‘What did he say?’ Uzaemon’s mouth is dry. ‘Is she… is Miss Aibagawa well?’

‘She is alive, but he spoke about cruelties committed by the Order against the Sisters. He said that if these cruelties were widely known, not even the Lord Abbot’s connections in Edo could defend the Shrine. That was the acolyte’s plan – to go to Nagasaki and denounce the Order of Mount Shiranui to the Magistrate and to his court.’

Someone sweeps snow in the Courtyard with a stiff-bristled broom.

Uzaemon is cold, despite the fire. ‘Where is this defector?’

‘I buried him the next day between two cherry trees in my garden.’

Something scurries at the corners of Uzaemon’s vision. ‘How did he die?’

‘There exists a family of poisons that, once ingested, remain in the body, harmlessly, so long as an antidote is taken daily. But without that antidote, the poison will kill its host. This would be my best guess…’

‘So the acolyte was doomed from the moment he left?’

Down the corridor, Uzaemon’s mother is scolding her maid.

‘Did the acolyte speak about his Order’s practices before he died?’

‘No,’ Otane tilts her old head closer, ‘but he wrote its creeds on a scroll.’

‘These creeds are the same “cruelties” endured by the Sisters?’

‘I am an old woman of peasant stock, Interpreter. I cannot read.’

‘This scroll.’ His voice, too, is a whisper. ‘Is it… is it in Nagasaki?’

Otane stares at him like Time itself, made human. From her sleeve, she withdraws a dogwood scroll-tube.

‘Are the Sisters,’ Uzaemon makes himself ask, ‘obliged to lie with the men? Is this the – the cruelty that the acolyte spoke of?’

His mother’s sure footsteps approach along the creaking corridor.

‘I have grounds to fear,’ Otane hands the scroll-tube to Uzaemon, ‘that the truth is worse.’

Uzaemon hides the dogwood tube in his sleeve just as the door opens.

‘But excuse me!’ His mother appears in the doorway. ‘I had no inkling you had company. Shall your…’ she pauses ‘… your guest be staying for dinner?’

Otane bows very low. ‘Such generosity far exceeds what an old grandmother deserves. Thank you, madam, but I must not impose upon your household’s charity a minute longer…’

XIX The House of Sisters, Mount Shiranui Shrine

Sunrise on the Ninth Day of the Twelfth Month

Sweeping the Cloisters is a vexing chore this afternoon: no sooner is a pile of leaves and pine-needles gathered than the wind kicks it away again. Clouds unravel on Bare Peak and spill icy drizzle. Orito removes bird lime from the boards with a scrap of sacking. Today is the ninety-fifth day of her captivity: for thirteen days she has turned away from Suzaku and the Abbess and tipped her Solace into her sleeve. For four or five days she suffered from cramps and fever, but now her mind is her own again: the rats no longer speak and the House’s tricks have dwindled away. Her victory is limited, however: she has not won permission to explore the Precincts, and although she escaped another Engiftment Day, a Newest Sister’s chances of being so lucky a fourth time are meagre and a fifth escape would be unprecedented.

Umegae approaches in her lacquered sandals, click-clack, click-clack.

She shan’t be able to resist, Orito predicts, making a stupid joke.

‘So diligent, Newest Sister! Were you born with a broom in your hand?’

No reply is expected, none is given, and Umegae walks on to the Kitchen. Her jibe reminds Orito of her father praising Dejima’s cleanliness, in contrast to the Chinese factory where rubbish is left to rot and rats. She wonders if Marinus misses her. She wonders if a girl from the House of Wistaria is warming Jacob de Zoet’s bed and admiring his exotic eyes. She wonders if de Zoet even thinks of her now, except when he needs his lost dictionary.

She wonders the same thing about Ogawa Uzaemon.

De Zoet shall leave Japan never knowing she had chosen to accept him.

Self-pity, Orito reminds herself yet again, is a noose dangling from a rafter.

The gatekeeper shouts, ‘The gates are opening, Sisters!’

Two acolytes push in a cart loaded with logs and kindling.

Just as the gate closes, Orito notices a cat slip through. It is bright grey, like the moon on blurred evenings, and it swerves across the courtyard. A squirrel runs up the old pine, but the moon-grey cat knows that two-legged creatures offer better pickings than four, and it leaps on to the Cloisters to try its luck with Orito. ‘I never saw you here before,’ the woman tells the animal.

The cat looks at her and miaows, Feed me, for I am beautiful.

Orito proffers a dried pilchard between finger and thumb.

The moon-grey cat inspects the fish indifferently.

‘Someone carried this fish,’ scolds Orito, ‘all the way up this mountain.’

The cat takes the fish, jumps to the ground and goes beneath the walkway.

Orito lowers herself on to the Courtyard, but the cat has gone.

She sees a narrow rectangular hole in the foundations of the House…

… and a voice on the walkway asks, ‘Has the Newest Sister lost anything?’

Guiltily, Orito looks up to see the housekeeper carrying a pile of robes. ‘A cat pleaded for a scrap of food, then slunk away when he got what he wanted.’

‘Must be a tom.’ The housekeeper is doubled over by a sneeze.

Orito helps her pick up the laundry and carry it to the Linen Room. The Newest Sister feels some sympathy towards Housekeeper Satsuki. The Abbess’s rank is clear – below the masters, above the acolytes – but Housekeeper Satsuki shoulders more duties than she enjoys privileges. By the logic of the World Below, her lack of disfigurements and freedom from Engiftment make her position an enviable one, but the House of Sisters has its own logic, and Umegae and Hashihime contrive a dozen means a day to remind the housekeeper that her post exists for their convenience. She rises early, retires late and is excluded from many of the Sisters’ shared intimacies. Orito notices how red are the housekeeper’s eyes, and how poor her colour. ‘Pardon my asking,’ says the doctor’s daughter. ‘But are you unwell?’

‘My health, Sister? My health is… satisfactory, thank you.’

Orito is sure the housekeeper is concealing something.

‘Truly, Sister, I’m well enough: the mountain winters slow me, a little…’

‘How many years have you spent on Mount Shiranui, Housekeeper?’

‘This will be my fifth,’ she seems happy to talk, ‘in the Shrine’s service.’

‘Sister Yayoi told me you’re from a large island in Satsuma Domain.’

‘Oh, it’s a little-known place, a full day’s sail from Kagoshima Port, called Yakushima. Nobody’s heard of it. A few island men serve the Lord of Satsuma as foot-soldiers – they bring back stories they spend their lives embroidering, but otherwise very few islanders ever leave. The interior is mountainous and trackless. Only cautious woodsmen, foolish hunters or wayward pilgrims venture there. The island’s kami gods aren’t used to humans. There is just one notable shrine, halfway up Miura Mountain, two days’ journey from the port, with a small monastery, smaller than Shiranui Shrine.’

Minori passes the Linen Room’s doorway, blowing into her hands.

‘How did you come,’ Orito asks, ‘to be appointed housekeeper here?’

Yûgiri passes in the other direction, swinging a bucket.

The housekeeper unfolds a sheet to fold again. ‘Master Byakko visited Yakushima on a pilgrimage. My father, a fifth son of a lesser family of the Miyake clan, was a samurai in name only – he was a rice and millet merchant, and owned a fishing boat. As he supplied the Miura monastery with rice, he offered to guide Master Byakko up the mountain. I went to carry and cook; we Yakushima girls are bred sturdy.’ The housekeeper risks a rare, shy smile. ‘On the return journey, Master Byakko told my father that the small nunnery attached to Mount Shiranui required a housekeeper who wasn’t afraid of hard work. Father jumped at the chance: I was one of four daughters, and the master’s offer meant one less dowry to find.’