But that would be foolish. The more places her body made contact with the polished wooden beams, the more likely they would be to make noise, and crawling on her hands and knees created four points of pressure, rather than the two of her feet.

How do I make myself smaller?

Mariko paused in consideration. She thought back to a winter several years ago, when she and Kenshin had been children playing on the outskirts of their family’s domain. Kenshin wondered how far he could travel across the surface of the frozen lake before it gave way. The ice began to crack around Kenshin’s feet, and her brother responded by immediately lying flat against it, so that his weight was spread evenly on the frozen surface.

She wondered if she could do something similar here. Mariko bent and placed her wrist on the floor until her hand was spread flat across it.

Only the slightest hint of a complaint could be heard beneath the floorboards. Her pulse flowing with the steady rhythm of a drum, Mariko moved her other hand alongside the first.

Now she was stretched across the floor, her toes still resting on the edge of the thick stone sill and both hands spread in front of her as though she were about to take flight.

What do I do with my feet?

On instinct, she shifted her right foot forward, balancing her body on her three remaining appendages. Then she placed her foot on top of her hand, spreading it from her toes to her heel slowly and evenly, compensating for any additional noise around her by shifting her stance.

When the nightingale floor bore her weight without any loud protests, Mariko almost crowed aloud, only to have her triumph abruptly silenced. The creaking sound of an approaching guard emanated outside the hallway to her right. Mariko stayed hovering above the floorboards, her limbs starting to tremble from the strain of remaining still.

Once the footsteps faded into the distance, Mariko resumed her crablike scuttle across the nightingale floor, rolling her hands and balancing on her toes, all the while anticipating any sounds of protest from below. The faintest whisper continued emanating from beneath her, that same odd creaking sound, muted by her watchful efforts.

After she passed over the central corridor, she broke away and followed the path she’d trod earlier, in the shadows along each wall.

Her lips counted out her steps, and her heart thundered in her chest as she made her way past the stone walls bound in aged oak timbers to the darkness of Heian Castle’s underbelly. Again she stayed to the walls, aiming toward the narrow slit of window cut high into the wall to the far left. It sent a strip of moonlight downward, just near the entrance to Ōkami’s cell.

Ōkami stirred as she neared, his chains grazing the wall. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised he sent an assassin in the—”

“Be quiet!” Mariko said in a low rasp.

A moment of shocked silence passed.

“Mariko.” The sound of his voice changed in a single word. Her name. There had not been many occasions for Ōkami to use it, for he’d not learned of it until recently. And each time Mariko heard him say it, a warmth enveloped her for an instant, like the falling of a cloak around her shoulders on a chilly autumn night. For just a moment, it made her feel like one of those silly lovesick fools she’d disdained for most of her life.

Enough.

Now was not the time or place for Mariko to enjoy hearing anyone’s name on anyone’s lips. Without stopping to even acknowledge Ōkami, she removed the parcel she’d stuffed inside her kosode, her heart hammering for a different reason.

“What are you—”

“Follow directions for once in your life, and keep silent while I work,” she admonished. Guilt rippled through her when she realized how harsh she must sound, especially to someone who’d been tortured and mistreated by soldiers for days on end. Without pausing in her task, Mariko tossed a wrapped steam cake through the bars, in Ōkami’s direction. Then she took hold of the large iron lock securing the metal gate. After only a moment’s consideration, she uncapped a small vial and poured a thin stream of oil inside the lock, turning it on all sides before dripping any excess liquid onto the dirty straw at her feet.

Mariko felt his eyes on her as a soft rumble of laughter passed from his lips.

Of course Ōkami knew what she was trying to do without her needing to say a word.

“Be quiet, please,” she repeated through her teeth. Her hands shaking under his watchful gaze, Mariko lifted the wax taper she’d pilfered from her chamber into the moonlight emanating from the small window above. She struggled to light the wick, her fingers trembling spitefully. She tried once. Twice.

Finally, it caught.

Even through the darkness, the weight of Ōkami’s attention fell heavy upon her. Though he remained silent, his unspoken question hung heavy in the darkness.

Mariko sighed. “I’m fine. Nothing horrible has happened to me yet. I’ve managed to eat well, and I’ve slept far longer than permissible beneath a blanket of padded silk.”

“Are my thoughts so loud that you can hear them?” His amusement filled the space.

“They’re debilitating. Now keep silent.” Pursing her lips, Mariko shifted the lit taper slowly on its side, until the flame bent into the wax. It began to drip. Without a word, she inserted the thin metal bar of the tortoiseshell hairpiece she’d filched from Shizuko’s tray into the lock itself. The melted wax trickled around the bar, and Mariko rotated the lock in careful quarter-turns, coating its insides. She paused until the cooling wax pushed past the entrance of the keyhole, then kept steady, waiting for it to harden and lose its translucent quality.

Just as she began to see the light at the end of the path, the sound of approaching footsteps ricocheted from the stairs behind her.

Panic drove her to meet Ōkami’s gaze, his eyes like two black diamonds buried deep in the shadows. While Mariko pinched out the lit taper, he gestured with those flashing eyes toward the far wall. A moment later, she found herself pressed against the cold sludge as it oozed through the thin fabric of her garments. Many-legged creatures scuttled in all directions along the wall behind her, their tiny limbs like wet feathers brushing across her outstretched fingertips. She did not cringe away from the darkness and the creatures it brought. Welcomed it for the cloak it provided.

The footsteps grew louder. The light of a torch wavered into view.

Mariko held her breath tightly in her throat, wishing once more for the weight of a weapon at her side. Wishing for anything that could be used in her defense, beyond an endless store of lies.

With nothing but her wits within reach, Mariko waited to see what hand Fate would deal her tonight.

If

A torchlight angled toward them, glancing the way of Ōkami’s cell. Its tongue of fire leapt across the walls, pitching shadows at the slightest suggestion. It paused for a moment, a stone’s throw from where Mariko stood, her body flattened against the muck. She willed herself smaller, her eyes squeezed shut, her nails digging into the slime.

When the torch’s bearer found what he sought—the emperor’s prisoner, still ensconced in his prison—the light returned the way it had come. After a period of perilous silence, Mariko crouched back to her position beside the lock, inhaling through her nose to settle the strain of keeping her body still.

The wax she’d poured within the lock had hardened to a pale yellow. Gingerly she began prying the thin metal of the tortoiseshell hairpiece from the tumblers. The oil she’d used to coat the inside of the lock helped loosen the wax, and the entire mass broke free after Mariko wiggled it back and forth, easing it from its position.

What she removed resembled a twig with many misshapen branches springing from its end. She knew somewhere beneath this contorted lump was the form of a key. Mariko studied it, turning it this way and that, her fingers still shaking from the recent ordeal. Breathing deeply, she mopped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve.

Now came the difficult part: fashioning a working key from this convoluted mold.

“This is dangerous.” Ōkami’s words were so soft, Mariko first thought she’d imagined them.

“Don’t talk.”

“I don’t want you risking yourself for me,” he continued, his voice unhurried. “Not anymore.”

“I’m not risking myself for you,” Mariko retorted. “I’m here for me. Because I still have things I wish to accomplish with my life.” She refocused her attention on the misshapen mass. Slowly began chiseling away twisted fragments of wax, using a lacquered chopstick she’d pilfered from her evening meal. “It turns out my wishes have something to do with you.”