Emiko Jean

Mari’s hands trembled. Mere hours ago, she had faced an imperial samurai in a game of death. The navy kimono she wore was still specked with dust from their combat. And now, she hesitated with what to say, how to comfort Hissa. Sometimes words are so much more difficult to form than fists.

Funny how love can drive you to hate.

Between knocks, Tami imparted wisdom. “Through pain you will achieve greatness.” Strike. “Through suffering you will gain honor.” Strike. “Through sacrifice you will rise.” Strike.

“Whatever he thinks about me, whatever you think about my people, you are both wrong.” She remembered Hissa’s words. We are monsters. The words of her mother. It is the only way I could keep you. “Not everyone is all good or all bad. It is a mistake to think so.”

A man too full of himself is empty inside.

Do not lead with your heart, her mother had said. Lead with your head.

Tami had dusted the girls with perfumes and powders and imparted advice: Men like the smell of self-worth, confidence. You must know your mind and speak it, but not too often. Men fear intelligent women. It means they are capable of anything. You must laugh, but not be funny. You must be spirited, but not strong . . .

I want to be different. And I think I could be, with you by my side. You make me want to be . . . better.”

She pursed her lips before answering. “You should want to be better for yourself, not for someone else.”

She was thirty-five. A third of her life was over. She was supposed to have done something by now. What corner had she painted herself into?

God, she remembered always watching the clock, unable to wait for her real life to begin.