On the wings of sweeping victory against the Hiromi clan, a week of celebration was held throughout the Tatsumi region.

Kagome participated in these festivities only nominally. She had duties to entertain the noblest of the guests, the wealthiest and most prestigious of the vassals—both Tatsumi and Hiromi. This was difficult to do when one didn’t partake, but Kagome found ways to muster through it.

Chiyako, a precocious younger daughter of one of these Hiromi lords, proved a pleasant diversion. Coquettish and quick-witted, with her wingtip lashes and light, pretty laugh, Chiyako made such a favorable impression on Kagome that she invited her to stay on at Tatsumi castle after the festival days were over. Chiyako accepted. But in the interim, Kagome enjoyed sneaking off with her on whatever pretexts she could invent for them to steal a few minutes alone together. First, they snuck away to chat, then to flirt, then to kiss—then, finally, to pet one another through the silks of their robes or whatever openings their fingers could find in the heat of the moment.

The first time Chiyako came shuddering in Kagome’s hand, it was like resurrecting Mayuri all over again.

But if Chiyako was heaven, Saigo Isami was hell. Anytime they were in close proximity, Kagome could feel his dark stare boring into her. Keen and expectant. Yes, he was the hero of Tatsumi—this was his hour in the sun. Kagome had granted him his choice of fiefs from the annexed Hiromi territories. But that wasn’t what he really wanted from her, and she was hyper-aware of this fact.

Dealing with him was a precarious balancing act, giving him enough to keep him hooked without really giving him anything at all. But how long could she keep a proud, aggressive man like that suspended? Kagome wasn’t sure. She needed to make certain she had the proper provisions in place before things came to a head between them—before the danger of him outweighed his usefulness to her.

Yahiko’s claim was too important for her to risk with a mismanaged affair.

At the end of the festival days, Kagome was more exhausted than usual. She could feel herself fraying at the edges. Rested enough or distracted enough, she could pretend she didn’t feel it: that aching rawness, the taste of copper forever on her tongue. It took effort for her now just to hold herself together, to keep from having a lapse in control that would allow her reiki to burn through her unchecked.

Mortal flesh had its limits. Even as her transcendent reiki mended her at the surface, its effervescence was eroding her away at the core. It was a spiral of harm and healing winding ever downward, decaying her slowly but surely. Her own power consuming her from within, like Tsukiyomi, and the warrior priestesses of old.

In this depleted state, the last thing Kagome needed was a heated confrontation. But as her esteemed guests were preparing to depart the castle, Marika burst onto the scene, sobbing and hysterical.

“You—how dare you?”

Appalled, the guests looked to Kagome, the target of this undignified outcry. To tell the truth, she was rather taken aback herself. Marika had always seemed a quiet, almost timid young lady. But Kagome’s expression remained perfectly cool.

“Marika,” she said to Koshirou’s livid daughter, “calm down.”

“No!” Marika cried, balling her fists. “No, I won’t calm down—I won’t! How dare you uproot me from my home and ship me off like chattel?”

Smiling in chagrin toward her affronted guests, Kagome said, “Please excuse us. It’s a shock for a young woman, to know she’ll soon be leaving the nest.”

The guests chuckled, a few of their wives smiling in sympathy. Sensing this was a personal moment between stepmother and stepdaughter, they continued on their way. Not a moment too soon, for Marika’s face was boiling red, as if she were threatening to explode.

A moment later, she did.

“You’re wicked,” Marika accused, pointing. “Power-hungry and deceitful! I tried to think the best of you for my father’s sake, but all you’ve done since arriving here is use his status to further your own twisted aims.”

Kagome’s mouth went thin. “Sorry you consider me securing a good marriage for you to be a ‘twisted aim’. Face it, Marika, you’re twenty years old and fast becoming a spinster. What are you going to do, keep fiddling with that biwa of yours for the rest of your life? Stop being so spoiled and selfish; as the only daughter of a powerful daimyo, you have a duty to uphold. The match I’ve made for you is one that’ll help your family, your little brother—”

“My brother!” Marika exclaimed in scorn. “That servant’s son, you mean? Mayuri—everyone despised her. But she’s cut from the same cloth as your other mistresses, I suppose. She was a shameless tramp, a no-good—”

Kagome strode forward, slapping Marika clean across the face. This pampered girl had probably never been smacked in her life. She collapsed to the floor, her mouth ajar and eyes welling anew as she clutched at her flaming cheek.

“Shut up,” Kagome said, cold and hard, her lowered hand shaking with suppressed heat. “You’re marrying Prince Shingen, and that’s all there is to say about it.”

Tearfully, tremulously, Marika said, “My father…he would never force me into a marriage I didn’t want.”

“Your father is dying,” Kagome said, twice as hard. “For better or worse, I’m all you have left. Do you think it’s been easy for me to manage without him? No, but I’ve made the best of it, and so will you. Now quit your whining and get out of my sight.”

Wretchedly, Marika picked herself up and fled.

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi