Jasmine and mint and lime lingered behind her ears as she finished her hair: flaxen twists and straights of jet-black strands kept in place with iron spikes. A cotton scarf finalized her flowered robe, stashed at the waist by a silk pleat.
"My lady Sybil, it is time." The deep Japanese voice from outside her door inquired.
She smiled in her vixen-like way, an eyebrow raised against the other. The name itself she had chosen for this lifetime had roused the devil on many a man's heart, and she had revelled on that pedestal they have chosen to put her in.
She was not a whore.
She was not a courtesan.
Sybilla was a goddess.
It was the year 1970 in Kanto, Japan.
She exited her humble home and joined the escort outside her door. The blacksuit led her to an awaiting BMW. He opened the backseat door to let her in, and Sybilla of the Weeping Lake took her time carefully. Men will always be impatient, she had observed. But instead of taking that against them, Sybilla used that trait to her advantage. She would make them wait and see and wait.
Candles burn the brightest during the last seconds.
"You are beautiful," she could almost hear the world compliment her.
The blacksuit closed her door and joined the chaffeur at the frontseat. They were taking her to Lord Asagi Kashimoto, owner of this region's largest clothing factories.
She breathed her aura in, taking the indulgence that was her form to account. Everything about her now spoke of wealth, from the needlepoints on her ears even down to the nail polish she wore. Sybilla purred as she amused herself.
The manor soon took form ahead of them. Sybilla eyed the immense structure heartily, noting the woodwork and the bricktiles with wonder. She had seen far better palaces to be sure, but what she had that moment was this manor and she made certain to appreciate it.
In less than a few moments, the secrecy turned to splendor.
She walked the length of the halls with chin raised high, a pride and confidence only a goddess knows. Jade headpieces and lacquer masks adorned the walls, together with tapestries and paintings depicting harvests and mercantile. Servants and handmaidens looked at her with envy, as the guards do so with lust. Sybilla of the Weeping Lake was then led to the lordship's bedchamber.
The massive doubledoor swung open at the butler's signal. Awaiting inside was Lord Asagi, nestled in an ornate canopied dais. Sybilla counted four courtesans entertaining his lordship, but she knew they all paled in comparison to what she brings.
Upon settings eyes on her, the lord of the manor rose and disentangled himself from the other courtesans. He was a fleshy scrupple, as was typical of the wealthy tycoons of the districts. His shaved head reminded Sybilla of layers of melting clay, his small eyes rather childish when taken with his obese form.
The four courtesans left the lordship's abode.
Sybilla curtsied.
The night trudged on in a mixture of time lapses for Sybilla--one moment lasted for an hour, an hour lasted for one moment. There seemed to be no logical way to explain the love a goddess like her provides. It was dull, it was make believe, it was made of diamonds and rubies and clay.
She was not a whore.
She was not a courtesan.
By morning, Lord Asagi Kashimoto will wake up in a different state of mind. He will look at the world in a different way. His income will be less relevant, his factories less massive. He will no longer remember his investments, his properties, or his market.
By morning, his lordship will only remember Sybilla of the Weeping Lake.
YOU ARE READING
When Boxes Rattle
General FictionWhen she closed the box in haste, she knew something was still left inside. She called it Hope, and everyone believed her. She never believed her.
