All she could think of was that her father and brother had come.  As yet she dared not hope they that had come to take her home with them.  No, that would be a joy too great to bear.  But they had come to see her.  It was enough.  In her grief and homesickness, she had grown afraid that she would never see them again, that in time she would even come to forget what they looked like and the sound of their voices.  She had felt abandoned and as if she were dead to them.  Now life stirred again in her veins.

As she hurried after Lady Sanjo to the distant room where visitors were taken, she thought of the letter to her mother.  She had broken a rule that one time only, because of her great fear that her mother was ill and dying.  That nightmare had been so dreadful that she had moaned in her sleep.  When Lady Shojo-ben touched her shoulder, she had woken drenched in perspiration and with tears running down her face.

She still saw every dreadful detail: her mother’s emaciated form, the feverish eyes, the horrifying spots on her skin – spots of decomposition as in those frightening pictures of the dead that the local temple would put up at year’s end -- spots that suppurated and grew larger until her beloved mother was no longer recognizable.

She stopped in sudden fear and cried to Lady Sanjo’s back, “My mother?  Oh, please don’t tell me my mother is dead.”

Lady Sanjo turned her head.  Some of the anger was back in her face.  “Nonsense.  Nobody is dead.  Come along.”

Instantly joy returned -- and with the joy, gratitude to the young man who had taken her letter and thus perhaps reminded them of her.  How kind he had been with his warm voice and those beautiful gentle hands.  Oh, he was even more handsome than her brother Takehira.

And dear Takehira had come with her father.  Oh, what happiness!

Lady Sanjo pushed back the door to the visitors’ room and said, “Your daughter.”

Toshiko brushed past her with a small cry and fell to her knees, touching her forehead to the boards.  “Father, dear Father, I am so glad to see you.”  As she bowed, she was astonished that they were wearing armor.  To be sure, at home her father wore his armor on official occasions, but here?  No one wore armor here except perhaps the guards on duty at the gates.

She followed the deep bow to her father with a smaller one toward her brother and sat up.  They looked well but neither spoke nor smiled at her.  She realized that something was wrong, that her father was fiercely angry.  His eyes blazed and his brows and beard seemed to bristle.  Takehira’s face softened a little as his eyes rested on her beautiful gowns, her painted face, her glossy hair.

But her father’s face was implacable, every muscle taut and his lips compressed.

“Father?” she whispered, feeling tears rise.  “Is something wrong?”

“You have shamed me.”

Just that.  Clipped and as fierce as his eyes.  She bowed again, keeping her head down so he would not see her tears.  Tears were weak.  As was a show of happiness.  She had offended by expressing her joy at seeing them.  She had lost her self-control.

After a long time, during which she tried very hard to restrain her tears, her father said, “The female in whose charge you are says that you are unsuitable and that we must take you home.”

Home?  For a moment she allowed herself another weakness.  The desire to leave this dark and stifling place and to see her mother again was so great that even her father’s disappointment seemed small when measured against it.  But then she knew it could not be because that would mean failure and failure was unacceptable.  Anger against Lady Sanjo stirred.

Without raising her head, she murmured, “She does not like me, Father.  Perhaps her words were not as truthful as they should have been.”

“Silence!”

Toshiko tensed.

“It is of no concern,” her father growled, “what a mere female thinks.  We came here to make our bows to His Majesty and were refused an audience.  How is this?”

Oh, heaven.  “He sees very few people.  He is the Emperor, Father.”

“He sees my daughter.  For that He owes me courtesy.”

“Father, you do not understand—”

“How dare you?”

Toshiko could not control her trembling any longer.  “Forgive me, Father,” she whispered.  “I only meant that customs are different here than at home.”

“How so?”

“I don’t wish to offend again.”

“Speak.”

“Your armor.  Nobody addresses Their Majesties in armor.”

There was brief silence, then her Father said, “The courtiers are glad enough of us in our armor when they need help.  But let it go.  I would have thought that by now you had found his ear.  Was he not pleased with your singing?”

Oh dear!  The imayo.  Toshiko had to make a clean breast of it.  “I have only spoken to His Majesty once.  He asked if I knew imayo, but I was afraid that he would think me very improper if I admitted it.”

“What?”  A roar, followed instantly by another:  “You fool!  That is why he sent for you.”

“Yes, Father.  I know that now, but I did not at first.”

A heavy silence settled over all of them.  Toshiko wondered again if her father would take her home now that all was lost.  Perhaps he would forgive her in time.  Surely he would.  He was just.

After a long time, Oba no Hiramoto said, “Sit up and look at me.”

She obeyed, hoping that the traces of her tears had dried.  Her father studied her appearance.  The anger was gone, replaced by resignation.  With a sigh, he said, “I had high hopes of you, daughter.”

She looked at him without blinking.  “I know, Father.  If I have truly shamed you, I shall gladly die.”

He compressed his lips.  “The fault is perhaps not altogether with you.  You are young.  But you have been taught that, as long as her father lives, a daughter must study his wishes.”

“Yes, Father.  And after he dies, she must study his life so that she may be worthy of her own.”

“You must never bring shame or dishonor on your name.”

“I know, Father.”

“If necessary, a son must die in battle for his family and his lord, but a daughter need only give obedient service.  It is a small thing.”

“Yes, Father.”

Another pregnant pause fell.  Toshiko began to feel a great relief.  She was to be forgiven and taken back into the family.  Her lip trembled and tears of gratitude pricked again at her eyelids, but she held her father’s gaze.

He was the first to look away.  He glanced up at the ceiling and said almost casually, “The great sage himself affirms that the three hundred songs in the world are free from evil thought.”

She frowned, trying to understand.  “The great sage, Father?”

He glanced at her briefly.  “Kung Fu Tse.  Never mind.  You’re just a woman.  It means that your songs are not improper and that you should not be ashamed of them.”

“But you brought Takehira back when he followed the shirabyoshi.  You said they were whores and low dirty women.”

Her father turned red.  “Hold your tongue, girl.”

She put her head down again and whispered, “Forgive me, Father.”

He cleared his throat.

“You must try again,” he said.

“What?”  She was so startled that the word slipped out before she could stop herself.

Her father snapped, “Don’t be an imbecile.  You must sing to His Majesty.  You must dance for Him.  You must win His heart.  How plain do you want me to be?  I thought your mother had explained the matters of the bed chamber to you.”

She was still for a moment, listening to her heart pound in her ears like the waves of the sea.  Then she straightened her back, the blood hot as fire in her face.  “Yes, Father,” she said dully.  “I understand.”

He looked away, embarrassed.  “What concerns parents must be a concern to a child.  I hope we can rely on your obedience in this.”

“Yes, Father.”

Her father rose with a groan.  “Come, Takehira.  I am sick of this city.  If we make haste, we can reach Kohata by nightfall.”