‘The other ladies were so kind,’ she said as we took tea in the garden. ‘I always thought they’d be standoffish because I wasn’t from their domain, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Rin really went out of her way to make me feel welcome. She’s the daimyo’s sister-in-law, you know.’ Misaki sounded awed by the circle she now found herself in, and no wonder. ‘She showed such an interest in me.’
I’ll bet she did, I thought. Aloud I said, ‘And you don’t think that anyone suspected that you . . . you know . . . weren’t really one of them?’
‘Of course not.’ The look she gave me was wounded, as if she had forgotten herself that she wasn’t a samurai and it was unkind of me to remind her of it. And perhaps it was — but she hadn’t heard what I had. Rin’s kindness shouldn’t be taken at face value.
‘Tell me about Hakone,’ I urged.
Her expression became rapturous. ‘It was so beautiful, Kasumi — I wish you could have seen it.’ She described the blazing autumn colours of the forested hills, the view across the lake to the sacred peak of Mount Fuji. ‘Oh, and I brought you a present. Where’s my basket?’ She left the room and returned a minute later with something wrapped in a knotted cloth.
I untied the cloth and stared.
‘It’s an egg,’ Misaki prompted.
‘But it’s black!’
She giggled. ‘I know. They boil it in the hot springs and it turns the shell black. But eating it will bring you seven years of good luck.’
‘Thank you.’ I cradled the egg in my palm, touched that Misaki had thought of me on her travels. What would seven years of good luck mean for me? Marriage into the family of the waki-honjin, my father would say. Seven years painting, I thought. I gazed at the egg again, at the mottled shell. Perhaps I would paint it before I ate it.
‘It’s not only eggs that get to enjoy the hot springs,’ Misaki was saying. ‘We bathed in a pool overlooking the —’
Her words were interrupted by a crash as the gardener dropped a pot nearby, the sound making me shriek.
Misaki looked at me curiously. ‘What is it, Kasumi? You’re not usually so jumpy.’
‘Nothing.’ I forced myself to smile. ‘I was just so focused on your description of the springs that the noise startled me.’
‘You were nervous alone here last night, weren’t you? Next time I’m invited somewhere I’ll insist on bringing you with me.’
As I went to bed that night, I had to admit that it was reassuring to know that Misaki and her husband were across the corridor. Someone — Shimizu, or perhaps Ishi — must have arranged to have my slashed quilt removed and replaced, for there was no sign of it. Shimizu had assured me that the attack had been meant for him, but it occurred to me that whether the blade had been intended for me or not, if it had sliced through me as I lay beneath my quilt the result would have been the same.
Chapter
Seventeen
The branch nearly bare
A single flag fluttering:
A scrap of red silk
The next morning’s ikebana lesson was an autumn theme; we were to arrange maple branches in tall vases.
Misaki was humming happily as she worked. Her contentment was in stark contrast to my own tumultuous thoughts. I was still worried about Rin, about her motive for inviting Misaki on the excursion to Hakone, and unsettled by the attack on the house. But Misaki knew nothing of the currents swirling around our feet, and I was glad of it.
As if in reflection of my disordered thoughts (though, to be honest, it would have happened anyway), my arrangement quickly went awry. The shin was telling me in no uncertain terms that it wanted to slant, while the soe was determined to stand tall.
The master grumbled under his breath as he considered my arrangement but said nothing. He seemed to have decided I was a hopeless cause.
When the ikebana lesson was over, Misaki agreed that we might spend some time painting. ‘To restore your good humour, Kasumi,’ she teased. ‘I’ve never known anyone to be left so out of sorts by arranging flowers.’
We had just gone outside to gather leaves to paint when a cloud passed over the sun, causing the temperature to drop suddenly.
‘I’ll get our jackets,’ I volunteered.
I went first to my alcove for my own jacket, then to Misaki’s room, where I was startled to see Isamu standing by the dressing table. In his hand was the red comb that had been missing.
‘You found it! Misaki will be so glad. Where was it?’
He spun around at the sound of my voice and looked so guilty I knew at once.
‘You took it in the first place,’ I said slowly, as the flush creeping up his neck confirmed my suspicion.
‘I just borrowed it for a while.’
Why had he wanted Misaki’s comb? The answer was all too clear. Hadn’t I known it all along? He loved her; he loved her and wanted something of hers to keep and so had taken the comb, but when he found out she missed it he’d decided to put it back.
‘Kasumi, I can explain.’ He looked so anxious that, despite my own misery, my first thought was to reassure him.
Taking the jacket from the clothes stand, I said, ‘She’s in the garden, she’ll be happy to see you.’
‘Kasumi —’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.’
I led the way outside.
‘Here’s your jacket,’ I said to Misaki. ‘And here’s Isamu too.’ My voice, I was pleased to note, was light and steady. ‘And I have good news: I found your red comb. It was under the rack against the wall. Probably we couldn’t see it because it was in shadow.’
Misaki frowned. ‘I’m sure I looked under the rack.’ Then she shrugged. ‘But that is good news.’
Isamu shot me a grateful look.
But I didn’t want his gratitude. I wanted . . . I wanted him not to be in love with his uncle’s wife.
Isamu helped us to gather leaves, then the three of us went inside for tea. All the time Isamu was watching me closely, clearly worried that I would give away his secret.
As he was leaving, he said to me quietly, ‘Kasumi, it’s not what you think . . .’
‘I told you: your secret is safe with me.’ Who knew better about secret love? I left the room, too wretched to stay in his company any longer.
‘I’m going to have a good long soak in the bath now,’ Misaki declared when we were alone again. ‘I’m still sore from riding in the palanquin.’
The square tub made of cypress wood sat in a small room behind the kitchen. I carried buckets of water heated on the stove from the kitchen until the tub was full, then Misaki relaxed into it with a sigh.
‘I’m so glad you found my comb. It’s not just because it’s beautiful that I love it. It’s because it reminds me of the night when you arrived in Edo . . . with Isamu.’
I didn’t know how to respond. I was sure it wasn’t really my arrival she wished to remember, that it was her husband’s nephew she was thinking about.
‘I’d been so alone before, but since then . . . well, it’s like I have a family around me again.’
I felt tears prick my eyes. My thoughts had been so uncharitable, thinking only of Isamu and my jealousy, while she was so open and affectionate.
I said abruptly, ‘I’m going to sort out your dressing table so we don’t lose anything else.’
Alone in the dressing room, I felt calmer. I sorted the combs from the hairpins, arranging them neatly in the drawers of the dressing table. Holding the red comb in my hand, I paused. Like Misaki, it made me think of Isamu, of how he had blushed when I caught him returning it. He was without honour, I told myself: mooning after his uncle’s wife.
I would get my misery out in the best way I knew how, I decided. We had left the leaves in the reception room, ready to paint. I took an ink stick and ground some ink, then I took up a brush and let my hand move without thinking, allowing my black thoughts to empty onto the page. But when I looked at what I had done I saw that my brush had not sought the calm o
f nature, as I had expected. I had drawn a face: Misaki. I had accurately rendered her fine features and large almond-shaped eyes, but there, prominent on her cheek, was a horrible disfiguring scar, much more hideous in my painting than it was in reality.
I gazed at the picture in horror. It was not Misaki who was ugly; it was me. Inside. I put the brush down with a tremulous hand, frightened by what I had done. Snatching up the paper, I tore it into small pieces.
Until now, the brush had been my solace, but for the first time I wondered if it was a curse.
As if to emphasise just how undeserving she was of my horrid portrait, in the days that followed Misaki grew ever more kind and generous towards me. Lord Shimizu, too, was at pains to show me how much he appreciated my remaining in Edo after the attack that had nearly ended my life.
One morning, before Shimizu left the house, he and Misaki presented me with a gift.
Misaki was holding a tray on which sat a box covered in a velvet cloth embroidered with coloured thread.
‘What’s this for?’ I gasped. ‘It’s not Ochugen or Oseibo.’ Midsummer and midwinter were the usual seasons for gift-giving.
Misaki merely smiled and proffered the tray.
I lifted the cloth to reveal a lacquered box.
‘Open it,’ Misaki urged.
Inside were half a dozen paintbrushes of various sizes. ‘Oh.’ I was shocked speechless. I picked up the largest brush, the polished wood of the handle smooth in my hand, and ran a finger along the coarse tip.
‘That’s made of pig bristles,’ Shimizu said. ‘This one —’ he indicated a long slender brush with a fine tapered tip ‘— uses cat hair.’
‘Daiki sensei told my husband what brushes to buy,’ Misaki explained.
I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud that the painting master had been consulted. Would he think it presumptuous of me to have my own utensils? I was neither a lady nor an artist, though I longed to be both.
As I arranged Misaki’s hair that morning, I stammered out my thanks for the painting set.
‘I wanted to thank you for your friendship, and my husband wants to support your talent. You really are talented, you know,’ Misaki said. ‘It’s not just we who think so. Daiki told my husband you are the best student he has ever had.’
The best student he has ever had . . . As I met Misaki’s eyes in the mirror, saw the love and admiration there, it was as if the clouds had parted and a radiant sun was pouring over me.
Then my gaze moved to my own reflection. With what I had discovered about my own character on the day Isamu had returned the red comb, I should have looked in the mirror and seen a demon — the jealous Hannya, perhaps. But I looked much as I always had. A little more pale, perhaps, from the time spent indoors since I came to Edo, but otherwise unchanged. Outwardly.
‘And I have another surprise for you later,’ said Misaki, drawing my eyes back to her.
‘What is it?’
‘If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise. You’ll see soon enough.’
When Isamu arrived midway through the morning Misaki greeted him as if she had been expecting him, then rose to whisper something in his ear.
Over her shoulder, his gaze met mine then darted away. Would we never be comfortable with each other again?
Misaki seemed oblivious to our discomfort. Turning to me, she said, ‘Are you ready for your surprise?’
I raised my eyebrows at her. What did Isamu have to do with my surprise?
Then he held out his arms and I noticed he was holding something covered in a cloth. ‘This is for you, Kasumi.’
For the second time that day I lifted a cloth to uncover a gift, this time a scroll. I looked up, puzzled, to see Misaki and Isamu watching me eagerly. I unrolled the scroll and saw to my astonishment one of my own paintings framed by silk. It was of a tree in the forest where I had once walked every day, the thin mist of early autumn drifting through its branches.
‘Where did you . . .? How . . .?’ I glanced from one to the other.
Misaki smiled. ‘I saved it after one of our lessons. I didn’t think you’d mind.’
In a corner of the painting characters were inscribed in elegant calligraphy.
‘What does it say?’
‘Mist drapes the valley
Closing its hand on each branch
Stroking ev’ry leaf,’ Misaki recited.
‘That’s my grandmother’s poem!’
‘It was so beautiful it stuck in my head, and this picture of yours made me think of it. Isamu did the calligraphy.’
I felt a catch in my throat to see my grandmother’s words alongside my own picture and had to blink back the tears.
‘Oh no, it was a bad idea, wasn’t it? We’ve made you homesick.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘You couldn’t have given me anything I would love better.’
That night I unrolled the scroll again. It wasn’t for me to declare the picture worthy of being made into a scroll, but I did know it was successful in one respect. When I looked at it I felt what it was like to stand in the forest with the mist swirling around the trees, the cold cloak of it touching my skin. I had my valley here with me. I didn’t need to miss it because I carried it inside myself and I could return there with my brush. I had captured the feeling of the forest in my painting, just as Grandmother had captured the feeling with her words.
Reverently I placed the scroll in the small chest in my alcove alongside the book in which Grandfather had written Grandmother’s poems. My treasured possessions: my grandmother’s poems in my grandfather’s hand, and now the work of my own hand with my grandmother’s poem inscribed by Isamu.
Grandfather had thought I was special. Was this what he meant? I had found a use for my eyes and my hands, a gift with which I could express myself without the words that got me into trouble. Then I thought of the portrait I had painted of Misaki and remembered that not all gifts were benign.
Chapter
Eighteen
A withering wind
Sees the witch’s dry fingers
Scratching the shutters
The following week we had another visit from Isamu, perhaps prompted by the fact that his uncle had once again left Edo on a mission for the daimyo.
‘Tea, Kasumi — and some sweets,’ Misaki ordered. ‘And see if you can find the cups with the maple leaves on them.’
It took me some time to find the cups in the storehouse and arrange the chestnut sweets on a plate.
I came back into the room, carrying the tray, in time to hear Misaki ask plaintively, ‘Do you have no reply at all to my letters?’
‘Kasumi!’ Isamu said, a little too loudly.
I froze in the doorway as Misaki gave a little gasp. Recovering quickly, she said, ‘I was just asking Isamu if he had received a letter from his uncle. We hear so little news when Minoru is away, it makes me anxious.’
I busied my hands with moving the items from the tray to the kotatsu, a low table with a quilt on top and a charcoal burner beneath, which had been placed in the room since the weather turned cool. My mind was busy turning over the implication of Misaki’s words. I had thought her letter to Isamu had been a one-off, urging him to cease his attentions, but now it appeared that she had written more than once — and it was Isamu who wasn’t replying. Did I have it all wrong? Was it Misaki who loved Isamu? But then there was the comb — I was sure I had caught Isamu in the act of returning it. Perhaps I had misunderstood. Maybe she had sent it to him and he was returning it. I thought of him saying, Kasumi, it’s not what you think . . .
Isamu, in an attempt to change the subject no doubt, began to describe a Noh performance he had seen recently at the daimyo’s mansion.
‘It was so moving,’ he said. ‘Far superior to anything I’ve seen in Matsuyama.’
‘When we went I found it so boring I nearly fell asleep,’ I confessed.
‘Perhaps you’re unable to appreciate it because you’r
e not a samurai,’ Misaki mused; I couldn’t read her mood, couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking. ‘Townsfolk prefer kabuki. It’s much less refined.’
Had she forgotten that she was no more a samurai lady than I was? If she were a true lady, she would not have been writing letters to her husband’s nephew.
‘Apparently the new kabuki season starts today,’ Isamu remarked.
‘Oh yes, the Kaomise,’ Misaki said. ‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘What’s the Kaomise?’ I wanted to know.
‘It happens every year on the first day of the tenth month,’ Misaki explained. ‘It’s the showing of the faces, when the new troupe is introduced at a theatre and the season’s program is announced. It’s a big event on the Edo calendar. People will have been queuing up since last night to get in.’
‘Have you been to the kabuki, Isamu?’ I asked.
‘No. I’d love to see The Treasury of Loyal Retainers, but the daimyo doesn’t approve of kabuki.’
Misaki gave a brittle laugh. ‘When has that ever stopped anyone?’ She turned to me. ‘What’s your favourite kabuki play, Kasumi?’
‘I’ve never been. Tsumago was too small to have a theatre.’
‘Oh, I wish we could take you. It’s completely different to Noh. You’d love it.’
I gave her a warning look; Isamu might wonder how a samurai lady came to be so familiar with townsfolk theatre.
She widened her eyes as if in understanding, then drew our attention to the chestnut sweets.
Isamu didn’t stay long, excusing himself as he was on night duty at the mansion and dusk was already falling. I wondered if he was troubled by the scene I had almost witnessed, by Misaki’s strange mood. I began to gather the cups and teapot, putting them onto the tray. Misaki took the last sweet from the plate and said, ‘We should go.’
‘Go where?’ I asked.
‘What have we been talking about? To the kabuki.’
I looked at her doubtfully. ‘I don’t think Lord Shimizu would approve.’
Her face fell. ‘I suppose not. I miss it, though. I miss so many things from my old life. It would be so much fun just to forget about being a samurai for a day and go to the kabuki.’ She looked both defiant and wistful. Was this an effect of Isamu’s rejection?
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