set the world on fire (Mawaru Penguindrum)

Chapter 3

Masako Natsume squirmed, doing her best to remain calm and composed as a beady-eyed nurse jabbed pin after pin in her unruly rust-red curls. The woman barely grumbled an apology upon piercing her scalp, earning a rare wince from the stoic girl.

"Your hair is so thick," she explained, in broken Japanese. "It takes a long time."

She nodded curtly, pinching her arm to stop her traitorous eyes from getting watery.

Get ahold of yourself! she ordered. You have to look your best. After all, you're meeting him again today.

Giving a minimal cough, she straightened her abysmal posture, imagining that her grandfather was standing behind her and swatting her pink-tinged ears with a wooden meter stick.

Masako! he'd reprimand, narrowing his eyes sternly at her. Is that any way to act? Your guests will think that you were raised in a barn, and you'll bring shame to the Natsume name. Is that what you want?

Masako exhaled shakily. Pretending the deceased leader of the clan was peering over her shoulder was a longtime trick to exercise self-control.

It almost always worked.

The nurse stepped back, beckoning her to stand up. She complied immediately, the stiff fabric of her navy skirt tickling at her bare ankles. Her tangled mass of hair had been meticulously tamed into a hair-sprayed bun that brushed against the nape of her neck. Not an easy feat, as each of her former attendants could testify.

"You look lovely, Natsume-sama," her nurse drawled, her jaw clenched under her baggy, pallid skin.

"Thank you, Sarah-san," Masako said quietly, smoothing down the lapels of her button-down blouse. Turning away from her floor-length mirror and about to place a black-heeled foot outside of her bedroom, she hesitated, glancing back. "Is he-"

"Mario-san is fine," she finished, clasped hands tightening over her pristinely white apron. "He's sleeping. The doctor would like to try a new medicine.

Masako nodded, half-relieved. Sleeping was better than being awake, he had confided in her. Anything is better than being awake. "Send the prescription my way. I'll sign it and send it to him within a week."

The nurse, humoring her, bowed to her. "Yes, ma'am." She glanced at her austere silver pocket watch. "Watase-san is eagerly awaiting your arrival in the parlor, ma'am. It will not do you good to keep your honored guest waiting."

"I suppose so," she conceded, trying desperately to conceal her dread. Anything was better than attempting to hold a decently pleasant conversation with that man, the one with the eyes of a snake and the cold, cold laugh. She would much rather stay by Mario's bedside, even if he couldn't hear her hushed whispers, her vows to save him.

There, at least, she could hold his hand until he woke up, bathed in orange sunlight and smiling his little, knowing smile.

Her throat constricted. No.

She had to do it, if only for Mario's sake.

Masako clacked through the empty, looming hallways. Alone except for a few straggler servants, she was uncomfortably aware of the echoes that bounced off the regularly-polished oil portraits of her ancestors in their gilded frames, their piercing eyes glued to her every move.

Watching. Always watching.

She swallowed. Chin up, head held high. Crossing your legs is a no-no.

A butler bowed to her when she approached the oak-paneled doors of the parlor. "Watase-san is right inside."

Her hands fisted over the rigid satin of her skirt, she waited with bated breath as he creaked open the doors, revealing the cream-colored room.