Maybe Grampa Ray’s informality wasn’t so bad after all.
At 1100, Ko-san had been brought in. Nelly mentioned to Kris that the name meant “peace,” but Kris had met Gunny Sergeants who were more peaceful . . . and more flexible. Ko-san was the recognized expert in proper dress in all of Kyoto. She ruled the dress staff with an iron rod and saw no need to spare the princess at the center of it all.
Comments on Kris’s posture and the grace of her movements . . . or lack thereof . . . were blunt and pointed.
Kris had survived Officer Candidate School without blowing her top at the DIs and others put there to teach her the strange art of subordination.
Kris gritted her teeth and set about learning to be a proper . . . unmarried . . . woman of Musashi.
But even the great Ko-san met her match at Kris’s height. The furisode had originally been made when the style was to drag the ground. Even with that extra cloth, it rose to above Kris’s ankles.
It was a scandal in the making. Not possible.
The great Ko-san called in reinforcements. A chemistry professor from Kyoto University arrived with a team of experts on dyes, cloth, and color matching. But not the usual experts. These men and woman specialized in ancient materials: cloth no less than two hundred years old.
They took one look at Kris in her furisode . . . and called for reinforcements of their own. The great hall at Fujioka House took on the appearance of a war room as experts debated one strategy over another, one option versus another.
In the end, they matched the cloth’s color, even extending the dyed pattern all the way to the floor for Kris. Rather than put the original cloth at risk, they manufactured a special glue in the master bathroom and glued the strip to the hem of the original furisode.
All of this almost came to naught when Ko-san produced her makeup box and prepared to paint Kris’s face white.
“No,” Kris said, putting her foot down. “I am a Navy officer and a battle commander. I will not show up looking like a geisha.”
“Geishas are highly respected in our culture. It is only you barbarians—”
“I will not have a picture of me in white face paint show up the next time my father runs for office,” Kris said, knowing the immovable object and the irresistible force were going head-to-head here.
Under the cold, firm, game face that had ordered the death of billions, Ko-san blinked. “Some modern women do wear lighter makeup.”
“Show me a picture,” Kris said.
So Kris got into her van with thirty minutes to spare.
Kris found herself standing, just like Emiko had the day before, holding on to straps as the rig made its way toward the Imperial precincts.
For once, Jack was torn between watching traffic and watching her. “You sure you can handle those getas without breaking your neck?” Getas were like two-inch high heels, back and front.
Kris held on tight as the van took a tight turn. “If Princess Emiko can survive them, so can I.”
“But she talked her way out of them. Do you think you can talk the Emperor out of your wearing them?”
“I will not even ask.”
“Yeah, I figured that.”
“Slight change in plan,” the driver announced. “The formal entrance to the Imperial Residence is packed with newsies.”
“No surprise there,” Kris and Jack both muttered.
“However, there are many gates to the Imperial precincts. We have been honored to use the Hanzo Gate. Hold on,” and with that little warning, Kris found herself thrown to the left and off her feet. She hung on for two more quick turns before managing to regain her footing.
Jack eyed her, but she shook her head, and he didn’t make another suggestion to change footwear.
After several more hair-raising turns, the van came to a halt. Jack gave Kris a slow ten count before he nodded. The door behind Kris opened, and four Imperial Marines stood by a set of stairs they had put there just for her. They offered their hands to help her down, then gave a similar help to Ko-san, the main reason Kris was still in getas.
Ko-san came to rest a hand on Kris’s arm and its near floor-length sleeves. “Stand up straight,” she whispered. “No slouching. Walk gracefully. You must float over the ground, not clomp like a cow.”
Kris wondered how much she would be billed for this torture and found comfort in the thought she was too broke to pay for this violation of the laws of war.
“Smile for the cameras,” brought Kris back from her reveries of poverty.
Yes, over a dozen newsies were lined up along the moat walls, standing among the small pines and pointing cameras her way.
The full detachment of Marines had spread out around her. None of the newsies chose to risk penetrating that line, but several called questions at Kris.
“Ignore those prattling gnats,” Ko-san muttered. Finally, some advice Kris was glad to hear.
Ko-san went on in full tour-guide mode. “The Hanzo-mon crosses the moat, separating the Hanzo moat from the Sakurada moat. These are exact replicas of the moat around Edo castle on Earth that dates back over a thousand years. Imagine trying to storm this with swords and arrows.”
Kris eyed the tall, steep, stone-lined walls of the moat. “I wouldn’t want to take this place with modern tanks and body armor,” she said.
The gate itself was wooden, set in rather imposing stonework. Kris’s Marines came to a halt. Two men in ancient Japanese uniforms opened the gate.
They bowed to her from the waist. Ko-san made sure Kris’s bow was as low as theirs. “I can go no farther. Do not embarrass your family, or more importantly, me.”
Kris was prepared to promise anything, but the guards were motioning her in, and Ko-san had already turned to go. Kris said nothing but walked, carefully, in very small steps, as gracefully as she could into the Imperial Residence.
The massive wooden door closed behind her without so much as a creak. Ancient they might look, but their lubrication was as up-to-date as yesterday. Kris found herself confronted with a small electric cart. The guards motioned her to the back, where there was a place to stand and a solid handhold. She stepped aboard, and they quickly got her in motion.
This portion of the palace, like the original on Earth and the other copy on Yamato, were closed to the public and reserved for the Imperials themselves. Fukiage Gardens were more a forest at first glance, then Kris found herself coming to a halt beside a pond covered with flowering water lilies.
The guards quickly dismounted and bowed low at the waist to a man in traditional attire who looked only a few years older than the official portrait Kris had memorized.
Kris dismounted herself, careful to get the getas under her before taking a few steps forward and joining the guards in their low bow.
“You honor me,” Kris said in the best Japanese Nelly had assured her and with an accent that the help at Fujioka house did not have to work too hard not to smile at.
The Emperor returned a bow, his much shallower, and smiled as he joined her in speaking Standard, “No, on the contrary, you honor me and my house greatly. Where did you get such a lovely furisode that fitted a woman as tall as you at short notice?”
Kris rose from her bow, as he offered his hand to take her elbow and walk with her. “I honestly don’t know. The staff made me get some sleep last night while they turned Kyoto upside down. That faint chemical smell is the glue holding the last extra material to my hem, so I don’t embarrass us all by flashing my ankles.”
“Ah, yes. Now, if I could just get my daughter to wear a skirt that even approached her knees.”
“Princess Emiko is a delightful young woman.”