Page 63 of Fumiko and the Finicky Nestmate
There was also evidence of postal deliveries, both from the public sector and the In-between. Communiques. Grocery fliers. Takeout menus. Mail order catalogs. Back issues of magazines addressed to the library. Volumes of a journal called The Perambulating Preservationist.
Juuyu glanced at dates and began culling.
He stacked decades old phone directories. Beside them, he began a pile of mail order catalogs for everything from gourmet cheese to telescopes. He slowed when he realized there were potentially important documents in the mix.
Alumni newsletters from top reaver academies. Invitations to Parent’s Day events at Wardenclave. Promotional literature addressed to no less than seven reavers. Had they been interns? Or did these represent children in Fumiko’s line?
Excitement sharpened his senses.
While he couldn’t imagine living like this, he liked flirting along the edges of chaos. Like a young phoenix on a dare, skimming low over water that could swamp feathers and quench flames, Juuyu challenged himself. The mess put him on edge, but at that edge, he found clarity.
It was like battle, yet he didn’t face an opponent.
This room represented a mystery. A case.
Every little thing was clamoring for his attention, begging to be noticed and considered and remembered. There were valuable clues amidst the mess.
He shouldn’t.
Really, this was absurd.
In some distant part of Juuyu’s mind, reason battled against instinct.
“What’s this pile?” Fumiko tapped his arm, pointed urgently. “Why is this pile so far from the rest?”
“These print materials are outdated and should be recycled.” Juuyu lifted a finger and teased a dainty cup squirreled away in one corner. “You might consider discarding damaged goods. This is chipped.”
With a soft noise of dismay, she snatched it from his hand and darted upstairs again. So he was doomed to another game of seek and find. This time, the cup was opaque blue, with carnival glaze giving it an iridescent sheen. Probably part of a larger set. The sort that included a punch bowl.
It might be a meaningless detail.
It might be a defining moment.
Juuyu usually couldn’t tell which was which until he’d absorbed all the available information. Gathering it up was a painstaking process. One for which he was uniquely suited.
But he shouldn’t. Others were meant to do this work. Why hadn’t they?
“Fumiko.”
“Yes, I’m here.” Her breathing was uneven. Her tone wavering. “Yes?”
“Why have you not been provided with a chronicler?”
Then Akira was suddenly in front of Juuyu, pulling him down until they were eye-to-eye. Serious and stern, Akira said, “You’re making Fumiko nervous.”
Juuyu’s gaze flicked to the woman. Were her lashes wet? He bowed his head. “Entirely unintentional.”
“Tell her you’re not angry,” Akira ordered in Japanese.
“I am not.”
“Tell her.”
Though he warbled a low protest, Juuyu raised his voice. “Fumiko, I am not angry.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding uncertain.
Akira tugged on Juuyu’s tie. “Can you stop?”
