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  Firefly

  Warrior Woman of the Samurai Book One

  India Millar

  Red Empress Publishing

  www.RedEmpressPublishing.com

  Copyright © India Millar 2019

  www.IndiaMillar.co.uk

  Cover Design by Cherith Vaughan

  www.ShreddedPotato.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recoding, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

  Contents

  Also by India Millar

  Preface

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thank You For Reading

  Mantis

  The Song of the Wild Geese

  The Geisha With The Green Eyes

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Also by India Millar

  Secrets from the Hidden House

  The Geisha with the Green Eyes

  The Geisha Who Could Feel No Pain

  The Dragon Geisha

  The Geisha Who Ran Away

  The Song of the Wild Geese

  The Red Thread of Fate

  This World is Ours

  Warrior Woman of the Samurai

  Firefly

  Mantis

  Chameleon

  Haiku Collections

  Dreams from the Hidden House

  This book is humbly dedicated to Baizenten, the Japanese Goddess of writers and geisha. May both you and she enjoy the words written herein!

  Preface

  Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind.

  Queen Elizabeth I of England, 1558—1603

  Prologue

  I no longer had any perception of the passing of time. My mind had ceased to function as it used to; all I was aware of was the need to hold on. I had forgotten the reason I was here in the first place. Vaguely, I knew it had seemed important. Once.

  “Keep your eyes facing the rock, little sister. Look neither up nor down.”

  The voice was very close, and it startled me. It also diverted my attention from the imperative of keeping my fingertips clenched tightly in the shallow cleft where I had wedged them. And of course, having been told not to look around, that was precisely what I did.

  Worse still, I looked down.

  And then I screamed. Not loudly; I had little breath to spare for useless noise. But it was sufficient. The movement of air in my lungs was enough to force me a tiny fraction from the icy, slippery rock face. And that, in turn, was enough to make the burden I had placed on my fingertips just too much. I scrabbled, desperate to renew my hold on the rock, but it was hopeless. My nude belly and breasts rasped painfully against the jagged stone. My fingers were frozen; they were too numb with cold to feel anything. I cursed their inability to bear the slight weight of my body even as I felt myself begin to scrape back down the mountain. I suddenly remembered how long, how very long, it had taken me to get so far, and how much pain I had suffered along the way. All fear left me as I was suffused with a mindless, instinctive fury.

  How dare my own body betray me in this way! I bared my teeth. Even though I knew perfectly well it was futile, I tried to bite at the moss that lay beneath my cheek, frantic to grasp something to stop me falling. Unbidden, a wise proverb about the way of the samurai came into my mind.

  The way of the samurai is found in death. When it comes to either or, there is only the quick choice of death. It is not particularly difficult. Be determined and advance.

  I closed my eyes. I could taste the earthy flavor of the moss in my mouth. Feel the bitter bite of the wind. Even the pain in my body made me aware that I was alive, and that each second was precious to me. I wept silently. I had failed already, then. I would never achieve the state of mind necessary to become a samurai warrior. To do that, I would have to be indifferent to death. And I did not want to die.

  Not now. Not ever.

  One

  You cannot hope to

  Understand me until you

  First wear all my clothes

  Had my elder sister not been so beautiful, my life might have been different. Perhaps if she had been less certain of that beauty, less certain that the world would bend to her will, I would be in a different place now.

  But then, what is the use of saying “if only?” As the saying has it, even the stone you trip on is part of your destiny. What has happened is gone; I cannot change it. And if I could, would I really want to? I must, I think, be honest and say that in spite of the sometimes extraordinarily cruel parts of my life, the answer is no.

  But I am starting my story somewhere near the middle, and that is not good. Forgive me. Allow me to wind back the years and start again, if not at the beginning, then at a suitable place from where you may come to understand why I stand before you as a samurai warrior and not the biddable girl that karma surely intended for me.

  Father had three children. The eldest was my brother, Isamu. The name means brave. A most suitable name for the eldest child of a samurai. Father doted on him, as was only natural. Isamu was born to Father’s favorite concubine, a beautiful, talented woman who thought the gods’ trod in Father’s shadow. Even at a very young age, I found this puzzling. His mother outlived all of Father’s other concubines. My sister, Emiko, insisted that the others had died of a combination of boredom and neglect. But of course, she never said that in front of Isamu.

  My elder sister was the first child born to Father’s wife and was very close to our mother. She was fond of telling me she was named Emiko because she was beautiful from the moment of her birth. The name means a child that is both prosperous and beautiful, so it was also a subtle compliment to Father’s vast wealth. I could understand all of that. Emiko was truly beautiful, and of course, Father was both rich and of very high status. Our family was samurai, and—unlike other samurai who had fallen on hard times down the centuries—we had no need at all of the traditional allowance of rice we were given by the shogun each year.

  I was the second child of Father’s wife. And the last. It could hardly be otherwise. It was a great sadness to me that my birth killed my mother. Emiko told me often that I was very fortunate that Father was such a noble man and that he adhered so strictly to the code of the samurai, the way of life called bushido. The code imposes seven virtues on the true samurai: loyalty, courage, truthfulness, honor, righteousness, politeness, and benevolence. In addition, a true warrior should appreciate and respect all life, as it is that quality that adds vital balance to the warlike character of the samurai. Emiko always pointed out that it was this last quality that had enabled me to live. Father had been quite fond of our mother, Emiko told me. Not so fond of her that he had hesitated to take concubines, of course, but that was perfectly normal. Had he been a merchant, or even belonged to the highest class of noble—the daimyo—he would probably have had me exposed as a just punishment for killing my mother. After all, I was only a girl child. A girl c
hild who had been born prematurely, and in consequence arrived into this world thin and whining and discontented. Perhaps it was a punishment from the gods for my sins, but I was also ugly. Altogether unlike my lovely elder sister.

  I should be grateful for my good fortune, Emiko told me often. And behave suitably. By which she meant I should be quiet and respectful and always do as she ordered me without question. Even my name reflected my good fortune; I was called Keiko, which means lucky. There was no hidden meaning or irony in my birth name. It was meant to echo my circumstances, to make me understand every time I heard it that I was fortunate to be alive.

  Even though I understood that, I found it challenging to be as grateful as Emiko thought I should be. I was in awe of my lovely elder sister, to be sure. From a very young age, I understood that the gods had favored her with every blessing. She was not only lovely to look at, but she also had a naturally beautiful singing voice, and to see her dance was to wonder if her feet even touched the ground, so graceful was she. When she loosed her hair for me to comb out, it fell thick and straight almost to her knees. I thought it was wonderful hair, but Emiko complained about it. As she did most things.

  “I want it to be longer,” she said pettishly. “It should reach my heels. Look, like that.”

  She jabbed her finger at a very old print that adorned the wall in the main room of her apartment. She had many scrolls and prints in her rooms, but for some reason, that particular one saddened me. It had faded over the years, but the image was still clear. A beautiful woman stood straight and proud. Her head was tilted back slightly so that her cheek almost touched the man at her side. His head was on her shoulder, his lips a fraction away from her face. And as Emiko never tired of pointing out, the woman’s hair—which was loose and pulled over one shoulder—fell straight and true down to her ankles.

  I could never understand why Emiko saw only the length of the woman’s hair. To me, that was irrelevant. Every time I looked at the print, I held my breath. The woman was smiling slightly, and I knew her smile was for the man who leaned against her. I suppose it was silly, but I always hoped that one day the print would be different when I looked at it. That her companion would have moved forward the tiny space that would have allowed his lips to brush against her skin. The print was very old indeed. How many years had the couple waited to come together? Nonsense, I knew, but I always hoped that someday the miracle would happen and they would find the touch both so obviously craved.

  Of course, I never mentioned it to Emiko. I shuddered at the mere thought of the withering contempt that would greet my words.

  “Do you think if I had it trimmed a little, it would help it to grow?”

  My thoughts had stayed with the print, and for a moment, I had no idea what my sister was talking about. She waited a heartbeat and then cuffed me with the back of her hand.

  “Perhaps it would,” I said quickly. “Shall I comb it for you a little while longer?”

  “No. You’re hopeless. You get the comb stuck and tug. I’ll get the maid to do it for me in the future.”

  I knew she was lying. She always said that, even when I had combed her hair for so long my arms ached. I knew also that she thought she was punishing me by saying it. In a way I suppose she was; although I knew perfectly well she would never release me from the task of grooming her hair, each time did hope rise that perhaps, this time, she meant it. I looked suitably humble and hid a smile. I thought that Emiko would be bewildered if she could read my thoughts. She would never be subtle enough to look beyond the obvious. Why should she? As beautiful as she was, what need did she have to be perceptive?

  “Will I ever be as beautiful as you, elder sister?” I blurted.

  Emiko looked me over coolly. “No,” she said simply. “You’re too gangly. And skinny. Your skin’s good enough, I suppose. And your hair’s thick. But that nose! It sticks out like a tree branch. And your face is all angles. If a lover tried to stroke your face, he would cut himself on your cheekbones. One can hardly bear to look you in the face. Father said once that his grandmother looked like you. Just as well she did, or I doubt he would believe you were his daughter.”

  I stared at the floor miserably. I cursed my great-grandmother silently but bitterly. I avoided looking at myself in a mirror because of my face. I hated my own reflection so much that on the odd occasions when I caught a glimpse of myself, I instinctively looked away.

  “I can’t do anything about it,” I said miserably. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter that much? After all, great-grandmother found a husband, in spite of her looks.”

  “She did, but you have to remember that Father’s grandmother was from a daimyo family. She married well beneath her when great-grandfather took a fancy to her. And of course, she came with a splendid dowry as bait. I don’t suppose Father would be willing to spend much, not even to get rid of you. That’s always assuming there was a suitable man out there who could put up with you.”

  “Perhaps Father could find a match for me from outside our class?” Even as I said it, I knew I was talking nonsense. And if I hadn’t known, Emiko’s incredulous expression would have told me so.

  “What? You mean a merchant or some other riverbed beggar? Such nonsense!” Emiko stared at me as if I had cursed her in the ripest possible language. “You would bring dishonor on the family. Father would never even think of it. I know great-grandmother married out of her class, but at least we’re samurai. Our family has a name and a heritage that goes back for centuries. No, for you to marry into the merchant class is unthinkable.” She stared at me with her lovely head on one side. “We could try plastering you with makeup, I suppose. You know, like the geisha wear. No, that’s not going to work either. You do have lovely skin, but if we covered it up, everybody would think you had been badly marked from smallpox and were trying to hide it.” We were both silent, thinking about it for a moment. Emiko shook her head. “No, it’s no good. You’ll just have to live with the looks the gods gave you.”

  “There must be something I can do?” I asked.

  Emiko pouted, her full lower lip looking deliciously attractive. Finally, she shrugged. “It would probably help if you kept your gaze downcast all the time, like any well-bred lady should,” she said reprovingly. “You have a terrible habit of staring straight at people. It’s awfully rude. Anybody would think you were a peasant who didn’t know any better.”

  “I’ll try,” I promised. Even as I said it, I knew I would not. I could do nothing about my face; it was my curse, I knew that. But from the time I first understood that I looked different, it had seemed important that I should show my face without fear to people. I could not even try and explain it to Emiko, but I felt instinctively that a person’s reaction to my flaws was an indication of their soul. Sometimes, I was certain that I saw a flicker of distaste pass over the face of whoever was looking at me. To show one’s feelings in that way was grossly impolite. Often, such people were fulsomely kind to me to make up for their initial rudeness. It didn’t fool me at all. I knew they saw me as pitiably ugly.

  Others kept a stone face, but I sensed they were reluctant to get close to me, no doubt fearing that my ill-looks would bring bad luck down on them.

  A few simply stared at me. That, I could stand. It was rude, of course, but far better than concealing their distaste.

  And a very few indeed simply treated me as if I was another human being. Those few did I love with all my heart.

  My brother, Isamu, was one of them. He had never bothered about my appearance. To him, I was simply his sister. Emiko said what she thought, and that was that. She was my elder sister, and it was my duty to love her. On the odd occasions when I was in the company of Father, he simply looked straight through me, as if I didn’t exist. I understood that. I was not only a useless girl child—a dreadfully plain girl child, at that—but I had killed my mother to come into this world. In spite of all that, he fed and clothed me and gave me a home; I was deeply grateful for his charity to me. I wished I cou
ld have been born a boy so I could have made him proud of me.

  Outside of my family, there was only one person in my whole world who was kind to me and saw the worthwhile person behind my looks. And because of it, I adored Soji-san with all the passion of a soul denied love. I dreamed of his touch and often awoke clutching my kakebuton—the thick quilt laid on top of my futon—as tenderly as if it had been him lying next to me. I blushed when he spoke to me and found it no effort at all to keep my face downcast when I was in his presence. When our fingers brushed accidentally as I passed him a cup of sake or poured tea into his bowl, I trembled.

  After he had visited us—which was often—I lay awake far into the night, cursing the contrary fate that had taken delight in making Soji-san the only man who ever looked beyond my ugliness and into my heart.

  Why, I wondered bitterly, did he have to be the man who was to marry my sister?

  Two

  The sound of rain on

  Hard ground is my heart beating