Sunday: 

Usually Tom could escape the boredom of a Sunday sermon by attending the brief, quiet matins, but Elaine was taking no chances and insisted that both of her boys attend church with her.  Shane, smart man that he was, had escaped by driving back to Surrey on the excuse that he needed to spend time with Shelley.

Tom endured the cheek-pinching and cooing of his mother’s friends on sheer acting talent.  He even managed to stay awake during the sermon, which had been a feat for him since he had been a child.  However, afterward he felt restless, so after tea he headed off to Evensong to listen to the boys’ choir.  Though he was an actor by profession, he loved to sing, and he missed his days in the choir when he had, with a child’s naivete, imagined that there was nothing more heavenly than a chorus of boys’ soprano voices.  He listened to them sing a psalm, and suddenly he missed that childhood innocence fiercely.  

With a quick bow to the statue of Christ, Tom slipped out of the choir stalls and down to the side door.  The sky was dark when he emerged, but he began to walk, uncaring of the dimness of the street.  He wanted some of that carelessness, that levity back.  If he just talked to Meg and cleared things up with her, everything would be all right.  Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure she was innocent, but --

He found himself in front of her door.

With a dry throat and clammy hands, he knocked.  The heavy weight of a stare tingled uncomfortably on a spot in the middle of his forehead, and he realized someone must have been looking at him through the peephole.  Then the door swung open.

Meg stood before him dressed in another gothic gown, and Tom had the sudden hysterical urge to laugh.  Why had he ever been afraid of this doll-like, animate corpse that had such a tiny waist in a bodice?

Instead he said, “I’d like to speak to you.”

Meg fixed her blank stare on him and said, “I thought you weren’t meant to go out alone.”  She scanned the hallway past him, then shrugged her delicate shoulders.  “Oh well.  Come in.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, icy fear slid down his spine.  Tom wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring a knife or a cricket bat or at least something to defend himself with.  What if she was guilty?  He’d walked into a death trap, then.

Meg knelt and laid out two cushions.  Then she knelt on one and gestured for Tom to take the one opposite.  He did so, all the while telling propriety to take a deep breath and override his instinct to flee.  He was an actor, and he had complete control over his body.  Tom glanced around the room and saw that Meg had her futon laid out.

“Were you taking a nap?” he asked, alarmed.  “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

Meg inclined her head politely.  “Not at all.  What was it you wished to speak to me about?”

Tom cleared his throat, searching for words.  Her utter stoicism was unnerving.  That she had perfected the art of non-emotion was also unnerving.  As an actor, Tom had been trained to notice the nuances in people’s behavior that revealed their emotion, for he in turn was meant to capture those nuances and use them to portray emotion for an audience.  Her lack of expression and economy of movement gave nothing away.

Tom blurted out, “Are you trying to kill me?”

Meg blinked; it was her only expression, and Tom’s blood ran cold.

“What makes you ask that?”

“The day the first boy was killed, I met you in the park,” Tom said.

“A coincidence, I assure you.”  Meg’s voice was even and soothing, but her expression never changed.

“I agreed to your game of Vampire the night the second boy died,” Rom said.  He was proud; his voice as steady above the jackhammer of his heart.

“A coincidence again, I’m sure.”

Tom searched her face.  Not even the faintest flicker of emotion crossed her features.  “You left the others the night of the third murder.”

“People can confirm my alibi.”

“The warning you gave me that day in the park, then.”  Tom was desperate.  She had given him no definite answer and he needed to know.

“I was simply playing on the disturbing power of my appearance.  I am not in denial about my looks.”  She knelt, hands resting benignly in her lap, though she continued to gaze on him unflinchingly.

He gazed back at her, traced that scar with his eyes.  “The others knew of the second and third clues, but only you know of the first.”

“Really?  Do tell.”  

Was it Tom’s imagination, or was the ghost of an amused smile curving her lips?

“Yes.  I heard you that day.  You mentioned how the Shinsengumi takes only the best.  You are Okita Megumi.”  Tom wiped a clammy palm on his knee.  “Okita Souji was a captain in the Shinsengumi.  You take only the best as well, I’m sure.”

Meg shot to her feet and whirled away.  When her skirts flared Tom saw that her pale, delicate feet were bare.

“Do not speak to me of the Shinsengumi,” she hissed.  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her bad eye, and hatred glowed there.  “To you gaijin the Shinsengumi is a mere curiosity, a band of heroic losers, but you do not understand its ramifications, its impact, or its reality.”

Tom flinched at the venom in her voice.  He opened his mouth to apologize, and then he saw her white-knuckled grip on the hilt of her sword.  His voice died in his throat.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Tom Phillips.  No one in our gaming group is,” she said.  She sounded tired.  “Killing is for the virgins of the blade, nieces killing aunts in noble duels for mastery of a discipline, just as their aunts did before them and their nieces will after.”

Aunts and nieces?  Tom was confused, but the relief that flooded through him at the declaration of her innocence overwhelmed everything else.  He believed her.  Even though his instincts screamed against the unreadable ghoul that haunted the fountain at the Church Street Park, something else in him believed her.

Meg sighed and flopped down on the cushion.  This time her body language was tired but more open.  Tom was unsettled by the mercurial mood changes in her, same as they first night they had met.

“How did you get that scar on your face?”

Meg looked up and traced the scar absently with one finger, causing him to flinch.  “As I said, in a duel with my aunt.  She died when I was fifteen, the same way Yukari’s aunt died last night.”

“Oh.”  Tom didn’t know what else to say.

Meg met his gaze again.  Her eyes were tired and endlessly sad, endlessly dark.  “I’m sure you’re scared, Tom, that you’re stressed out.  Death - not necessarily one’s own death - scares many people.  I have become somewhat accustomed to Master Shinigami in my short time here on earth, so feel free to come talk to me, all right?”

“I’m not scared,” Tom said, and it was a lie.  He stared down at his shaking hands.  “It’s just - I feel so helpless, so useless.  There’s nothing I can do to stop this madness, and --”

“Don’t feel helpless, Tom,” Meg said quietly.

He lifted his head and looked at her.  Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

“You’re not useless,” she continued, as if oblivious to her own emotional state. 

Tom felt his breath hitch in his chest.

“No one can stop Master Shinigami when he decides its time. Not the best doctor, or the most sincere prayer, or --” She blinked, and her lashes became wet and spiky.

Horror ballooned in Tom's chest when he realized what she said was true. There was nothing he could do to stop this killer. All he could do was sit back and wait and see if his turn was up.

With a choked cry he launched himself at her and buried his face in her neck. He clung to her, breathing hard and trying not to cry. Her arms came up to wind around him and hold him tightly, and she whispered comfort into his hair.

“Daijoubu, kodomo, daijoubu desu. Daijoubu, koibito, dai suki desu...”

Tom moaned softly. He was helpless and useless, and she was warm and comforting. He was terrified and couldn't think straight, and her skin was soft and smelled like jasmine.

With a soft whine he brushed his lips against her neck. He needed to smell her, taste her, touch her, because she was safe. A gasp from above ruffled his hair, and he tilted his head to fuse his mouth with hers. She tasted sweet and spicy, and her skin was soft beneath his fingertips. She broke the kiss for breath, chest heaving against his, and he dove for her neck again, tongue flicking over the sweet saltiness of her skin while his hands worked at the lacing on her bodice.

Her fingers twined in his hair, tugging him up for another kiss, and he obliged her as he lowered her to the floor. Lips, tongues and teeth clashed in fierce, desperate kisses. Her other hand was working the hem of his shirt loose from his trousers and dipping under, skimming cool fingertips over his too-warm skin. His shaking hand tugged ineffectually at the unyeilding bodice laces, and he clawed at her desperately, hungry for the warm curves beneath.

The shrill singing of a cellphone jerked them back to reality.

Meg bolted upright and shoved Tom off.  She scrambled up tot he desk to answer the cellphone, leaving Tom kneeling on her futon, dazed.  A horrified blush crept up his cheeks, and he hurriedly straightened his clothes and hair.  What had he just done?

He glanced up at Meg.  She was absently fixing the lacings on her bodice while she spoke.

“Genevieve?  Come over there?  What’s wrong?  Hey -- slow down!”

Meg glanced at Tom, and her eyes were as blank as ever.

“Calm down, Jen.  Tom’s here with me.”  She jerked back from the phone when a screech erupted.  “Look, I thought someone knew where he was...I don’t know.  I guess he walked here!”  Another eruption of screeching.  “He just wanted to talk to me.  Fine.  Chill out.  I’ll drive him home.”  Meg flipped her cellphone shut and slammed it down onto the desk.  Then she scooped up some keys.

“C’mon, Tom, I’ll take you home.”

He swallowed and nodded.  “Okay.  Thanks.”  He stumbled to his feet.  “Listen, I’m sorry about just now --”

Meg didn’t look at him as she pulled on some shoes.  “Don’t worry about it.  Things happen under stress; people do things that are out of character.  Death is a huge stress factor; trust me, I understand.  We don’t have to tell anyone.”

Tom gaped at her.  “How can you be so understanding about everything?  About death and sex and --”

Meg cast him a sidelong look from her good eye.  “You don’t want to know more about me, Tom Phillips, I promise.  Now let’s go.  Everyone’s worried about you.”

Tom followed her out, mind reeling.

***

Elaine, Chris, and the others were waiting on the drive when Meg pulled up.  Tom was out of the car before she cut the engine, and his mother swooped down on him to give him a hug.  Tom was starting to tire of desperate hugs as a greeting.

Perhaps you would prefer desperate snogs from a certain girl, then? a snide voice in his mind supplied.

Tom pushed it away.  “Is everything all right, Mum?”

Elaine shook her head, and she was crying hard.

Tom lifted a hand to stroke her hair.  I know how you feel, Mum, he thought tiredly.  I know exactly how terrified and helpless you feel.  I wish I could do the same, just break down and cry, but somehow I don’t think you’d like that.

“We ought to go inside,” Elizabetta said.  “Neighbours are nosy and all.”

Elaine pulled away and allowed Genevieve to guide her into the house.

“Are you all right?” Lawrence asked.  He and Chris hung back so the girls wouldn’t hear them talk.

Tom shrugged.  “I’m fine.  Someone has to be strong for me, and at the very least I’m good at pretending.”

Chris squeezed his shoulder.  “You don’t have to pretend, li’l bruv.  If you’re scared it’s all right.  To be honest, it’s a little strange if you’re not scared.”

Tom sighed and shook his head.  Already he was tired of the tension and fear that dogged his every step.  “Why’s Mum in such a tizzy now?”

“You shouldn’t have run off alone, even to church,” Lawrence said.  “When you got to the dorms you should’ve called.  Elaine was horrified when you weren’t here for supper, and then news came on the radio saying another body’d been found.”

“Mum went spare,” Chris said grimly.

Tom sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I know - I should’ve called.”

Chris shrugged.  “Mum’s just glad you’re alive for the time being.  She’ll yell at you later.”

“What are you lot doing here, anyway?” Tom asked, glancing up at Lawrence.

“Your mother invited us over for Sunday supper,” Lawrence said.  “We’re not ones to turn down good home-cooked food.”

Tom frowned.  “Why didn’t Meg come?”

“She uses her Sundays to meditate and fast; you know, do the Buddhist thing.”  Lawrence smiled.

The three boys drifted into the den.

“I thought she was shinto,” Chris said.

Lawrence shrugged carelessly.  “Eh.  It’s something of a combination to them.  C’mon.  We gotta help clean the kitchen.”

Tom followed them, not knowing what to do.  Genevieve and Elizabetta were sitting on the sofa trying to comfort Elaine.

Meg stood behind the sofa as if guarding them.

Suddenly her cellphone rang, and she turned away to answer it.

Tom lingered in the doorway, listening but not understanding.

“Moshi-moshi?  Yukari-chan!  Konnichiwa!”

Tom watcher her as she spoke.  So she’d been with him during the murder?  Did that mean she was innocent?

Meg’s eyes darkened, and she reached up, tracing her scar absently.

“Hai, wakarimashita, demo - shikashi - Yukari-chan, hontou desu ka?”  She sighed.  “Haiku?  Yukari-chan, onegai --”  Her shoulder slumped in defeat.  “Hai.  Natsu-gusa ya tsuwamono-domon no yume no ato.  Wakarimashita.  Sayonara, Harada Yukari-sama.”  She flipped her cellphone shut.  After a moment’s indecision she brushed by Tom, barely noticing him, and went to help in the kitchen.

“Not doing the girl-chocolate-comfort thing?” Lawrence asked as Meg began drying dishes.

Tom decided he was hungry and went to poke about the larder for food.

“You know that even Elizabetta is better than I am at human comfort, and she’s the biggest tomboy of us all,” Meg said.

“But your Japanese friend called when her aunt died, and you seemed to have done a decent job then.”  Chris smiled hopefully.

Meg’s shoulder’s tensed, but she kept working.  “ ‘It’s okay, we’re all going to die nobly; at least she died nobly’ doesn’t count.”

Lawrence shot Chris a look behind Meg’s back and shook his head.  Chris nodded and brought up a new topic, but he looked confused.

Tom grabbed some bread and headed over to the stove to fix up a bacon buttie.

“How long are you working on this history project for?” Tom asked.  He fired up the stove and went to fetch some bacon.

“The whole term,” Chris said.  “It’s comparative history class.  We divided into groups and picked a different civil war.  We report on the war in stages, comparing and contrasting aspects of the war.”

Tom nodded.  “Sounds interesting.”

“It is,” Meg said.  “A civil war shows you what a country’s made of.”

“What have you done so far?” Tom pressed.

Lawrence drained the sink and dried his hands.  “We presented contributing factors to the wars and historiographical arguments on the causes of said wars.  Now we’re prepping for the faction divisions and major battles.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”  Tom eyed the bacon as it sizzled in the pan.  Hopefully we could turn it without popping grease burning him.

“The professor expects us to employ primary and secondary sources.  It’s rather slow-going because the primary sources are all in Japanese,” Chris said.  “Meg has to translate everything.”

“The professors are pretty pleased with us because no one’s done this war before,” Lawrence said.  “We’re the first group to have overcome the language barrier.”

“If all goes well, chances are we’ll end up presenting at a local school or two.”  Meg reached up and unfastened the black ribbon in her black hair.  Waves of black silk came tumbling down, hiding her face.  “Probably for the GCSE history classes.”

“That one guy, Harris or Harrison or something seemed really eager about it all.”  Lawrence leaned back against the counter, wearing a bemused expression.

Chris nodded.  “Harrison’s a Japanese History buff.  He loves to inflict his passions upon his students.”

Tom laughed then.  “Yeah.  Harrison’s been my form tutor since my first form year.  He really is made about Japanese history.”

“Poor guy almost wept when he met Meg,” Lawrence said.  “Megumi Okita of the Souji line.  Poor girl.”

Meg lifted her head and glared through the gap in the curtain of hair.  Then she resumed combing.  “I get enough about my ancestors at home.”

Chris winced.  “Put your hair up.  You look like the little girl from The Ring like that.”

Meg chuckled.  “I have a white dress I can wear if you like.”

“No!”  Chris shuddered.

Meg resumed fixing her hair, and a few moments later it was out of her face.

Genevieve poked her head into the kitchen.  “Your mum’s fine now.  Anyone want to watch a film?  Titanic is on.”

Chris and Lawrence rolled their eyes, but Tom finished his bacon buttie and nodded.

“Sure.  I’ll be right out.”

“How can you watch that tripe?” Chris demanded.

Tom shrugged.  “I appreciate good acting.”

“I’d say he’s been addled by that game of yours,” Chris said.  “Honestly, Tom, you said DiCaprio was a terrible Romeo!”

“He was, but that was partly the director’s fault.”  Tom paused at the door and smirked.  “Besides, who said I was watching DiCaprio?”

From her corner of the kitchen, Meg rolled her eyes.