Chapter

           Twenty-six

Small flame flickering

A lantern of peonies

Lights the shadowed path

In the end it was decided I would stay in Edo till the end of the fourth month, then Daiki and Chika would accompany me to the Kiso Valley to talk to my father. (‘Perhaps if I tell your father how much I’m being paid to paint these screens he’ll think differently about an artist’s worth,’ Chika suggested.) I was sure that the fact they were both samurai-born would be enough to persuade him, though I suspected they planned to offer him money as well. From Tsumago we would continue on to Kyoto. We’d spend some months there . . . and then?

‘I’d like to see Amanohashidate,’ Daiki said. ‘It’s known as a place of spectacular beauty. What about you, Kasumi? Where have you dreamed of going?’

‘I’d like to go to Hakone.’

Daiki laughed at the modesty of my suggestion. ‘But that’s only a few hours’ journey from here.’

‘I want to see the view of Mount Fuji across the lake, to see if my painting did it justice.’

‘We can go to Hakone, and anywhere else we want. Let’s plan to travel for a year, and we’ll paint what we see.’

I was excited by the prospect of my new life, but the pain of Isamu’s death cloaked me like a shroud. I knew it was what honour demanded, but he had done nothing wrong. His death was a waste.

On the first day of the fourth month, when our spring clothes were changed for summer’s light fabrics and cooling designs, Misaki went to Nihonbashi to visit her father and Kenta, and I took my ink and brushes outside.

Daiki had told me I should paint every day without fail, and it was a task I took to gladly. For all the praise and encouragement he and Chika had given me, I was still only a beginner, I knew — but I also knew that I had it in me to be a great painter, perhaps as great as Chika. The stake that sticks up gets hammered down, as my father always said, but I would not be hammered down, I vowed.

Strolling through the garden, I noticed that the first peonies had opened, their blooms both lush and delicate. As I studied them, I was reminded of the ghost story, and how the beautiful woman was really an evil spirit who had bewitched the man. How easy it had been for me to imagine Misaki as the wrongdoer. No. Not easy. I had struggled. But why would I think that Shimizu, with all his wisdom and education, could be so easily bewitched? It was Misaki who had been bewitched. And me too. I had resolved I would not be hammered down, but I would use the story of the Peony Lantern to guard against false pride, to remind me how much I didn’t know. It would become a lesson to light my way forwards.

I began to paint, and was soon lost in that dreamlike world where no time passes.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, suspended between the flower and the brush, before a movement through the trees caught my eye. Had I summoned a spirit with my musings? I sprang up, unable to believe the image shimmering before me, blurred by the tears in my eyes. Suddenly I was flung back to my last afternoon in Tsumago, to the apparition at the shrine. Isamu? Now I was sure it was a spirit.

But then the spirit ran to me and squeezed me so tight I knew he was flesh and blood. ‘Isamu!’

I let out a sob and he released me, taking a quick step backwards. ‘I’m so sorry, Kasumi.’ He bowed. ‘I forgot myself.’

I was laughing and crying, the words tumbling from me in a rush. ‘What happened? Where have you come from? We thought you were dead!’

‘Dead?’ He looked at me in astonishment. ‘But didn’t anyone tell you?’

‘Lord Kinoyoshi told Misaki that you had behaved honourably. We thought . . .’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘The daimyo said I bore no responsibility for my uncle’s actions and the domain couldn’t afford to lose me too,’ Isamu explained. He ducked his head as if embarrassed, but I was sure I saw a glint of pride in his eyes. ‘I thought he would have told you. I came as soon as I could. I’ve been in Matsuyama with my family.’

‘And you are . . . you are definitely not dead.’ I couldn’t help but reach out to touch his arm to reassure myself.

‘I’m very much alive. Lord Kinoyoshi has agreed that I can stay here in Edo — and I’ll be allowed to continue my painting studies.’

‘You’re a brilliant painter,’ I said softly.

‘So you . . . you looked at my paintings?’ The words were spoken diffidently, but he was staring off into the distance as if he couldn’t bring himself to meet my gaze.

I lowered my head. ‘I did.’

‘And what did you think?’

I raised my eyes. ‘I thought, even before I saw them, that nothing could compare to the perfection of he who painted them.’

Now he brought his gaze down to meet mine. For several long seconds we just looked at each other. I wanted this moment to last forever.

At last he broke the silence to say, ‘You’ll be returning to Tsumago, I suppose. Is there no way you can stay?’

‘Actually . . .’ I told him of Daiki and Chika’s offer.

‘So you would leave the valley behind?’

I touched my heart. ‘I wouldn’t be leaving it behind. The forest, the mountains — I can paint them; they’re in here.’

I thought about what Chika had said about travelling. There would be other mountains, other valleys, and I would carry them inside me too.

With Isamu looking at me like that, I felt I could carry the whole world.

‘When will you leave?’

‘In a few weeks. We’ll go to Tsumago and then to Kyoto before the plum rains.’

I watched as he raised his hand to run a finger down my nose to my lips, then traced my mouth.

The feather-light touch made me shiver. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m drawing you, so that I’ll have you in my fingertips while you are gone.’

‘Oh.’ It was hard to think with his touch on my skin so I just stood, not thinking, just feeling.

Then he dropped his hand and looked into my eyes. ‘When will you be back?’

‘Before the next plum rains.’

It occurred to me that, if I were to be adopted by Daiki and Chika, I would be a daughter from a samurai family — there would no longer be anything to prevent Isamu and me from being together. Should I tell him? I wondered.

No, I decided. Not yet. Between last year’s rains and this year’s, my old life had ended and another had begun. And who knew what the time between the next rains would bring? We were like the plum trees themselves, our flowers blooming briefly, fruit ripening then falling. I would think not of the future but appreciate the present, this moment. We lived in a floating world, and I would grasp every minute.