Yui had it all--the beloved daughter of a feudal lord, an unearthly beauty that moves men to write sonnets, and a heart of gold. Only, she wishes for one thing.
To overcome the illness that eats her soul day by day. She folds paper cranes each nigh...
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The ground was littered with the soft rosy shade of cherry blossoms.
In fact, the whole of Fei mansion was showered with its leaves, wrapping the pavement and the remnants of snow in a blanket of beauty. In the far distance, there was the faint sound of flute drifting in the air accompanied by the delicate movements of strings. She missed the sound of music. The bamboo fountain made an echoing clack as it dropped and made contact with the stone. Spring was near but the cold was yet to go away.
She watched the scene, utterly engrossed—the chirping of the birds seemed to beckon her over and she was eager to answer their call. She gingerly stepped forward, pressing her palms on the walls to support her weight. She was still far too weak to stand on her own. She hadn't yet crossed the threshold when the mortified shriek of Mako filled her ears. "Lady Yui!" It was the tenth time she yelled today. She counted. Sometimes she wondered if Mako had to drink ginseng to make sure her throat were in top shape.
Yui sighed and reluctantly turned, tearing her gaze away from the beautiful scene outside. Mako and two servants quickly sidled to her side, grasping her elbows not too hard but firm enough to convey the message.
"Mako, it's not like I'm going to disappear. I just want to see the orchard." She was imprisoned in her rooms for far too long during the months of winter and she was impatient to see the sun once again.
"Absolutely not, Lady Yui. Your health is very delicate and it's still very cold outside. You might catch a chill," she fussed, half-dragging her back to her rooms. She took one last longing look at the gardens that made the Fei residence one of the best in the empire and resigned herself to the custody of her room and an army of servants.
Her futon was spread on the wooden floor and she was almost sick at the sight of it. The gods know how those soft, white linen sheets caged her for months. A hot pot of tea and a plate of freshly cut peaches waited next to a flask of bitter medicine the shaman had brewed on the table.
Despite wanting to protest and insist she was fine, she stumbled like a lumbering infant learning to take its first steps and held on to the servants to support her for her legs could barely carry her weight. The way they tucked her to her sheets gently, making sure she doesn't hurt and wrap the blankets around her was like clockwork. They made no sound, their movements synchronized as if it was choreographed or they read each other's minds. Sometimes it amazed her. They did this every day after all.
"Is father home?" she asked when the rest of the servants left and Mako remained.
"No. He was called to the palace."
She looked away before she could see Mako's pitying glance. She didn't know why she still asked, knowing that her father frequently left home. She watched the skies from the open window, listening to the sound of water splashing against ceramic.
