Her eyes could hardly make out Sir William through her sorrow and gratitude.

"Henri told me about Andr`e's disease. Poor man, how terrible, and terrible to be so much in love, he was, you know, utterly. Andr`e was kind to me and, and to be truthful," she said, needing to say the truth aloud, "he was awful too but a friend. He was just madly in love with his Hinodeh, nothing else in the world mattered so he should be excused. Did you ever see her?"

"No, no never did, didn't even know her name." In spite of a resolve to leave well alone he said, "Why was he awful?"

She used a handkerchief to dry her tears, her voice sad and without anger. "Andr`e knew about my father and my uncle and, and used it and other things to, to put me in his debt and kept asking me for money which I didn't have, making wild promises and, to be honest, threats." Searchingly she looked at him, no guile in her now, open and so thankful to God and the Blessed Virgin for releasing her and him, the past consumed with him, and all the filth. "It was the Will of God," she said fervently. "I'm glad and sorry. Why can't we forget the bad and only remember the good-- there's enough bad in this world to make up for our forgetting, don't you think?"

"Yes, there is," he said with untoward compassion, his eyes straying to Vertinskya's miniature. "Oh yes."

This rare show of emotion in him triggered something in her and before she knew it she was telling her innermost fear: "You're wise and I have to tell someone, I feel cleansed like never before but it's my Malcolm that worries me, it's just that I've nothing left of him, no name, no daguerreotype--it never came out--no portrait, and I can't seem to find his features. Every day it seems a little worse.

"I'm frightened," she said, tears in flood, silently, sitting there in front of him, him powerless to move, "It's almost as though he's never been and this whole journey and time in Yokohama is like a... a Theatre Macabre.

I'm married but not, accused of awful things that never happened or were never meant or never intended, innocent but not, I'm hated by Tess when I only wanted to do the best I could for my Malcolm, oh yes I knew he was vastly eligible and my father not, and me not, I suppose not, but I didn't do anything to hurt him, he loved me and wanted to marry me and I tried my best, I swear I did, and now that he's dead I'm trying so hard to be sensible, I'm alone and he's gone and I have to think of the future, I'm frightened, I was a child when I arrived, now I'm different, it's all too fast, and the worst is I can't remember his face, it's slipping away and there's nothing.... Poor Malcolm."

In the twilight, on the edge of No Man's Land and in the lee of a half completed village house, a shadow moved. Then another. Two men were lurking in hiding, waiting. Somewhere amid the temporary village of lean-tos and shelters and partially built huts, and subdued chattering, a child began to cry to be quickly hushed.

Where once No Man's Land had been a series of hills and valleys of garbage and castaway junk, most had been consumed, the rest settled deeper into the earth, and over all, a thick mat of ash and threads of smoke. Only the brick well head was prominent. The first shadow became Phillip Tyrer and he rushed for the well head, keeping low, and ducked down beside it.

Cautiously he examined the surroundings. As far as he could tell he had not been seen. Across the way, Drunk Town was just smoking rubble and twisted remains, a few isolated fires still smoldering, temporary lean-tos, tarpaulin or canvas shelters. A few men about, quarrelsome, most of them hunched against the cold on upturned kegs, drinking looted beer and spirits.

Phillip carefully leaned over the edge of the well and whistled. From below there was an answering whistle. He ducked down again, stifled a nervous yawn. In a moment a hand reached the top bricks. Hiraga's head appeared. Phillip beckoned him. Silently Hiraga squatted beside him, then Akimoto. Both wore padded jackets and kimonos over loose pants and carried their swords camouflaged with spare clothing. Warily they ducked down as three men on the Drunk Town side began crossing near where the alley had been and went down it, picking their way over the remains of the godown.

One was singing a sea chanty. Long after they had disappeared his rolling baritone came up on the wind.

"Follow, but be careful!" Tyrer ran back to the village shadows and stopped beside the other man in the lee of the half-finished dwelling. Jamie McFay. When it was safe, Hiraga and Akimoto joined them, moving much more lithely, silently.

Jamie McFay said, "Here, quick." He opened the sack and handed them rough seaman's clothes and woolen balaclavas and shoes. They stripped and dressed and put their own clothes into the sack which Akimoto slung on his back. Tyrer saw Hiraga slip a derringer into a side pocket.

It had taken barely a minute or two.

Jamie led the way along where the village main street had once been--and would soon be again. They could feel eyes everywhere. Above them the moon came out of the cloud briefly. Automatically Hiraga and Akimoto froze into shadows, both men ready to go for their weapons, mentally cursing the inept carelessness of the other two. The moon vanished, and they went on.

The shoya's dwelling was three-quarters rebuilt, the shop front empty but the living quarters behind were temporarily finished and livable.

Jamie eased through a pile of beams and shojis and knocked on a makeshift door. It opened and he went in. The others followed into darkness. The door closed.

In a moment a match struck and the wick of the candle caught. The shoya was alone, grey with fatigue and a fear he tried hard to hide. On the low table were flasks of sak`e, and a little food.

Hiraga and Akimoto wolfed the food and emptied two of the flasks in seconds. "Thank you, shoya," Hiraga said. "I will not forget you."

"Here, Otami-sama." The shoya gave him a small bag containing coins. "Here are a hundred gold oban and twenty Mex."

A brush was on the table, the ink tablet prepared beside the paper. Hiraga signed the receipt.

"What about my cousin?"

"So sorry, this was all I could get so quickly," the shoya said with a sidelong glance at Jamie the others missed.

"Never mind." Hiraga did not believe him but then Akimoto had no credit, nor anyone to repay the loan as he did.

"Thank you. And please see my guarantor gets this safely." He gave him a small scroll. It was a painstakingly coded farewell note to his mother and father, telling them his plan, and giving them news about Sumomo. For safety it contained no real names. In English he said, "Taira-sama, ready. Here finish."

"Ready, Jamie?" Tyrer asked, feeling peculiar, nauseous, not knowing if it was caused by excitement or fright, tiredness or despair.

Since the fire, every few minutes Fujiko's face would weld up from his subconscious, screaming and in flames. "Best hurry, Otami-sama," he said to Hiraga. Both had agreed never to use Hiraga or Nakama again.

"Pull your cap more over your face. Domo, shoya, mataneh." Thank you, shoya, good night.

He went out on to the street again. When it was safe he signalled the others. "You lead, Jamie," he whispered. In sudden panic they slid into the shadows as a Grenadier patrol approached and passed by. Breathing once more Tyrer muttered, "They're on the watch for looters, thieves, wakarimasu ka?"

"Wakarimasu."

Once more Jamie hurried ahead, turned and twisted through the rubble towards the jetty on the other side of the promenade, near the site where the Guardian building had stood. Many men were wandering about, gawking at the damage to the village and Yoshiwara and Drunk Town, or just numb, too early to sleep yet. Recognizing some of them, he slowed his pace, not wanting to attract attention. Dmitri was amongst them, heading homewards, and he smiled wryly. This morning Dmitri, beaming, had sought him out to say he had found Nemi in the early hours and that she was all right, just a few bruises and hardly touched.