Amaya was gone.

The only young woman he’d ever loved—ever shared anything of meaning with—had perished in a blaze before his eyes, while he’d stood by and watched, unscathed.

Ever the hero. Ever the villain.

Hattori Kenshin—the Dragon of Kai—had failed Muramasa Amaya in every imaginable way. When he’d been given the chance to stand tall, he denied his feelings for her. Then he indulged them in secret to their mutual detriment, when he’d known their dreams for a shared life could amount to nothing. They’d been caught together on an early spring morning. Even now, he remembered it so clearly. Kenshin thought to bring Amaya the first signs of life he found just beyond his family’s land—a handful of tiny white blossoms. In return, she cooked fukinoto for him—the first plant to push through the frost and reach for the sun.

Even apart, they’d shared the same thought. The same wish for each other.

He still remembered how the strange little vegetable tasted on his tongue. Bitter, yet full of life and promise.

After discovering them together, Kenshin’s mother had quietly demanded that her son stop seeing Amaya. Though the girl was the daughter of a famed artisan, she did not possess the dowry or status the Hattori clan required to wed their only son and advance their position. At least his mother had shown some regret for her son’s resulting pain, though she was quick to silence any desire to coddle it. His father had been … even less kind about the matter, though he didn’t order his son to stop seeing the daughter of his renowned sword maker, Muramasa Sengo.

Interestingly, it was his father’s attitude that finally drove Kenshin to put an end to his relationship with Amaya. Even now—while he lounged in the most expensive teahouse in Inako, filled to the brink with its finest sake—Kenshin felt his father’s words sear through his mind with the freshness of dried kindling.

Dally with her, if you wish. But promise her nothing. There are ways to get what you want from young women, without being burdened by the weight of expectation. If you do this well, you may even be allowed to continue seeing her once we secure an advantageous union for you. I have done much for Muramasa Sengo and his daughter. We’ve given them a home here, a place for him to further hone his craft in comfort. Sengo-sama will turn a blind eye if we wish him to do so. Of that I have no doubt.

The horror Kenshin had felt at his father’s callous disregard for Amaya’s future was all the motivation he’d needed to cease things with her. He cared for Amaya too much to allow any man—even his own father—to look upon her with such disdain. And Kenshin loved her too much to even hint at the idea that she could be his mistress.

Amaya was worth so much more than that.

Kenshin put out his hand for another measure of sake. The warm liquid no longer burned his throat. His limbs were heavy, though he felt more unburdened with every sip he took. As though nothing of import remained. As though he owed no one allegiance or expectation. The idea itself was so freeing. Even if it was only for this night, he needed a drop of hope amid a sea of joylessness.

He tried to paste a smile to his face. Thought to see if it was possible at all. The expression felt foreign to him in a way he’d never known. After all, such a gesture was meant to be offered without consideration. But pain gave the simplest actions meaning. What had been effortless was now more difficult than it had ever been before. This morning, it had taken far more strength than was permissible for Kenshin to rouse himself from his sleeping pallet. In a fit of rage, he’d smashed an oil lantern against the silk screens of the sliding doors near his chamber. The oil had dripped down the silk, forming an eerily beautiful pattern on the wall, like the branches of broken tree, trying to take root.

Beauty from ruin.

He cursed Amaya for being who she was. For taking his reason to hope away in one simple, selfless action. Kenshin inhaled deeply, letting his eyes return to the ceiling of the teahouse. Even the wooden rafters were etched with rows of intricate carvings. When he looked closer, he realized each timber told its own story. He followed one until he caught sight of a row of carved cranes soaring from one rafter to the next.

A story that ended in death. Golden cranes were meant to depict the flight of departing souls. Kenshin imagined that the crane bearing Amaya’s soul blazed the path of flight for those in its wake.

Even when he shifted his gaze beyond his reality—tried to forget—Kenshin was unable to escape the cold truth of her absence.

He was alone. Utterly.

The noise around him died down in a sudden hush, but Kenshin kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, allowing the sensation of the silk against his skin to steady his thoughts. Softly strummed shamisen music flowed from the far corner, its timbre poignant, its melody sad. A murmur of male approval began to take shape.

Kenshin let his gaze drift down from the ceiling. His vision spun for a moment before locking on the figure of a new geiko posed near the entrance, in preparation for a dance. Her face was half covered by a lacquered fan, but her eyes caught his attention. Large and perfectly bright, their centers glinted with mischievousness before sloping down at their edges. Kenshin locked eyes with her, and he saw a flash of something in their dark grey depths, there one second and gone the next. As though they’d borne witness to their own share of pain. Even if Kenshin saw nothing but her eyes, he would find the girl arresting. He did not even care to look elsewhere, so entranced was he by the story buried in their shining depths.

She held his attention with nothing else. Rapt, as though he’d been ensorcelled.

The geiko moved her fan in a graceful arc and turned in a single smooth circle. The back of her neck was long and pale, carved from smoothest alabaster. The faint luster of crushed pearls gleamed on her skin in the light emanating from the lanterns above.

Kenshin sat up, awareness flashing over him, making him feel all too alive. Alive in a way he had not felt for long days and endless nights.

The geiko lowered her chin and glanced over one shoulder, a half smile wending up her face. The sort of smile Kenshin knew to be false.

For a true smile did not involve thought or effort.

Nevertheless he found himself leaning forward. Bending toward her like a willow caught in the wind. The geiko anchored her eyes on him as she began her dance.

Even if she behaved in a similar fashion with every man in the room, Kenshin did not care.

He had to know her. Had to speak with her. Had to learn if her sadness mirrored his own.

The geiko whirled one fan around her right index finger and fluttered the fan in her left hand through the air as though it were buoyed upon gently rolling waves.

Kenshin knew better than to allow himself to be mesmerized by a young woman who specialized in such things. For most of her life, he was certain she’d practiced the art of the dance until her fingers blistered and her ankles swelled. She undoubtedly knew poetry, knew how to sing like a songbird, knew how to laugh with a mind to beguile, and knew how to smile until a man would give anything to know her secrets.

And yet that glimpse of pain Kenshin had seen in her downturned eyes. The story in the simplest of her movements.

It was as though no one else existed at all.

He closed his eyes. A memory of Amaya flitted through his mind, burning through his vision. Her earnestness. Her love. Her trust.

Kenshin cursed her once more. She’d left him alone. Ashamed.

Angry.

He opened his eyes, and the geiko smiled at him as she finished her dance. She swept the train of her luminous kimono behind her with a delicate motion, allowing him to catch sight of her small feet, encased in the white silk of her tabi. Then she shuffled his way, ignoring all else around her.

She bowed low, the dainty ornaments in her hair tinkling and flashing together like magic. With a stern look at the young woman still waiting by his side, the geiko exchanged places with his former attendant in a flurry of flying silk. Kenshin breathed deep as she leaned his way.

Orchids and honey. Escape and abandon.

“May I serve you, my lord?” she said softly.

There are ways to get what you want from young women, without being burdened by the weight of expectation.

His father’s words echoing in his ears, Kenshin nodded, his mouth dry. “I am”—he cleared his throat—“Hattori Ken—”