Our wish has been granted!✨

If you are like us, you couldn’t get enough of Izumi’s royal adventure in . Emiko Jean has shared not one, but TWO deleted chapters that were taken out during revisions. Emiko says, “Originally this scene took place in Act 2, when Izumi is just getting to know her father and right after her night out at the Karaoke bar. If you haven’t read the book, beware, there are spoilers in this chapter. If you have read the book, you might see content that was used in other chapters!”

It is a universal truth no girl wants a cute imperial guard behind her while she runs. My breath comes out hard in little huffs, each one emitted like a last word from a dying man. My father is and has been a good foot in front of me. Akio is behind us along with a smattering of other guards. Would it make me feel better if he was wearing John Stockton 1970s athletic shorts? Yes. Is he? No. But he is dressed down again—mesh shorts and a t-shirt damp with sweat. It clings to his chest and I like it. What I don’t like is he’s watching me run or my version of it, which is more of a chicken fleeing its coup. This has never been attractive and never will.

Also, I am so hungover. I woke this morning expecting the imperial police to be lining the living room. My father ready to place handcuffs on me. Metaphorically speaking, of course. What I’m saying is I thought for sure I’d be grounded. Sneaking off imperial property, late night carousing, drinking—it all should add up to one serious lockdown. But somehow I got away with it. And I’m not sure how. Either my father knows and condones this behavior or he doesn’t and I am officially a lying liar who lies. I don’t know which is worse—uncaring father or deviant child? Or third possibility, Akio covered for me. My heart be still.

We round a corner. I focus on the crunch of pea gravel beneath my feet. Pray this incline doesn’t turn into a full-blown hill.

“That’s it, imperial highnesses, you’re doing great.” Today Olympic hopeful, Eiko Matsudaira, is pacing us. He placed first in the Tokyo marathon two years in a row. And has consistently ran with the top teams in the Mt. Fuji Ekiden—a long-distance multi-stage relay race to the summit of Mt. Fuji and back. I don’t think I need to point out how laughable the situation is. Or I’m choosing to find it humorous instead of mortifying. I’m sure this is the pinnacle of Eiko’s career.

What isn’t mortifying, at least not to me, is my t-shirt. It reads: Riots not Diets. I remembered how good it felt to wear Izzy clothes last night. So I dug this out of the marble topped island in my closet. Which incidentally, is also where I stashed Akio’s sweatshirt. I have no plans to return it and I’m sorry. Not sorry.

The Riot not Diets tee is my favorite, washed so many times the lettering is fading. Mom got it for me. I’m pretty sure the only reason I am allowed to wear it right now is because this is a closed run. Meaning there are no imperial photographers or other press allowed. We’re on the estate. It’s private. Secluded. And I’m sure everyone around us has signed NDAs in blood including Eiko, who is smiling and not even winded. He’s like a gazelle, elegant with long legs encased in the short shorts I wished Akio was wearing.

My father is in a similar state, not the short shorts, but breathing effortlessly and easily. Not quite as graceful as Eiko but with short quick movements like a fox. So in summation: gazelle, fox, chicken.

“One last push, then we’ll break.” Eiko has turned around and runs backward now. Show off. Sweat clings to my brow. My legs are watery, two overcooked noodles. I don’t know how far we’ve gone but we’ve done some sort of loop. Around a chain of lakes separating my father’s estate from the other imperial residences, where I’m sure Yoshi is sipping mimosas. Nursing his hangover the right way. Push is the right word. It does feel like I’m about to give birth.

Azaleas whir by in streaks of purple and pink. We’ve been up and over several arched bridges, our footsteps sending koi fish scattering. Run for you lives! Cherry blossoms hang overhead, the fat blooms weighing down the branches, lightly scenting the air.

“That’s it!” Eiko is way too cheery. “Excellent work everyone. Three miles in forty two minutes.” I have a feeling he’s humoring us. He bows to my father, who is checking his pulse. “Very soon, Imperial Highness, we’ll be at a ten minute mile.”

My father thanks the Olympian. We’re in some sort of grove. The evergreen trees are so large, imposing and so old they make me think of the Tokugawa shogunate. Perhaps they’re Jubokko, a type of tree transformed to yōkai after soaking up blood on battefields. Did they see the shogun fall? Or maybe it was after. During one of the fires or air bombing raids.

I put my hands on my knees, bracing myself from collapse. I inhale and it’s piney. A bottle is waved under my nose. I manage an upright stance. It’s Akio. “Highness.” He offers me the bottle.

I take it. “Thanks,” I say then he melts away to stretch with the rest of the imperial guards. Uncapping the bottle, I take a long swig. It tastes familiar. Pocari sweat. My eyes dart to Akio and he gives me a little salute. So I guess, I shouldn’t be so pissed at Yoshi. His actions or inactions have brought Akio and me to this place. Still, I’m not going to thank my least favorite second cousin. But I might not be so mad at him now. After all, all is well that ends well.

My father and I stroll back to the palace. It’s kind of our thing now—walking and talking. We communicate better when in motion. I drained the first bottle of Pocari Sweat and am on a second.

“It gets easier.” His windbreaker flaps in the breeze.

“Huh?” Is he talking about being a princess? Can he tell I’m barely keeping my head above water? Does he sense how much I miss home, my friends, mom and stinky dog?

“The running.”

“Oh.” I wipe the sweat from my bow. I’m cooling down but now come the exercise shakes. You know, that feeling, when all your muscles turn to jell-o and tremble, afraid you’ll make them work more. “Yeah. I’m not much of a runner.”

He chuckles but it’s good-natured. He’s not laughing at me. “I could tell.”

“That obvious?” I scrunch up my nose. What gave it away? The hyperventilating? A sweat soaked lock of hair whips against my cheek. It’s warmer today. Not a cloud in the sky.

“It became apparent in mile one. When you thought we’d gone at least five miles.” Another laugh.

I shrug. “I liked seeing the estate.”

“I’m proud of you for trying. And not just for running.” I perk up a bit. “A lot has been thrown out you these last few weeks and you have handled the challenges as a true imperial.”

I preen. My steps have a little extra bounce in them. This must also be a universal truth. We want our parents to be proud of us. Still, I can’t help feel a blush of guilt. I’m pretending to be something I’m not. Playacting. My ruse is working. Fake it till you make is a real thing. I’m not a real thing. But still. Since I’m not great with receiving complements, I choke out a: “Thanks.”

“Of course,” says my father.

The path we’re on widens. Branches of the trees ease up. Most likely manicured this way by one of the thirty full-time gardeners.

I step forward and stop short. We’re on the opposite end of the green house. Its black metal and glass but looks very much like a giant pink elephant. I remember my father’s turned cheek after I mentioned orchids were my mom’s favorite flower, our stilted conversation after. And now it’s literally stopped us in our tracks.

My father is still. Does he feel it too? This thing between us—my mother, his former lover. I don’t like not being able to talk about my mom, treating her as blasphemy. Because truth (and I don’t care if these makes me a total dork): but I love my mom, she’s one of my favorite people.

I toe the ground. Dust rises up and covers my shoes. Also, I notice two long black hairs around my ankles. Super. I hope Akio didn’t see. I decide not to worry about it. I wouldn’t let him touch my legs anyway. Probably not. Maybe. No, definitely not. In Mt. Shasta body hair pretty much has free reign October through April. The AGG and I call this winterizing. You know, a yeti suit for cold days.

“Sit with me,” says my father. Two wooden Adirondack chairs are set along the edge of the lawn. I flop down into the chair next to him. My muscles breathe a sigh of relief. “You turned very serious just now. Do you mind if I ask what you were thinking about?”

“Mom—” I cut myself off before I can go on.

My father sits back, chews on my words. “Yes. The other day I pulled away when you mentioned your mother.”

“You don’t … I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about her.” But let’s talk about her. About how much you loved her and how much you still do. Let’s talk about how wonderful and happy she is but a little sad sometimes, too. Let’s talk about how you both get the same look in your eye when the other is brought up.

He stares at the greenhouse. “The truth is: I loved college, America, your mother. That period in my life is difficult to remember. From the beginning of our affair I knew it couldn’t last. Everything was like a beautiful dream. But like all dreams it had to come to an end. Now I treat it as such. Something that was never mine to hold onto.”

I clasp my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. He can’t even entertain the possibility of a relationship with my mom. I can hear it in his voice. The dream is over. Jones likes to quote The Beatles. But then what does that make me? “I’m here, though.” Tangible proof he and my mother existed.

He smiles at me. “You are. And it is a gift. It’s hard to reconcile the two events, you here now and me back then. I hope that makes sense.”

“It does.” In a weird way.

He pats the arm of his chair. “Be patient with me?”

“If you promise to do the same for me,” I say back lightly. We’re in a place where we’re both ready to reach now. We’re so close to taking that leap that leads to a trust-fall that leads to a catch.

“Of course,” he promises. He focuses back on the greenhouse. “Though I don’t think you need it. Mr. Fuchigami reports you did splendid with the mock banquet setting the other day. All eyes will be on you at the wedding and not the bride.” He smiles with pride again, he’s practically breaming with it. I have no desire to dim the lights.

“Yeah,” I agree smiling right back. Then we sit together—him and me and the greenhouse that may or may not, but most likely was built for my mother.

Messages. 12:02 pm.

Me: Someone left a case of Pocari Sweat in the kitchen.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: Is that so?

Me: That is so.

Me: I only wish I could thank them properly.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: If you’d like I could pass along your gratitude.

Me: Thank you.

Me: According to Mariko, etiquette coach extraordinaire (I spelled that right the first time, see very good at spelling), I am socially contractually obligated to owe you a favor or gift of equal or slightly lesser value. So in repayment I’ll share another secret. Ready?

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: Ready.

Me: Here goes. I tell everyone I’m a Gryffindor but I’m really a Hufflepuff. Whew, feels good to get that off my chest.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: Wow. I hope the press never find out.

Me: You’re the only one I’ve ever told.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: I’ll take it to the grave.

Messages. 4:34 pm.

Satan’s Handmaiden *devil emoji* *poop emoji* *poop emoji*: Someone left a tray of dorayaki very noticeably labeled nut free on the kitchen table

Me: Least I could do after the case of Pocari Sweat

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: I suppose I owe you another secret now.

Me: Seems only fair.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: You’ll have to promise to never tell.

Me: My lips are sealed.

Satan’s Handmaiden *devil emoji* *poop emoji* *poop emoji*: All right. For a very long time (almost all of high school actually) I shut every open drawer with a pelvic thrust.

Me: You didn’t? I’m scandalized.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: It was very annoying. My mother hated it.

Me: Like I said mildly outraged.

Messages. 8:00 am.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: Tell me why you don’t think you’re cut out for being a princess.

Me: I don’t know. How can I explain?

Me: I guess I’ve never felt much like a hero, you know?

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: TBH, no. You are the hero of your own story. Everyone is.

ME: OMG. Do you just sit around and practice perfect things to say?

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: Yes. It’s really what all imperial guards do. We have a whole group. We meet on Wednesday evenings and critique each other.

Me: What a gross miscarriage of time.

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: You should hear my buddy Ichiro. He works mostly in haiku.

Me: I want to be Japan’s hero. Is that crazy?

Satan’s Handmaiden 😈💩💩: No. It’s not. It’s admirable.

Messages. 9:17 am.

Me: You should know I’ve officially changed your name in my phone.

Akio: What was it before?

Me: You know what? Forget I said anything. Let’s focus on the future.

Akio: That bad, huh?

Me: Yes. I’m the worst.

Me: Tell me another secret

Akio: …

Me: Need help? What would you be doing if you weren’t a imperial guard?

No response