The Education of Sumire Min is a previously unpublished novel by S. Jae-Jones. Chapters will be emailed every Friday at 5PM EST. If you do not wish to receive the next chapter, but want to remain subscribed for other updates, you may unsubscribe from the book here.
His name was Corliss and he was a mistake. He was sweet, awkward, and gawky, or at least he was to Sumire’s eyes. Or at least he was when she first saw him; in the days, weeks, months, and even years to come, his face would not only become beautiful, but dear to her.
Everything was in readiness for His Royal Highness’s arrival, and Sumire stood on the steps of the Imperial Palace behind and slightly to the left of the prince’s welcoming party. She, like the others, was dressed in a foreign manner, but she found their fashions odd: drab, itchy, and uncomfortable. In her years in Nippon, Sumire had grown accustomed to the feel of silk against her skin. She remembered water flowing over her cold-stiffened fingers as she washed the dirt and grime out of robes very like the ones neatly pressed in her wardrobe, but the memories of that girl had all but faded into nothingness. She smiled to herself.
Her dress was a dull woolen grey, a modest colour, but appropriately solemn for a man supposedly mourning the untimely death of his father. The Count had informed her that the gaijin wore black, grey, and lavender instead of white to grieve their deceased, a practice she found strange. A tingle of excitement began at the base of her spine, spreading slowly through her ribs and limbs: here she stood, a woman among giants, ready to embrace the unknown, the other, the exotic. The thrill of it was nearly unbearable.
The other members of her party were dressed in identical black tuxedos, arrayed before her like a deck of cards, shielding her from view. The Count promised to make her introductions for her, and that she should not speak unless given permission, but Sumire was eager to try her tongue against a native Ænglish speaker, to compare her skill with that of the ministers present. It had been years since she had conversed freely with Pastor Giraffe and his wife.
She suppressed the thought with effort. The Giraffes were dead, and so was the little girl they had sought to raise from despair. That little girl had raised herself from despair.
From over the Count’s shoulder Sumire could see the prince and his retinue approaching the Chrysanthemum Throne. Unlike his attendants, who were dressed like the ministers in solemn black tuxedos, the prince was smartly turned out in his naval uniform, his ceremonial scabbard clanking by his side as he walked. She tried to get a measure of him, but her view was suddenly barred by Mr Aoki, the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“Welcome to the Land of the Rising Sun, Your Royal Highness,” he said in Ænglish, striding forward to greet the prince with a bow. The prince returned his bow with a nod of his own head.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Foreign Minister,” he responded in Nipponese. It was garbled and unnaturally stressed, but still intelligible. “It is good to be back. I haven’t set foot on your shores since I was but a boy.”
Sumire glanced at the Count, impressed by the prince’s efforts, but no one else seemed to notice or care. Presently, both parties made their introductions and Sumire held her shoulders stiff, waiting to hear her name brought before the prince. But introductions came and went, and Sumire was either ignored, forgotten, or overlooked, for she was never mentioned. She managed to catch the Count’s eye, but he shook his head imperceptibly. Now was not the time.
Both nations continued to make their way to the receiving chamber where the Emperor and his wife were waiting to greet the foreign prince and his entourage, but the Count held Sumire back with a discreet hand on his wrist.
“They will be having tea with us at Seika-tei after meeting with the Emperor,” he murmured. “Meet us at the entrance to the Imperial Gardens and we will proceed from there.”
Sumire responded with a lifted brow.
“I know, I know,” the Count muttered. “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this unnecessarily, but it seems as though Aoki is determined to be heading this mission his own way.”
She smirked. “Good man.”
“Now hurry along,” he said. “We shall see you soon.”
The Count turned to join his fellow ministers while Sumire walked the paths toward the Imperial Gardens, trying to solidify the impression she had had of the Duke of York. He seemed to be a man of middle years, neither young nor old, with bright blue eyes and a sensitive yet stern mouth hidden by a perfectly manicured beard and moustache. He wasn’t the wild, carousing bachelor she had been expecting; he seemed instead a melancholic sort, but she was confident enough in her skills to believe that she would find a way to engage him. Charm was a skill she had little occasion to exercise, so she savored the opportunity with relish.
Moments passed, then minutes, and soon nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed without any sign of Aoki, the Count, or the British prince. Sumire was beginning to feel a bit foolish, but moreover, she was beginning to wonder if she were the butt of some ill-humored joke. It was unlike the Count to be so cruel, and she doubted she was but a tiny ripple in the pond of Aoki’s consciousness. Nevertheless, the feeling of insignificance persisted, and she hated it.
She might as well pass the time somehow. Sumire pulled a tin of cigarettes from her purse. They were expensive—imported from the Americas (the Count spared no expense when it came to luxurious affectations)—and pre-rolled into slim little sticks. She opened the tin and had just put one to her mouth when a young man appeared out of thin air.
“Deus!”
Startled by his outburst, Sumire dropped her tin of cigarettes, scattering them everywhere. He seemed just as surprised as her, nearly tripping over his feet at the sight of a young Nipponese woman dressed in Western fashion tucked just behind the wall at the entrance to the Imperial Gardens.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said in Ænglish, bending over to help Sumire gather the fallen cigarettes. “I mean—g-gomen? Gomen. Gomen nasai. Oh, bollocks.” He was tall, thin, and lanky with his height, all limbs and elbows, and the sight of him crouched in the dirt was like that of a stork or crane scratching at dry land—strange and out of its element.
She hid a smile at his clumsy attempts to apologize, gracefully dropping to her knees to sweep her cigarettes out of the dirt and back into the tin.
“Sorry,” he said. “Shitsureishimashita. I beg your pardon.”
“Daijobu desu,” she said. “It’s all right.” She dusted off a cigarette and brought it to her lips, searching for something to light it with.
Suddenly she found an open flame disquietingly close to her face as the young man offered her a light. “May I?” he asked, stumbling over the proper Nipponese words.
This time Sumire let her smile be seen. “Thank you,” she responded in Ænglish. She held the tin before him. “Would you like one, sir?”
“Bloody hell, you speak Ænglish,” he said, his wide brown eyes widening even further. “I mean, yes, of course, thank you. I would love one. Oh blast, I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I?” He ran a hand through his brown locks sheepishly, mussing his carefully styled hair.
She chuckled, reaching up to smooth down the ruffled fringe. “Yes, I suppose you are. But I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
A corner of his mouth twitched upward into a self-conscious grin. “I am forever in your debt, ma’am,” he said. He gave a courteous bow. “Allow me to introduce myself: I am Corliss, Corliss Pryce of Belgravia.”
“My name is Min Sumire.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…Sumire? Min? It is miss, isn’t it? Oh I haven’t mucked this up as well, have I? You’re not married, or titled…?”
She found herself laughing, laughing free and unfettered as the genteel blossoms of the karyukai, the flower and willow world, were counseled not to do lest they appear unfeminine. But there was something disarmingly hapless and endearing about this young man’s awkwardness, as though he were a little boy in a grown man’s attire.
“Just Sumire,” she said. “But you may call me Sumire-san, Mr Pryce.”
“I’m making a right mess of this, aren’t I?” he sighed, chagrined.
She smiled, plucking his light from his fingers and offering him the flame to light his cigarette. He remembered belatedly he had taken one from her and quickly brought it to his lips with a graceless fumble.
“I suppose it depends on what it is you are making a mess of,” she said.
“Diplomacy,” he said ruefully. “I’m apparently rubbish at it.”
She suppressed another laugh, feeling it was perhaps a little unkind to take amusement at his expense.
“You are a bit earnest,” she said. “But it is not such a terrible thing.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Arigatou gozaimasu, Sumire-san,” he said. When she giggled, his face fell. “Oh no, I didn’t get that wrong, did I?”
“No, no, it was fine. Very good, in fact.”
“You are too kind,” he said wryly. “And a liar as well.” Sumire raised an eyebrow and Mr Pryce laughed. “Besides, your Ænglish is far superior to my dreadful Nipponese.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I take great pride in my skills.”
“So you’re not disputing my dreadful Nipponese then.”
Without effort, he had surprised another laugh from her, and she found herself charmed by him. She who knew how to manipulate men’s strings as skillfully as any shamisen player discovered that she could be just as taken, and as easily. And the young Mr Pryce managed it entirely without artifice or guile. She should have been careful; she should have been more guarded, but at that moment, Sumire, like any other foolish young girl, allowed herself the giddy thrill of a good flirt.
"You say it, not I," she said.
"And very good, miss."
"Please," she insisted. "Sumire."
"Sumire," he repeated softly, before correcting himself with the proper honorific. “Sumire-san.” The syllables of her name in his mouth was nearly intimate. She shivered.
"I suppose you are a member of the Prince's party, Mr Pryce?" she asked lightly.
"Yes, although I stepped out ahead of them for some air. Your Imperial Palace is very beautiful, but I am afraid being around such dignified personages makes me anxious. This is my first mission to the Orient, you see."
"Have you come straight from school then?"
"Am I so green in your eyes?" he asked, but the idiom was beyond Sumire's grasp.
"Green?"
"New. Inexperienced." There was a wry twist to his words that revealed his insecurity.
"No, no," she said quickly. "Not at all. You seem...worldly. Distinguished. Accomplished!"
"It's all right," he said, although he still looked hurt. "But the answer is no. I've served two missions to Bruxelles before this."
He must be older than he looked, she thought. She had taken him to be not much older than her, but two missions meant he must be at least 28.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "Now it is I who have been rude."
"Well then, let us consider the score settled," he said, humor returning to his voice. He finished his cigarette and Sumire offered him another, but he declined. "What about you, Sumire-san?" he asked. "Who are you? I came upon you like a sprite in the forest. I nearly thought you were some otherworldly creature come to take me away to fairyland."
"You have the truth of it; I am a kitsune-tsuki, a moon fox, come to steal your soul," she said solemnly, but when his wide brown eyes nearly fell out of his head, she couldn't maintain her sober mien. "No, I work for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, for Count Inoue." It was almost not a lie.
"Ah, indeed! I was made to understand he was to be our noble host."
"Yes, sir. The Count is a kind and gracious man."
"Do I dare hope, then, to be seeing you in the near future?" The words were smooth, but the expression in his eyes was unexpectedly vulnerable: open and honest. She had called him earnest before, and she had not understood how true it was. Mrs Morita would have counseled her to play coy, to leave him with the impression of a promise and nothing more, but she could no more refuse him than she could strike a puppy.
"Even sooner than that," she replied, a silly grin crossing her before she could remember to hide it. The sounds of the prince and the ministers walking up the gravel pathway could be heard. "I will be joining you gentlemen for tea."
She found her ridiculous grin echoed on his face, and the most preposterous urge to giggle overcame her. He had a light scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and an even more absurd desire to kiss each one overwhelmed her. Sumire clung to what dignity she could and, against her instincts, offered her palm to Mr Pryce in what she knew to be a custom from his land. He took it and dropped a kiss on the back of her hand, and the feel of his lips even through the gloves bordered on indecent. The urge to snatch back her hand and bow in apology was strong, but she held her head high and smiled.
"I believe that is the remainder of our delinquent party," she said, dismayed to find herself a little breathless.
"Quite," he said, the tips of his ears pink. A blush of rose stained his cheeks, and she felt her own blood rise in response. "Shall we, Sumire-san?"
He dropped her hand and offered her his arm. She took it gingerly, afraid the heat in her veins would scorch through her gloves and his jacket to singe his skin.
"We shall, Mr Pryce," she said.
They joined the Prince, his entourage, the Count and the Ministers and made their way to Seika-tei, a traditional teahouse in the middle of the Imperial Gardens. Although both Sumire and Mr Pryce danced attendance on others that night, she could feel the lingering warmth of his kiss on her hand all evening.
It was, strictly speaking, Corliss's fault that things fell out as they did, but even in the depths of Sumire's desperate loneliness, she couldn't bring herself to blame him. It was his fault, yes, but she was to blame. So distracted was she by his dimples and his smile, she very nearly overlooked the en that connected her to another.
The British prince found their Nipponese tea service to be charmingly exotic, a word he kept using over the course of that afternoon.
"How quaint!" he said as he left his shoes outside.
"How unusual!" he exclaimed when they explained the Nipponese did not take milk or sugar with their tea.
"How beautiful," he murmured when Sumire knelt beside him.
Sumire had hired two girls from Morita's okiya to perform tea ceremony for the prince. They were young, a geisha and her apprentice-sister, and not particularly clever. They were, however, both pretty and unobtrusive, qualities Sumire prized above their conversational skills. She had no intention of being outshone.
The majority of the prince’s party waited in respectful silence as the girls served them tea, but the prince himself could not resist the occasional comment: about the porcelainware, about the tea leaves, and about the girls, always the girls, in their beautiful, exotic, strange, and unusual robes.
Beautiful, exotic, strange, and unusual, or so saith the prince that night, all night. Sumire couldn't help bristle a little at his remarks, however good-natured and complimentary he intended them to be. The British were just as strange and novel to her eyes, and for a man as well-travelled and worldly as the prince, she had expected more discretion. The sun did not rise and set on the British Imperium alone; day and night passed in the proper order elsewhere. The center of the world, from Sumire’s point of view, was the ground beneath her feet, not Londinium.
But she betrayed none of this to the prince, maintaining a mask of decorous composure such as Mrs Morita would be proud. Great men were not interested in having their worldviews challenged, Mrs Morita would say, so be gracious, be accommodating, be unassuming.
She was gracious, she was accommodating, she was unassuming, and she was irritated. Instead of being charmed by her, Sumire found Prince George’s attention fixed on Snow Peach and her apprentice-sister, Little Snow.
“Look at them,” he said to Sumire, “so lovely, so…different!”
“Different to what, Your Royal Highness?” she asked. “They are but girls, such as you might find in your own country.”
“Oh, but the ladies back home aren’t so…so…” he struggled for the right word. Sumire watched him run his gaze over Little Snow, over her oval face, painted white and red and black like a theatre mask. There was a hunger on his face, but she couldn’t quite identify the cause; but once she did, she knew he would be hers. “Mysterious,” he finished.
She smiled. “I think you will find, sir, that women are mysterious the world over, no matter which country.”
She managed to win a laugh from him. “Too right, Miss—I’m sorry, what was it?”
“Min,” she replied. “Min Sumire.”
“Ah, yes, you are Count Inoue’s girl.”
Sumire glanced over at the Count, who was chatting away genially with everyone else. “Yes,” she said slowly, wondering just what the prince had meant by the Count’s girl.
“My apologies then, Lady…Min,” he struggled over her title. She realised then that he had taken her to be the Count’s daughter, but she did not bother to correct his assumption. If a British royal accidentally ennobled her—well, she was not about to contradict him.
“Well, we have all night to better acquaint ourselves,” she said, “and to learn all the little details.” She leaned in a little closer and gave him a small half smile, a coy little grin, resting her fingers oh-so-lightly on the back of his hand before withdrawing. She watched him blink rapidly a few times. She swallowed the rest of her smile; he was hers.
“Of course,” he said, clearing his throat a little. “It would be my pleasure.” He turned back to Snow Peach and Little Snow, and Sumire felt her irritation rise again. She didn’t ordinarily have this much trouble gaining a man’s full and undivided attention.
“So,” continued the prince, “do all women in your country paint their faces thus?” He gestured at the geisha, the look of hunger back upon his face.
“I do believe, Your Royal Highness, that this humble person before you is evidence to the contrary,” said Sumire, striving to keep her voice light and teasing.
“Yes, yes,” said the prince, waving his hand dismissively, “but I am sure your good father the Count had informed you of all our customs, as well as our fashions, which is why you are dressed so drab and plain. But look at them, eh? So bright, so colourful, so…so…”
“Exotic,” Sumire finished quietly.
“Yes!” he said. He beamed at her over the rim of his teacup. “Exactly.”
So she had gauged wrong: the prince did not want someone familiar by his side, a young woman dressed of home and hearth; he wanted a plaything, a trinket, a doll he could play with and then easily cast aside. Kaneshiro was right, she thought, these foreigners did not know how to treat a high class mistress. But Kaneshiro was an echo from another time, another life, and she banished the ghost of him from her mind.
It was too late to change for tea, but Sumire fully intended to dazzle the prince that night, when the Count and the ministers introduced the British to the karyukai and their first geisha party. But first, she needed to weight the conversation in her favor.
“And so do you appear exciting and novel to us, Your Royal Highness,” she said, all coy smiles and averted eyes. She brought her hand to her cheek, as though she were attempting to disguise a blush, a ploy with had served her well in the past. Vulnerability was a lure powerful men could not resist.
The prince was taken in, and he reached for her kindly. “We are not so different, my dear, you and I.” Sumire dropped her hands to her lap just as the prince laid his over them. He did not withdraw, and Sumire smiled to herself.
“Perhaps not,” she said, affecting a note of shyness. “But if I may be so bold to say, I do not find these fashions of your very comfortable.”
“No?” Already she could see his interest in her growing, the more she stressed the differences between them. “Well I would rather have you arrayed in the sumptuously gorgeous robes of your land than the stodgy fashions of mine.” He smiled at her then, his light blue eyes flicking over her figure before bringing them back to meet her face. He was a sovereign’s son and a sovereign’s brother, and far too polite and well-bred to ogle her openly. But beneath the breeding and beneath the courtesy, he was a man like any other, the sort of man to reach for the next new shiny toy before discarding it for another one newer, shinier, better. She knew she must trade on her rarity for the instant she became familiar in his eyes was the moment she would lose his attention. She leaned in close, as though she could not help the impulses of her own body. Like the other members of the British party, the prince was fair, and Sumire thought she could detect a slight rosiness to his cheeks.
“Your Royal Highness is too kind,” she said. She dropped her eyes and let her lashes flutter over them, lifting the corners of her mouth in a small smile. The rosiness of the prince’s cheeks deepened into a full blush.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "I am merely matching politeness for politeness."
He was drawn away by his compatriots shortly afterwards, and Sumire dropped her hold on his attention. Her work was done; the prince was hooked and she had the whole rest of his visit to reel him in.
author’s note ✍🏻
Rereading this chapter is interesting, as it contains some of my favorite bits of writing (the meeting between Sumire and Corliss) and some of the most cringe (the scene in Seika-tei with Sumire struggling to maintain Prince George’s attention). As for the former, I do feel as though I captured some of that headiness of immediate attraction and infatuation and rereading that scene still gives me something of a giddy thrill.
And the latter…well. It makes me cringe for multiple reasons, not the least of which is the competing for male attention that drives Sumire. And her (unjustified) smugness in her own superiority. She’s competing because she thinks she is better than her peers, not just because she’s ambitious enough to use her appeal to get ahead. (That doesn’t actually bother me; I mean, you do what you have to do, girl, in this hellish society.) I don’t think “the authorial voice” needs to condemn all character faults in a work of fiction to prove a work’s “moral correctness,” but I can’t help but cringe anyway.
So technically I named Sumire and Corliss after my parents, which is kind of weird now that I think about it…
The first nine chapters will be available for free, after which the content will go behind a paywall. I am currently running a birthday promotion on yearly subscriptions, so grab it while you can!