Ichijo shook his head, dazed. The nobles exchanged horrified glances. Belatedly, Sano looked to see Jokyōden’s reaction. Her expression was calm.

As if no interruption had occurred, Asagao continued, “The left minister and I met whenever we could.” She gave Sano a strained, pleading smile. “But then I found out he seduced me because he wanted to separate me from the emperor. He was going to say that I was the one who seduced him, so Tomo-chan would get jealous and drop me. The left minister’s youngest daughter is Tomo-chan’s second favorite lady. She would have been promoted to chief consort. The left minister was Tomo-chan’s idol; Tomo-chan would have forgiven him for making love to me. He would have ended up with even more power over the court. But I didn’t want to give up my position. I couldn’t let the left minister tell anyone about us. So I killed him.”

This scenario gave Asagao a stronger motive for murder than the quarrel over money that she’d mentioned to Reiko. But Sano realized that an affair between Asagao and Konoe also cast stronger suspicion in other directions.

“Who knew about this affair?” Sano asked.

“Only the left minister’s personal attendants. They carried messages between us and arranged our meetings.”

The nobles whispered among themselves. Sano eyed Emperor Tomohito, who’d stopped weeping and sat with his head half-turned, listening to the conversation. Maybe his shock at the news of his consort’s infidelity was just an act. What if he’d already known that Konoe had seduced Asagao? Jealous temper could have spurred him to murder. Yet Sano could think of someone else besides Asagao who would have suffered if Konoe made the affair public. Someone besides Emperor Tomohito who might have lashed out at Konoe.

Sano contemplated Right Minister Ichijo. Before Konoe died, Ichijo had been the second highest imperial official. Had the two men been rivals? If Konoe had intended to attack Ichijo by ousting Asagao, then his death would have preserved Ichijo’s status. And after the murder, Ichijo had become the top court official. The affair and resulting scandal would have hurt him more than Lady Jokyōden, whose position in the court didn’t depend on her son’s choice of consort, or Prince Momozono, who had no part in imperial politics.

The right minister met Sano’s gaze. Sudden wariness sharpened his aspect, as if he sensed a threat. Sano knew that Ichijo wasn’t a suspect; Yoriki Hoshina’s report had placed him at home, in the presence of his family and attendants, at the time of the murder. Just the same, Sano wondered whether Ichijo merited investigation.

“How did you know that Left Minister Konoe meant to betray you?” Sano asked Asagao.

“I overheard his attendants talking,” she said. “They praised him for the cleverness of his plan and laughed at me for being stupid enough to fall for it.”

Sano heard a rising inflection at the end of her sentences, as though she wanted him to verify their accuracy. “Tell me what happened the night Left Minister Konoe died,” he said.

“It was soon after I found out what the left minister was doing to me. I got a message from him, asking me to go to the Pond Garden at midnight. I saw my chance to get rid of him before he could ruin me. So I went to the garden early and waited for him. When he came, I followed him to the cottage.” Asagao had begun speaking faster and faster as she went along; now she ended in a rush: “Then I killed him. I heard people coming, and I was in such a hurry to get away that I accidentally stepped in his blood.”

Her story had a convincing logic that established Asagao’s motive for the crime and opportunity to kill Konoe; it explained the bloodstained clothes, her lack of an alibi, and why Konoe had gone to the garden after ordering the palace residents to stay away. However, questions remained in Sano’s mind.

“If you didn’t want the emperor to find out about your affair with Left Minister Konoe, then why are you admitting to it now?” Sano said. “Why are you so eager to confess to murder, when the penalty is death?”

“Because murder is wrong. I’m sorry for what I did. To purify my spirit, I must pay for my crime.” Again, that tentative, questioning note inflected Asagao’s voice.

“Yesterday you told my wife you were glad the left minister died,” Sano reminded her.

Asagao shifted uncomfortably. “I changed my mind.”

“I see.” Sano paused, thinking that if her story was a lie, it was a better one than he could imagine Asagao inventing by herself. “Was it your idea to confess?”

“Yes. Of course.” The emperor’s consort nodded vigorously, while everyone watched, alert and tense.

“Then no one told you what to say?”

“No. Nobody did,” Asagao said, looking away from Sano, then back again.

“You’re not trying to protect someone by taking the blame for the murder?” Sano looked around the room at Ichijo, Jokyōden, and Tomohito.

“I resent your implication that I would have my daughter sacrifice herself to protect me,” Ichijo said with haughty indignation. “I am not a murderer. Neither is she. That she says these things can only mean she has gone mad.”

“I haven’t gone mad!” Turning on her father with a vehemence that made him draw back from her, Asagao insisted, “I’m telling the truth. I killed the left minister.”

“There’s one way to settle the matter,” Sano said. “Lady Asagao, I order you to demonstrate the spirit cry for me.”

There was a moment of stunned quiet. Sano heard silk garments rustle with small, involuntary movements, and saw consternation on the faces around him.

Then Ichijo said scornfully, “This is ridiculous. My daughter isn’t capable of any such thing.”

“Since you obviously doubt that she killed the left minister, it is unnecessary and cruel to encourage her sick fantasies,” Lady Jokyōden reproached Sano.

But expectancy charged the atmosphere in the room. Emperor Tomohito fixed his consort with a curious, fearful gaze. Interest animated the guards’ usually stoic faces. Under everyone’s scrutiny, Lady Asagao shrank into herself.

“Well, Your Highness?” Sano said. “I’m waiting.”

“But I might hurt someone,” Asagao protested weakly.

Sano rose, walked across the room, and slid open a wall panel. Outside, in the lush green garden, blackbirds perched on a fence. “You needn’t use the full force of kiai. Just knock those birds unconscious.”

Asagao squirmed, looking frightened. “It won’t work. Not with everyone watching.”

“You can’t utter a spirit cry, can you?” Sano said, closing the wall panel. “Not now; not ever. And you didn’t on the night Left Minister Konoe died.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Ichijo said, his voice sharpened by desperation. “Tell the truth, daughter, before it’s too late!”

She said defiantly, “I admit I killed the left minister. Isn’t that enough?”

It was enough to convict her, because a confession was legal proof of guilt, and Sano was duty-bound to observe the law whether or not he believed she’d committed any crime. With great reluctance, he said, “If you stand by your confession, then I must arrest you.”

He nodded to the soldiers, who advanced on Lady Asagao.

“No!” The harsh objection burst from Ichijo, while Jokyōden and the nobles stared, aghast.

Emperor Tomohito leapt to his feet and off the dais. He stood, arms spread, between the soldiers and Lady Asagao. “You stay away from her!” Though he’d repudiated his consort, he apparently didn’t want to give her up.

“Please stand aside, Your Majesty,” Sano said, dreading a scene.

“I won’t. You can’t have her. You’ll have to kill me first!” Childish rage contorted Tomohito’s face.

The soldiers looked to Sano for guidance. He walked over and reached out a hand to the emperor.

“It’s the law, Your Majesty. She chose to confess. Now she must go.”

He hadn’t touched Emperor Tomohito, but the young man sprang away as if Sano had struck him, yelling, “How dare you try to lay hands on me?” He stumbled backward and fell on his buttocks.