After her initial passionate prayer of thanks for the strength to conquer her vast disappointment, she stayed on her knees, the hassock comfortable, and, protected by her veil, watched wide-eyed to see what would happen. This was the first Protestant service she had witnessed.

There was not as much reverence as in her own church but it was packed, braziers spotted here and there against the damp, and everyone mobile was in attendance. The stained-glass windows were rich, the altar and trappings throughout more stark than she was prepared for.

Others would have stopped to greet or to nod, filled with degrees of delight or bewilderment, ready to sit beside her. But they did not, again not wishing to interrupt. Gornt chose an opposite pew.

So she was left alone and soon the service began. First hymn and she imitated the others, standing when they stood, sitting when they sat, praying when they prayed but always to the Blessed Mother, listened to the sermon that the Reverend Tweet stuttered, completely undone by her presence. More hymns and chanting and the plate, an embarrassed moment as she fumbled for a few coins, another hymn and the blessing and then it was over to an audible, well-earned relief.

The congregation stood as the vicar went into the vestry preceded by an ancient altar boy. Most began to shuffle toward the exit, palates ready for the traditional Sunday lunch, the best meal of the week: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes for the lucky ones who could afford a joint from the last shipment of ice-frozen Australian beef.

A few remained for a final prayer. Hers was for forgiveness that she had come to this church but she was confident that God would understand it was only a momentary, necessary protest to Father Leo. All eyes watched her as they filed out. Then she joined the last of them, nodding and saying "'Morning," to murmured greetings.

The vicar stood just outside the door, greeting some, glowering at others. When she came up he became both seraphic and stuttering, "Oh, my, Miss Ang... oh Madame, how wonderful to see you, welcome to Holy Trinity, may we see more of you... if there's anything I can explain... Oh! No? Well I hope you enjoyed, well please, please come again, wonderful to see you, you're welcome..."

"Thank you, Reverend," she said, bobbed a quick curtsey, hastily walked up the path and onto the promenade.

Sir William was waiting for her, Babcott with him, muffled like everyone against the gusts. "Glad to see you up and about," Sir William said sincerely, "particularly here. We're rather proud of Holy Trinity and you're very welcome, very, and we're all happy you're here. The Vicar was a bit off today, sorry about that, he's usually quite good and not too much fire and brimstone. Did you enjoy the service?"

"It was so different, Sir William," she said. "To worship in English and not Latin was exotic."

"Yes, I suppose it was. May we walk with you?"

"Please." They set off briskly, exchanging pleasantries and genial questions, avoiding the issue central to their mind with: the weather's shocking, isn't it? the football match yesterday afternoon was grand--may we escort you next week; have you seen the latest papers, or heard the Yokohama Players were putting on a performance of Romeo and Juliet--Mrs.Lunkchurch has kindly consented to play the starring role against Mrs. Grimm's Romeo. "Have you ever been on the boards, have you performed, Ma'am?" "Only children's Nativity plays in the convent," she said. "And not very well... oh!"

A gust had seized Sir William's top hat and sent it twirling, Babcott just managed to hold on to his, she was not quick enough and hers went sailing away with hats all along the promenade to curses, wails, cheers and laughter. She joined the melee and scurried after hers, but Babcott retrieved it just before it went rolling down onto the beach, Sir William's was stopped by Phillip Tyrer who hurriedly handed it to him then charged after his own.

"My best beaver," Sir William said sourly, brushing off mud that looked suspiciously like manure. Her hat was undamaged and, smiling, she put it back on firmly, adjusted her hat pin. "Thank you, George, I thought it was going for a swim."

"So did I. Can we entertain you at lunch?"

"Thank you but no, I'm staying indoors today."

Soon they were at the Struan gateway. Both men kissed her hand and she disappeared inside.

"Lovely lady, good sort, good sport,"

Sir William said.

"Yes." Babcott was frowning, looking out to sea.

Sir William followed his intent look.

Nothing amiss in the bay that he could see.

"What's up?"

"Her period's begun."

"Christ Almighty, you've examined her? Or Hoag, why the devil didn't you tell me?"

"We haven't examined her. I just know, that's all."

"Eh? How d'you th--" he stopped as MacStruan and Dmitri went by, "'morning, 'morning to you," he said impatiently, then took Babcott by the arm and started him down the street to the Legation, "How d'you know? Eh?"

"I'm a doctor for God's sake. I saw her yesterday and today when I saw her without the veil it leapt into my head. Her face was a little puffy and when she ran after her hat I noticed she ran awkwardly."

"Damned if I did! God Almighty!

You're sure?"

"No, but a hundred guineas says so against a farthing."

Sir William frowned. "Will Hoag know just by looking at her too?"

"I can't say."

"In that case don't tell him."

"Why on earth not?"

"Let's leave it private between us, that's best." Then Sir William said kindly, "Let's leave Angelique to play her cards as she wants. It is her game, hers and Tess Struan's, not ours. It's ours no longer."

Four Bakufu Enforcers, including a sergeant, stomped through the Yoshiwara gateway.

They were like any other patrol of samurai except the men were tougher, meaner and more alert. It was early afternoon. In spite of the weather, the traditional, leisurely procession of courtesans, trailing maids, paraded up and down, showing off their finery one to another and to the groups of gai-jin gawking and drinking at the caf`es and Teahouse, laughing as the wind sent a few decorative umbrellas sailing.

From time to time one of the Enforcers would stalk up to the doorman of an Inn, or patron of a Teahouse, or restaurant maid. At once the person would bow and grovel and say, "No Sire, the traitor Hiraga has not been seen, oh no Sire, thank you Sire, yes at once Sire, no I don't know him, Sire."

Almost all of them knew where he was but kept their peace, hating Enforcers, knowing, also, no reward was big enough to prevent shishi vengeance, or Floating World disgust, at a betrayal. In their world, secrets were the spice and currency of life, adding to the day's excitement.

The patrol's progress seemed to be haphazard. Then the Sergeant changed direction, turned into the alley of the Three Carp and hammered on the door in the fence.

Hiraga was trapped. Whenever patrols were in the vicinity, lookouts alerted him in good time to flee to his underground hideaway in the tunnel where he now had a rough bed, candles, matches, food, his swords and pistol, and Katsumata's explosives. Today when the alarm reached him, Hiraga discovered other samurai searching that garden so there was no chance to reach the well.

In panic, he had rushed for the kitchen area and had barely enough time to assume a disguise, secreted there, that Katsumata had given him as, a few metres away, masked by a hedge, the Sergeant shoved past the bowing doorman, kicked off his sandals and stomped onto the veranda of the main house.

Unaware Hiraga was above ground and so near, Raiko came out to greet the Sergeant, knelt and bowed, her face all charm, her insides fluttering for this was the third day of searches--too many for comfort. "Good afternoon, Sire, so sorry the ladies are resting and not ready to receive clients."