Once upon a time Sato had been quite good with children.
But that was then.
Now she'd made a conscious effort to maintain a cool distance between herself and anything shorter than her chest. It was easier in modern times, when the youngest of her "family's" members were presented rather than actually present in her life. It became easier still, when Sato began limiting her visits to Kyoto. It was not quite as easy to say she didn't care for children and sound honest, but it was possible to claim relief there were none in her life and sound convincing.
Usually.
Monday night Sato had paused with a teacup half to her lips and looked about her apartment, and realized there was nothing suitable to a child in the setting. It was a very nice residence: expensive molding and sideboards, lux framing, a bevy of pale, dead wood and delicate silver. The place had the pristine beauty of a winter landscape, a portrait of delicacy and calm.
Winter, Sato reflected, was a bad season for children.
They'd politely assured her that the changes could be done first thing in the morning. Sato politely responded that they were quite welcome to begin now. No, it wouldn't be a disturbance to her rest; she slept little. There'd been a few more polite, inconsequential noises but the outcome was set. Money talked, and loudly. Sato had her new furnishings by morning's end and finished arranging them accordingly in time for a late lunch. The icy tones and mirrors had been replaced with autumn warmth: golden oak, multicolored throws on the couch, a bronze amber-and-garnet inlaid coffee table reminiscent of New England foliage. There was still much elegance (the hanging unframed scrolls, the Tiffany glass, a rose-touched ikebana arrangement) but there'd been a few impulsive touches as well: a venetian clock that looked to be made of spun sugar, a column of silver-eared monkeys squirming up at coat tree, blue tigers running across a folding screen, a toy-sized trio of porcelain foxes attired in fanciful kimonos.
Mischa had been unexpectedly amused.
"You used to do the same with us," her blond protege laughed, fingertips petting the a fox's nose. "Turn the house upside down hours before we arrived. Hideki told us so. I think he was a bit jealous of the fuss, actually."
Sato shrugged. "Hideki grew up knowing what I was. If he was jealous it was of the privileges, not of my personal attention or new wallpaper." She'd cut into her meat with a fraction more force than necessary. "I'm not good with children. Decorators are easier."
"Oh, I don't know." Mischa's smile had been small and neat, and somehow...disconcerting. "You did alright with us, and him."
Your sister would disagree, Sato thought but did not say. It was better to switch topics to French draperies and end lunch pleasantly. But she'd underestimated her protege. On her way out, Mischa had paused and surprised Sato by reaching out to catch the Baku's hand.
"You're not as scary as you think. Or, at least, not in the way you think you are." Again, that watercolor smile. "Hida-kun said he was always more afraid of disappointing you than of actually failing. He missed having lessons at the house. You're a very special memory to him."
No, Sato thought, watching Mischa's slim, neat figure disappear down the hall into the elevator. I'm the monster by the bed. Adults remembered it better than the children. But eventually all children grew up and learned to remember like the rest...
She touched one of the foxes, rubbing her thumb over a pointed ceramic ear. Its miniature kimono was decorated with dancing rabbits. Sato's own design, in fact.
Even monsters were allowed a sense of humor.
"Ne, kitsune-chan?" Sato asked, just as a knock hit her door. Setting down the little bright trickster, she went to answer, pausing briefly to realign the hang of her blush-toned tunic. The color and silk-flower embellishments were a deliberate touch of femininity. These Southern "gentlemen" seemed to have a stubborn penchant for the image.
"Bonjour," she said, opening the door. "Please, do come in."