Page 3 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
Longevity might be considered a mark of his race’s superiority, but death wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. He was accustomed to outliving his tormentors. But this time was different. There was no triumph in his continued survival. All he felt was ... empty.
Sansa quietly refilled his cup.
The brew reeked of bark and bitterness. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Without batting an eye, the woman said, “If that was my goal, I would use surer methods.”
Not exactly an idle threat. He’d been inside the garden shed she’d repurposed as an armory. Once.
Adopting a maternal tone, Sansa said, “Drink your tonic, Argent. It will help.”
He clucked his tongue, a very human response, but useful in communicating derision. Argent relied heavily on an arsenal of nonverbal attacks since—for the most part—he couldn’t be held accountable for words left unspoken. After centuries of testing his bonds’ limits, he’d learned that while obedience was necessary, nothing compelled him to beniceabout it.
Sansa held her ground until he tipped back the second dose. Taking the cup, she lingered long enough to touch his elbow, a signal borrowed from his people. Like all reavers, she was fluent in the subtleties of Amaranthine body language.
He wearily accepted her promise of support with a nod and excused himself. The day dragged by as he moved automatically through his duties, as meticulous as ever. But without direction, without thanks, and without a scrap of satisfaction.
Eimi’s death left him bereft of ties, but if this was freedom, it was a paltry one. The seal on his soul was very much intact, and it was punishing him. If left much longer, the constricting bonds would kill him. An ignominious demise for one of his lineage, but it would end this maddening cycle of servitude.
Yet his instincts rebelled. He couldn’t protect Eimi anymore, but she’d asked him to watch over the other members of Stately House. Her last wish. His solemn duty.
Rubbing at his aching forehead, Argent struggled to keep himself together until Michael returned with a new mistress. Her arrival would signal an end to his current role. Eimi’s Argent had played the part of family butler—genteel, attentive, restrained. And as a member of her household, he’d known something akin to peace. But her fleeting existence had ended, and he would fall into another’s hands.
Each new mistress—or more often, her master—had forced him to comply with their ideas and ideals. He hardly knew himself anymore. It was only in the brief span of time between the old and the new that he allowed himself to remember.
Historically, the gap was a matter of hours, but he’d been moping around Stately House for nearly a month. It was the first time since the first time that he’d been permitted to grieve. Argent wasn’t sure if it was for Lady Eimi or for himself.
She’d met death with a measure of grace, a sigh of thanks, and soft assurances that his future was secure. Nothing would have to change.
Argent had held her hand and reassured her with similar lies.
Eimi was by far the kindest mistress he’d served, but she was blind to the falsehoods she told herself. Older and wiser by many centuries, he was in a position to understand that everything would change because nothing had changed. Bound to the whims of his next mistress, he would be remade asherArgent. Again and again and again.
Unless Michael’s plan worked.
THREE
Inherent Rights
Less than a week after their meeting, Mr. West presented Tsumiko with a thick packet of printed articles, a new phone, and a chauffeur. Staring out the window of a long, black sedan, she watched the landscape shift with every passing kilometer. Fields, orchards, pastures, paddies—utterly unlike the urban crush that surrounded Saint Midori’s.
The sky was larger here, and Tsumiko kept a wary eye on it, very much the mouse who must beware of hawks.
“Did you grow up in Keishi?” asked the driver. His Japanese was perfect, but his name and his green eyes suggested foreign parentage, if not provenance.
“Yes.”
He tried again. “This is a big change for you.”
“Yes.” She could feel his concerned gaze in the rearview mirror.
“An unwelcome change?”
Tsumiko toyed with her necklace. “I don’t really know, Mr. Ward. Everything’s happened so quickly.”
“Please, call me Michael.Wardis really more of a job description than a surname.”
“You’re a … ward?” That brought up unsettling images of wardens and prisoners. “I thought you were Aunt Eimi’s driver.”
