Page 125 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
God Have Mercy
Tsumiko woke to the pop and crackle of plastic and a fading sense of elation, as if leaving behind a lovely dream. Staring blankly at the boxy light fixture on the ceiling, she tried to remember where she was and why. She turned her head and blinked at an incongruous tableau. Argent perched on Suuzu’s desk, still dressed in the phoenix’s clothes, calmly working his way through a large roll stuffed with noodles.
How strange. Yakisoba bread was Akira’s favorite.
Then the pieces of the previous day slid into place, and she sat up. “Good morning,” she murmured.
“Did I wake you?” Her brother, who sported a bad case of bedhead, was wrestling rice balls out of tightly sealed packages. “Sorry. Starving.”
Suuzu rose from the corner, bringing the baby. He quietly announced, “Actually, it is late afternoon.”
With a smile for the snoozing child, Tsumiko shuffled carefully to the window and parted the curtain enough to peek outside. The bell tower at Saint Midori’s would soon be tolling vespers. “I guess you don’t necessarily need the jet to end up with jet lag.”
Akira snickered around a too-large bite.
From somewhere, Suuzu produced a comb, causing Tsumiko to wonder if he battled her brother’s cowlicks every morning. She wouldn’t be surprised, given how often Argent fussed with her own hair. For all she knew, there were whole chapter in reaver handbooks on the invasion of personal space—grooming, nestling, and the mutual baring of souls.
“How do you feel?” asked Argent.
“Fine.”
His brows arched. “How do you feel?”
She fiddled with her necklace. Was there a word that fit? After some consideration, Tsumiko ventured, “Closer.”
He accepted that with a slow nod. “You should refresh yourself and rest. We may be here for a while.”
That made sense. Michael and Sansa’s baby may have arrived, but their Amaranthine attendants would surely remain until the new mother was on her feet. She should text Michael. Let him know where they were. And in the meantime ….
A sudden longing filled her, and she chose her words with care. “Argent, would it be possible for me to show you around Saint Midori’s?”
“Yes, but I would prefer to wait until dark.” Indicating the mound of convenience store fare, he added, “You should eat.”
While Tsumiko considered her options, Argent claimed the baby and the bed, sitting against the headboard and tucking the newborn inside the open front of his tunic. Taking bento and bottled tea, she sat on the floor beside them and poked at her meal.
They had come so far—an uncomfortable journey, an emotionally-fraught night, another life in their care. Details came back to her, one memory flowing into the next. Scattered details that needed ordering, consideration, and prayer. The songs of trees and the emergence of tails. The scattering of forget-me-nots and the parting promise of a wolf. The drama of cousins and the traumas they’d endured.
Pushing aside her empty tray, she glanced up to find Argent’s half-lidded gaze fixed upon her. Gone were all traces of his former animosity. Here she found nothing but patience and peace. Argentlookedcompletely out of his element, but all the more relaxed for it. Maybe because he cared little for the creature comforts of Stately House. On a very basic level, Amaranthine looked at the world differently than humans.
Tsumiko couldn’t help but wonder what he saw when he looked at her. But she was a little afraid of the answer. So she chose a different topic entirely. “We should name him.”
Argent nodded. “As his closest kin, the task falls to you.”
“Did you name Gingko?”
“I did.”
“You know, when I first heard his name, I thought it was Ginko.” She sketched kanji in the air. “Silver child.”
“How prosaic.”
“So … you named him for the tree?”
“Clearly.” Argent’s lips quirked. “The play on words pleased me, and … my childhood home was surrounded by a gingko grove. As a younger son of the Mettlebright clan, I planned to take their leaves for my crest.”
Tsumiko thought she understood. The Hajime family had stolen Argent’s freedom and future. He’d lost all hope of a den of his own, a vixen for a mate, a lineage to wear the mark he’d chosen. And yet the son born during his enslavement bore his father’s crest in a different way. “Does Gingko know?” she asked.
Argent looked away. “He knows his name.”
