When Boxes Rattle

Chapter 12

The gigantic bedchamber was curtained by Mexican braids and Egyptian linen, the drapes so smooth one would think they were made of water. Persian rugs warmed the tiled floor that a pristine overhead candelaria lighted, and on the side was a looking glass chased by silver. The comfort room was branded by a marble tub adorned with wanton intricacies, the privy a white so clear and strong it shone. There was a wardrobe of scented rosewood, rippled with a hundred lines from age, filled with silk and satin and cotton and fur. A harp with gut strings leaned on the wall accompanied by a stuffed python skin entwined on a maple recline. On another corner was sidetable holding a canter of Amber Red wine and three golden goblets; the sidetable itself a German handcraft.

A room for a goddess, Sybilla had told herself when she first entered the bedchamber. But no amount of cushion and glamour can outweigh freedom, and even a room of imported luxury can become a prison cell if the door remained locked for days.

She was given handmaidens, aye, but they were either mute or afraid to speak. Every meal time the locked door would be unlocked, and a procession of servants would enter carrying platters of turkey stuffed with mushroom and onions, scallops bursting with butter, cinnamon cakes, backribs drowned and roasted in coconut milk, lobsters still aflame and garnished with accorn and potato, and so on. One would think she would be dining with the entire manor but no, Sybilla of the Weeping Lake will sit by the oaken dining table of her bedchamber and eat sullenly with the legion of servants blankly staring at the wind.

It had been two full moons since Lord Asagi first brought her to his manor. Sybilla had pleasured him, as she had so pleasured lords and masters for years before. To her misfortune, however, his lordship had taken too much of a liking on her and would not, under any circumstance, allow her to escape the manor. She had not set foot outside the brick walls ever since.

Every night Lord Asagi would visit her after supper. They would not couple; instead, the spoilt that was his lordship would order for tea and harp, and would order her to tell stories all night, until dawn, sometimes until noon. She would satisfy him with regal tales of shipwrecks—for Sybilla had been a mistress of an admiral once—of samurai assaults—she had been a Shogun's bedwarmer—of rainforest hunts—for she had also been concubine to a tribal chief. To show his approval, the lord of the manor would shower her with precious stones and expensive fabric and other gifts. Alas, however, her freedom was never granted her. And so Sybilla of the Weeping Lake continued supping alone.

There was a time when she had failed to satisfy Lord Asagi. It was a grievous mistake, Sybilla found, for Asagi Kashimoto was not accustomed to not having what he desires. It had been a night that Sybilla had taken too much tea and too much wine—her eyelids had been as heavy as boulders, her breathing labored and tired. She had longed to sleep an hour past midnight, and so asked for respite. The lord of the manor took her request as an offense, and went into a tumult. He had not laid a hand on her; instead, fifteen maidservants had their backs skinned. In her very eyes.

Since then, Sybilla of the Weeping Lake took to pleasuring the lordship with her stories diligently. Of late, she was running out of experiences to tell though.

That was how Sybilla met Ryugiri.

Ryugiri was head cook in Lord Asagi's manor. Where his lordship was a melting slab of clay, Ryugiri was a Herculean sculpture. Where Asagi Kashimoto was spoiled and controlling, Ryugiri was the Romeo belting the dagger to rescue Juliet, the sword challenging the Capulet name.

Every supper time, Ryugiri would take advantage of the meal introduction to talk to Sybilla. He would explain how long must a bamboo twig be drowned in dragon brandy to produce a white biscuit, or what kind of bud must be paired with squid for better digestion, or where the mandrake, a base ingredient for one of their foggy soups, sourced its name.