“Mom...?”

Ritsuka entered the room cautiously, first making sure the exits were clear, then checking for any sharp or blunt objects in the vicinity. At first glance, the room looked safe. Hesitantly, he approached the table where his mother had set a black lacquered box upon a heavy silk cloth. “What are you doing...?”

His mother beckoned impatiently. “Ritsuka, come here, please...”

Obediently, Ritsuka came and knelt across from her, his eyes lowered meekly.

“Look at these treasures, Ritsuka...” His mother’s hands trembled as she opened the box. “These jewels belonged to my grandmothers,” she explained, removing a necklace, several pairs of earrings, bangles, broaches, and a few other items Ritsuka couldn’t name. “And these, here, belonged to your father’s grandmothers...” Carefully, she withdrew a new set of items and arranged them, along with the others, on the piece of silk. “I received all of these on my wedding day. I was planning to give them to Seimei’s wife on the day he got married...”

Ritsuka felt paralyzed. He just stared at the jewelry, speechless.

“Look at this one, Ritsuka,” she said, selecting something that looked like a wooden stick with bauble of gold filigree and pearls on the end. “Do you know what this is?”

A device for poking out eyes? Ritsuka shook his head, a flutter of fear in his chest.

“This adorns your hair,” his mother informed him. “Like this...” Adroitly, she coiled the top of her hair into a bun and secured it with the wooden stick. Only the decorative end remained visible. “It’s made with pearls and seashells. Do you like it, Ritsuka?”

Ritsuka swallowed. “Yes...?” he replied uncertainly.

His mother smiled and removed the hair stick, laying it on the table in front of Ritsuka.

“And what about this one...?” his mother asked, choosing a broach made of rectangular black glass set in silver. “This is an antique. Your grandmother said it came from Paris. It’s authentic Art Deco. Do you know what that is?”

Again, Ritsuka shook his head, his voice lodged in his throat.

“The style was very popular in the twenties,” he mother said, as if that was all he needed to know. “Do you like it...?”

“I...” Ritsuka stammered, “I guess so...”

That answer seemed acceptable. His mother smiled strangely and set the broach next to the pearl hair piece. Meticulously, she adjusted the clasps and pendants on the rest of the collection so that everything was displayed to its best advantage.

“All these treasures belong to Seimei,” his mother spoke vaguely, her eyes watery and unfocused. “Seimei was my first born. But, I’ve been thinking...” Almost lovingly, she stoked the gem in the center of a ring. “You can have one of these two,” she said, “this pearl hair stick, or this Art Deco broach. Choose whichever one you like best...”

Ritsuka’s heart sank. He should have known; this was a test, and like the trials in fairy stories, one choice would bring him glory, the other, death.

“Mom, I don’t... “ Ritsuka started to refuse, then recognized that crazed glint in his mother’s eyes. He couldn’t not choose; he might as well lay down, defeated, and beg his mother to beat him. “Uh...” Ritsuka studied each piece in detail, then studied his mother’s reaction. Which one was it? Which one was Ritsuka’s favorite? His hand trembled over the pearl, then over the black glass. His mother didn’t flinch.

“I like...” Ritsuka scrunched up his eyes and let Fate decide. His fingers touched something cold and smooth. “This one...” he opened his eyes, “The Art Deco...”

Tears began rolling down his mother’s cheeks. “I’m sorry...” she said weakly, “but that was Seimei’s favorite...”

“Huh...?”

Instinctively, Ritsuka jumped back, his arms crossed in self-defense. But it was too late. A sharp metal object tore a gash across his face, cutting into his cheek and one side of his nose. Ritsuka blinked with confusion, then realized that his mother had snatched the Art Deco broach from his hand and attacked him with the thick, tarnished needle on the back.

“First, you take everything that belongs to Ritsuka...!” she shrieked, trembling with rage, “and now you want Seimei’s treasures too! You selfish, evil creature...! You...! I hate you!”

Suddenly, Ritsuka’s face was on fire. “Ahh...!” Ritsuka clenched his teeth and doubled over, immobilized by the pain. His flesh was burning, he could hardly think about anything else, except the irony; if he had only told the truth...