Free Tale of the Warrior Geisha by Margaret Dilloway

embraced her father. He was so wise, and always knew just what to say. Her mother loved her, but her father was the only one who truly understood her. He rubbed her back. “In the meantime, you’d better go help your mother cook.”
    â€”
    It wasn’t until well after dark that Tomoe saw Wada-san at the feast. It was held in Kiso-Fukushima, on the grounds of the Kozen-ji temple, one of the grandest temples in the area, with ten buildings on the premises. To Tomoe, the main temple looked almost like a palace, perched as it was on a high hill, with a long sweeping curved roofline. The grounds were surrounded by tall trees and gardens with ponds and cherry trees everywhere.
    The courtyard for the feast was crisscrossed above with thick wisteria vines, purple blossoms cascading down with sweet scent. Everyone had brought dishes to share at the makeshift tables set up. Petals and dropped leaves crunched under Tomoe’s feet. Lit lanterns swung over the revelers, and someone had banged a drum and sang. Several drunk people danced, arms linked, laughing. The air was still hot and humid. People seemed to feel the drink more during this weather.
    Tomoe sat on a cushion and picked at her mother’s lotus root dish. They had cut up the root into disks that looked like wheels, cooked it in fish stock, and seasoned it with sesame and ginger. It was good. She wondered if Yoshinaka wanted some; this was his favorite. She looked around for him. He was a distance away out of the courtyard, talking to a girl older than Tomoe, his head bent low. The girl laughed suddenly, the sound cutting through the din as clear as a gong. The girl put her arms around Yoshinaka’s neck.
    Tomoe turned away, the lotus roots turning to lead in her mouth. She swallowed. Why should she care? He was only her foster brother. He was sixteen, a man by most people’s measure. No one expected him to pledge himself to Tomoe and only Tomoe forever.
    Except perhaps Tomoe.
    Yet she did care. She swallowed the roots and put her hand to her stomach, to stanch the sudden pain there.
    â€œTomoe.”
    She recognized the voice immediately. “Hello, Wada-san.” Her voice sounded calm, fortunately. She looked up at him, but his face was in shadow.
    He cringed, then smiled. “Again, you are the only person existing who may call me that.” He took her hands and helped her up. She barely used her muscles. He’d gotten stronger.
    Now she could see his face. It had lost a little bit of the roundness, but he was the same old Wada. He grinned impishly, and she noticed a dimple at the left corner of his mouth. How had she missed that before? His sons would inherit that, she thought. She did not know why she thought of Wada’s future sons.
    They walked out of the courtyard and away from the party. The moon hung low and impossibly huge on the horizon, in hues of orange. Tomoe reached her hand out toward it. “It looks close enough to touch.”
    â€œThe moonlight suits you.” Wada still had her hand.
    Her heart beat harder. “How long will you be home?”
    â€œNot long enough.” Wada smiled. “Two days.”
    A soft wind blew up, rustling the trees around them and cooling Tomoe’s skin. A thrush sang out. Tomoe stopped. “Listen.”
    Wada stopped too, putting his hand on Tomoe’s cheek. “A thrush’s song is not half as sweet as your voice, Tomoe. I’ve missed you.”
    She gulped, forcing a grin. She took a step back. “Oh, Wada-san. You’ve been studying poetry in the capital.” She whistled the thrush’s song, and the bird sang back in reply.
    â€œTomoe. Can’t you be serious?” Wada dropped his hand.
    â€œI am serious, Wada-san. It’s you who are not. We all know you’ve been seeing all manner of upper-class women in the capital. I know you will not marry me, because I cannot increase your rank.” She studied his face to confirm her