Noami bowed, and Akitada escaped the studio to the raucous cries of the crow.

On the whole it had been one of the most unpleasant afternoons Akitada had spent in a long time. By comparison even home with his dying mother seemed preferable. Tired and footsore from walking, chilled to the bone, and irritated by his encounter with the eccentric artist, he took a shortcut through the Imperial City. The tall halls and groves of pines were some protection from the icy wind which whistled down the thoroughfares of the capital, and he was safe enough from acquaintances. At this time of day the bureaucrats were busily planning and wielding their brushes inside their offices.

When he entered his half of the city, he found himself on Konoe again, but this time near the eastern prison. It was as good a way as any to take home and, miserably aware that his feet were so cold that they had lost all feeling and that his legs hurt abominably, he reflected that he was no longer used to walking such distances.

There were more people about here. The prison gate, its flags snapping in the wind, was guarded by red-coated constables who jogged steadily back and forth to keep warm. Other constables, city clerks, and ordinary men passed in and out. The problem of Nagaoka’s brother nagged at him again and he promised himself to look into it as soon as his family was safely home. Perhaps some news from them was waiting for him even now. He sped up a little. Ahead a woman walked in the same direction, her head wrapped in a large kerchief against the cold, and a basket over her arm. He wondered idly if she had come from the prison, perhaps a constable’s wife who had taken her husband his dinner. For a moment there was something oddly familiar about the way she moved and held her head, then she disappeared around a corner.

He thought of Tamako and Yori in this cold weather, wishing that he might find them waiting for him at home, hoping that there would be at least some message by now, and limped homeward at a steady pace.

Saburo let him in, crushing his hopes quickly. They had not come and there was no news. Sick with worry, Akitada cursed under his breath and staggered to the house. Saburo watched his master’s stumbling progress across the courtyard with open-mouthed concern.

“I’m home,” Akitada called out, sitting down in the entry to ease his swollen feet from the boots.

Yoshiko appeared behind him. She was in her outdoor clothes and folded a scarf into a basket. “Welcome, Brother,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

Akitada looked up at her and smiled in spite of his disappointment. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold air and she looked like the little sister of the past. “A bit, but mostly cold and footsore,” he said. “I have been all the way to the other end of the city to buy Tamako a painting.” He held up the scroll, then glanced at her basket. “Have you been out, too?”

“Yes. Just to the market for some things for supper. Let me check on Mother first and then we can have some tea in your room and you can show me the picture.” She padded off softly on stockinged feet.

Akitada stood up himself, groaned, rubbed his icy ears, and hobbled toward his room, wondering why his sister had claimed to have come from the market when her basket was empty.

EIGHT

Temple Bells

In his room, neatly folded on his cushion, Akitada found an elegant court robe. He unfolded it reverently, marveling at the tiny stitches with which his sister had sewn together the panels of rich silk. Now he was ready for the summons from the palace, whenever it would arrive, and would not have to be ashamed before arrogant youngsters like the secretary in the controller’s office. He took off his quilted outdoor robe and slipped into the new garment. It fit comfortably, and he was looking for a sash to wind around his waist when Yoshiko came in.

“Well?” she asked. “Do you like it? You look absolutely wonderful! Not even the chancellor will make a greater figure than you. I cannot wait to see you walking in the official procession to present New Year’s wishes to His Majesty.”

His pleasure and her words momentarily wiped all doubts from his mind. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, choking a little with emotion. “It is beautifully sewn and must have taken you many long, weary hours. I am afraid it was too much for you, when you already have Mother to take care of.”

She came closer, smiling, and gave his robe a little tuck here and there. “A sash,” she muttered, “it needs a sash, and I think I know just the fabric. The train of Father’s court robe is just the right shade of silver gray. It will look well with this dark blue.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Nothing of my father’s.” Seeing her startled eyes, he added lamely, “You can hardly mutilate his best robe. What would Mother say?”

“Nonsense! It is already damaged by mildew. You cannot waste things for sentimental reasons. And Mother won’t know. I have made up my mind that we must decide our future from now on. You and I have endured far too long the will of parents who cared nothing for our happiness.”

“Yoshiko!” Akitada stared down at his sister slack-jawed and shocked to the core. She, a woman and the youngest member of the family, had just rebelled against centuries of Confucian laws fixing immutably the duties of children toward their parents, and, for the first time in his hearing, voiced an outright criticism of their parents. Suddenly she seemed a stranger to him. What had happened to change her so?

“Well?” she demanded, her chin pushed out stubbornly. “Am I wrong? Has either of them ever demonstrated any love or care for either of us? Our father threw you out of the house, and Mother forbade me to get married because she wished to keep me around as a cheap bond maid. It is a credit to you that you have succeeded anyway. As for me”—she turned away abruptly and her voice broke—”any hope of happiness has come too late.”

His heart contracted at her despair. He put both hands on her shoulders to turn her toward him. “It is not too late. You shall have a fine dower and I will do my utmost to find a good husband for you. You will see, in another year you, too, may look forward to your first child.”

“You are very kind, Akitada.” It was no more than a breath; then she moved away from him, saying brightly, “Now tell me about your day and show me Tamako’s picture!”

He went to unroll the painting.

Yoshiko clapped her hands. “Oh, Akitada! It is charming. The little boy is adorable! Just so must Yori look, I think. We must get your son a puppy.”

“Yori is a little younger, but he is big for his age.” Akitada narrowed his eyes and made mental comparisons. “He has finer features, I think, and larger eyes. And his hair is quite thick so that the braids over his ears stick out more. But he has the same sturdy arms and legs—” He broke off. She looked at him, questioning, and he told her, “I am so worried that there has been no news from them that I can hardly think of anything else. Tomorrow I ride back to see what has become of them.”

“Oh, but Akitada,” cried his sister. “What if… ?” She paused, her eyes large with concern.

He misunderstood and said impatiently, “Mother has repeatedly refused to see me. She can hardly expect me to sit around at her door like those cursed monks. And if she should take it into her head to die while I am gone, it cannot be helped.”

“Yes, of course. I was thinking of the palace. What if they send for you?”

Her worried face made him smile. “I shall only be gone a day or so. Make my apologies and claim an urgent message has called me away.”

The next day was cold and overcast, but the post horse was fresh and Akitada, warmly dressed in a thickly padded hunting robe and lined boots, set out at a smart pace.