The Education of Sumire Min is a previously unpublished novel by S. Jae-Jones.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.
Her rules. More than anyone else in Sumire’s life, it was Little Snow who knew her best. She had vastly underestimated the young apprentice, and instead of fear, Sumire was overcome with remorse. She refused to call it shame; she had not felt shame since she was a poor little girl from a rural fishing village. Shame arose from ignorance, and Sumire had let her arrogance blind her to Little Snow’s intelligence. She would feel the consequences of her assumptions, and of her tampering with destiny, but it would not be for a while yet.
The rest of the night passed in a pleasant, drunken manner. The drinking games grew raucous, the stories outrageous, and the pranks ridiculous. Ties became loosened, collars undone, and the laughs flew fast and free. Sumire knelt beside the prince in the thick of it all, at the center of the typhoon, translating for Plum Blossom Petal and Snow Peach as he toasted them, teased them, and finally tussled them on the tatami mats. He was drunk, drunker than she expected a foreign dignitary (and a royal dignitary at that) to let himself get.
“How about a dance?” suggested the prince. “Get the pipers, strike up a tune, and let’s see a jig from you all!”
Sumire sat up, her body alert. A few glasses of sake had crossed her lips, but despite the fuzzy warmth that coursed through her veins, she was clear-headed. Or so she hoped. Was it the liquor, or was she unable to understand what the prince wanted? Was it a jest? Or a serious request? Her encounter with Little Snow had made her cautious and insecure, uncertain of her place in the karyukai, of this very room, surrounded by important Ministers and their brightly colored companions.
The room burst into laughter, and a few Ministers began to clap.
“A dance,” called Minister Omura. “A dance!” His claps clarified into something resembling a rhythm, and one of the British began to sing.
A sweet tuxedo girl you see
A queen of swell society
Fond of fun as fond can be
When it’s on the strict Q.T.
One by one, the others joined in, including the prince. Minister Omura gestured at Plum Blossom Petal, who took the hint and rose to her feet. The men roared their approval as she began to dance, an awkward sort of bouncing step in time with the jaunty tune.
I’m not too young, I’m not too old
Not too timid, not to bold
Just the kind you’d like to hold
Just the kind for sport I’m told.
Plum Blossom Petal managed to persuade Snow Peach to her feet as well, and the two of them made strange, jerking movements with their arms to try and match a rhythm and tune alien to what they were used to.
Ta-ra-ra Boom de-re!
Ta-ra-ra Boom de-re!
Ta-ra-ra Boom de-re!
Ta-ra-ra Boom de-re!
Soon all had joined in on the chorus, sing-shouting Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-re! as Plum Blossom Petal and Snow Peach giggled and stumbled their way through their impromptu steps. Sumire raised her own voice in song, and clapped along with the others, but it was mechanical, lifeless, and rote. No one pressured her to rise to her feet, no one insisted that she join in on the tomfoolery. Ignored, forgotten, and unsure, she felt her theatre mask smile slipping, and wondered if she might duck outside for a moment, just to regain some composure. She looked about the small teahouse room, faces red with drink and laughter, and marked the relative states of inebriation among them. The Count was relatively sober, as was Minister Aoki; one cheery, the other cordial. The Count caught her gaze in a moment of weakness, and he drew his brows together quizzically. Immediately she pasted on her theatre mask smile and clapped louder than ever.
It was more difficult to tell with the British who was drunk and who was not—their skin turned ruddy at the touch of a brisk breeze or bright sunshine, with the slightest blush of anger, embarrassment, or self-consciousness, but with drink? She wasn’t sure. As it was, it appeared as though they were all enjoying themselves immensely. All eyes were focused on the jiggling, jouncing geisha before them, so Sumire took the opportunity of relative invisibility to slip outside.
The night was quiet, the air cool and refreshing after several hours in a small, stuffy, overheated room. Sumire stepped out onto the verandah and pulled out the tin of cigarettes from her obi. The muffled sounds of gaiety from other rooms, other parties in the teahouse bled into the courtyard, mingling with the voices in the room behind her, the Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-res continuing without stop.
She had just lit a cigarette when the door behind her slid open, the Ta-ra-ras spilling out into the night, along with a long, lean, lanky figure.
“Phew!” it said. “Getting a bit warm in there, wasn’t it?”
It was the young Mr Pryce again, looking rumpled and disheveled and slightly unsteady on his feet. He gave her a lopsided smile, and even in the shadows she could see he had dimples in his cheeks.
“Oh it’s you again,” she said. She tried to keep her tone light and teasing, but couldn’t quite keep all the delight out of her voice. “I can’t seem be rid of you. Are you following me, Mr Pryce?”
“What would you say if I answered yes?” he asked in a low voice. His eyes were large, shining, and very intense in the soft, diffuse light that came from the rooms lining the corridor.
Sumire was grateful for the half-darkness, for it disguised the sudden flare of heat staining her cheeks. She tried to laugh away her sudden shyness. “What, an insignificant girl like me?”
“How are you insignificant?” He gave her a skeptical look, one brow lifted, one corner of his lips turned down. “You are hardly insignificant, if I do say so. Companion and translator to a prince of Ængland?”
On another evening, Sumire would have been able to smooth the expression away with a well-chosen remark, but on this particular night, at this particular junction in time, she was feeling vulnerable and lost. As it had been the last time they spoke, it was his earnestness which disarmed her.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “smoke?” She held the tin of cigarettes before him, hoping he couldn’t see the slight trembling of her hands.
“Another? I’m already in debt to you for the last one, Sumire-san.” Despite this, he helped himself.
“Then you shall have to make it up to me, won’t you?” She had regained control of her emotions at last, or at least, she had regained control of her voice. She leaned closer. “I look forward to it,” she murmured, holding a light in her hand.
This time, it was he who was caught off guard. She smiled as he stuttered and stammered and spluttered, nearly choking on his cigarette.
“Sumire-san,” he said when he had recovered, “are you flirting with me?”
“What would you say if I answered yes?”
He goggled at her, and for a moment, Sumire feared she had made yet another misstep. But the moment passed, and Mr Pryce broke the tension with a laugh. She joined in, and the two of them stood there, smoking in the night and giggling away like naughty schoolchildren.
“Will they miss us, do you think?” Sumire asked, gesturing to the room they had both just left, where another raucous burst of ta-ra-ra-ring exploded through the closed door.
Mr Pryce shook his head. “I doubt it. They were on the fourth verse when I left.” Sumire raised her brows. “The song has three,” he answered.
She laughed again. “Perhaps I ought to go back and translate,” she said.
“I don’t think it’s necessary; I didn’t understand half of what Gordon was singing myself. Besides,” he said, “are you so eager to quit my company?” His tone was light, but she couldn’t miss the note of disappointment that pulled at her heartstrings.
“Not at all,” she said. “It is rather nice to be speaking one’s own words again, instead of someone else’s.”
“I did notice that,” he said. “Talking all night, and not a chance to get a word in edgewise.”
“Do you make it a habit of noticing these things, Mr Pryce?” she grinned at him, tongue caught playfully between her teeth.
“I find I’ve made it a habit to notice you, Sumire-san,” he said. She felt the heat flare up in her face again, and was surprised she wasn’t glowing brighter than the tip of her cigarette.
“Why, Mr Pryce,” she said, “are you flirting with me?”
He simply looked at her with his huge brown eyes with an expression of bemused disbelief. She chuckled, shaking her head.
“We are both too good at this to be getting anywhere,” she said, winning another half-quirked smile from him. “So why don’t we be candid and straightforward with one another?”
“As you wish, Sumire-san,” he said, his dimples deepening.
“Why did you follow me out here?”
“Ah well,” he said, running a hand through his already rumpled hair. “You looked sad. Sad and lonely surrounded by all these gay people, so I thought you might have wanted some company.”
She was surprised. All night she had on her theatre mask smile, pleasant and innocuous and dutiful. She had great faith in her theatre mask, for her audience read into her expression whatever they wanted to, but she was unsettled by this young man’s ability to see through it to the girl beneath.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” he said. “But I had a feeling. Not a single word of your own left your mouth all evening. It was as though you weren’t even there; your voice usurped by those who would use it to communicate with someone else.”
A lump rose in Sumire’s throat and she felt the hot sting of tears prick at her eyes. She admonished herself for being the foolish romantic Mrs Morita had accused her of being; she would not cry. Only the weak were moved to tears so quickly.
“Oh,” she said, attempting to swallow her emotions, “perhaps it was simply to avoid dancing.”
He grinned. “Do you dance, Sumire-san?”
“Oh no,” she said. “I lack the training, and moreover, I lack the grace.” She felt her lips twist downward despite her best attempts at a smile. “Do you dance, Mr Pryce?”
“Not at all,” he said. “My tutors despaired of me and my two left feet.”
Sumire frowned. “Pardon?” She glanced down at his sock-clad feet, noting he had a right foot and a left foot, like any other man.
He caught her looking and laughed. “I’m sorry. I mean I am very awkward and clumsy and a terrible dancer.”
“Do all men of Britain learn to dance then?” she asked.
“Not all, no,” he said. “But a great many of us suffered through hours of dancing lessons so that we might not embarrass ourselves at a social function.”
“Is everyone required to perform at your social functions?” The thought was horrifying.
“No, no, at least, not like your geisha friends.” He looked for a place to stub out his cigarette and Sumire held out a porcelain dish before him. He gratefully dropped his cigarette. “We dance to make conversation.”
“How odd,” said Sumire, before she realised she was being rude. “Oh I’m sorry.”
“Well, it is a bit odd,” he said agreeably. “It is hard making conversation with a lady when you’re more focused on not treading on her toes than her company.”
She laughed. “What sort of dancing allows for conversation?” she asked. “I can’t fathom it.”
An impish grin crossed his face. “Can’t you?”
“No.”
“Then I shall show you.” He leaped lightly from the verandah into the gravel courtyard in his sock-feet. Sumire was slightly scandalized, and slightly delighted.
“But your shoes, your feet—”
He waved his hand dismissively and then extended it to her. She looked at his outstretched palm, and then at his face, all twinkling eyes and dimples. He was a little drunk, she thought, and it was only now she was able to tell. “Come,” he said, “don’t you want to know?”
She did. She wanted to know, to learn something from him—of him. Of Ængland, of the West. Sumire felt a frisson of anticipation run up her spine, the thrill of the exotic, the different, the new. Her heart thrummed in her chest, and she felt the rush of blood speed through her body, from her cheeks to the tips of her fingers, her entire being pulsing with excitement. And yet she found herself to be a little reticent, a little hesitant, and even a little shy. What was she afraid of? Her inability to hook the prince had left her doubting her skills, but she had not needed them with Mr Pryce. Perhaps it was that which stayed her hand; he had stripped her of her artifice and now she was emotionally naked before him.
He continued to offer her his hand, but his brows drew themselves together: puzzled and a little hurt. It should have mollified her to see his face as unguarded as her own, but instead it set her heart beating even faster with apprehension.
“Well?”
It was the quiver of uncertainty in his voice that was her undoing.
“All right then,” she said. She picked up the hem of her kimono and draped it over her arm before placing her fingertips in his palm. He wrapped his fingers lightly about hers and helped her step down from the verandah onto the gravel floor of the courtyard. His hand was warm, and more than the touch of his skin against hers, it was the awareness that he could feel her hand in his that sent a hot rush through her body.
“We shall start with the waltz,” said Mr Pryce.
“The waltz?”
“The only dance I know.” He smile at her, a goofy grin she knew to be echoed on her own face. “And not very well at that, I’m afraid.”
“Well then, Mr Pryce,” she said solemnly, “if you are the best the British Imperium can offer, than we shall have to accept it.”
“Ah, yes,” he said with a cough. “I did warn you, rubbish at diplomacy and all that.”
She felt a giggle escape her, although whether it was from nerves or amusement, she couldn’t tell.
“Now, lift your arms like so.” He demonstrated with his long gangly arms, and Sumire suppressed another giggle. “Good, now I shall step in close—“
She sucked in a sharp breath when he stepped into the circle of her arms, but did not take a step backwards as every muscle in her body was straining to do.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “But this is how the dance is done back home.”
She nodded and smiled, trying to quiet her trembling. He placed her left hand on his upper right arm and she startled when she felt heat of his palm against her upper back. They clasped their free hands together and stood there for a moment, adjusting to this new closeness, this proximal intimacy, and she could hear the sound of their mingling breaths despite the muffled noises of parties all around them.
“Ready?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said, and it was barely more than a exhalation.
“I step forward with my right leg and you step back with your left.” She did as he instructed, but her step was small, constricted by her kimono as she was, and his was much larger, by virtue of his longer limbs. Their legs were brushing against the other, their hips pressed together, and suddenly it was much too hot; she could swear the heat radiating between them would scorch their skin.
“And now we step out to the side with my left and your right and bring our other legs to meet the first to finish off the step.” Sumire swallowed and complied, or at least she tried. In truth, she was having difficulty processing his words; she hadn’t heard anything past the slight wobble in his voice.
“We do this again, but with the opposite leg. Now, my left leg, your right…”
They tripped and they stumbled and they laughed, but soon their legs were working in tandem, and Mr Pryce set their rhythm.
“1-2-3, 2-2-3, 3-2-3…”
“There we go,” Sumire ventured to say, but the moment she spoke her concentration broke, interrupting their waltz. He fell into her, his chin mashing rather painfully into the crook of her neck as her nose banged against his chest.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Mr Pryce, stepping away rather hastily. “So sorry. My apologies.”
“No, no, it’s all right,” Sumire said. “It was my fault anyway.” The sudden absence of his hands, of their closeness, was nearly as palpable as his touch. She shivered; it had grown cold quickly. “I don’t know how you manage to carry a conversation while dancing in your country,” she said, striving for levity.
“I don’t either,” said Mr Pryce, his ears pink. “I’ve never managed it in my life.”
She laughed, and she didn’t know whether it was from relief or disappointment.
“Well—“
“So—“
They both spoke at the same time, and both looked at each other in surprise. Then Mr Pryce threw his head back and laughed—full, loud, unfettered, belly guffaws. It was a sound of pure joy, of delight, and it bubbled forth from him as easily as a spring. It washed away the awkwardness between them and Sumire found herself giggling in return, giggling uncontrollably to the point where she could no longer feel herself shivering.
“Sumire-san! There you are.”
Sumire turned to see Plum Blossom Petal at the threshold of their room with a worried look on her face. “What is it, Plum Blossom Petal?” she asked.
“It’s the prince,” said the geisha. “I think he’s had too much to drink and we either need to get him to the toilets or back home, but none of the Ministers can see straight, let alone help me and Snow Peach.”
All her previous mirth dissipated in an instant. “All right,” Sumire said. “I will speak with the prince and you go see if you can’t find a rickshaw to take him home.”
“What is it?” Mr Pryce asked. “Is something the matter?”
“The Duke of York is indisposed,” Sumire said. “It’s probably best we get him home and in bed as soon as possible.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr Pryce, running his hand through his hair again. It stood up alarmingly on end, and Sumire resisted the urge to smooth it down. “Quite. I shall enquire about a hired cab.”
“No need; my colleague will get us one. Now, about the prince—“
In the end it took all of Sumire’s Ænglish language skills, all her persuasive abilities, and all of Mr Pryce and Mr Gordon’s strength to send the undignified dignitary on his way back to where he was lodged.
“You won’t tell anyone about this?” Mr Pryce asked once the prince had gone.
Sumire glanced at the drunken party, still in their room, still singing, and completely oblivious to what had just transpired. “Of course not, Mr Pryce,” she said. “My discretion is absolute.”
“Thank you,” he said. He looked down the street where the prince had disappeared. “I should probably follow them: make sure everything turns out all right.”
“Of course,” she said. She felt something within her wilt; she did not want their night to end so soon. “If you must.”
He gave her another half-smile, one she was coming to recognise as being uniquely his own. It showed off the dimple in his right cheek to great advantage. “I thank you for our dance this evening, Sumire-san.”
“And I you, for that very great lesson,” she said, matching him grin for grin.
“I hope the Count has nothing too taxing on the agenda tomorrow,” said Mr Pryce, “as I rather think there will be a great many aching heads in the morning.”
Sumire chuckled. “Believe me, the Count has prepared for this sort of contingency. In fact, he has probably planned on it.”
“Splendid. Then I shall see you tomorrow. Until then, I bid you good night.” He brought her hand to his lips and placed the lightest of kisses upon it, but she felt the pressure of that kiss all the way down to her toes. “Good night, Sumire-san.”
“Good night, Mr Pryce. Sayonara.”
“Sayonara.”
Reluctant to part, they lingered there a while longer, until at last Mr Pryce dropped her hand and donned his hat and coat, turning to walk down the street. The last thought that crossed Sumire’s mind before he disappeared from sight was that perhaps this was they meant by koi no yokan, an omen of the heart, the feeling that one is about to fall in love.
author’s note ✍🏻
Honestly, this waltz scene is still one of the favorite bits of writing I’ve ever done. I feel as though I’ve accurate captured that giddy feeling when you’re high on that first flush, the first fizz, of infatuation, or at least how it felt for me.
Sigh. I love writing flirting scenes. I should make a note to do it more often.
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