He had a long wait, which he passed in morose thought, staring down at six shaven heads and thinking of the mountain temple; the murder; the painter Noami, once a monk himself; the hell screen; and finally of his gift for Tamako. The last thought cheered him, for presenting the scroll of boy and puppies reminded him that he would soon be alone with his wife. They would have a chance to talk, make plans for the future, touch hands, and then perhaps make love.
When Tamako emerged from his mother’s room, her face drawn with distress, she was surprised to find her husband smiling at her happily, his hands extended eagerly.
“Finally,” he cried. “Come, let us go to my room. I have missed you dreadfully.”
One of the monks choked over a line, causing the chant to disintegrate and falter into silence. Six pairs of reproachful eyes were raised to Akitada. Then the oldest monk nearest the door cleared his throat and raised a hand. At his signal, they all picked up the chant again and continued.
Tamako took Akitada’s extended hand and drew him away quickly. “She is dying,” she murmured, partly in reproach and partly to express her own sadness. When they had put some distance between themselves and the monks, she added, “It cannot be long now. But she knew me, and she raised a hand to caress Yori. Only she was too weak even for that. Oh, Akitada! We returned barely in time.”
Akitada looked into his wife’s tear-filled eyes and marveled at her grief for a woman she had barely known. He knew his mother to be undeserving of such kindness. “I returned too soon,” he said harshly. “If I had taken my time, it would have saved me the knowledge that my own mother hated me enough to drive me from her presence with curses.”
“Oh, Akitada!” Tamako looked deeply distressed. “You did not tell me.”
He turned away and started walking toward his room. “I did not mean to poison your mind, too,” he said. “I stay away from her, waiting for the end, hoping it will come soon and release all of us so we can begin to live our lives like everyone else.”
He opened the door to his room. It was cold. No one had thought to bring a brazier or hot water for tea. Akiko’s luxurious quarters came to his mind, with their many glowing braziers, the silken bedding, and the cushions spread on thick straw mats and protected from drafts by screens and curtain stands.
“Forgive me,” he said, turning toward his wife. “Nothing is ready. My mind has been on other things. This is a dreadful homecoming for you.”
For all that, they rested well that night. The following morning, the bustle of settling in began. Akitada went early to inspect the stables and greet his horses. The weather was cold, windy, and overcast, causing him anxiety. A large portion of the stables was roofless, and cold currents of air stirred up the straw spread for the animals. He gave instructions to Genba and Tora about temporary weatherproofing and blamed himself for not having taken care of this before.
When he returned to his room, he found Tamako shivering under a winter robe. “I am sorry, my dear,” he said. “My mother’s illness keeps the servants busy. And here you are in a cold room with not so much as a hot cup of tea.” He suddenly missed his son. “Where is Yori?” he asked, glancing anxiously back toward the door.
Tamako smiled a little. “Don’t fret. Yoshiko has taken him to your mother again. She seems better when she looks at him, and he does not mind being around her. And do not worry about me. Now that I am here, I shall be able to give a hand to Yoshiko, who must have had a dreadful struggle taking care of your mother and you, too. She has only one housemaid to help her, she says.”
Akitada flushed guiltily, thinking of the robe his sister had sewn for him.
“I am worried about Yoshiko,” Tamako said, unpacking clothing and draping it over clothes racks to air out.
He grimaced. “I know. Too much work, my mother’s sharp tongue, her illness, loneliness! It has been no life for a young woman of her class. I promised to find a husband for her. With a home of her own, she will soon be her own self again.”
Tamako laughed. “Oh, Akitada! It is not that simple!” Turning serious, she said, “No. There is something else. Apparently she is keeping it to herself, and that means trouble of some sort.”
Akitada cocked his head and smiled at his wife. “You are just looking for someone to dose with one of your magic potions,” he said fondly. His wife’s skill with herbal remedies had been a great boon to his family and household during the long years in the north. Even Seimei, his old friend and a family retainer, had turned over his box of salves and teas to her and concentrated instead on his new role as Akitada’s personal secretary. “It is enough that we have my mother’s illness to deal with,” he said firmly. “Yoshiko is quite well, just tired and housebound.”
Tamako went to open the shuttered doors to the overgrown garden. Cold air blew into the already chilly room. “Your mother is beyond my help.” She sighed, looking at the sad tangle of shrubs and trees.
Akitada had followed her to the door. “I have not had time to get things tidied up,” he said apologetically. The evergreen shrubs had grown to tree height, and frost-blackened weeds and choking piles of dead leaves and fallen branches covered everything else.
But Tamako smiled. “Never mind! I have always liked this room best. It gets sunlight most of the day and yet the garden is like a private world. It will be good to garden again. No more long winters and crushing snows. We shall sit on this veranda and sip tea, admiring the azaleas and camellias, peonies, and autumn chrysanthemums.” She turned to him impulsively, her eyes shining. “Oh, Akitada! It is good to be home.”
Akitada was so deeply touched by his wife’s words that he did not realize for a moment that he was about to lose the room he had always occupied, the place where he had slept and worked and found refuge from the disdainful eyes and words of his parents. Well, he would find another room if Tamako wanted this one. “You know,” he said, pulling her against him, “I was never happy in this house until now.”
Instead of answering, Tamako buried her face against his shoulder with a happy sigh. Outside, a breeze picked up a handful of brown leaves and whirled them into the air. He shivered and wrapped his arms more tightly around her. “It has turned winter early,” he said. “And there is no heat in this room. You must be cold. I wonder what happened to the servants. I have not had time to see about hiring more staff, either. Let me go get your maid and see about some tea and braziers.”
She chuckled and released him reluctantly. “It does not matter, though a cup of hot tea would be nice.”
He closed the veranda doors and went in search of the maid. Except for the distant chanting of the monks, the house seemed deserted, it was so quiet. When he went outside, he saw that the carts still stood in the courtyard only half unloaded.
In the low kitchen building he found the cook and his mother’s tall rawboned maid in eager conversation with Tamako’s dainty maidservant, satisfying their curiosity about the new mistress and Akitada’s people. Apart from a bit of a small fire under the rice steamer and a small pile of chopped vegetables on a board, there was no sign of food preparation.
Feeling more than ever that this negligence was his fault, he snapped, “Why are there no braziers in my room? And where is the hot water for tea?”
The cook and the big housemaid rushed toward the stove and the empty braziers.
Akitada glared at Tamako’s pert little maid and growled, “You are a terrible gossip, Oyuki. Go to your mistress immediately to make her comfortable!” The girl rose, grinning impudently, and disappeared.
The cook was pouring boiling water into a teapot, and the housemaid transferred glowing charcoal from the hearth to one of the braziers.