Shadows on the Moon by Zoe Marriott Page A

weaving a dozen times and no one had ever pierced it. No one. He could not find me, because I was not there to be found.
    Why didn’t he walk away?
    Why did he stand there still?
    People see what they wish to see.
    Terayama-san knew me. He knew my smell, the sound of my breathing, the feel of my presence. He knew I must be somewhere in this corridor. People saw what they wished to see — and right now, Terayama-san wished to see me.
    His gaze came back to the alcove. The little space where the shadows were ever so slightly too dense and the flower arrangement was ever so slightly askew. The only place where a small, frightened girl might be able to duck out of sight.
    He took a step closer, eyes narrowing. They did not focus on me yet, but one more step and —
    “Terayama-sama?”
    Lamplight suddenly fell on Terayama-san’s back. For a dizzy moment, I thought,
She’s come — Mother has come to save me.
    But the voice was male, the tone that of a servant. Terayama-san had told Mother to stay in her room. I should have known better than to believe, even for an instant, that she would disobey him. Not now that she knew — by his own admission — what he was capable of.
    She had made her choice.
    Terayama-san jerked around irritably. “What, Shiro?”
    “Lord, it is dark. Are you well? Do you wish me to bring you another lamp?”
    “For the Moon’s sake, stop bothering me. Get away — get out of my sight!”
    As the roar left his mouth, he turned his back to me. I darted out of the alcove. His head snapped around and he reached out, his fingers closing on the trailing edge of my illusion as I pulled away. The mantle of shadows shredded under his touch like smoke, and he staggered, knocking the vase from its pedestal and sending flowers and branches flying across the mats.
    “Terayama-sama!” The servant stepped forward and I was gone, turning the corner and leaving them behind.
    A female servant folding cloths at the top of the stairs gasped and clutched at her chest as I flew past: a blot of shadow, moving as no shadow could.
    I scrambled down the stairs. Above and behind me I could hear Terayama-san’s voice raised in anger, and I raced for the door. I did not know where I was going or how I could hide, but I did know that it was dark outside, and darkness was shelter.
    The garden was heavy with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, spread out before me in a tessellation of silver and purple shadows. I rippled through them, leaping from stepping-stone to soft moss, avoiding the gravel, with its telltale crunch. What was the use of illusion if you gave yourself away with noise?
    What was the use of my illusions at all?
    Terayama-san had seen through them. He would find me. I had to get away.
    But where? This was his land, and beyond it lay a vast city where I knew no one. I had the clothes I stood in and the few baubles of jewelry that I was wearing. I didn’t even have shoes. Panic squeezed at my throat like a vicious hand. Like Terayama-san’s hand.
    I stumbled to a halt near the kitchen that was tucked away at the very back of the house. Lost in my panic, I had almost walked right through the doorway. I drew my weaving more tightly around me, but the brick wall was warm and I was so cold. I let myself stop for a moment, gasping, newly aware of the commotion coming from the house.
    Terayama-san would be making up his story by now. He would be telling the servants that I was ill, or mad, so that he could send them out to hunt for me. The only other person who knew the truth was Mother, and she would never contradict him.
    An overwhelming surge of anger crashed through me, bursting in my head and chest and limbs until I stood up straight, vibrating with it. My body still trembled, but the fear — that fear which had choked me for so long — was gone.
    They had done this to me. They were liars, traitors, cowards, and murderers, and yet I was running from them. They had killed my father. They had killed my