“Huh,” the foreman said, narrowing his eyes. “You…all right? Everything good here?”
“I…” Then she drew in a breath and gave a deep ritual bow of conciliation. “O great being of the cold skies, forgive any slight or offense I have given. It is not my intent. Please ask of me what you will. I will do all in my power to see it delivered to you.”
“Oh. Uh…” The foreman shuffled from one foot to the other. “Just, have him report in, okay? He didn’t do his rounds yesterday, and we’re already short-staffed. He’s supposed to send word if he’s sick.”
“I will see this message delivered with all due soberness and courage,” Yumi whispered, lowering her bow. “Please go with the blessing of the spirits and find peace in your life.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, sounding…embarrassed?
“Wait,” Painter said, stepping up beside her. “You need to tell him something important. Um, repeat this. ‘Painter says he saw a stable nightmare, and—despite being sick—is so diligent at his job that he is out hunting to get more information. He wanted me to inform you that this is an emergency, and that you must send for the Dreamwatch.’？”
She repeated the words exactly as spoken and glanced up from her bow. The foreman frowned deeply.
“He said that?” the man asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “I vow it.” She knelt and touched her forehead to the floor in solemn consummation of the words.
“Huh. Right, okay then,” the foreman said, then tromped away down the hallway.
“Thank you,” Painter said, relief evident in his voice. “That’s one thing taken care of, at least. I can stop worrying.”
Yumi stood upright, glancing down the hallway as the foreman vanished. She felt herself blushing with the heat of a thousand stones.
A man had seen her. Like this. Not merely wearing…whatever this was she was wearing, but also with her hair disheveled. She was supposed to represent the spirits in every way, but today she would have had trouble properly representing a pile of dust.
“That was strange,” the hero said, wandering around the room. “Why did he see you, Yumi? None of this makes any kind of sense.”
Yumi moved to close the door, but as she did, a door directly across the hallway opened. And a goddess stepped out. Wearing almost no clothing at all.
Her skirt ended mid-thigh, and was made of some kind of glossy black material. Her shirt was filmy and drooped low, exposing the depth of her bosom. Yumi would have thought her a demon but for her beauty. The woman was perhaps Yumi’s age, but her black hair shone with a luster that no amount of combing would ever provide Yumi. She wore makeup that—instead of lightening her face to pale white, as was used for formal situations in Torio—outlined her eyes in dark colors, making them wide and inviting. Her lips were cherry red, her cheeks dusted with a hint of blush.
Yumi gaped at the gorgeous person, barely noticing when Painter cried out behind her, then waved his incorporeal hands through the door as if to try to shut it.
The woman turned to Yumi and paused, then cocked her head. “Oh,” she said, taking in Yumi’s state of dress. “Um…hello. Are you…a friend of Nikaro’s?”
“She’s going to think we’re sleeping together,” Painter said. “This is bad. She’ll never talk to me again. Quick, uh, tell her you’re my sister!”
“I’m his sister,” Yumi whispered. “Yumi.”
Then immediately panicked.
Her earlier lie about Painter being sick had been a…stretch of the truth. He was sick in a way—he was incorporeal. So while it wasn’t strictly the sort of behavior proper for a yoki-hijo, she could rationalize it.
This was different. This was a deliberate untruth. The sort that she’d never spoken since having impressed upon her—as a toddler—the gravity of her duties and the requirements of the spirits. She cringed, expecting the spirits to rise up and destroy her. She had to be better than such behaviors.
However, no divine recrimination seized her.
The woman across the hall relaxed. “Of course you are,” she said, evidently amused that she’d considered otherwise. “That makes sense. I’m Akane. Are you visiting Nikaro for the first time?”
“Yes,” Painter said quickly. “Tell her that you came to see the big city.”
Yumi repeated the words, numb. Maybe…well, if the hero was telling her to say these things, maybe they didn’t count as lies. After all, the spirits had sent him to her. He must know what he was doing. So instead of worrying, she tried to figure out this woman with the strange dress and kindly smile.
“Close the door,” Painter said.
Instead Yumi asked the woman, “Do you know Painter well?”
“What, Nikaro?” the woman asked. “Well, I knew him in school, and we live across from each other. So…I suppose, maybe?”
Yumi frowned, cocking her head. But then it clicked. Akane lived in his palace. She dressed like this. Painter was concerned she’d think that Yumi was sleeping with him.
“Oh!” Yumi said. “You must be one of his concubines!”
“His what?” Akane asked.
Painter groaned, flopping back onto the altar he’d been lying on before.
“He told me that he’d been with many women,” Yumi said. “Er, intimately, I mean. A hero like him has many such conquests in stories. I apologize for my blush. I am…not experienced. He explained it to me when we were bathing together earlier. He told me all about the hundreds of women he’d been with! I should have realized when I saw you that you were one of his concubines!”
Yumi bowed. It was only proper to show the concubine of an important hero such deference. When she came up from her bow, however, she noticed the look of disgust on Akane’s face. Which quickly became a look of violent anger, Akane’s nose wrinkling in a sneer.
“He said all of that,” Akane said, her voice as cold as the air in this strange place.
“I…” Oh no. She’d misjudged, hadn’t she? Perhaps this was a woman he’d known intimately, but hadn’t made his concubine. That would explain her anger. Except something about the way she was fuming…“You’re…not one of his conquests?” Yumi asked.
“Girl,” Akane said, “your brother has trouble conquering a bowl of noodles if it has too much spice.”
“He’s…a mighty hero though. Right?” Yumi asked.
In the other room, Painter groaned louder.
“Hero?” Akane laughed. Then she turned and stalked away down the corridor, wearing shoes that did not look like they would survive the ground’s heat. But then, Yumi was beginning to think maybe this place wasn’t ever hot.
She shut the door, then put her back to it. “I…did poorly, didn’t I?” she asked.
Painter just continued staring at the ceiling.
“Painter,” Yumi said, “are you a hero? Like you’ve been telling me?”
“I…”
“Painter,” she said, her voice growing firm as she stepped toward him. “Have you been telling me untruths?”