Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(16)

“Yes. You must be aware the press is always watching. But it’s of no consequence,” Mr. Fuchigami says. “We’ve assembled a small team to assist you, starting with Mr. Kobayashi. He will be your personal security. His family has worked for the Imperial House for decades. He is a wealth of knowledge. You may rely on him for his discretion.” Ah, the dagger twists a little deeper. My sworn enemy is to be my closest confidant? Never. “Please be sure to add his contact information to your phone,” Mr. Fuchigami says. You bet I will. I’ll file it under Satan’s Handmaiden, devil horns emoji, double poop emoji.

My mouth opens to ask Mr. Fuchigami about the rest of the schedule, but my words and breath are stolen. Now, my mouth hangs open for a totally different reason. Surprise. Wonder. Awe.

We’ve crested a hill. Sunbeams filter through a break in the clouds, and the jagged line of high-rises stretches up. Like a mirage, it beckons me. I lean against the window, clear the condensation with the palm of my hand, and tip my chin up, positively struck giddy. Raindrops slice down the window, cutting up my reflection.

“Tokyo.” Mr. Fuchigami’s voice inflates with pride. “Formerly Edo, almost destroyed by the 1923 Great Kantō earthquake, then again in 1944 by nighttime firebombing raids. Tens of thousands were killed.” The chamberlain grows silent. “Kishikaisei.”

“What does that mean?” There’s a skip in my chest. We’ve entered the city now. The high-rises are no longer cut out shapes against the skyline, but looming gray giants. Every possible surface is covered in signs—neon and plastic or painted banners—they all scream for attention. It’s noisy, too. There is a cacophony of pop tunes, car horns, advertising jingles, and trains coasting over rails. Nothing is understated.

“Roughly translated, ‘wake from death and return to life.’ Against hopeless circumstances, Tokyo has risen. It is home to more than thirty-five million people.” He pauses. “And, in addition, the oldest monarchy in the world.”

The awe returns tenfold. I clutch the windowsill and press my nose to the glass. There are verdant parks, tidy residential buildings, upmarket shops, galleries, and restaurants. For each sleek, new modern construction, there is one low-slung wooden building with a blue tiled roof and glowing lanterns. It’s all so dense. Houses lean against one another like drunk uncles.

Mr. Fuchigami narrates Tokyo’s history. A city built and rebuilt, born and reborn. I imagine cutting into it like a slice of cake, dissecting the layers. I can almost see it. Ash from the Edo fires with remnants of samurai armor, calligraphy pens, and chipped tea porcelain. Bones from when the shogunate fell. Dust from the Great Earthquake and more debris from the World War II air raids.

Still, the city thrives. It is alive and sprawling with neon-colored veins. Children in plaid skirts and little red ties dash between business personnel in staid suits. Two women in crimson kimonos and matching parasols duck into a teahouse. All of the people look like me. Of course there are variations, different eye and face shapes, but there is more dark hair than I’ve ever seen in my entire lifetime. It hits me: I’m not a novelty here. I am not a sore thumb. What a privilege it is to blend in.

But it also still seems like a hallucination, like I’m peering through a keyhole. I can’t take it all in. The car hasn’t slowed once.

That’s when I notice. “We’re not stopping at any lights.”

Mr. Fuchigami taps his fingers against the leather seat. “Yes. The traffic lights are programmed to switch from red to blue for the royal cavalcade. It is of the upmost importance to adhere to schedules.” Another dig. I don’t care. My body is humming. It wants to tangle itself up in Tokyo and get lost in all of the city’s limbs. This is where I should have been born, should have lived. Here, words like accept and tolerate wouldn’t have been part of my early vocabulary. I’d be commonplace, another face in the crowd. Well, aside from the Rolls-Royce and flashing lights of the police escort.

I sit back, overwhelmed and elated, listening to the gentle plinking of rain against the car’s metal roof. Mind officially blown.

We cross water. “One of the many moats enclosing the imperial grounds,” Mr. Fuchigami explains. This is where my grandparents, the emperor and empress, live—smack-dab in the middle of Tokyo on four-point-six million square feet of private forest.

The car darkens as we enter a tunnel. We’re moving away from the imperial grounds. “My father doesn’t live there?” There’s a moment of panic. I remember watching a movie about an unwanted royal child who was sequestered in the country, hidden away.

“The Crown Prince lives in Tōgū Palace on the Akasaka Estate, east of the Imperial Palace. It is also where the rest of the family resides—your uncles and aunts, assorted cousins. The twins, Princesses Akiko and Noriko, are around your age. Prince Yoshihito is, too. He moved away but recently returned home. You’ll have plenty of company.” He smiles, as if giving me a gift.

My unease settles as the tunnel ends. We pass an ethereal white and gold gate. Guards in bright blue uniforms stand at attention. A sprawling, manicured lawn culminates in a grand fountain and frames an imposing marble building. “Akasaka Palace is modeled after both Versailles and Buckingham Palace,” Mr. Fuchigami says. I see, I see. It does have a whole let-them-eat-cake vibe. “The palace is unoccupied, but it is used for visiting dignitaries.”