The Exiled Sword Saint Hired Me to Cook, Not to Fight novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Rice Porridge at Dawn

Back to back under one quilt, Shiori sleeps through the night for the first time in a year, and Tomoe wakes with the saint's arm around her and the saint wide awake.

The futon was narrow, and the quilt smelled of cedar and cold iron.

Tomoe lay on her side facing the wall.

Behind her Shiori lay on her side facing the door, a hand's width of cold air between their backs.

A sword in a black lacquered sheath lay on the floor within reach of Shiori's arm.

"You can take your boots off," Shiori said into the dark.

"I did, an hour ago."

"Then why are you shaking?"

"Because this room is colder than the road." Tomoe pulled the quilt up to her ear. "How do you sleep here?"

"I don't."

The wind pushed against the shutters.

Somewhere in the roof a beam groaned.

"Since when?" Tomoe asked.

"Since I came."

Tomoe was quiet for a while.

Then she rolled onto her back, and then onto her other side, and her shoulder blades came to rest against the saint's.

Shiori went rigid.

Through two layers of cloth Tomoe could feel how tightly the long back was held, every muscle wound up.

"I'm only borrowing your heat," Tomoe said. "Breathe out."

Nothing moved for a long moment.

Then Shiori breathed out, slowly, and the bowstring let go a little at a time.

Tomoe drifted quickly off to sleep.

She woke in gray light, and the wind had stopped.

The quilt was warm.

Something was wrapped around her middle, heavy and firm, and a breath moved against the back of her neck.

Tomoe opened her eyes very slowly.

Shiori's arm lay across her waist.

Shiori's knees were tucked behind hers, and the whole long body was curled against her back.

Tomoe lay still and listened.

The breathing behind her was deep and slow, the breathing of a person who had finally gone under.

She did not move for a long time.

Daylight crept across the floor.

When the breath at her neck finally hitched and changed, Tomoe closed her eyes again and pretended to sleep.

The arm left her waist, very carefully.

The futon shifted as Shiori sat up.

Tomoe heard her stand, and the sword being lifted from the floor, and the quiet slide of the door.

She waited a long moment before she let herself smile into the pillow.

The kitchen was colder than the hall, so Tomoe stoked the stove until the clay glowed.

She washed rice three times, until the water ran clear.

She set it to simmer with a thumb of ginger and a pinch of salt.

And then she stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself.

Out in the yard the sun had come up on a world of white.

Shiori stood in the snow in her shirtsleeves.

She held her long sword in both hands, and she was not moving.

Then she was.

The blade went through the air in one clean line.

And a drift of snow on the far fence cleaved cleanly apart.

She turned, stepped, cut again.

Each stroke was slow and exact and cost her nothing.

It looked like dancing.

Tomoe forgot she was cold.

When Shiori finally lowered the sword, her breath hung in front of her face in a cloud.

There were marks on her forearms, Tomoe saw, pale lines, dozens of them.

Shiori looked up and found her watching.

"Breakfast," Tomoe called. "Come in before it gets cold."

The porridge was thick and white with a raw egg stirred through it, and a little pickled plum on top.

Tomoe set the bowl in front of the saint and sat down across from her with her own.

Shiori picked up her spoon and turned her chair to face the wall.

"What are you doing?" Tomoe said.

"I eat facing the wall."

"Why?"

Shiori said nothing.

"Did somebody tell you to?"

"My teacher." Shiori ate a spoonful, slowly. "A saint should not be watched while she eats."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

The spoon stopped.

"I'm only the cook," Tomoe said, cheerfully. "But I made this, and I'd like to see your face when you taste it."

Shiori sat for a very long time.

Then she turned her chair around.

It scraped on the floor.

She looked at Tomoe, and she looked at the bowl, and she ate another spoonful of porridge with her whole face open.

Her eyes went soft.

It was the smallest change, and Tomoe felt it in her stomach.

"Good?" Tomoe asked.

"Yes."

"You can say more than that."

"It is warm," Shiori said, "and it tastes like someone made it for me."

Tomoe looked down into her own bowl, hard, because her face had gone hot.

"Somebody did," she said.

That night she lay down on the wall side of the futon before Shiori came to bed.

She listened to the saint cross the hall, bar the door and put her sword on the floor.

The futon dipped.

Tomoe lay with her back to the room and her eyes wide open.

"Goodnight, Tomoe," Shiori said.

It was the first time she had used the name.

"Goodnight, Saint."

"Shiori."

"Goodnight, Shiori."

The quiet in the dark turned warm.

Tomoe fell asleep thinking that she should say something sensible tomorrow, something about work and silver and keeping her distance.

She woke in the middle of the night with Shiori's arm around her, and Shiori's mouth against her hair, and Shiori's breathing wide awake.

Neither of them moved.

"Are you going to take your arm away?" Tomoe whispered.

"No," Shiori said.

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