Chapter Three
Sayuri
Steam curled in thick ribbons through the kitchen, the scent of roasted meats and fresh herbs heavy in the air. Copper pots clanged against the stone hearth while the shuffle of feet and murmur of voices formed a steady hum of activity. The heat was relentless, pressing against Sayuri's skin as she scrubbed the remnants of last night's feast from a wooden basin. The water had long since turned cloudy, her fingers wrinkled and raw from hours steeped in the scalding temperature.
Sayuri hadn't been marched off to war with the others. Whether by design or oversight, she'd been placed among the palace servants instead--a quiet dismissal, as though she was too insignificant for anything beyond scrubbing floors and peeling vegetables.
It had been months since she arrived in the inner court, yet she still felt like an outsider. The other servants had come from respectable families--daughters of craftsmen and officials, women who had earned their place through loyalty or lineage. She, on the other hand, had been brought here on the whim of a nobleman, her past a question left unanswered.
If the others had known what she'd done--who she was--they wouldn't have let her so much as touch the palace stores, let alone work in the kitchens. But no one asked. No one dared. It was enough that Lord Dorei had willed her here. That alone had branded her an object of curiosity, a persistent topic of gossip that followed the daily routines.
Sayuri rinsed the basin and set it aside just as a stack of bowls clattered beside her. Water splashed against her sleeve, soaking through the muted gray fabric of her uniform and flecking her cheek. The apron was already damp from hours of work, the coarse linen a far cry from the silks and brocades worn beyond the kitchen doors. Still, it was leagues above the ragged kosode she'd worn in prison, where warmth itself had been a luxury.
She exhaled, glancing up to find Mei standing over her, arms crossed, a smirk curving her lips.
"You missed a spot," Mei said, her tone dripping with false sweetness.
Mei was young--Makoto's age, perhaps--with the soft, rounded face of someone who had never gone hungry. Her plump form was draped in the same gray uniform as the rest, but she carried herself as though it were embroidered with gold. Her dark hair was plaited down her back, the front cropped blunt across her forehead--just like Makoto's had been. Sayuri hated it. But appearance aside, the girl was nothing like her sister.
Sayuri wiped her face on her shoulder and turned back to her work. "Then perhaps you should wash them yourself."
A few nearby attendants stifled their laughter, quickly returning to their tasks when Mei's glare snapped to them.
"I don't expect a stray to understand," Mei hissed. "But those of us who belong here have standards to maintain."
Sayuri clenched her jaw but refused to take the bait. It was always like this. From the moment she arrived, Mei had made it her mission to remind her she didn't belong.
"Enough," the head cook barked, her hands planted on her hips. "Mei, get back to work. Sayuri, you're to prepare a tea tray for Scholar Hidemasa. Take it to the reception hall."
Mei stepped back with an exaggerated sigh, her eyes glinting. Sayuri dried her hands on her apron, biting down the retort burning on her tongue. She turned to the long wooden counter, where porcelain cups and lacquered trays had already been set out. Wealth dripped from every surface--the gold-inlaid dishes, the polished silver teapots, the silk napkins folded into pretty shapes.
She reached for a tray, carefully arranging cups in a neat row before moving on to the refreshments. A plate of rice cakes, dusted with fine sugar and pressed into delicate flower designs, sat beside an assortment of sweet bean pastries, their glossy surfaces catching the light. Sayuri picked one up, the texture soft beneath her fingertips.
Her stomach twisted--not with hunger. Her finger brushed over the dough, and for a moment, she could almost feel her sister's hands kneading beside her in their tiny kitchen, flour streaking her wrists. Their meals had never been extravagant, but they'd made the best of what little they had. Simple broths, rice with pickled vegetables, sweet buns when luck allowed. She could still see Makoto sitting cross-legged on the floor, humming softly as she rolled out dumpling wrappers, the fire's warmth painting her cheeks in flickering gold.
Sayuri swallowed against the tightness in her throat and slipped two pastries into the folds of her sleeve, careful not to disturb the balance of the tray. They would not be missed--not when hundreds more were replenished daily by dozens of hands. She reached for the teapot, the floral scent of steeped jasmine unfurling into the air as she set it beside the cups. As she worked, voices drifted from the other end of the kitchen.
"Did you hear?" a young girl murmured, excitement threading through her lowered voice--just quiet enough to make the others lean in. "Lord Dorei has returned!"
Sayuri's fingers hesitated on the teapot's handle.
A woman with a spotted chin let out a breathy sigh. "Finally. You'd think he was off conquering an entire kingdom with how long he's been away."
Laughter rippled through the group.
"He probably was. They say no one wields a sword like him," the first girl said.
"I'd rather see him wield something else," one of the women with unruly curls giggled, drawing out playful shrieks and frantic shushes.
"Shame we never get to see him up close," another lamented. "I hear the women in court fight for his attention like starving dogs."
"With a face like that? Who wouldn't?"
Sayuri rolled her eyes and lifted the tray into her hands. She'd heard it all before. It was every servant girl's dream to catch a nobleman's attention, to snare a soldier's gaze before they were cast aside as old maids. Foolish fantasies, all of them.
While the other girls fawned over Lord Dorei, Sayuri's thoughts drifted elsewhere. The nobleman who held her interest had nothing to do with desire or status. Only unfinished business.
She wove through the kitchens, careful not to jostle the porcelain stacked atop the tray. Slipping past a group of servants huddled near the hearth, their laughter muffled beneath the crackling fire, she ducked under a low-hanging bundle of drying herbs strung from the rafters.
The moment she stepped beyond the kitchen's threshold, the world changed.
The halls stretched wide, their polished stone floors reflecting the soft glow of lanterns mounted along curved wooden beams. Distant music floated through the corridors--soft strings and lilting flutes--the sound of court life carrying on, untouched by the labor concealed behind closed doors.
Sayuri adjusted her grip on the tray and quickened her pace. She should have turned left toward the main corridor where the reception hall lay beyond the painted screens. Instead, she veered right.
The path was quieter here, away from the perfumed air and polished décor, winding toward the outer corridors--toward a world to which she no longer belonged. She stepped into the shaded alcove, where a secondary entrance led to the barracks.
Outside the door, a floppy-haired guard lounged against the wooden railing, one boot propped on the step, the other planted firmly on the ground--Hiro.
He had the sturdy build of a man who enjoyed his meals as much as his work, though tonight, his usual uniform was absent, replaced by loose trousers and a plain tunic that stretched too tightly at his stomach.
"Ah, my favorite kitchen thief," he said, his eyes twinkling. "What did you bring me this time? Don't tell me it's another one of those dry biscuits."
Sayuri frowned. "I caught you off duty?"
