rA teahouse filled with men and geisha. A shamisen starts playing. The light shows a figure, her patterned kimono shimmering under the lantern. Her dark hair is decorated with jade ornaments. Her face is white, startlingly so, with the bloodred gash of demon lips centering it.
She is the entertainer.
With fans in her hands, she starts to dance. In the dim light she dances the memories of her life. The pluck of a string. Being taken from her village. Losing her family. The clash of cymbals. Repaying debt. Geisha school. The beat of a drum. Selling her mizuage. Forbidden love. She glances at the okiya mistress, who has brought so much pain. But make-up shows no feelings.
And she is the entertainer.
She sees the other geisha pouring sake, smiling as she feels the empty vial in her obi. She twirls expertly, fanning the lust and envy in the room.
Building higher and higher with the crescendo of the music, her audience cheers encouragement, which suddenly turns to ragged gasps and chokes.
“What fools these mortals be.” Her whisper sounds like a shout in the dead dead room.
The entertainer smiles, and prepares for her next audience.
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