The once dry and cold trees had begun to thaw as the leaves began to once more grow from their brittle and thinning bone like branches. The grass sprung from the once decrepit and cold ground with its rigid weeds and decayed flowers.

      At the start of spring, the tatami mats were replaced with ones made of fine straw and intricate silk. The mat where I slept didn't feel so different from the last ones and when I laid my head down, all I smelled was the stink of last season's debauchery. It was a wonder these matts were so white.

      My fingertips were rough with calluses from the long nights I spent practicing with no relief. More than anything, I was exhausted and my fingers felt sore and stiff. I dared not attempt to bend them in fear that they would snap like dry twigs on a mid winter's night.

      "Why am I using my bare fingers?" I asked, flicking my fingers over the cords in swift brush. The bruising on my fingertips was in contrast to Ohashi's who wore the tsume over her thumb, middle, and pointer finger.

      "Pain is good," Ohashi stated and I stared out the opening of the sliding shōji doors. The outside was a beautiful garden of freshly raked sand. The pink petals of the cherry blossom trees dipped over the Zen garden. They fell like snow droplets to the sand, and when I closed my eyes I could nearly feel them beneath my feet. "Pain allows the memory of scars to burn into your bones so you learn the lesson faster," Ohashi said as she adjusted her palms over her own instrument. She plucked the strings with amused grace as her black curls escaped the confines of her main clips.

      I suppose when she was playing was the only time I ever saw her show a semblance of vulnerability. In the bathhouse, she had her guard up and her eyes were like thorns cast in loops around her victim. But when her fingers plucked the cords and her voice resonated with the melody, she nearly looked like a child.

      But this child was bent on destroying me. "If I look away, Ohashi-sama," my voice was a whisper as I glanced down at the calluses on my fingertips, "I could nearly tell myself that you want me to succeed."

      "Succeeding at one skill won't make you capable of surpassing me," she said simply as I followed her movements and moved the bridge over the top of the koto. Every time I moved the white bridge on the end of the instrument, the melody changed like magic. Although, Ohashi did it seamlessly while a loud scratchy groan erupted from the strings as my palm scratched over it.

      I nearly opened my mouth to retort, but decided against getting beaten for insolence. Besides, I didn't need words to surpass her. I just needed time.

      In that moment one of the other Oiran tapped on the ground just behind the shōji doors directly adjacent to the one overlooking the stone garden. I could see the woman's graceful silhouetted shadow from behind the shōji doors. It took me a moment to also hear the quiet sniffling. I saw Ohashi turn her head, her face held with an unreadable expression.

       "I realize we are not to disturb closed doors, Ohashi-sama," the woman's voice from behind the doors echoed in a calm lull. My eyes swept over the painted calligraphy over the shōji doors like a fly hovering over a wall. Over and over again they traced the characters until they became embedded in my mind. Anything was better than focusing on the tension that was nearly solid in this room.

      "And yet you do so regardless. Why even bother asking permission," Ohashi's voice cut clean through the tension, and I saw her brow twitch at the sound of a little girl's sniffling cry. I wondered if I even wanted to see what was behind those paper doors. I wanted to hide behind the tapestry and burrow myself into the painted geisha who so innocently decorated her milky white figure in silk and gems.

      The shōji doors slid open with a haunting and slow thump. The moment there no longer held a boundary my eyes fell onto a crying girl, a child, who looked ready to burst from the courtesan's grasp. I was certain she would have ran through the paper doors if not for Chiyohana's grasp on her arm.

      "Momma!" The girl ripped from the courtesan's long and rough hold, and Ohashi didn't have a chance to move back before the child's arms wrapped around my mentor's waist. Her tear stained face rubbed against the silk of Ohashi's kimono as her fingers made creases in the fabric.

      "Momma?" I whispered, and my eyes were wide as I noticed the snake like features of Ohashi's mask had crumbled to the ground like shards of a mirror. As vulnerable as she looked, those shards would still puncture my feet if I got too close.

      This girl was no younger than me, and yet her yukata looked like that of a peasant. She likely hadn't had her first bleed, and she didn't have the face of a prostitute. Her fingertips were perfect and soft while her hair was tangled.

      "You can't call me that," Ohashi's voice was a hollow warning and I could clearly see she was attempting to force herself from returning the hug.

      The girl, no older than 8, was inconsolable with tears and wetness falling from her nostrils. Her skin was red and her yukata was as simple and as plain as a cotton tunic.

      "Get out. The lesson is over," Ohashi said in a broken lull that immediately caused me stand.

      I didn't want to see the weaknesses and adoration that rested on the noh mask that was Ohashi's face. I wanted her to stay the heartless woman that I needed her to be in order to achieve what I wanted to achieve.

      She had to stay a demon, and even demons could love their children.

      After I left the room, I heard the daughter of Ohashi cry into her mother's arms and I saw Ohashi's silhouetted back crumble as her arms embraced her child. Watching the shadow of a silhouette through the thin paper of a shōji door was like watching the shadows upon a cave wall from a gentle flame. It was flickering and unsteady and the shape could likely be nothing more than a trick of the hand.

      Chiyohana stared at me through hooded lashes before she finally spoke, "You didn't know she had a daughter?"

      How could I have known that? I clenched my fists so tight that they became as white as freshly pounded mochi before I released the grip. It shouldn't have made a difference. "I did not."

      Chiyohana was a rather beautiful woman and her lips were thin and soft. I was sure she had seen many men in her time that had complimented them with every kiss. Judging by the glisten of sweat on her brow, it must not have been too long ago. 

      Chiyohana stood, motioning me to follow, which I did without complaint. After all, if an Oiran was a man's toy, then I could only imagine what form of toy a kamuro like me could be.

      "It was near the river when she was taken by a wandering rōnin in the back of the Hijō-ji..." Chiyohana smirked as I followed with my head bowed low to the ground. Even a young whore like me knew that a temple as old as Hijō-ji was not one to be desecrated. Everyone knew that courtesans had no business outside of Kemuri on leisure trips that did not involve bringing wealth to the House.

      That the child born was that of a rōnin, a master less samurai, and even the most undereducated knew of their vicious acts.

      "She has stopped praying," Chiyohana commented with a calculated simper. Chiyohana always struck me as the devious sort, almost like that of a nine-tailed fox. I was nearly afraid to give a piece of my heart to her as I felt she would devour it down to the last drop. "Is there really a point to pray when the gods let such things happen in their own temples? Tell me, Hana, what do you believe in?"

      To be honest, there wasn't anything for me to believe. Even when I was but a child and my mother dragged me to the shrine, I would clap my hands together and close my eyes because that was what she did—perhaps it was my own act of mimicry. My head would bow out of respect, but my mind would be on the flowers by our cottage. I would wonder if they were watered and I would wonder if I'd eat that day.

      I had never prayed until the night my mother's white kimono stained an eerie red, as the dirt was painted wet with blood and tears. I had prayed that night—and what's worse is that I believed that it would work. I believed that by some miracle, I'd see my mother's smile again. But now, I know that the only time I'd ever see it was in my dreams, and even then it was a smile painted red.

      So what did I believe in now? "I don't believe in anything."

      "You better find something," Chiyohana's voice was cold and her eyes were absent from Ohashi's childlike mirth. "Ohashi-sama believes in her daughter. The mistress believes in the master." The master of this brothel was a sour old man who pocketed every last body-earned coin and gave us just enough for the illusion of riches. I only realize now that it was damn near impossible to buy your own freedom. "And the master believes in the sanctity of money."

      "What do you believe in?" I asked swiftly.

      She only smiled as she walked away from me. Perhaps that was answer enough.