Prologue and Chapter One

Nobody ever asked about Inspector Nishimoto. Not locals, and especially not tourists. Most of the cops were a plump, friendly bunch, but Nishimoto was, according to Officer Yagami, boring. Plain, but nice. Nice, but not nice enough to warrant visitors. Tamako recalled the last sentence, struggling to form a polite answer.

She folded coral-nailed hands across her desk. It was rare to see a visitor this early, much rarer to hear such a question. What to say, what to say...? She absorbed the man's wrinkles as carefully as he absorbed her curves.

"Inspector Nishimoto says a woman arrived earlier," Tamako explained, "She was small and white, with long black hair and sharp red nails. Quite jolly, with no fear or tension." She clicked her tongue. "Round as a ball, with a funny accent."

"Oh, the accent," the man chuckled.

"She said she was from France, looking for a...wizard?"

The old man sighed before shaking his head.

"Bathilde! I knew she'd find me sooner or later!"

"In this little town?"

The man's eyes hardened.

"You don't know how devoted that woman is to her friends."

XXX

Inspector Nishimoto was a "boring", middle-aged cop with a slight potbelly and large square glasses. He had a lot of black hair, which he combed over slickly to one side of his head. His cheeks were constantly flushed with dark-pink, despite spending most of his days indoors. "Boring" was how the man had been described since the age of five. He claimed he was one-fourth cave-elf to anyone who had the time and boredom to listen. But he was so stiff and hardboiled that when he bumped his head, you half-expected to see the jagged remnants of a porcelain face. Naturally, wherever he went, he grunted and grumbled and demanded the "facts." Naturally, this didn't go over well with the younger officers.

When Officer Yagami walked in, he felt like he was seeing things. His junior officer was a short, slender man with somewhat spiked black hair and a missing incisor. Nishimoto frowned, then took another sip of coffee. He couldn't help but see him as a child sometimes.

"Tamako's engaged," Nishimoto snapped, his voice tight, "So you can stop asking about her."

Officer Yagami laughed.

"Yeah right. Like I'm in her league."

"I'm serious! You've been talking my ear off about the girl, when you should be doing your work!" He leaned forward revealing a silver watch on one wrist. "What is that, a high-fashion catfish?!"

Yagami glanced down at his keychain. Apparently Magikarp wasn't the best choice.

"I'm sorry, Inspector. I'll change it, if you'd like."

"I'm not mad," huffed the Inspector, "I wanted to get one of those for my daughter."

Yagami's eyes brightened.

"You have a daughter?"

"No, I have a neon llama. Yes, I have a daughter, Yagami. Ikue. She's a teenager, so you better stay away from her."

"She's very sweet, but into a lot of...things. She tells me she's in her 'Thai Era', though and has been watching the royals relentlessly."

"Oh! That sounds interesting."

"Princess Achara is an opera singer, and has made that hideous singing cool, it seems."

"It was already cool, Inspector."

The Inspector frowned.

"Don't tell me what's cool. I have two teenagers."

"I'll tell you what's cool-- a good, old-fashioned murder mystery."

The Inspector took a long swig of coffee, then gave the young man a stern look. His hard, lined face and dark blazing eyes made the young officer shudder.

"Be careful what you wish for."

XXX

To be honest with you, I have no idea why Grandma Bathilde invited me to Japan. We haven't spoken in a while— not out of bad blood or anything, but we each have our own lives. She found a man over there, a man whom she practiced magic with. (His name is Hajime? He sounds like a sweetheart.) She's a bit out there— I forgot if she still did the splits or posed for postcards? I hope we can pick flowers together in a lush green field— as we did all those years ago. I don't want a memory out of place.

I write here from my pitiful apartment in Montreal. I've written all my life, from the age of six when I hated the ending of The Sleeping Beauty-- so I wrote my own. (The Prince was stuck marrying Maleficent...what was wrong with me?) And my teacher Mrs. Oxberg joked that writing dangled from me like a parasitic twin. She told my parents, "I don't know what to do with her...she keeps writing fairy-tales during class!"

What a superannuated coxcomb. What a wearisome, clumsy butterfly! I never had many friends, and Oxie certainly didn't help-- reading my stories in front of everyone. I'd go home and cry and sleep until it was dinnertime. Mom felt bad for me and tried to fill my void with books, clothes, and makeup. It was fun. I still have my wish lists from back then.

So, somehow, by the grace of God, I took more and more writing classes-- until I got a degree in journalism. Currently, I'm a freelance journalist for some big publications, so I make decent money— but my father is quite rich. I didn't think history professors made that much, but here we are. So my tastes are funded mostly by them. I like the finer things in life: floral and ivory furniture, opera on the radio, Old Hollywood, and of course men.

I am twenty-six years old and not bad-looking, but, physically, if you were to ask a man my best trait-- it would most likely be my feet. They are smooth and pale, with long elegant toes and I keep the nails short and painted rich, dark tones. If they're not into that, I'm a lost cause; my makeup is fun, but it's been compared to a clown's. My hair is too dark and heavy, so I dye it regularly. I also have this soft rounded tummy that we're not supposed to have. My father is a corpulent gent and wears it well, but I'm a young lady— it's different. So the corset stays on, unfortunately.

Ideally, I want a rich man. A rich man who looks like a fat Gregory Peck. What? Is that too much to ask? I like a full belly— it gets the cavewoman nerves a-firing. I like big, dark-haired men with hairy arms. Older men with crinkled eyes and big rough hands, who know how to treat a girl right. Bonus points if they have some sort of interesting family history.

I have this recurring fantasy of becoming the Princess of some nation. I was always my father's princess, but this is different. I want control. I want luxury. But most of all, I want to laze elegantly.

—from the diary of Pearl Solstice

XXX

Bathilde walked slowly down the street. Her plump arms drooped with heavy suitcases, as she craned her head upward. Her heart never beat so quickly; Japan was fascinating!

Spring fluttered her lashes at the small town. The sky was a warm, rippling blue. A beam of white-gold sunlight glistened through wispy clouds, like the trembling arm of a god. Rosy-cheeked children laughed and chased each other down the street as parents smiled wearily from their gardens. The pink petals of cherry blossoms rode the breeze, filling her nostrils with their light, sweet aroma. Her body felt so light, so refreshed, like she herself was riding a cool breeze across time. A tiny pink petal, only landing on cold, glossy beads of dew, only melting when morning sunlight crept through her heart....

As she walked, her biceps burned. These suitcases were massive, yet it never dawned on her that she packed too much. I might have, she thought, But I've never been here before! I need all that I love! She dropped her bags before an old couple working their garden. They were harvesting vegetables in thick straw baskets, soft brown dirt caking the spaces beneath their fingernails. As Bathilde caught her breath, a round crinkled face filled her gaze.

"Are you lost?" asked the old woman, smiling gently.

Auntie Bathilde flipped through her small dictionary, though she recalled a lot of Japanese. Can never be too right, she thought.

"Maybe," she replied, the word rolling with her heavy French accent, "But I think this is the right place."

The old woman recoiled, as if Bathilde was a demon. She turned to her husband, elbowing his potbelly.

"I can't understand her, Takahiro!" she hissed at him, "You talk to her!"

"Well, if you can't understand her," he yawned, "How would I know?"

"Hmph! I'm done talking to her!"

"Koniiichiwa," Bathilde purred, her French accent drenching the word in wine and butter.

The old couple eyed each other with lifted brows.

"A foreigner," the man said, "I'm impressed! One hasn't come here in years!"

"What brings you here?" the woman asked, "Not many foreigners know of our humble town."

"Especially not foreigners with so much paint on their faces," the old man said, frowning at Bathilde's magenta blush-smeared cheeks.

Auntie Bathilde grinned, revealing a gap between her front teeth. Her face took the old couple aback; white people were a rarity in this area, especially white people with hot-pink powder smothered over oceans of fat cheeks.Two big brown eyes quivered, magnified by thick black cat-eye glasses-- so magnified, they could see spidery false lashes and gold-brown globs of sleep crusting at the corners. She had a long straight nose, where powder filled the tip like a clown's. Her lips were smeared in crimson lipstick, and stiff black hair fell to her waist. The heavy emerald gown with frilly collar seemed impractical anywhere, but especially here, when the sun beat down and you sweat till the wet clothes clung to your body. Her age was impossible to place. Her face and hands were too fleshy for wrinkles, but her manner was almost...childish.

"I'm here to meet an old friend," she replied, dancing around on tiptoe, "I am Beraude Bathilde! B-e-r-a-u-d-e B-a-t-h-i-l-d-e!" She ignored the couple's twisted mouths. "He invited me. I am from France, but I now live on Ko'Trin Island." She clasped her hands together. "I have spent many a year with giants!" She yanked her black hair down, revealing a large, pointed ear. "And elves! See, I am half."

The couple stared at each other. Their eyes glazed with shock, as if to whisper, "She's crazy!"

"Ask her something logical," the old woman demanded.

"What's logical to her, Ayako?!"

The old woman rolled her eyes and asked Bathilde:

"Who's your friend?"

"I cannot speak his name," Bathilde said, "But he is a wizard, and we trained together...years ago." She lifted a red-clawed hand, the plump baby-like fingers adorned with dusty emerald rings. "Have you heard of any wizards, ma bichette?"

The old woman raised an eyebrow. The man turned to her, whispering, "Say Matsuko Deluxe!"

"Oh, why don't you just marry him?!" she snapped, "I see the way you watch him on TV!"

"Pardon?" Bathilde asked, switching back to French.

"Why don't you try the police station?" suggested the old woman, "They know more than we do."

"They're so nice, for cops," the old man added.

"You didn't need to say that," hissed the old woman.

"I'm being honest! Foreigners need the truth!"

"Only their version of it!"

"My daughter will be arriving soon," Bathilde said, "Or, rather, my granddaughter. She is so much like her mother-- such a little lamb!"

"Is she married?" asked the old man, causing his wife to frown.

"No, and she likes it that way."

"Me too," grumbled the old woman, "Do you need any help with those bags?"

Bathilde bowed, dipping her head a little too low-- till it brushed the grass. The old man snorted a hard laugh; his wife elbowed him to stop.

"Domo arigato," Bathilde said, slowly lifting her head, "I think I am going to like this place."

"I-I'm sure you will," the old man said, bowing back.

"Y-Yes," she added, "It's good for...everybody."

Bathilde nodded.

"Ahhh, yes," she purred, "I have arrived at the right time. This...police station!" She giggled. "It's got a ring to it; it must be beautiful."

She snapped her fingers, and a flame flickered out. The couple jumped.

"Aie! I swore I wouldn't do any witchcraft around you! But the police station...is it nice?"

The old man smirked.

"Of course. There's a mystical portal that leads to a realm of dragons."

"Really?"

The old man laughed and his wife slapped him.

"Takahiro! That's not funny!"

The woman turned to speak to Bathilde, but the witch was already gone, wandering an ancient land that she never imagined seeing.