Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)

Chapter Twenty Eight

It is nightfall and after excruciatingly long hours of laundering garment and training with persistence and dusting floors and yes, scrubbing the libraries on all fours, I now sit myself by the kitchen counter chuckling heartily at a thing spoken by Karai whilst I munch on a pear.

The lass works fluidly, stirs some thick heavy gravy in a pot, brings the wooden spoon to her palm, taps and licks on the gravy to taste for the saltiness. She brings the lid to the pot of bubbling stew, covers the utensil and turns to look upon me.

"Obal, may I ask for a favor?"
"Of course. Anything," is my simple reply to her gentle query.
"I am cramping because of my...Anyway, could you take dinner up to the master's chamber?"

By the heavens, no! Never have I been up in the man's chamber and I pray that I am able to avoid the lad where possible.
"I thought he'd taken his leave to grace knows where?"
"He has returned. He arrived only minutes ago."
"Can he not bring himself to the dining arena?"

She folds her arms beneath her bossom in irritability, tilting head to stare me dead in the eye.
"He is not in the capacity to do so, Obal."
"Karai, can't we find another maiden to help you with this?"

Her facial features morph, she doubles over as a low groan resonates from her throat, her fingers harshly gripping on her kimono -directly against her lower abdomen. I hop of the counter without skipping a beat, drag a stool against the marble grounds, assist her to take a seat.

Looking down upon her state of agony, I cannot help but sympathize. Period cramps can be a real bitch.
"Fine, Karai. I'll do as you ask."
She spares me a few seconds worth a glance, smiles such a pure smile up at me and I simply reciprocate the gesture.

I stir the gravy keenly as per instruction, check for the salt before I proceed to dish the thick stew into a hotpot. I work with dextrous fingers, serving foods and light stews onto china bowls and porcelain cups and resting each by the tray.

In a matter of long minutes, I am begrudgingly mounting spiral fleets of steps and matching down numerous corridors, proceeding even further up another round of neverending stairs.
I come up to my destination but halt dead in hesitation.

Sweet, soothing harmonies fleet from beyond the barriers that are the doors, glorious melodies of the violin, ones that have my mouth momentarily hanging agape and the exposed flesh of my body lacing in a trail of goosebumps.

I drag in one long whiff of air, exhale the frustrations then support the tray in a single palm. I rap knuckles against wooden doors, stand still as a statue in humble patience. Still, the response never returns to me. Only the magnificent stringing of instrument. Tapping knuckles against polished mahogany once more, I await and await some more. Until ultimately...

"You may come in."
And I do. I turn the nob, slip right in uttering not a single word. See, the graciousness of the chamber has me shook from the very hairs on my head down to the tail of my spine.

A midnight blackness, a snowy whiteness and a screaming blue are the hues of the draping curtains by the high windows and of the fluffy carpeted grounds and of the pillows and silky sheets and cozy-looking duvet and of the heigh ceiling walls and of the chandelier that dangles and the leathery sofas and of all four walls.

To one corner of the room pours a little fountain of sky-blue waters that sparkle and on one of the walls hangs a large portrait of a woman, one with striking hazel eyes and pretty pink lips that smile with warmth and hairs of a blackness that descend down to her jawline -a lass that resembles Tsumibito greatly.

He is the spitting image of she. His mother, perhaps?

"Are you going to stand and gawk all night or are you going to hand over the foods?"
Tranquil, his tone is tranquil. I coerce myself to snap out of the trance, turning instead to look upon speaker. He is stood by the window, gazing through clear glass, violin resting by his shoulder, bow clutched in his left palm.