Angelus

Rurouni Kenshin copyright Nobuhiro Watsuki

Chapter 1.

NOTE: This story is a sequel (or, if not, a follow-up story) to "A Road Less Traveled," and it takes place nearly a year after the events outlined in the latter. Furthermore, "Angelus," like Road, does not follow the RK storyline in terms of the manga ending, though there might be a reference or two lurking somewhere in the later chapters. While the reader does not really have to read Road first in order to understand this story, Angelus does make a lot of references to aforementioned. Those who are interested can find Road here:

(under Serials)

Revised: April 24, 2003

The words fell heavily in the somnolent silence, like the sound of stones crushed under invisible, trampling feet on an empty graveyard. Insidious, and yet reverberating with a strange, hollow rhythm of their own, merging intimately with the flashing movement of the tiny silver needle as it wove in and out of the cloth, pinning wandering threads into place with precise efficiency. And power.

The woman looked up, eyes fearful, mouth dry. Her own work lay forgotten across her lap, a tangle of half-hearted stitches and splashing patterns gone wrong. The atmosphere stifled her, reeking ominously of decay and wrongness and a hatred so intense its very presence was evil unto itself. She could it feel it lurking in the shadows, peering gleefully over the shoulder of that other woman, listening to every word which the other's lips mindlessly uttered.

Getting stronger with each carefully stitched pattern... a curse unto itself, as it was meant to be.

She could not bear it any longer. "It's no good, you know," she blurted out in a shaking voice. "You think you can hurt her, but the hurt'll just come back to you... You'll regret this."

There was no response, only those words.

"You're putting your soul into it," she whispered. "There's always a price to pay."

But she could have been talking to herself, in another empty tomb, chastening the dead for sins forgotten.

Not that they would have cared.

As _she_ didn't.

Kyoto, 12th Year of the Meiji Era

"Misaaaaoooo!!!"

She nearly jumped out of her seat at the ear-deafening sound. The surprise had cost her more than her composure, however. Misao cursed as her hand, definitely not her least clumsy appendage, finally lost its tenuous control on her needle and she ended up pricking her arm instead. Blood spurted out, leaving a thin crimson trail of red on the needle, on her hand, and on the white reproachful stretch of cloth.

She wondered then, not without a sense of amused if slightly bitter irony, if her life was to be forever defined by bad timing.

"Good news!" Okina bellowed as he burst into the room, waving a piece of paper triumphantly in the air. Okon and Omasu crowded after him, beaming gleefully. "You'll never believe it!"

She sighed and sat back on the floor, gazing mournfully at her ruined needlework. It had taken nearly half the entire morning before she could locate her elusive starting point in that vast wilderness of pristine white; more still before she found the right length of thread in the exact shade of color the pattern demanded. The exercise had been tiring to say the least.

'Maybe I should stick to conventional onmitsu stuff,' she thought despondently as she braced herself for Okina's announcement. The old man looked ready to explode. 'That's all I'll probably be good for, anyway. If at all.'

"Well?" she asked ungraciously. "I'm all ears, Jiya."

Okina smiled, ignoring her scowl.

"We-ell..." he drawled, watching his audience expectantly.

Misao, wanting to aggravate him, contrived to look bored.

"If you don't say it, Okina, I will!" Okon said excitedly.

"We both will," Omasu declared. "Okina has no gift for suspense."

Okina shot them a ferocious wilting glare. They subsided with maddening slowness and limpid innocent grins.

"Hmph," he grunted as he turned to Misao again. For the first time, he noticed the red-splotched cloth on the floor, and the matching bright streaks on her arm.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded.

Misao shifted uncomfortably. "I was--sewing," she muttered.

The others blinked, awestruck. "You were what?!"

She resisted the urge to throw the needle at them, though the action, however ridiculous, would be a much-needed catharsis after a very frustrating morning. But... She sighed. Changing the subject, while less satisfying to her highly-strung nerves, would be certainly be more dignified. Misao sniffed inwardly and opted for convention.

"So, what's the news?" she said with forced enthusiasm. "Is it from Tokyo?"

Her random guess hit home. Okina's eyebrow sank like lead weight.

"Yes," he nodded happily. "We've been waiting for this for a long time, Misao!"

Omasu tapped her foot. "Okina..."

"Kaoru and Kenshin are getting married!" he shouted.

They all turned to Misao.

"Oh," she said weakly.

She supposed later she should have jumped for joy. And she would have, really, if only she hadn't been so stunned. The very unexpectedness of the expected had rendered her speechless, though why it did so continued to bother her. She had prayed for them often enough, especially since the persons concerned were very dear to her. 'Friends,' she thought. They, of all people, deserved a happy ending, and she wanted--would demand--nothing less for them.

She was glad, Misao decided, trying to ignore the terrible feeling of emptiness which had settled in her heart since Okina had shared his 'news.' She couldn't even begin to explain it, only knew it was there, and not even subsequent emotions of joy and eagerness could make her forget its disturbing presence. Misao looked down again at the tiny scribbled note from Kaoru which lay across her lap, content crammed with ebullient greetings, demands about her health and well-being, and an enigmatic quote about the virtues of an affianced life. She smiled fondly.

'Maybe because I knew it was going to happen all along... The novelty faded before it could even become reality,' she reflected, and she shook her head wryly at the direction her musings had taken. It would not do any good to brood over such an unnecessary and trifling lapse, she decided resolutely. What she should do now was to plan for Kaoru and Kenshin's visit to Kyoto, part of which included a surprise banquet Okina planned to host for the couple in the Aoiya.

'Which means I should think of a welcome present for them.' Misao frowned as she considered her options. Not exactly a wedding gift, that wasn't really appropriate, but something which would express her congratulations and earnest wishes for a happy future...

"Misao, do you want some tea?" Shiro called out from the kitchen.

For the second time that morning, surprise caught her totally off- guard. She would really have fallen off her precarious seat on the porch this time if another, more modulated and certainly less motherly voice hadn't jolted her back into position.

"Good afternoon, Misao," Aoshi said evenly.

She flushed and averted her face.

"Good afternoon, Aoshi-sama," she replied without looking at him.

There was a short uncomfortable pause.

"Hey, Misao, I asked if you--" Shiro began, stepping out into the veranda with a tray of food on his hands. His eyes widened when he saw Aoshi. "Uh, sorry, I didn't know..."

"It's all right, Shiro," Aoshi said smoothly. "We'll just have our tea here."

"Yes, of course, Aoshi-sama," Shiro replied, shooting a sly glance at Misao, as he placed the tray on the topmost step.

"Would you like to join us?" said Aoshi.

"Uh, sorry, Aoshi-sama. Thanks for the offer but I need to do some stuff in the kitchen." Not waiting for any of them to answer, he took off with a hurried wave of his hand.

The silence continued.

She clasped her hands tightly. "I would have brought your tea to the temple later, Aoshi-sama," she said slowly. "There's no need for you to--to join me here--"

"No?" Aoshi said coolly.

The rebuke was implicit in the tone. She stiffened. "I didn't mean any disrespect," Misao retorted defensively. "I was just surprised--" Stiffness relented to tension as he sat beside her. The words intended to reproach _him_ died in her throat.

"You don't have to explain, Misao," Aoshi murmured. "You never used to apologize for anything." And then, taking advantage of her speechless appraisal, "Have you heard about Himura's forthcoming marriage?"

She sensed the interest behind the expressionless facade. "Yes," she answered, smiling slightly, unable to help it. "I'm so happy for them."

Are you?

Aoshi nodded.

"I am, too," he said distantly, almost as if he had forgotten her presence. "Himura deserves this chance, to finally make peace with his past, after everything that has happened..." The mask slipped for a moment, and she caught the barest flicker of pain--and resolution-- in his eyes. Unconsciously, her hand gripped the note on her lap.

"Kamiya Kaoru is the right person for him. A lifetime of togetherness will suit them both," Aoshi said, the note of absolute finality in his voice overshadowing the unusually stilted prose.

She wondered dully why he should talk to her like this.

And what about me?

"People must move on with her lives."

It was the message behind the oblique declaration, not the obvious irony verging on hypocrisy on the speaker's part, which roused her from her abstraction, but it did not move her into anger. All she felt was that strange, empty wistfulness.

"Do you really think so, Aoshi-sama?" she questioned gently.

He didn't seem surprised by her unexpected equanimity. "I hope so," he replied just as softly.

That caught her. She looked at him sharply, and wished she hadn't as he caught her gaze with his. Unwillingly, her eyes traced his features with lingering care, and never more than at that moment did she feel the full weight of sadness at the sudden realization that he would never be hers, not in the same way that Kenshin would belong-- indeed belonged--to Kaoru. He returned her stare unblinkingly. Longing and resentment that he should look so unmoved filled her, and she hoped then that the anger would come.

"What do you mean?" she said.

He looked away and the moment was gone.

"What do you think I mean?" he returned in a carefully neutral voice.

She heard the sound of paper rustling as she crushed the forgotten note in her fist.

"That you are glad that Himura has moved on." And then, painfully, "Don't you want the same for yourself?"

Silence.

The desolation which had swamped her earlier threatened to overcome her now. But it was the yearning, which she still clung to with all her heart, that made the situation almost unbearable.

In fact, it was unbearable. Misao stood up.

"I have to go," she said abruptly. "There's something--something I must do--"

"Your tea." His face was as inscrutable as ever.

"I don't want it," she bit out, and she turned away before he could see her tears.

It does not always have to be like this.

She ate a quiet dinner, coming down only to the common room after she was sure everyone else had eaten. Okina had scolded her -- it was a rather absent-minded scold; Misao could see that he was already planning the party down to the last, almost certainly sordid detail -- and relented without much protest when she pleaded a headache, also as a matter of course. Okon and Omasu kept glancing at her worriedly, at her downcast face, her strained eyes, but she ignored them. Afterward she announced in a too-bright voice that she was going to the marketplace. Both of them offered to accompany her. She declined, saying in the same way that she wanted her present for Kenshin and Kaoru to be a surprise for everyone as well.

"But it's getting late, Misao," said Okon, exchanging another surreptious look with Omasu. "Maybe you should put it off till tomorrow."

Misao smiled a little. "I'll be fine, Okon. I won't be gone long. Besides, Kenshin and everyone else will be arriving in three days. We're going to be very busy and I don't know when I'll have another opportunity to slip away like this. You know how Jiya fusses about these things. If I put it off, I'll probably never get to buy my present at all."

"Well, if you're sure..." said Omasu.

"I'm just going shopping, for god's sake," she snapped. "Give me a break!"

Omasu looked surprised, and then, predictably, hurt. Misao sighed inwardly.

"Misao!" exclaimed Okon in a reproachful tone.

"I can take care of myself," she said in a softer voice. "And my headache's almost gone, if that's what you're worried about. A walk will do me good." She stood up before they could protest further. "Okay, I'm off. Is there anything you want me to get for you?"

"Nothing," said Okon quickly. Then she frowned and glanced at Omasu, whose eyes brightened. "Welll...."

"Now that you mention it..." said Omasu.

She found the shop in question after an hour of searching, most of which she spent stomping around and muttering under her breath about manipulative old women and barging into at least three soba shops and one doubtful establishment selling "Er... candies?" -- as the nervous half-dressed shopkeeper put it -- by mistake. After their initial doubtful reaction, Okon and Omasu had practically pushed her out of the Aoiya, talking at the same time.

"It's this little stall--"

"--run by--"

"--hurry up now, it's getting late--"

"--but Okon--"

"--you can't miss him--"

"Omasu--"

"--we'll wait up for you, don't worry--"

"Etoo..."

"Goodbye, Misao!"

So much for doing her shopping tomorrow instead. She had no doubt that it was deliberate -- they were worried about her -- and had probably counted on her irritation getting the better of her non-existent headache. Misao shook her head ruefully as she backed away from yet another soba shop (If she were as paranoid as Sano, she would think Saitou was playing one of his nasty little games again, probably sneering at her from some unobtrusive omniscient perch. If she saw him now, she would probably drop dead on the spot).

Finally she stood in front of a low ramshackle stall, the last in a street of such buildings. Misao lifted the hanging hesitantly -- a stretch of faded cloth proclaiming it to be a fish restaurant and not a soba shop thank god -- and ducked her head under the low threshold.

"Hello?" she called out. "Good afternoon?"

The lamps had not been lit yet, but the interior of the tiny room was easily visible. The afternoon light, which was its strongest in summer just before the sun set, poured in through the high window slats. Misao looked around her slowly, wondering. Clothes upon clothes and piles upon piles of indistinguishable fabric were stacked haphazardly on low tables and shabby tatami mats. A moss-colored kimono decorated with irises lay stretched out on a separate table, its sleeves just dangling loose, like nearly amputated arms. Scissors, pins, needles, tortoiseshell combs, hair decorations, a confusion of threads and colored silks were entangled together on the floor, perilously close to a few pots of what looked and smelled like dyeing solutions. Misao sidestepped the confusion neatly. A big chest of drawers was pushed against the wall, beside which stood a couple of old rather unsteady-looking clothing frames. An exquisite robe of thick black silk was draped over one of the frames, glistening with lustrous gold flowers. On top this robe came a red kimono with a quilted hem, the edges of which nearly brushed the floor. Multilayered gauze and damask draped the other frame, almost negligently.

"A moment!" someone replied, perhaps from a hidden inner room. Misao started. The voice was pitched high and sounded somewhat female, though there was something else peculiar about it. "Please make yourself comfortable. I'll be along shortly!"

"Yes, yes, thank you," Misao called back."There's no hurry."

She approached the clothing frame cautiously. Up close, she could smell a faint fragrance emanating from the kimono -- a mixture of sandalwood, musk, amber, and a few other scents she could not distinguish. The robes had been perfumed with incense, but this blend smelled old, and distant, its base essence being age.

Her ears caught the sound of footsteps approaching, and then that of a door sliding open. She stepped back quickly.

"I'm sorry, Miss, have you been waiting long? I had to pick up something in the back. Here, I brought you some tea..."

Misao turned round. "Oh, no, please don't bother. I'm only here to pick up--"

She blinked.

A blond-haired man, his head barely reaching her shoulder, stood beaming up at her, carrying a tray. He was not Japanese, she could see it in a glance, though he was wearing traditional Japanese attire. That it was a most fashionable female attire did not faze her one bit, after having seen Kamatari. What startled her though -- she blinked again -- was the fact that his tiny feet were encased in delicate fishnet stockings. They looked rather incongruous with the consciously worn geta sandals. A fob watch was tucked inside his obi, which he consulted now, nearly dislodging the tea tray. He looked like a miniature painted china doll on display in one of those European fad shops Omasu and Okon loved to frequent.

"Dear me, it is far too late. Oh well." He sighed and slipped the watch back into his obi again. Then he looked up at Misao, still smiling, his small blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The vocal peculiarity was in the accent. He was fluent in the language in all other respects. He tilted his head to one side, obviously waiting for her answer.

Misao gathered her composure. "I beg your pardon, Mister--"

"Thomas," he said promptly."Please call me Thomas."

"Thomas-san." She smiled back. "Okon and Omasu sent me. They said they would like to retrieve a package?"

"Oh! Okon-san and Omasu-san!" The little man beamed again. "Of course! My two favorite customers!" He pushed aside a heap of what looked like Western ladies skirts to one side to make room for the tea tray, scattering a miscellaneous array of buttons on the floor. Misao hurried to help him.

"Thank you very much," said Thomas. "And what is your name, Miss?"

"Misao," she answered a trifle shyly, still bent over collecting the buttons.

"You are Okon-san and Omasu-san's pretty friend," exclaimed Thomas. "They talk about you all the time."

That set her back up. Misao looked at him quickly over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes warily, knowing with a sinking heart what was coming. "Do they?"

Thomas seemed delighted with her reaction. "Yes. They say you and your childhood sweetheart, a man ravaged by guilt, redeemed by love, beautiful beyond--"

Misao sighed. It was always the same old story. "He is not my childhood sweetheart, Thomas-san. And, um..."

"Nevertheless, it is a beautiful story," he declared. "I do not hear a lot of beautiful stories in this shop. It is always 'Oh, Thomas-san, do you think this orange silk brocade is better than the beige with the gold-threaded chrysanthemum pattern?' I like to talk about clothes, of course, but sometimes one is in need of a diversion. That is why Okon-san and Omasu-san are my favorite customers." He laughed, a light trilling sound that seemed an organic extension of his voice.

Misao put the buttons carefully into a small jade container. "This is certainly an unusual place you've got here, Thomas-san," she burst out before she could think. She winced. She was curious but it came out sounding wary and suspicious instead. What was wrong with her today?

"I'm sorry. You must think that rude of me--"

"No, no," Thomas expostulated. "On the contrary, I am heartened by your interest. It gives me an excuse to talk about myself." He didn't look offended. He sat down in front of the table containing the tea tray. After a moment, Misao followed suit, kneeling next to him.

"I suppose I do not look like one of your usual shopkeepers, no?" he said cheerfully. He patted his fob watch again, smiling. She smiled back; she couldn't help it. "I am from the Netherlands but I have been living in Japan for a long time, since shortly after the Bakumatsu. I am a dressmaker by trade. I ran a small atelier in Amsterdam. It wasn't too successful though." He laughed again. "And then I met an old friend of mine, who was a trader in Nagasaki, and he urged me to try my luck in Japan. As it turned out I wasn't very lucky in Nagasaki as well, so I moved on to Kyoto. Here, I am very happy if not so successful too." He wiggled his eyebrows. "As you can see..."

"I like the kimono," said Misao, glancing at them again. "Did you--did you make them?" She rather doubted it. Even to her untrained eye, the fabric looked quite old, and there was her impression of its scent.

"Dear me, no," exclaimed Thomas. "Producing kimono like those you see on that clothing frame is very expensive, and the technique is rather difficult. The original dyeing solutions, for one, are hard to reproduce." He took the tea pot and began to pour tea on small glazed cups, one of which he handed to Misao. "And as I think you have noticed," and he winked at Misao, "these clothes are antique. Those over there.... you can probably date them to late sixteenth to early seventeenth century. They're part of a layered set which I bought in a rather disreputable family auction in Osaka. They were in a sorry state when I got them."

Misao's eyes widened. "Then you... restore them?" This was interesting. She knew next to nothing about the actual process of dressmaking, as her experience that the morning could attest -- and she had no idea what had possessed her to start making an actual yukata, except perhaps some vague probably delusional memory of hearing Aoshi say he needed another one -- but she did know something about repairing holes, mending seams, replacing buttons and torn sashes. But what Thomas was doing seemed to have an entirely different meaning for him.

"Restore? Yes, yes, something like that," said Thomas. He pursed his lips reflectively. "It started as a hobby, really. I used to buy old kimono from the odd customer as part of my own personal collection, because I did not then know how to make my own kimono and I couldn't buy the newer ones because they were too costly. I liked matching the kimono, putting them together, so that's what I did, but of course one couldn't wear them just the way they were -- really, Misao-san, you would think people took more care of their clothes, such precious stuff! -- which was why I had to improvise..." He paused and studied her, looking her up and down, and then he gave her another one of his happy unaffected smiles. "Ohhh, in fact, I think I have just the set for you, Misao-san! It's called Summer Begins."

Misao blinked. "Yes?"

"It's a layered confection of blue-green and white and pink and light pink," explained Thomas, looking thrilled and clasping his small hands in front of him. "It just looks delicious, Misao-san! The robes are unlined because they're designed for summer, the end of spring, but the colors are very beautiful! They will go wonderfully with your eyes."

"Wow, that sounds so cool," exclaimed Misao, leaning forward, tea forgotten, eyes sparkling herself. This was also new to her. What few kimono she had outside of onmitsu costume were bought out of necessity and without much thought. The idea of actually fashioning her clothing was quite fascinating. And then she realized something else. "So, um, Thomas-san, you really sell these kimono sets?"

"Well, those are what my few regular customers buy," answered Thomas, sipping his tea. "I used to make clothes myself but now I just, as you put it very nicely, restore them and re-sell. And not just kimono either. I've also started selling -- dear me, how do you say it? -- compiled European fashions."

Misao grinned. "Let me guess what Okon and Omasu buy from you."

"Omasu-san likes pirate breeches and French shirts," said Thomas. "And Okon-san is currently interested in ballerina shoes and corsets."

"Really?" said Misao, enthusiasm dimmed by confusion. "That--that sounded pretty weird... And I don't see them wear those things at home..."

"They're not the sort of attire one wears at home, Misao-san," said Thomas happily. "They're for other things."

"Huh? Oh. OH." Misao could feel herself turning red. Thomas beamed right at her.

"In fact," he said, standing up, "let me go get their package now, and I will show you my latest pirate creation for Omasu-san and my ballerina creation for Okon-san and you can tell me what you would like for yourself, too!"

"The kimono set sounds wonderful..."

Thomas clapped his hands. "I'll go get it out for you then!"

"Um, no, not for me," said Misao. Thomas's face fell and she hurried on, "A friend of mine is getting married and I would like to give her something... and I was just thinking that maybe your clothes would be perfect, as I don't think I can afford new dresses, and I know that things like that aren't really appropriate either. But something like an old kimono set would seem more of a--a remembrance or a souvenir...."

"Ah," exclaimed Thomas. "I see. Say no more, Misao-san! I will willingly provide the gift but I must meet this friend of yours first!"

"Really?" said Misao eagerly. "They'll be staying in the Aoiya and Jiya is arranging a dinner for them. You will come?"

Thomas nodded, smiling. "But of course!"

"Thank you very much, Thomas-san!"

"Nevertheless, I shall reserve my exquisite summer creation for Misao-san," declared Thomas.

Misao shook her head regretfully. "Maybe when I have the money... I must think of Kaoru first. I'm glad that Jiya forced me to put away that winter's earnings or else I won't have anything to give at all." She frowned then. "Though I still have no idea what to get Himura..."

"The groom, am I right?"

Misao nodded.

"Perhaps another kimono set?" said Thomas eagerly. "I have just the perfect thing. Flowering Iris.... They will look divine together!"

Misao smiled weakly.

"Anou, Thomas-san..."

Suddenly, the door hanging lifted again and someone stepped across the threshold and into the room. Misao glanced at the newcomer and saw a young man, of about twenty or thereabouts, surveying the shop with a studied, almost furtive look on his face. He was dressed in a self-conscious Western mode-- an obviously new peaked cap was placed jauntily on his head, and he wore his ostentatiously black suit as if he looked askance at anyone who dared breathe on them. He was carrying a sack in one hand. Misao, after looking him over, eyed it warily.

"Yes?" said Thomas. "May I help you, young master?"

The man looked startled to see him. "Are you the owner of this shop?"

Thomas bowed. "Yes, I am. Welcome. What can I do for you?"

He stared at Thomas. He hadn't yet noticed Misao. "Oh. I see. Well... I was the one who sent you that message..."

Thomas raised a pencilled eyebrow. "Indeed? I had not expected you to come at all, sir. You are very late."

The young man flushed at the polite, slightly rebuking tone, then glared at Thomas. "I had things to attend to. It's none of your business." He dropped the sack on the floor and looked around, straightening his coat. "I came, didn't I?"

Thomas exchanged a silent bemused glance with Misao, who had retreated into the shadows beginning to lengthen and pool in the corners of the room as the sun began to set. "Yes. Of course." He cleared his throat. "Now perhaps the young master will explain his purpose for coming?"

The man approached the clothing frames and began to finger the cloth of the red kimono. "I hear you buy old clothes."

"You heard correctly, young master."

"Isn't it a strange occupation for a gaijin?"

"I do not find it so," said Thomas, politely still, but with a decided icy undertone this time. "Please be careful with that kimono, young master. It took me a lot of time and effort to repair the damage and restore it to what it was."

The other man turned round, raising an eyebrow. "Really? This old thing? How much would you say it costs now?" He tried to sound disinterested but Misao could hear the off-putting eagerness in his tone.

"Would you like to buy it?" asked Thomas.

He scowled. "Listen, you old fart, I--"

Just then Misao moved forward in her seat, and the man finally saw her. He started, an expression of surprise and something approaching panic flashing across his thin face.

"Is there a problem?" she said coolly.

The man made a convulsive movement towards the door. Before she could say or do anything else, he ducked back under the door hanging. Misao sprang after him, but when she emerged out into the busy street, she found him gone. She looked left and right but the surrounding crowd blocked her view.

"Misao-san, did you find him?" Thomas had come up to stand beside her.

"No," she said. "Thomas-san, do you know that man?"

He shook his head. "He sent me a message through public courier earlier this morning, telling me he would come to the shop in the afternoon after closing hours. He didn't give a name. That is why I haven't closed yet when you arrived. I was waiting for him. I thought it was you who sent the message at first but as it turned out..." He shrugged. "He said he had something he wanted to show me."

"Do you have any idea what that something would be?"

Thomas held up the sack the young man was carrying. "He forgot to take this. Maybe this is it. But why did he run away when he saw you, Misao-san?"

Misao sighed. "Thomas-san. I guess you know who I am, don't you? Okon and Omasu must have told you."

Thomas smiled at her. "They didn't need to tell me. It isn't such a secret, Misao-san. I've been living in Kyoto for years. I know all about the Oniwabanshuu. So he may have recognized you too. Do you know him?"

"Nope," said Misao, frowning. "But I'll find out. Now," she looked down at Thomas, "do we open that sack?"

Thomas looked offended that she would ask. "Certainly."

"There might be something dangerous in there," she warned. "Like a bomb or something."

"Oh, surely not. And anyway I can tell that Misao-san really wants to open it."

Misao studied him for a few moments, wondering if he was hiding something. He gave her a mild inquiring look in return. She smiled back. "Well, then."

"It's old," said Thomas a few minutes later. They were inside his work room which adjoined the main room, and which was even more crowded and messier than the latter, if that was possible. "Very old, I should think, judging by the stitching."

"It looks like a wedding kimono," said Misao after a pause.

Thomas looked dubious. "Yes, that is the most probable explanation but..." He patted his fob watch absently. He and Misao stared at the white robe which was now draped over the other clothing frame. The lamps had been lit but even through the shadows, she could see it clearly. The fabric, though, according to Thomas, made of fine and high-quality silk, was very dirty, smudged all over with dust, grime, and insect droppings, with a peculiar uniform grayish film covering all. But the kimono itself was intact.

"That's good, isn't it?" said Misao.

"Cleaning it would be a very delicate process," continued Thomas pensively, "if I do not want to ruin the fabric. However, I'm not too worried. I'm sure I can do it without much trouble."

"But?" Misao prompted.

Thomas frowned again. "Nothing. It's just that there's something unusual about the pattern on the cloth. The fact that there is a pattern is in itself unusual." He peered at the kimono again. "I can't see it very well. And, if I'm not mistaken, it looks like it's been sewn from inside the kimono."

Misao turned her head to stare at the kimono again for a long time, her eyes dark and oddly narrowed. Then she stepped back. "Thomas-san," she said abruptly.

Thomas, busily running through the materials he would need for cleaning the kimono in his head, looked up, startled at her tone. "Yes, Misao-san?"

"Will you be keeping the kimono here tonight?"

Thomas blinked. "Oh. Well, yes, I suppose--"

"And what about the obi?" She inclined her head toward his work table where the abandoned sack lay beside sheets of paper, ink pens, scissors, small jars, and swatches of cloth.

Thomas blinked again. "Yes, yes, of course. I definitely need to study that more closely." He reached out for the sack and shook it. Something fell out and then resolved itself into a long length of brocade. It was also white, like the kimono, and, like the kimono, it was also covered with that same gray film. But this time the pattern underneath was easily visible, because it had been sewn on with strange bright colors, that weren't colors exactly but more like the peculiar approximation thereof -- the colors, Misao thought suddenly, of a summer that never was... She started when she heard Thomas's voice.

"I think I can clean this up by tomorrow, assuming I can figure out the proper solvent." He was scraping at the film gently with one finger. It dissolved into flaky powder. "Still, there's something different about this pattern too. I wonder if it's the same as that on the kimono..."

Misao took a deep breath. "Thomas-san, I think you should stay at the Aoiya with us tonight."

"But Misao-san!" Thomas exclaimed. "I can't start work on this without my equipment!"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry but until we're sure of the provenance of--of that thing, I don't think you should touch it yet. But I don't think you should stay here with it either. That man who came here this afternoon seems like a very suspicious character. We don't know where he got the stuff. He may have stolen it, for all we know, and he may come back for it tonight to take it from you. It just isn't safe, Thomas-san."

Thomas sighed. "Well. Maybe you're right, Misao-san. If it's not any bother--"

"Of course not! Okon and Omasu will be thrilled to have you there. I'm sure they'd be fitting your clothes in no time."

"But what about my shop?"

"Don't worry," she replied reassuringly. "I'll have someone watch it for you tonight. If that person does come, we'll know by morning, and then we can report it all to the police if there is something bad going on, all right?"

"Will we take the kimono with us?"

Misao averted her head carefully. "I guess we'd better, just to be sure."

Thomas nodded and beamed at her. "Misao-san is a remarkably capable person. Okon-san and Omasu-san are right. You are the Okashira of the Oniwabanshuu, aren't you?"

"No," she said quickly. "I mean... yes, but it's just--a temporary position."

"Ah," said Thomas. "Until your childhood sweetheart recovers his lost heart and--"

He never will.

Misao flushed despite herself. "He's not my..."

"It doesn't matter," said Thomas happily. "Either way, it's very beautiful." He folded the obi carefully and placed it back inside the sack, then he walked toward the clothing frame and began to remove the kimono. "I know you will think it's bad of me, because perhaps you don't like this sort of situation, but I can't help hoping that that awful young man doesn't come back and we can get to keep the kimono because it really is very lovely if a bit strange. But maybe this is just a style I haven't come across."

"We?" said Misao slowly. "Oh. Are you thinking that I could give this to Kaoru instead? Won't that be improper? I mean it's her wedding, Thomas-san, and.besides I don't think she'd appreciate what most probably will turn out to be a stolen item." She tried to laugh.

Thomas winked up at her. "Not for your friend's wedding. For yours.

"Thomas-san," she groaned. "You are even worse than Okon and Omasu..."

"And maybe it wasn't stolen!"

"We don't know for sure," retorted Misao. "And if he didn't steal it, then that kimono rightfully belongs to him and we should return it to him."

"A piece of clothing like this only belongs to the person to which it is destined to belong, Misao-san," said Thomas, with a sudden disconcerting gravity. He put the kimono inside the sack along with the obi.

"Who told you that?" said Misao softly.

"It's just a personal superstition of mine," said Thomas, smiling again. "Well, shall we go? This has turned out to be a very interesting afternoon, eh?"

Much more interesting.

"Yes," she agreed. "It has."

End Chapter 1

Note: Well, all that sounded very--vague. Sorry. I'm making all the details up as I go along. ^^; Notes to follow.

Next chapter: Misao finds out Things. Aoshi tells her Things. And Things do not end up prettily. (Well, it is only Chapter 2 ^^; It's been some time since I wrote Ruroken fanfic. Feeling my way here. Yeah, excuses...)