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Side Story #19: Masashi's Flowers
🕑 Added 2020-02-07 17:18:50 +0000 UTC<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>
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Side Story 19: Masashi’s Flowers
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■■ The Academy ■■
Masashi clenched his teeth and furrowed his brow as he struggled to diagnose what was wrong with Hitomi’s potted plant. It was a beautiful, blooming wisteria—or at least it had been: its brilliant shade of purple had turned dull and many of its petals were wilting. It appeared to be diseased and dying, which wasn’t a good look at the bedside of his injured classmate.
“It’s okay, Masashi-kun. It’s dying,” Hitomi said. The girl was an itako—a blind seer—and the fact she could tell the health of a flower without seeing or touching it was a testament to her skill at floristry. She was, after all, the sole and founding member of the Flower Arrangement Club.
“Fumihiro-kun overwatered it last night,” she explained, “though I don’t blame him for it. Not everyone can hear the voice of flowers.”
“The voice of flowers?” Masashi asked. He had never heard of such a thing before and was understandably puzzled. That uncertainty only grew as Hitomi raised up her bandaged hand and asked the young shugenja to grasp it. When he did, Hitomi pressed her index finger upon Masashi’s wrist to feel the pulse inside. It was beating quickly.
“Humans are not the only forms of life with hearts that beat and lungs that breathe. Plants do, too, but they’re much quieter. It takes time and patience...but if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear it. And it is a beautiful song.”
Masashi listened intently in the silence that followed, his left ear no more than an inch away from the wisteria. Though no matter how much he strained and wiggled his ears, he couldn’t hear the music. He left out a sigh and apologized.
“There’s no need to apologize, Masashi-kun,” the itako said with a smile. Though she was out of her shrine maiden outfit and covered in bandages, she looked as elegant as ever in Masashi’s eyes. To be possessed by some foul spirit, to have your body contorted and broken, to be granted the gift of sight only to have it stolen from you again...Hitomi had been through a lot. Yet she remained as graceful as ever—and more concerned about her flowers than herself.
“Please take this wisteria back to the clubroom where there’s shade. And if you would be so kind, please remove the dead and dying leaves. This one still has a chance to heal, I think,” Hitomi said before her voice lowered. “Like me.”
Masashi nodded before realizing that the gesture alone wasn’t enough. “I won’t let you down, Hitomi-san! I promise!”
With the wilting flower in his hands, Masashi headed over to the other side of the Academy where the clubrooms were. He didn’t get very far, though, as waiting for him outside the medical ward was Hikiko—the sullen, ghostly girl who had black hair down to her waist and oversized kimono robes to match.
Masashi made the mistake of asking if she was here to visit Hitomi.
“Her? No. Of course not!” Hikiko crossed her arms and looked away. She denied it though not with her usual, indifferent monotone. Masashi didn’t know what the relationship between the two of them were, and—perhaps selfishly—he wasn’t concerned so long as he could remain friends with both.
In any case, Hikiko agreed to accompany him to the clubroom to save the wisteria. They found the room with the door open and the sound of shouting from inside. The person yelling had a distinct and familiar way of speaking.
“Forswear thy warrantless claims, you brigands, and perchance the spirits shall forgive you of your trespass! Leave this place of refuge or risk being undone!”
Masashi rushed in with Hikiko close behind. Fumihiro—the passionate Kendo Club captain and ardent admirer of Hitomi—was up against six other students from various years and classes. Some held fine porcelain tea sets while others carried sacks filled with tea leaves.
“We,” said the leader among them, a young man that was only Masashi’s height but many times his weight, “are the Tea Ceremony Club. Or we will be, rather, once we take possession of this unused clubroom. For too long has it been wasted on a single student! Why does Hitomi get special treatment when—”
“You shall address the pearly-eyed maiden as Hitomi-sama, you vile, pot-bellied devil!” yelled Fumihiro, brandishing his bamboo practice sword. Defending his maiden’s sacred garden was reason enough to fight, but what the rival club captain said next made him go berserk.
“At least my family can afford to pay this semester’s dues, you stick-wielding thug! House Morita is all the same. You want to know the stories I’ve heard of your sister, Fumihiro? Like how she was sold to the yakuza?!”
“DAMN YOU!”
The Kendo captain charged forward with his weapon raised overhead. Fury was in his eyes and vengeance was in his heart. Masashi didn’t know the young man had a sister—but he did know that if he attacked a fellow student he’d get expelled!
Unable to bear the idea of losing a friend, Masashi jumped forward in Fumihiro’s warpath on instinct, closing his eyes and bracing for impact. While he didn’t want to get hurt, he preferred physical pain to the alternative.
“Ahh!” Masashi yelled as he was knocked aside. He rolled twice before a stack of ceramic pots halted him. His shoulder hurt and his head ached but nothing was broken. His vision regained focus just in time to see Hikiko slap Fumihiro across the face.
When the young shugenja rose to his feet to demonstrate that he was unharmed, he did so too quickly and stumbled. Luckily, one of the tea ceremony members caught him. They weren’t all bad, Masashi realized, even if they were on the opposing team.
And like any sport, there needed to be a referee. In this case it was none other than the Headmaster himself, poking his head into the room and asking what the source of the commotion was. When everyone tried explaining all at once, he raised his voice and threatened detention.
“Of all the groups I’ve checked on today, this one is the last I would expect of such misconduct! Hashimoto-san,” he said, gesturing to Masashi, “is that a bruise on your forehead? Has there been an altercation?!”
“N-not at all, Headmaster!” Masashi said with a forced laugh. “As for the ruckus...there’s been a misunderstanding. These students wish for the clubroom to be theirs when it belongs to the Flower Appreciation Club.”
The tea enthusiasts were quick to argue their case, while Hikiko spoke up in a rare display of defense on Hitomi’s account. Someone had to, as Fumihiro was beset with grief. The somber shugenja didn’t mince words: “Hitomi is recovering. Will return soon. Leave the way you came, tea drinkers.”
“Ahem,” the Headmaster coughed, “there are nine clubs offered at our prestigious Academy, only three of which may pertain to the ‘art of refinement’. Currently, they are the Calligraphy, Incense Appreciation, and Flower Arrangement Clubs. If there is a sufficient lack of activity in one, that club may be dissolved and another may take its place.”
“Headmaster-dono,” Fumihiro said, bowing low, “we shall do whatever activities are required of us in the absence of Hitomi-chan. I alone volunteer to plant a hundred daisies—no, a thousand!”
The tea club leader scowled. “None of them are even proper members of the Flower Arrangement Club, Headmaster! They know nothing of art—and are anything but refined!”
Hikiko, Fumihiro and even Masashi scowled in response, all determined to show just how refined they were. Thankfully, the Headmaster was the resourceful sort and had an idea in mind. He proposed a competition for the three of them, to test their flower arranging mettle.
“If you three can impress the Academy’s upcoming guests with a flower display, I’ll allow you to keep the clubroom. Otherwise, the club will be disbanded and the Tea Ceremony Club shall take its place.”
Masashi and Fumihiro jumped in excitement, while Hikiko looked mildly amused. Their joy quickly faded, however, as the Headmaster went on to explain just who these guests were.
“They’re a group of poets from the Imperial Court. Some of the most profound writers of our age. Needless to say, they’ll be a very difficult group to impress!”
■■■■
After the Headmaster and the tea enthusiasts left, the trio put their heads together to come up with a plan. Each had decided to take on a separate task: for Hikiko, she would take inventory of all the flowers Hitomi had in stock. Fumihiro would research the upcoming guests, using his self-proclaimed poetic mastery to plan out suitable flower arrangements.
Masashi’s job was to find which route around the campus the tour would take and to narrow down the best locations for the displays. In truth, he was worried: he had never had to decorate before. For holidays, feasts and birthdays, his family had a legion of servants that did all that for him. On those days, he would always wake up to a wondrous display of carnations and roses, and yet...
“...I took them all for granted,” he thought to himself. “Maybe the tea ceremony leader was right. I don’t know anything about art or refinement. If only I ha—uAH?!”
This would make for the second collision of the day. Though it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the first, this one had come at him while he was deep in thought. Minding his manners, he got up, bowed and apologized even before seeing who it was he bumped into.
“Oh, but it is I who ought to be bowing!” said a man in a high-pitched falsetto. Odder than his voice was his outfit: he wore patchwork kimono of various colors—all of them gaudy—along with a wrinkled, orange scarf that reminded Masashi of a dried apricot. Combined with a purple bandana over his head, little of his face could be seen apart from his pair of narrow, shifty eyes.
“That look on your face tells me that I am unlike any shugenja you’ve seen,” he said as he flourished his hands. “Perhaps it’s because I am no magician at all! My name is Ba—ah, actually, let us do away with the concept of names entirely. I’m a traveling poet, you see, and I am awfully sorry to have disrupted your thoughts with my physical presence!”
It took Masashi a moment to make sense of the man—what with his grandiose gestures and manner of speaking—but when he did, he smiled. “Oh! You must be with the poets from the Capital who are here to tour the school. Welcome to the Academy!”
Masashi bowed once again, out of respect though also to hide his grimace. He thought they would have more time to set up the flowers!
“Thank you, thank you...but please don’t group me with that lot. They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon; they’re currently resting in the village down the mountain. We were blindfolded on our journey here...quite the mystery, this Academy.”
“The secrecy is for everyone’s protection. Untrained shugena are dangerous to be around,” Masashi said, reciting what he had been told and recalling the year of isolation he had suffered when his powers first developed. “If I may ask, what is the reason for this visit?”
The poet looked around in an exaggerated gesture to make sure no one was within earshot. He looked as suspicious as humanly possible. “Well, the long and short of it is that we’ve been hired as propagandists, to glorify the Academy and the Emperor’s army of shugenja here. Someone has to justify all those taxes, after all! Though I consider it demeaning...it pays well.
“And the chance to visit this elusive school was not one I intended to miss! What secrets lie within these halls, I wonder?”
“Secrets?” Masashi asked, though he wouldn’t get an answer. The poet left with a smile that seemed to stretch from ear-to-ear. He looked untrustworthy, but Masashi knew it wasn’t fair to judge people based on appearances. His only regret was not asking about the poet’s favorite flower before he left.
And though the poet was gone, his words lingered in Masashi’s mind as he continued on his task. “Propaganda...does he mean they’re being paid to lie? And an army of shugenja...I never thought of us like that.”
He had been under the impression that everyone loved shugenja and the magic they brought into Hyuga, but maybe that wasn’t the case. “And he spoke of secrets, too...is there more to the Academy than I know?”
For the moment, it didn’t matter—the bell for the evening classes rang. This class was the last one of both the day and the week. With the weekend to look forward to, this period was typically reserved for testing and today was no exception. The exam was on chakras: the seven focal points in the body in which spiritual energy is made and experienced.
Masashi gulped as he took his seat at the front of the class. He was worried: he hadn’t dedicated the usual ten hours to study for it. Given the recent events with Hitomi, he had only managed four. There was an non-insignificant chance that he might not get a perfect score.
That chance and his fears, however, dwindled after the shugenja turned over his paper and inked his quill.
“Because the average score from the last evaluation was so poor—save for a single outlier,” the teacher said, referring to Masashi, “I have decided to make this one multiple choice: simply circle the correct answer from the lists provided. As a personal benefit, I’ll no longer have to spend hours deciphering what some of you call handwriting. Begin!”
Masashi nodded and listened diligently to the instructions provided. He had never heard of a multiple choice test before, but was determined to get all the answers correct just as he had in every examination, quiz, project and report thus far.
“Let’s see here...the shape of the anahata chakra is a lotus of how many petals: four, six, ten or twelve? Obviously it’s twelve—everyone knows that!”
Masashi moved on to the next question, which was just as easy, then the fourth and the fifth up until the forty-ninth where he noticed a spelling error in one of the principal meridians regarding the pericardium—which was, of course, the protective sac around the heart. He thought about raising his hand and asking for a clarification from the teacher, but he didn’t want to disrupt the other students still hard at work.
And they were certainly working hard. The room was filled with equal amounts of grunts and groans, the clenching of foreheads and sweating of brows. “Is this test really that difficult?” Masashi asked himself. “I think it’s the easiest we’ve had yet!”
When the young shugenja turned in his paper, he got a look of surprise from his teacher and glares of resentment from most of his classmates. He quietly bowed and left the room with over an hour left to spare. Usually he waited longer before turning his test in, so as not to stand out so much, but this evening he had work to do.
He had to focus on flowers even though his mind was elsewhere: this time it was on a black swan. Not a real one but a spiritual one: the one that had spoken to him while he and Hitomi were in the spirit world. Though much of Masashi’s memory of that ‘date’ between the two of them was foggy and unclear, the swan’s voice remained as clear as crystal.
“Study well and learn quickly, Hashimoto-san. For you do not have the luxury of time.”
As Masashi paced down the empty classroom hallways, he couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t moving fast enough. Not physically, but mentally. There was so much still to learn, and yet at the pace his class was going, it would take years for him to gain mastery over his spiritual powers.
“I want to learn more...and I want to see you again, Pan-kun.”
Maybe it was the summer’s heat or something else entirely, but Masashi felt the corridors start to blur and darken. He had lost track of where he was—a feeling he hadn’t felt since his first week at school. He could’ve sworn the mess hall was up ahead, yet he was met with additional hallways instead.
There were smaller, likely used for staff and maintenance workers. He was about to turn around and go back the way he came when he spotted a bright red light from the corner of his eye.
It was shining off the fur of a tiny fox—no, a red panda!
“Pan-kun?!” Masashi yelled and scared the critter, who hurried off down one of the smaller hallways. The young shugenja gave chase, going down a windy corridor and then a set of stairs, desperate to find the embodiment of his spiritual self. “Please don’t run away, Pan-kun! I didn’t mean to scare you!”
His prayer was answered when the red panda found itself at a deadend. Masashi slowed his approach and tried to be as gentle and non-frightening as possible, yet the animal was determined to escape. It had wedged itself against a corner and looked to be scratching at the wall.
Though it turned out that the wall was actually a door—one the red panda nudged open and ran through. This sliding door was not only the size of the entire wall but carefully designed to look like one, too. Masashi didn’t have time to appreciate how strange it was as he was determined to give chase.
At least until he heard an odd noise and loud cry from within. He held his breath and waited, his feet frozen in fear and his hands clutching a talisman. Unfortunately, the only spell he had on him was for freshening undergarments—which may still prove useful, given the frightening situation.
“I have to move forward...for Pan-kun’s sake!”
Masashi braced his courage and slid open the shoji door, which made far too much noise for his liking. He had expected the hallway to be dark within, but instead it was well-lit by torches on the wall. Each was wrapped in talismans. It didn’t take more than a quick inspection for the shugena’s jaw to drop in amazement.
“This is permanency magic! Just to create a single, perpetual flame is highly advanced and requires an immense amount of energy and time to create. And there’s dozens of them here?!”
After recovering from his awe, he continued his pursuit for Pan-kun. Neither it nor the source of the sound was anywhere to be found. There were clues, however: while the hallway continued on a ways to some exit elsewhere, at the center of it was a door frame unlike any the shugena had seen.
For starters, it was thick and sturdy, made of some kind of metal—like iron or steel. But secondly and more strangely, the door within it was completely covered in talismans, criss-crossing one another like intricate wrapping paper.
The hairs on Masashi’s neck stood on end as he felt a surge of dread that prevented him from reading what the talismans said. He didn’t need to in order to know that he wasn’t supposed to be there. So he took a step back and took his third fall to the floor.
It wasn’t that he was clumsy; there was an orange scarf sprawled out on the floor. Masashi picked it and then immediately dropped it. He was shocked—quite literally—by the static it held within.
“This belongs to that poet I met earlier. And as for whatever is behind this door...it’s not a place I should be!” Masashi said to himself, picking up the garment and running off the way he came.
Some secrets were better left unknown.
■■■■
“That scarf. Interesting fashion statement,” Hikiko said in her usual montone as Masashi took a seat across from her in the mess hall.
The younger shugena explained that it wasn’t his and went over his encounter with the odd poet from before. He purposely neglected to mention anything about Pan-kun or the strange door, however.
Somewhere during his story Fumihiro must’ve arrived, because he nearly choked on his tea from surprise. “You’ve already met one of them?! Which poet, pray tell? Nozawa-sama? Or Kyorai-san? Perhaps Takarai, also known as Enomoto-dono?”
“Sorry, but he didn’t give me his name,” Masashi said with a sigh. “He mentioned something about them coming here to write poems praising the school and us shugenja...but he didn’t seem very excited about it.”
Fumihiro waved it off. “Poets are nature’s most sensitive creation. One cannot coerce art by squeezing it from the minds of such men—‘twould be folly! On that note, I have amassed a collection of verses from each of tomorrow’s visitors. Our floral arrangements shall henceforth illustrate the following poems…”
The would-be warrior-poet then pulled out a parchment and recited a series of poems with enough passion and fervor to draw the attention of the nearby tables and cause both Hikiko and Masashi to grow red with embarrassment.
“Enough!” Hikiko shouted as she snatched the paper away and crumbled it into a ball. She then proceeded to go over the inventory of what the Flower Arrangement Club had. All three of them began to discuss how best to spread flowers around the school.
During their discussion, they were approached by the Incense Appreciation Club—who they could smell coming from a mile away. Today’s incense must’ve been cedar because they smelled like pine cones.
“We’re here to help,” they said. Apparently the storage room between the flower arrangement and incense appreciation clubrooms was shared—and they didn’t want tea leaves to tarnish their aromas. They were an unlikely ally, and hardly the last.
■■■■
“Ah, hold still just a moment longer, Kajinosuke-senpai.”
Masashi was adjusting a display of chrysanthemums above the door frame to the Sumo Club. He was standing on the shoulders of one of its members: a well fed wrestler who particularly favored the white-and-purple flower.
“Hai, hai! Take your time up there! And thanks again for bringing a bit of beauty to this place, Masashi-kohai! This will really help liven up the arena!”
When Masashi was finished and safely down, he inspected the rest of the hallway. It was filled with flowers of all varieties and students that were just as varied. Once the Incense Appreciation Club got started, members from other clubs joined in. Some did it out of respect for Hitomi, others out of fear for Hikiko, and still more that did it to shut Fumihiro up from spouting more poetry.
Most, however, just wanted to make their school a more beautiful place to live. For all of the Academy’s accommodations, it was rather dull and uniform. The rooms were laid out in a symmetric pattern, everyone’s quarters were furnished the same way, and—as many students would attest—the meal selection was few and far between.
Flowers, on the other hand, had a personality all to their own. They were unique: no two were quite the same. Even amid the same species, some were tall and quiet while others were short and loud. Each was in a differing stage of growth and health, with different petal hues and stem leaves. Masashi was beginning to see their expressions and how each one had something to give.
“They’re not so different from people, are they?”
“Masashi-kun? Did you say something?” asked Hikiko, who was carrying a bundle of red tulips. They so contrasted the older girl’s pale face and black wardrobe that it made for a captivating look.
Masashi shook his head and smiled. “It’s nothing. I’m just happy everyone is working together. I can’t wait to see the look on the poets’ faces when they come by here tomorrow!”
■■■■
It was late by the time everyone got finished furnishing the campus with flowers, so no one could fault Masashi for sleeping in a little. Though he was exhausted, he didn’t sleep well—memories of that door and the strange poet continued to toss and turn in his mind. The black swan, too, repeated its words over and over again.
But his most frequent visions were of the red panda, Pan-kun, who he had seen with his own eyes in this world, not just the spiritual one. He still hadn’t mentioned it to Hikiko or Fumihiro and wondered if he ever would. “They’ll call me crazy...and they probably won’t want to be friends with me anymore, either!”
*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*
Masashi was roused from his futon from a series of heavy knocks against his door. Though it was customary to announce yourself before entering, no such procedures were followed as Fumihiro burst in and fell to his knees. He hadn’t fallen on his own accord or out of respect—Hikiko had tripped him.
The Kendo Club captain was close to tears while Hikiko’s usually solemn face was filled with fear. Something had gone horribly wrong.
“Goats! Blasted beasts of burden, accursed creatures! How I rue the day when the gods doth made the serow—horned and hairy devils that hath no right tromping upon this sacred ground!”
Hikiko pulled him up by the ear. “What this fool is trying to say...is that a pack of goats were let into the school early this morning. They...the flowers…”
Masashi didn’t wait for Hikiko to finish or to even put on his sandals as he ran outside his room and into the dormitory’s main hall. His heart skipped a beat when he got there; air gasped out from his lips as all hope escaped him.
“They’re...ruined.”
Though the young shugenja had never been to a battlefield, he imagined it would look as horrific as this. Broken, half-eaten stems littered the floor while the few petals that could be seen were flattened and stomped upon. Leaves were scattered and ravaged with bite marks. The once fragrant aroma of roses and jasmines was covered, coated over with the stench of goat feces.
“This is bad,” said Hikiko from beside him. “This was our chance to impress the poets. Who is going to tell Hitomi that the Flower Arrangement Club is finished?”
“Son of Hashimoto,” said Fumihiro from the other side. “Though I would accept this duty gladly, to watch the pearly-eyed maiden cry would rip my heart to shreds like so many roses. I must forever remain the stalway warrior in her mind, and thus...I must insist thee speak to her in my place.”
Masashi sniffled and blinked away the water swelling in his eyes and nodded. He had failed Hitomi, and it was time to take responsibility.
“I wanted to make you as happy as you were in the spirit world. But now you’ll...you’ll wish you never came back, Hitomi-chan!”
■■■■
Masashi trudged into the medical ward as if he was fresh from a funeral. He was downcast, downtrodden, and downright depressed. If there was any benefit to Hitomi being blind it was that she wouldn’t have to see the shugenja’s bloodshot eyes and runny nose. If Masashi could keep his voice level, he might be able to dampen the blow.
“Fufufu! How humorous! Oh, but how did the monks not pay notice?”
In contrast to Masashi’s dreariness, Hitomi was laughing and upbeat. She wasn’t alone, either—sitting at her bedside was none other than the poet Masashi had bumped into before. He was missing his scarf but was wearing a cowl instead, like a warrior monk. He wielded no weapons aside from his sharp tongue.
“Hm? Why if it isn’t my hallway companion. You must be the Masashi this one speaks so fondly about,” the poet said with a grin. “Is there something the matter? You look as if you just came from a funeral!”
Hitomi’s giggles ended as a look of grave concern filled the blind girl’s face instead. “What’s wrong, Masashi-kun?”
Masashi didn’t know many curse words but was tempted to use some all the same. His attempt at hiding his feelings was foiled thanks to the poet’s presence. But without much choice and being unable to delay it any longer, he told Hitomi the truth.
“Y-your flowers...they’re…” Masashi gulped and mumbled, explaining the events as they unfolded while holding back a sob. Hitomi kept her expression blank and unreadable as she listened intently. When Masashi was finished, the one and only member of the Flower Appreciation Club spoke.
“So that was the source of the commotion last night and this morning. I am sorry that my club has inconvenienced you, Hikiko-san and Fumihiro-kun. Especially when...I had already made plans to disband it.”
Masashi staggered and gasped, then tried to give a retort but was too choked up on his words to do so. Hitomi proceeded to recite a phrase held deep within her heart:
“But wherever in the world, there is no place flowers cannot be arranged. Those are my mother’s words. Though blind as I am, she taught me that beauty and grace can be felt in all things. I do not need a clubroom to enjoy Kadō: the way of flowers.”
Her words were spoken weakly—in her current state of health—yet were so profound that they warranted a long silence afterwards. Hitomi was a few years older than Masashi but, at this moment, she seemed decades more mature. She had made peace...even if that meant losing the beautiful garden where she spent her afternoons.
“Your words are very touching, even to this jaded, old soul,” said the poet. His eyes then narrowed into slits and a mischievous look fell upon what little of his face was visible. “I happen to know my poetic comrades better than they know themselves. They have become numb in their years at the Imperial Court, with their colorful silk and luscious fragrances. Numb to beauty...at least in the traditional sense.”
“What are you suggesting, then?” Masashi asked.
“In a word? Contrast. In several more, dear shugena, I am suggesting we put the phrase ‘diamond in the rough’ to practice.”
Masashi cupped his chin and nodded. The poet had given him an idea—but not everyone was going to like it. Especially a certain someone.
■■■■
“How much longer...do I have to fake this smile...and hold these dandelions?!”
Hikiko grumbled as she walked beside Masashi and pretended not to notice the group of stalkers admiring her. Those stalkers happened to be the poets from the Capital, and those dandelions were weeds freshly picked from the Academy’s backyard.
It was all they had, yet in the hands of the gloomy girl the dull flowers seemed to blossom a brilliant gold that made these men act like bears to honey. The contrast was, as they put it, “art unfolding into itself” and “like everything and nothing at the same time”. Masashi didn’t understand what they were going on about but he didn’t need to.
“You’re doing great! Just a little bit longer,” he said with a smile. “Oh...excuse me, Hikiko-san.”
Masashi parted with his friend to leave the solemn girl alone to drag the poets around the Academy grounds. Everything was going well, and he reported as much to the friendly-yet-mischievous poet under the shade of a veranda.
“Of that I’m glad,” he replied with a grin. “Hitomi-chan is a wonderfully kind girl, and the art of flowers is one I hope blossoms in this era. That is...if the Emperor doesn’t decide to enlist you all in another war.”
The poet then let out an exaggerated sigh. Masashi recalled what he was holding—and returned it back to its owner. “Here’s your scarf...um, I never caught your name.”
“My name? Why, that’s a secret. Just like whatever is behind that door, Masashi Hashimoto.”
