s smirking. “Let’s stop pretending that you’re not fishing for information on Satsuki.”

  Miyu presses her lips together. She’d not forgotten that Rin has an uncanny ability to read people, and that her talent makes her a very competent manager. It’s just been a while since she was subject to it.

  “How is she?” She decides to ask because she’s already been caught out.

  Rin huffs out a laugh and shakes her head.

  “As okay as she can be.”

  Miyu looks up at the blonde, head tilted.

  “She broke her own heart and was too prideful to resolve the… situation.” She very intentionally doesn’t mention the situation in detail. “But you know Satsuki. She’s been throwing herself into work more than ever. The four high-rollers in just a year, and all of them here for her.”

  Miyu nods and wonders at the fact that talking about it doesn’t hurt anymore.

  “Good for her,” she says, and she means it.

  Rin looks down at her speculatively.

  “So are you going to tell me their name?” she prompts with a raised brow.

  Miyu only smiles.

  “Oh, come on Mi-chan,” Rin rummages around in the bag a little, “will you at least tell me it’s not someone working in the flower districts? I don’t want to guard Satsuki from any gossip, you know how she gets when she mopes-”

  “He’s not from the flower district,” Miyu says softly, and Rin’s mouth snaps shut. “He’s not even from the capital.”

  Rin looks like she’s about to ask something, and then stops herself as she thinks better of it.

  “Okay, fine. Keep your secrets, but... on a serious note.” She sets the bag aside, additional bun forgotten as her green eyes meet Miyu’s.

  “My girls have been hearing talk, love. None of it good.”

  Miyu sighs, and runs a hand along her yukata, smoothing it out.

  “I know, Rin. I’m hoping it’ll blow over by September-”

  “Miyu.”

  Rin’s hand lands atop hers on the stage.

  “This man of yours? I hope you’re sure about him. I hope he’s someone important. The capital isn’t a place you should be any longer.”

  Miyu stills. Shit.

  “What’ve they heard?”

  Rin spares a glance around, even though the bar is empty.

  “A new frequent. Honda-sama, thirty-four. He’s an official advisor to the Daimyo.”

  Miyu’s stomach drops.

  “A diplomatic meeting with the Daimyo of Tea went south. They’re looking for someone to blame.”

  Oh, no.

  “Yoshio-chan was talking to her friend that works in one of the lower whorehouses – she said one of her clients is a guard, and he overheard them discussing the woman everyone’s been talking about.”

  That woman obviously being Miyu – oh, gods – she presses her lips together tightly.

  “He said that he heard them voting on how much of a threat she posed.”

  Miyu closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath.

  “The guard couldn’t hear the result, but Mi-chan – please, go. If you can leave, you need to do it now.”

  When she looks up again, Rin’s pale green eyes are grave.

  “It’s only been a few weeks, Rin.” Miyu pushes away from the stage and straightens her yukata. “This talk will pass.” It must pass.

  Rin says nothing more. Only watches with a stony face as Miyu composes herself, and then leaves the club for the streets of the flower district.

  .

  It’s on her desk when she returns from visiting Rin.

  She stares at the official seal for several long moments before she sits stiffly in the seat and opens it with unsteady hands.

  An invitation. To tea.

  She suddenly feels so violently nauseous that she has to shut her eyes and sit back. A few long minutes pass, and when she dares to open her eyes it’s still sitting on her desk.

  Her mind races as she tries to figure out an excuse to not go. But it’s an invitation from the ladies of the Daimyo’s court, what reason could she possibly have –

  The shogi board on the corner of her desk is clear and clean. Of course it is, she used it this morning. There hasn’t even been time for dust to settle.

  She picks up her pen and writes, hoping that Chikako will be able to get her message where it needs to go with only the stack of presents Miyu has stashed away.

  .

  “I’m not a postal service, y’know?” Chikako grumbles as she sticks out a leg for Miyu to untie the scroll.

  “I know, Chikako-san,” Miyu assures her as she hurriedly tears it open. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way. It was urgent.”

  The scroll unravels, and Miyu almost wilts with relief.

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  “If you spoke to me I may be able to help, Mi-chan.” Chikako has fixed her beady eyes onto Miyu, and her unblinking stare isn’t forgiving. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been even more jumpy than usual lately.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Miyu says as she makes for the little package on the dresser, “but this is my apology to you. And my thanks.”

  “Don’t think you can distract me so easily- ooh, glitter!”

  She respectfully declines the invite to tea the next day, and leaves the day after that in a carriage with the curtains drawn shut.

  .

  Miyu takes her seat opposite Makishima with a smile that isn’t forced.

  “It’s good to see you,” she glances around at the beautiful gardens they’re seated in. The servants have led her to an artful pavilion where Makishima had been waiting. “Your home is beautiful.”

  “It is an honour to play the Meijin.”

  Miyu stills at that, smile slowly dropping from her face. Meijin is the official title of the highest ranked shogi player in the nation. It’s typically earnt upon defeating the current Meijin, which Makishima had been until Miyu defeated him four years ago.

  Truthfully, she should have been named Meijin in the aftermath of her first victory. Only, the invite to the induction ceremony never came. Even when Makishima went through the resignation ceremony, no title had been extended to her by the shogi association.

  It’s an insult Miyu has learnt to live with.

  They’ve never spoken of it, Miyu and Makishima.

  But here, now, when she’s shaken and paranoid and not thinking of titles or insults or championships, he calls her Meijin.

  She meets his dark blue gaze, and understands.

  Respect. He’s giving her respect.

  Her throat suddenly feels desperately tight.

  She blinks away the stinging in her eyes and swallows before responding.

  “Come now, Makishima-sama, we both know I’m not the Meijin.”

  His stony face doesn’t waver.

  “You should be,” his tone is firm, “four times over. I have made my displeasure known with the association. Their blatant disrespect won’t be tolerated any longer.”

  “Makishima-sama, please, you don’t have to-”

  “They show you no respect,” his voice is raised, and for his usual reserved nature he’s practically shouting, “so your Daimyo shows you no respect.” He spits the title like it’s poison in his mouth.

  “Title or not, he would have tried to walk all over me anyway,” she placates, shifting her gaze to the empty board between them. “I’m used to it, really.”

  Makishima inhales deeply through his nose, jaw clenching.

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  She can’t quite tell if he’s angry at her, or the Daimyo, or anyone who has done anything that contributed to the shit show at the Fire Festival.

  “I’m a woman,” she smiles wryly, “with no family name, no wealth. No husband, and no title.”

  It’s explanation enough.

  “You are the highest ranked shogi player in our known world,” he counters, unflinching. “You are the Meijin, and that must be acknowledged.”

  Oh. Oh.

  The title. The flimsy title that she’d written off as inconsequential. He thinks it could give her enough clout to be left alone. She desperately hopes he’s right.

  “Thank you,” she says, meeting his eyes once more. “For treating me like an equal both in and out of the game.”

  “Tch,” he gives his head the barest of shakes, “that’s not something to thank me for.”

  Miyu hums in consideration, and as she reaches for the bag to unpack the tiles, Makishima’s hand reaches out and closes over hers.

  “I have heard some troubling news of late.”

  She stiffens, wondering if he’s got ears in the Fire Capital too, and hoping that her decision to flee to his estate has not been viewed as a weakness.

  “A boy, blazing through the rankings.” He lets her go and she places the bag back in its place.

  She’s not been caught out. Thankfully.

  “Blazing?” she questions, raising a brow.

  “He’s won every single tournament since he began playing competitively in February,” Makishima’s mouth quirks down the slightest, “it was my intention to bring this information to you after our last game.”

  Miyu takes a sip from her glass of water to avoid thinking about that day too hard.

  “So he’s a prodigy?” she asks.

  Makishima’s brow furrows slightly.

  “He beat Yamada in thirty minutes.”

  Miyu pauses in setting her glass down at that.

  “Thirty minutes?” she repeats, because what? Yamada Toshinori had been Meijin before Makishima. He’s in his fifties, but still a formidable opponent. Facing him makes Miyu almost as nervous as facing Makishima.

  Thirty minutes?

  “How old is he?” she asks, suddenly feeling queasy.

  “Sixteen,” Makishima looks discomfited. “He’s from Lightening.”

  “Ah.” She presses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “He will be at this year’s national tournament, then?”

  Makishima nods, and Miyu wonders whether they’ll be able to face each other again at the tournament, or whether this kid will get the better of one them before they get the chance.

  “The association is concerned,” resumes the man opposite her rather stiffly, “the ease with which he defeats his opponents without ever having competed before has been… suspicious.”

  Miyu lets herself focus on the ripples of the lake that spans a large portion of the garden.

  “They think it’s a bloodline limit,” she murmurs, “and they can’t confirm it, I assume.”

  She turns her gaze to him once more.

  “And what do you think?”

  The skin around his eyes tighten in a way that tells her he’s suspicious. The slight shrug he gives is answer enough.

  Without seeing more, he can’t say.

  Miyu reaches for the bag, and unpacks the tiles in silence.

  They play, they have tea, and when the sky darkens they retreat indoors for dinner. Miyu meets Makishima’s wife and children. She stays the night, and prepares to leave for home the next morning.

  “The next time we meet, you will be recognised as the Meijin,” says Makishima at the gates of his estate. Though she knows he comes from a long line of wealth, she wonders how much the association allocates to him each month.

  Her income is more than she ever thought she’d make playing shogi, and she’s made multiple investments that will ensure she’s comfortable for the rest of her life, but it must pale in comparison to what Meijin traditionally receive in stipends.

  “I look forward to it,” she says with a polite smile, and he offers her the barest hint of one in return.

  “Until next time.”

  .

  “Ah, you’re back.”

  Mother leans in the doorway with her pipe between her lips. Her dark hair is streaked with grey, and her pale features are beginning to show her age more each day. She’s still dressed impeccably, but then again, she’d rather be caught dead than be accused of having a dreary wardrobe.

  “Mother,” Miyu greets tiredly, unpacking the last of her things, “I apologise for leaving on such short notice.”

  The slender woman only gives her an assessing once-over.

  “Nanami has received a few new offers from potential patrons. It’s good to see your work paying off.”

  Miyu spares her a smile. “Nanami’s work,” she corrects, shutting her drawer.

  “Please,” Mother levels her with an unimpressed stare, “the correspondence is more than half the work. And the negotiations take much more skill than the arts that our Nanami is so devoted to.”

  Miyu gives Popo-chan an affectionate sprinkle of water from her drinking glass.

  “You keep talking like this,” she sighs, “it’s giving Nanami inferiority issues. You know I’m not going to take over, all this flattery is futile.”

  Mother smirks and shrugs.

  “Eh. It’s worth the try. You better not leave the Okiya defenceless when I’m too senile to run it, brat.”

  Miyu grins back, “Of course not, Mother.”

  The woman turns to leave, and then pauses.

  “Oh. I almost forgot. We’ve noticed someone lingering around the Okiya over the past few days.”

  Miyu’s heart skips a beat, and then works double time.

  “Be careful,” Mother says, “don’t take the back entrance after dark. If it gets any worse I’ll hire a guard.”

  Miyu can only sit, frozen, as the woman makes her way down the hall and out of sight.

  The hyper vigilance starts after that. Every moment spent outside of the Okiya involves a level of engaged observation that leaves Miyu exhausted by the time she gets home.

  Going on errands becomes an ordeal she never expected could be so harrying. Sometimes she feels eyes on her – a regular occurrence since the game – and her heart rate skyrockets as she goes through the motions at a perfectly relaxed pace even though every single part of her is screaming to go.

  “You’re getting bags under your eyes,” Nanami’s comment registers as odd. Not because she said it – gods know that she’s said worse to Miyu. But because she’s saying it while standing in the doorway of the office at four in the afternoon.

  Nanami allocates a certain amount of time to training each day. Her harp practice falls between three and five, so to see her in the doorway is rather suspicious.

  “Mother and Kikyo have been gossiping, then? Don’t you usually ignore that?”

  Miyu runs a hand through her loose hair, and tries to focus on the numbers before her.

  “They’re worried about you,” comments Nanami offhandedly, “you’re pale and we can all tell you’re not sleeping well. If it wasn’t for Masa you’d barely be eating, too.”

  Miyu cracks a wry smile, “Careful, Nanami. You almost sound concerned.”

  But the geisha doesn’t frown or even flinch. She looks Miyu straight on and says – “So what if I am?”

  At this, Miyu is taken off guard. Discomfited, she shifts in her seat and averts herself gaze.

  “I’m fine. You know how I get after important matches.”

  “I do,” Nanami’s voice is still firm and unyielding, “and I know this isn’t the same thing. What’s wrong?”

  Miyu wants desperately, then, to spill all. To give actual details about the game, the aftermath. She knows Nanami has eyes and ears of her own out on the streets, but Rin’s girls aren’t part of her little network.

  Instead, she takes a steadying breath and forces the stiff line of her shoulders to ease.

  “It’s nothing,” she smiles, “I-”

  “I know you’re lying,” Nanami pushes away from where she’d been leaning in the door frame, “and I’m not going to push you. But you know you can tell me. I’m not delicate like Kikyo or the others.”

  And then she turns on her heel and leaves.

  Miyu stares down at the papers on her desk, sight blurry with unshed tears. She’s exhausted.

  She pulls out a narrow piece of paper and begins to write.

  Itachi,

  I need to see you.

  Please.

  Sincerely

  Her pen hovers over the page, millimetres away from the slight downstroke of her comma.

  Then, with hands only slightly shaking, she adds one word to her usual sign off;

  Sincerely yours,

  Miyu

  She leaves the rolled scroll in Popo-chan’s pot and knows it’ll disappear silently in a day or two.

  .

  When Miyu wakes, her room is dark. She’s not sure what, exactly, has prompted her into consciousness.

  Sleepily, she casts a glance around her room – and just about jumps out of her own skin at the sight of someone crouching in her windowsill.

  Her scream catches in her throat as she gets tangled in her blanket in an attempt to get away, and then –

  “Miyu-san, it’s alright-” she knows that voice!

  She stops her flailing and comes to a stop halfway between her futon and the door. Her blankets are still twisted around her legs and she can feel her hair being an absolute mess, but she’s just so relieved to see him that she doesn’t care.

  “Itachi?” She asks, even though she can see him more and more clearly as her eyes adjust to the dimness.

  He hops off the window ledge into her room, not making a sound even on the tatami.

  She kicks her blanket away and scrambles to her feet. For a moment she just takes him in. He’s in all black, with charcoal grey body armour protecting his chest and forearms. Only his biceps are exposed. A dark shape seems to be inked onto one of them, but she can’t make it out.

  Her legs manage to carry her the distance between them even though they feel weak with relief.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she keeps her brush with hysteria under wraps as she invites herself into his personal space and wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug.

  He’s still for a long moment.

  A small part of her wonders if she’s overstepped, but her heart is still beating slightly too fast and her hands are shaking just a little, so she doesn’t have time to focus on her misstep.

  Light weight on her back and he’s – oh, he’s hugging her back. A hand strokes through her hair, somehow not catching on a single tangle she knows is there.

  “What is it?” he asks softly.

  Miyu takes in a few calming breaths before pulling away.

  “I – I-” her words fail her. She feels so stupid, because why would the Daimyo send anyone after her? It’s an insanely self-centred kind of paranoia.

  “Miyu?”

  Her name rolls of his tongue, absent of formalities, and sends shivers down her spine.

  “This is going to sound ridiculous,” she murmurs, “but I’ve been feeling like someone’s watching me. It’s probably paranoia, but I’m not all that sure it’s unwarranted and-”

  “Shh,” Itachi stops her rambling with a hand on her cheek. She leans into it, and looks up at his face. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness somewhat, and she can make out the dark brown of his eyes in her dim room.

  “How long has this been happening?” he questions gently.

  “About two months,” she whispers, lifting her hand to wrap it around his wrist. “Maybe a little before that – but I haven’t actually caught anyone.”

  Itachi uses his other hand to brush a piece of her hair off her face.

  “You’re allowed to be paranoid,” he murmurs, “I’m not certain that you’re not in danger, Miyu.”

  She sucks in a sharp breath at that, hand unconsciously tightening around his wrist.

  “What do you mean? Have you noticed something? Should I be worried? What-”

  “Breathe,” he instructs softly.

  She stops. Takes in a deep, slow breath.

  “I only mean that after the Fire Festival it would be best to exert caution.”

  Miyu nods, feeling lost. Itachi seems to hesitate for a moment.

  “May I speak my mind?”

  She quirks a brow, and nods.

  “I think you should come with me to Konoha,” he says in a low, smooth voice. “It will be hard for anything to happen to you there. Our security wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Konoha?” she lets her hand fall away from his. “I can’t. This is my home.”

  He’s silent for a moment. Opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. Finally his hands find hers in the darkness.

  “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

  Miyu thinks about it. Her home is here. Her family are here. She’s more than happy to travel for tournaments, but the certainty of somewhere to return where she has a place makes her feel safe.

  Slowly, she shakes her head.

  “I see.” She squeezes his hands, and hopes he understands why she can’t go. “I will come by or get someone I trust to come by every week when I can. Just be careful, Miyu.”

  She wants to lean in. Pull him close and kiss him because that assurance that he’s going to try is more than she could have asked for.

  Before she can do it, he raises his hand to poke her in the forehead, and disappears.