Blood Pact by Courtney Maguire EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: Courtney Maguire
- Language: English
- Genre: Gothic Romance
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River of Flowers
THIS WAS TRUE SUFFERING.
I rolled my shoulders and struggled to maintain my seiza sitting posture.
My thighs ached, and my feet had long gone numb to the scrape of the
tatami beneath them. Oil lamps burned in every corner, making the air sharp
and bright as the day. Yamaguchi Tojirou, a regular guest at the okiya,
lounged beside me on a cushion. He leaned back on one arm, flushed with
drink, long, spiderlike legs splayed. I stifled a groan as he scratched himself
and let out a wet belch.
What did I do to deserve this?
Our okiya was one of the finest in Shimabara, our oiran one of the most
beautiful and respected courtesans in all of Kyoto. Rich merchants, samurai,
and even the occasional daimyo were happy to spend their money here, in
no small part due to the etiquette both practiced and expected by our staff.
A visit to the okiya was akin to a visit to a noble house. Yamaguchi, on the
other hand, treated us like a brothel. Under normal circumstances, a man
like him wouldn’t get past the front gate.
Unless, of course, his name was Yamaguchi.
The smell of natto and cheap whiskey made my eyes burn, and I pressed
a discreet finger against the corner of my eye. Yamaguchi laughed a deep,
hoarse laugh, head thrown back and mouth open wide, at a pair of
taikomochi acting out a raucous sexual pantomime, their lower halves
hidden behind a paper screen. An extravagantly dressed lord conducting an
illicit affair with a palace mistress or something like that. I’d long lost track.
I wondered if the taikomochi felt as I did. Bored, lost, perhaps even a bit
degraded. They once served real nobility as both attendants and advisors to
the daimyo.
They were skilled musicians and entertainers who had
performed for generals as well as marched beside them in battles, beating
their drums to awaken the soldiers’ fighting spirits. They called themselves
geisha, men of arts. Now with no wars to fight, they’d been reduced to
minstrels, donning elaborate costumes and entertaining guests with crude
performances filled with toilet humor and dirty jokes as they awaited the
services of the oiran.
I had never worked in a noble’s house or fought in battle, but I, too, was
geisha. I played shamisen and shakuhachi, and I had made quite a name for
myself in Kyoto as a singer. Men requested me by name and were often so
captivated by my songs, that they would forget their appointments or stay
long after they were done just to hear my voice. I’d earned so many
drunken confessions of love at the end of a song, I’d begun to wonder if the
words ever really meant anything at all.
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