Foxfire (An Other Novel) by Karen Kincy

luck charm.
    I decide to switch to English, since she’s speaking it, and it will give my brain cells a rest. “I’m Tavian Kimura.”
    She dips her head in a brief bow. “My name is Junko. Come with me.”
    Junko hurries away from the shrine, her sandals scuffing on the stones, her red skirt trailing behind her. She unlatches the gate to the path fringed with bamboo trees, lets me slip through, then locks it behind her.
    My arm accidentally knocks against hers. “Sorry.”
    Her ears redden and she walks faster, looking anywhere but at me. “Shizuka is waiting for you.”
    “Do you happen to know why?” I give her a smile, as if that will help pry some information out of her.
    “No.”
    I follow Junko down the bamboo path, through a doorway I don’t recognize, and into a labyrinth of hallways. The shrine complex has a tight, winding feel, like a fox den. Well, a very elegant, aboveground den.
    “Did she say anything about me?”
    “No.” She hesitates. “Just that you were the American kitsune.”
    I detect curiosity in her voice. “I’m from Klikamuks, Washington.”
    Junko perks up. “By the White House?”
    “No.” I can’t help but laugh. “Not Washington D.C., Washington State. In the west?”
    She stares at me.
    “North of California? Seattle is the nearest city to Klikamuks.”
    Her voice falls to a mumble. “I have never heard of Klikamuks. But I am a poor student of geography.”
    “Don’t worry,” I say. “Most people haven’t heard of Klikamuks.”
    Junko’s voice gets even more mumbly. “Are you … were you born there?” She glances coyly at me.
    “No, I was born here. In Hokkaido, not Tokyo. But I was adopted.”
    She nods, with a quiet “mmm.”
    We stop outside a door with Shizuka’s name on it.
    “I would like to hear your story,” Junko murmurs, looking at me with a sudden spark in her eyes.
    I scratch behind my ear, not sure we’ll meet again. “Sure!” Might as well play the part of friendly American.
    “Arigatō,” Junko whispers, shy again. She raps on Shizuka’s door, bows her goodbye, and leaves me alone.
    The door sweeps open. Shizuka stands, tall and graceful, in a red kimono decorated with golden koi brocade. I wish for an irrational second that I could paint her portrait. Then I see her white tail peeking through her kimono and I come to my senses.
    “I thought you might arrive at this time,” she says. “Please, sit.”
    Her office is a study in white and black, with splashes of color here and there: a scroll of a kitsune wedding procession, an arrangement of red twigs in a vase, an apricot in a wooden bowl.
    Shizuka pours us each a cup of jasmine tea. The steam rising to my nose carries the fragrance of night-blooming flowers and yōkai magic. I sip it too quickly and burn my mouth.
    “So,” I say, “why did you call me back here?”
    Shizuka looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “I know of your mother.”
    She says it so softly I’m not sure I heard her right. “Yukimi?”
    “Her name is spoken quite often in certain circles.”
    “Which circles?”
    Shizuka sips her tea, then swallows, her slender throat moving gracefully. “ Mizu shōbai . The water trade.”
    I set my teacup down. “You mean—?”
    “Yes.”
    The water trade is a euphemism for the business of the underworld—what goes on in the grimy underbelly of Tokyo. Under all the glitter and lights, there are bodies for sale, deaths that go unnoticed, illegal trades made in the shadows.
    My guts tighten as if clenched in an invisible fist. Has my mother resorted to prostitution?
    Shizuka seems to read my eyes, because she leans forward in her chair. “Yukimi would not have earned such a reputation as one of those women. She is one of the Sisters.”
    “I’ve never heard of them.”
    Shizuka crosses her ankles. “That is unsurprising. They are secretive, and an American would certainly not know of them. But they are kitsune, and so the myobu are aware of their dealings. We would