Chapter 5: The Days Between

The morning started with an argument about an obi.

Not a real argument. The kind that two women who had been finishing each other’s sentences for four years had instead of arguments — rapid Japanese, expressive hands, Miyu holding up a length of fabric in a color that Midori clearly found questionable, Midori taking it from her and holding it against Miyu’s face with the expression of a woman making a professional assessment, Miyu saying something that made Midori’s composure crack for exactly one second before she restored it.

Reggie stood in the doorway of the villa’s main room and watched this and forgot what he had come in to say.

He had seen Midori composed. He had seen her strategic, precise, guarded, occasionally amused, and once — at the river — completely open. He had not seen her like this. Unaware of being watched. Moving through a conversation with Miyu with the ease of someone who had been having this exact conversation, in various forms, for years. Quick and warm and completely unmanaged.

She looked up and saw him.

The composure came back. Not all the way — there wasn’t time — but enough. She straightened slightly. Then she seemed to decide something and let it go again, which was its own kind of gift.

“Miyu needs clothes,” she said in English. Simply.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

They went to the market district first. The practical things — everyday kimono, utility fabric, the items a woman needed for daily life that had nothing to do with impressing anyone. Kenji had materialized at the door at seven thirty as always and then taken one look at the situation and announced he had business nearby and would return in two hours.

Reggie suspected Kenji had no business nearby.

He followed the two women through the market at a respectful distance and tried to look purposeful. Mostly he watched.

Miyu had transformed overnight. Whatever the twelve days on the street had done to her bearing, it was temporarily suspended in the presence of a market full of fabric and her best friend and someone else’s money. She moved through the stalls with an energy that was entirely her own — quick, tactile, picking things up and holding them to the light, making sounds of appreciation or dismissal that required no translation.

Midori moved differently. More considered, more selective, but with the same underlying pleasure — the pleasure of a woman who loved beautiful things being given permission to acquire them without apology.

They conferred constantly. Rapid Japanese, heads together, holding fabrics against each other, against themselves, occasionally against Reggie who would find a length of cloth suddenly pressed to his shoulder while Midori tilted her head and considered the color.

He stood very still during these assessments. It seemed the right response.

At one stall Miyu held up a kimono in bright persimmon orange with white chrysanthemums and said something to Midori with the enthusiasm of a woman who had found exactly what she wanted. Midori looked at it. Then at Miyu. Then back at it. She said something dry and precise.

Miyu said something back, equally emphatic.

Midori took the kimono, held it against Miyu’s face, looked at it seriously for a moment.

Then she said something that made Miyu’s face light up entirely.

Reggie looked at Kenji’s empty spot beside him and then at the vendor. “She’s getting the orange one,” he said to nobody.

She got the orange one.

By midmorning they had accumulated enough practical kimono, everyday obi, tabi socks, hair supplies, and assorted female incidentals to fill two carrying cases. Miyu had the expression of a woman who had been given back something that had been taken from her. Not the palace — she wasn’t naive about that. Just the simple dignified fact of owning things again. Of having enough.

Reggie paid without looking at the total.

Then he said through Kenji who had reappeared exactly on schedule, “One more stop.”

Tanaka’s shop recognized them.

The proprietress bowed to Midori with the same deep bow as before — the one that acknowledged who she was regardless of what had changed around her. Midori inclined her head in return with the grace that never left her regardless of circumstances.

Tanaka himself appeared and opened the shop completely, the way he did for serious customers, and stood back.

Reggie said, “The same as before. Whatever they want. No limits.”

Kenji translated. Miyu looked at Midori. Midori looked at Reggie with an expression that had gratitude in it but something beyond gratitude — the acknowledgment of a woman who understood exactly what was being given and why.

Then she turned to the fabric.