Chapter

           Twenty-three

The temple’s great bell

Tolling the old year’s farewells;

The first rooster crows

After the incident in the snow, Misaki did improve. As the New Year came and went — with very little celebration on our part — she made the effort to rise every day, and we resumed our morning ritual of dressing, choosing kimonos patterned with pine trees and bamboo to suit the season.

I was sixteen now and so I too wore my hair up. Always generous, Misaki lent me her favourite red comb, the one I had admired so long ago in Yabuhara, and the first time I saw myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. I looked older, more sophisticated — a woman. I was constantly patting the back of my head; the sensation of the weight on my head changed my posture, and I held my head more still.

Isamu, I noted, was similarly struck by my changed appearance, stopping dead at the threshold of the reception room when he saw me. ‘Kasumi, I almost didn’t recognise you.’

‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’ Misaki asked.

‘She, uh . . . yes.’ I saw his eyes widen as he recognised the comb in my hair.

He turned his attention to Misaki. ‘I’m glad to see you looking better,’ he said, though I could tell he was taking in her wan complexion, the slump of her shoulders, the slight tremble in her fingers as she raised a hand to gesture that he should join us by the kotatsu.

But as he approached she said, ‘Actually I’m feeling quite weak. Please excuse me.’ And she hurried off to her room, leaving Isamu staring after her in dismay.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It must have hit her suddenly.’

Still watching after her, Isamu said quietly, ‘She may have improved, but she’s far from well.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I just wish I knew why she was like this. Her moods are so changeable. Maybe it has to do with the death of her mother, and then moving from Morioka to Edo and the separation from her family.’

Isamu shot me a look. ‘I’ve wondered that too — if the separation from her family has worn down her nerves.’

‘I know they’re far away, but if they knew how ill she has been . . .’

Isamu was drumming his fingers on the table top. He looked almost angry. ‘I think it’s time they were told.’ He turned to me. ‘I’m rather thirsty, Kasumi.’

‘Oh, of course. Let me get some tea.’

But when I came back, the room was empty. Then I heard voices. Padding along the wooden boards of the corridor in my socks, I approached Misaki’s room.

Isamu was saying, ‘You must send for them.’

‘No.’ She sounded frightened. ‘My husband would forbid it.’

‘Not when you’re so ill. Let me take a message to them.’

How long would it take him to get to Morioka? Yet he hadn’t hesitated to offer. He was truly the most generous —

‘But don’t you see?’ My attention was drawn back to their conversation by Misaki’s screech. ‘The messages may be the problem! And you . . . you’re part of it! Kenta said — but no . . . it can’t be. But what’s the alternative? If it’s not one, it must be the other; it’s one of the two. They must be stopped! And either way, it must be the end of me.’

‘Misaki-san, I don’t understand what you mean — you must calm yourself,’ Isamu urged.

A cool wave washed through me. She was making no sense. And her talk of endings frightened me. It was as if the Misaki I knew was waging a battle against the evil spirit who possessed her.

Suddenly Isamu burst from the room.

‘Kasumi, what are you doing here?’ He made to push past me.

‘The tea,’ I stammered. ‘It’s ready.’

‘Tea? I don’t have time for that now. I’ve just remembered there’s something I have to do urgently.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ I said.

‘What? No.’

He strode through the reception room to the entry, pausing to pull on his shoes. As he struggled in his haste to slip his swords through his belt, I put on my wooden geta.

‘You’re not coming with me, Kasumi,’ he said roughly.

‘I am,’ I said. Something was going on, something grave enough to make Misaki speak of endings, and I was determined now to unravel the mystery myself.

This time Isamu didn’t argue.

We didn’t speak as we hastened through the snow to Nihonbashi.

The old artist looked up at our entrance. ‘What do you want?’ Then he gave what sounded like a humourless laugh. ‘I don’t really need to ask, do I? I know why you’re here.’

With no sign of his previous deferential tone, Isamu snapped, ‘I’m here to talk about your daughter.’

His daughter? But I thought we’d come to talk about . . .

Then it hit me: the old man was Misaki’s father. But what was he doing in Edo? And how had Isamu known where to find them?

The old man snorted but said nothing.

‘How can you be so unfeeling?’ Isamu was shouting now. ‘Don’t you care for her at all? I bring message after message and you never respond. Do you even read her letters?’

The artist placed both hands on the low table in front of him, and slowly levered himself to his feet. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he growled.

But Isamu was beyond reason. ‘It’s no wonder she left this place. You must have driven her to it!’

The artist lunged forwards, hand outstretched as if to strike Isamu. ‘Hold your tongue!’

I repressed a scream as Isamu reached for his sword.

But the old man only sneered. ‘Ah. So it will end like this, will it? How easily the samurai can take the life of one like me.’ He dropped his hand to his side. ‘Perhaps it would be for the best.’ He was quiet now. ‘Sometimes I believe it might be the only honourable way out.’

Chastened, Isamu let go of his sword. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I apologise. I assure you, I only speak out of concern for Misaki-san. She’s not well — she has been close to death. Tell him, Kasumi.’

‘It’s true.’

I started as a voice from the shadows said, ‘Misaki is ill? What’s wrong with her?’ Kenta stepped into the room. Misaki’s brother, I realised.

‘We don’t know exactly. The doctor says her nerves . . .’

The old man just nodded, seemingly unmoved. ‘I don’t know what you want me to do about it.’

Isamu gaped at him. ‘That’s all you can say? You must go to her. I’ll take you there myself.’

The old man glared at him. Isamu glared back.

Finally the old man said, ‘Do you really not know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Father.’ There was a warning in Kenta’s voice.

‘You’re meddling in things you don’t understand!’

‘Father . . .’ Kenta’s tone was soothing now. He looked at us: distraught, angry, weary. ‘Please go. It’s a pity about Misaki, but there’s nothing we can do.’

Isamu appeared to hesitate, then with a resigned shrug turned to leave.

As we walked away up the narrow lane, I said, ‘Isamu, I don’t understand what’s going on. Tell me what you know. Is this really Misaki’s home? That’s her family?’

He sagged. ‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve been secretly carrying messages to them from Misaki? What would your uncle say? He thinks they’re in Morioka.’

The look he gave me told me how blind I had been. ‘She’s not from Morioka, Kasumi. She’s from Edo.’

‘From Edo!’

‘But my uncle will be in terrible trouble if you tell anyone. No one knows she comes from Edo. That’s why she can’t come back here. I carry letters for her.’ His voice grew bitter. ‘Not that her father cares. I don’t wonder she was keen to leave such a cold-hearted man. At least my uncle loves her as she deserves.’

‘So your uncle knows about the letters.’ I was so relieved. Isamu wasn’t betraying his uncle . . . and Misaki wasn’t betraying him either.

‘Yes, they’re the only contact that can be allowed. My uncle asked me to carry them as I’m not well known in Edo. It’s less likely that people will draw a connection between the two households.’

At last I understood. Misaki had had to give up her family, her friends, her whole life. And if anyone found out, it could mean her husband’s disgrace, his dishonour . . . maybe even his life. For he had lied to the daimyo not once but twice — Misaki was not a samurai and she was not from Morioka. What a weight to carry, for both of them. My heart went out to Misaki. Did she regret her marriage? I wondered. It couldn’t be what she imagined. Her husband was rarely home. Only me for a companion. Never able to reveal the truth about who she was, always guarded. She was trapped. No wonder she was ill with nerves. She had been since seeing her brother. That was why we’d gone to the kabuki, I realised — she knew he sold prints there and was hoping to see him. Though shouldn’t seeing him have made her happy? Instead they’d argued. Over what?

All along I’d only known half the secret. And Rin — suddenly my mind flashed back to the daimyo’s sister-in-law: she’d guessed that Misaki wasn’t really from Morioka. How could I have lived with her so closely and never guessed myself? There had been clues, now that I thought of it. I was surprised sometimes by what she knew: she must have known the kabuki theatre was in Asakusa when she told the servants we were going to the shrine there. And she’d recognised the print of the Torinomachi festival, a local celebration.

But what hurt was that she had let me believe I knew her secret. You know who I really am now, she’d told me when I confessed about the conversation I’d overheard between Shimizu and Taro. What else did I believe that would turn out to be a lie?

In the days that followed I tried to puzzle through what I knew. Understanding was coming in fragments, as mist breaks away in the sun to reveal the details of the landscape beneath.

What I couldn’t work out was why, when she had been so eager to see her brother, Misaki and Kenta had argued at the kabuki. I was sure now that this was what had caused her illness.

And why had she torn up her father’s work? Did that festival have bad memories for her, perhaps?

When Isamu visited next I asked him, ‘Have you ever been to the Torinomachi festival? It has something to do with prosperity, but I can’t remember the name of the shrine. It’s held on the days of the rooster in the eleventh month.’

‘The days of the rooster? I wasn’t celebrating then. That’s when Taro was killed.’

Taro was killed —

With a feeling like a punch to the chest, I remembered Misaki ripping up the picture. Remembered Shimizu’s entrance and her saying, Who?

The world swam.

Misaki’s father: You’re meddling in things you don’t understand!

‘Kasumi? Kasumi! What is it? Are you all right?’

Isamu’s hands were clasping my shoulders, his concerned face came into focus.

I drew a deep breath, felt the ground settle beneath me. I tried to grasp the flash of knowledge that had so knocked me off balance. Something to do with the festival. I needed to see the print of the Torinomachi festival. And then it came back to me.

‘Misaki’s father . . . Is he the artist behind the Festivals of Edo series?’

‘That’s right.’

The fireworks festival, Tanabata . . .

‘I need to see them.’

He frowned. ‘What — the whole series?’

I nodded.

‘Why?’

I didn’t want to lie. Yet how could I tell the truth when I didn’t know what the truth was?

‘I’m not exactly sure. But it’s important. Please — bring them soon. As soon as you can.’

‘You’re being very mysterious, Kasumi. Are you sure you’re all right? Your nerves aren’t bothering you, are they?’ He was attempting a joke, but I could tell he was troubled.

He couldn’t be half as troubled as me.

Isamu returned the next day with his collection of Misaki’s father’s prints.

‘I think I have the whole collection. Kenta gave me one every time I visited. He said I should give them to my uncle, but he didn’t know how much my uncle despises them.’

‘Except for the catfish ones,’ I reminded him as I took the prints from him.

‘You’re right — I’d forgotten about those.’

Isamu had put the pictures in order, starting with the one Kenta had given him of the fireworks festival. I studied it again: the view from a teahouse, a plum tree out the front with its leaves painted gold.

‘You still haven’t told me why you’re so interested in this series,’ Isamu remarked.

‘Do you remember the night of the fireworks festival?’ I asked, ignoring his question.

‘Of course.’

‘What was the name of the teahouse where those government officials were killed?’

He shrugged.

‘Was it the Golden Plum?’

‘Yes, that was it.’

Was it a coincidence that this scene depicted the site of a murder?

Slowly I went through the others.

The next picture showed bamboo trunks covered in paper strips. I remembered the day of the Tanabata festival in the seventh month. I had told Misaki I knew her secret, and we had splashed each other by the well and laughed. And then Isamu and Shimizu had arrived with news of another attack — one at which Shimizu had been present.

Here was the picture of Chrysanthemum Day, in the ninth month. When Shimizu had been injured and revealed that his group was being targeted.

This was followed by a view of a theatre, banners waving. Kaomise, I surmised: the festival to mark the start of the kabuki season. That night, two men from the Aizu domain had died.

I picked up the most recent picture: there was the rake, the shrine of the Torinomachi festival. The day Taro had fallen.

But what did it mean that the artist — Misaki’s father, I reminded myself — knew of these incidents? It was a coincidence, surely, that every festival in the series commemorated a day on which Lord Shimizu’s secret circle had been attacked.

Then, with a chill, I remembered when Misaki’s brother had given me the final picture. This print had been made before the festival, I realised. It wasn’t just commemorating Torinomachi after the fact: it was foretelling the day on which Taro would die.