“When you have taken that brazier,” Akitada ordered, “come back for another. The room is very cold.”

The maid goggled at him. “I can’t. The old mistress won’t allow more than one brazier, sir,” she protested.

“I am the master here now,” Akitada corrected her with a flash of anger, “and from now on you do what I say, or what my wife tells you to do. Do you understand?” He directed a quelling glance at the gaping cook and added, “Both of you.” Then he extended his hand for the teapot. “Get busy with the morning rice,” he told the cook. “There are many mouths to feed.”

The cook wailed, “There’s not enough food for the rest of the day.”

He almost cursed. But it was not, after all, the woman’s fault. “Get more and do the best you can!”

Carrying the pot of hot water, he preceded the big maid with her brazier to his room, where he found Tamako admiring Noami’s scroll painting and her maidservant unpacking a clothes box someone had brought in. Piles of gowns lay strewn about the room, and mirrors and cosmetics cases covered his desk. He sighed inwardly, but said only, “The scroll is a present for you. Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I don’t think I have ever seen anything so lifelike. You can see every whisker on the puppies and every hair in their tails, and the little boy is charming. Wherever did you find this?”

The maid had placed the brazier next to his desk and left. Akitada poured hot water and brought Tamako her cup of tea. “Akiko’s husband Toshikage found the artist. He commissioned a screen for her room. When I saw the screen, I knew I wanted you to have one, too, but the painter is a very strange creature, not at all pleasant even if he is very skilled. He insisted that he would have to observe the flowers for a whole year to paint a screen of plants for all seasons.”

“How odd! I would like to meet the man sometime. How is Akiko? Yoshiko told me she is expecting a child.”

“Yes. She seems in excellent health and very happy.” He decided not to mention Toshikage’s troubles and said only, “I like her husband, and he seems to dote on her.”

Tamako studied his face. “Good! I shall look forward to meeting him.”

The door opened, admitting Tora and Genba with more boxes. When they had gone, the second brazier appeared.

Akitada put down his empty cup. “There is much to do. I forgot to let Akiko know about your arrival. And I suppose I had better speak to Seimei about finding me other accommodations. And then I will lend a hand to the stable repairs. The place is not in good condition, I am afraid.”

Tamako smiled at him. “Never mind! It will all come right now.”

Akitada encountered Seimei in the hallway leading to his father’s room. The elderly man was lugging a heavy box of documents.

“Wait,” cried Akitada, rushing up to relieve him of the load. “You should not be doing this,” he scolded. “It is much too heavy. Tora or Genba can carry the boxes and trunks. Where are you going with it?” He recognized his own writing set and personal seals among the items in the box.

“To your father’s room,” said Seimei. “It is fitting that you should be there now.”

Akitada stopped abruptly. “No! Not there!”

Seimei looked up at him, his eyes sympathetic in the heavily lined face. “Ah! Old wounds are painful.”

“You should know better than anyone,” Akitada said harshly, “why I cannot work in a room filled with such memories.”

The old man sighed. “You are the master now. And your father’s room is the largest and best room in the house. It is expected that you should occupy it.”

The thought crossed Akitada’s mind that Tamako had assumed the same thing, but he simply could not face the prospect. “Some other room will do for the time being. Until we get my father’s things cleaned out,” he promised lamely.

“They have been put away already,” Seimei informed him, and headed down the corridor. “There will be talk if you do not assume your father’s position in this house. A man does not forget what is owed to either his home, his family, or himself.”

His master followed dazedly with the box. When Seimei flung back the lacquered doors to his father’s study, Akitada made one last desperate appeal. “My father did his best to prevent my taking his place. No doubt he will haunt this room if I use it.”

At this Seimei chuckled. “Now you sound like Tora. I do not believe you. In any case, remember that patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. I have dreamed for many years of this day, hoping to live long enough to see you installed in your father’s place.”

Akitada looked at Seimei in astonishment. The old man had been with him all his life, doing his best to protect the child and youngster against his father’s anger and his mother’s resentment, but he had done so without ever committing the offense of criticizing, either. His loyalty to the Sugawara family had been exceeded only by his love for young Akitada. Akitada was more deeply touched than he cared to admit and gave up his resistance.

“Oh, very well,” he said, and lugged the box into the room. Then he looked around. The light was dim, with the doors to the garden closed against the weather. The air smelled stale and musty.

There were the familiar shelves against one wall, but his father’s books and document boxes were gone. Gone also were the calligraphy scrolls with the Chinese cautionary precepts and the terrifying painting of Emma, the king of the underworld, judging the souls of the dead. This picture in particular had always instilled a special terror in young Akitada when he had crept into his father’s room, expecting punishment. The resemblance between his father and the scowling judge had been striking, and Akitada had always suspected that that was the reason the painting held such a prominent place in the room.

The broad black-lacquered desk was also bare of his father’s writing utensils and his special brazier and lamp. Only the atmosphere of stern and unforgiving judgment lingered. Akitada shuddered at the thought of receiving his own son in this room.

Seimei opened the doors to the veranda. Fresh, cold air came in. There was a private garden outside, with a narrow path leading to a fishpond, now covered with floating leaves. As a boy, Akitada had never been allowed to play here. Seimei tut-tutted at the state of the shrubbery, but Akitada stepped outside, glad to escape the room, and went to peer into the black water of the pond. Down in the depths he could make out some large glistening shapes, moving sullenly in the cold water. He picked up a small stick and tossed it in, and one by one the koi rose to the surface looking for food. They were red, gold, and silver, spotted and plain, and they looked up at their visitor curiously. Yori would like this place.

“Perhaps,” said Akitada, “with some changes, the room might do.”

Seimei, who had waited on the veranda, watching his master anxiously, gave a sigh of relief. “Her ladyship has directed which screens, cushions, and hangings are to be brought here. And, of course, there will be your own brushes and your books, your mementos from the north country, your tea things, your mirror and clothes rack, and your sword.”

“Hmm. Yes. Well, make sure your own desk is placed near mine,” said Akitada, giving the old man a fond smile, “for I refuse to work here without you.”

Seimei bowed. “It shall be so” There was a suspicion of moisture in his eyes as he turned to go back into the room.

Akitada followed, saying with a pretense of briskness, “I must go see about the horses and will send Tora to you. But could you dispatch a message to my brother-in-law Toshikage’s, letting them know that the family has arrived?”

“I took the liberty to do this earlier, sir.”

“I should have known.” Akitada touched the old man’s shoulder with affection, painfully aware how frail it had become. “I shall always think of you as my real father, Seimei,” he said, tears rising to his own eyes.