The Peony Lantern

by Frances Watts

  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.

  Chapter

  Twenty-four

  A pair of black rakes

  Scarlet crown like blood on snow

  The crane lifts its head

  Staring at the pictures, I told myself that there was nothing sinister about them. They had been designed as a message of warning, perhaps. But for whom?

  Again I thought of Rin. Do you know what I think? I think she’s isn’t from Morioka at all . . . Consider it. A beautiful woman charms a grieving widower . . . And there you have a spy at the heart of our domain.

  Could she have been right about Misaki?

  No! Everything in me rebelled against the possibility. But the coincidence . . .

  It was like the story of the peony lantern: Shimizu as the widowed samurai, bewitched by the beautiful young Misaki. And I was the maid, holding the lantern to light her way.

  ‘Kasumi?’

  I had almost forgotten Isamu was still there. I held up my hand to silence him. Oddly — how far I had forgotten myself, to presume to order him — he complied.

  I laid out the pictures on the tatami, and as I did I haltingly explained my suspicion: that Misaki’s father had been sending coded messages in the prints to let the enemies of the Shogun and the treaty know where and when the meetings were to be held. I was reminded of the blueprints of the house in The Treasury of Loyal Retainers. Had Misaki married Shimizu just to find out the secrets of the meetings? And who were she and her father working for?

  ‘Every attack took place on a festival night. Look here at the picture of the fireworks festival: the Golden Plum.’

  He paled. ‘A coincidence,’ he whispered.

  ‘Where were you on the evening of Chrysanthemum Day, when your uncle was injured?’

  ‘Yaozen restaurant. It’s famous for its view of Mount Fuji.’

  I held up a picture of what looked to be a private room on the first floor of a restaurant. A man was being served sake by a woman in a kimono decorated with chrysanthemums. The sword rack held two swords; the customer was a samurai. The restaurant was open on two sides. To the left was a view of Mount Fuji; through the other opening was a distant view of a shrine with displays of the kind we had travelled to Somei to see.

  Isamu swallowed. ‘You think Misaki’s father . . .? But how could he have known?’

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

  ‘The letters.’ His voice was wretched. ‘You think that Misaki was sending the information to her father in those letters I was carrying.’

  I nodded. But then a sob escaped me. ‘I can’t believe it of her. She loves her husband, I
’m sure of it.’ Was I? She had been so distant from him of late. ‘And Taro — she never would have hurt him!’ But I remembered how she had torn the Torinomachi picture to pieces. Destroying the evidence? Alarmed by what she had set in motion, at this proof of her treachery? Taro’s death was her fault. And it could just as easily have been her husband who was killed!

  ‘We have to show these to my uncle,’ Isamu declared. He reached forwards as if to sweep them up. ‘He’s at the mansion now.’

  ‘Wait.’ I stopped his hand.

  Was it guilt that was causing her illness? I remembered the argument she’d had with Kenta and hope flared. Perhaps she had been trying to stop them. ‘Don’t tell your uncle yet. We need to be sure. We need more proof.’

  ‘How will we find it?’

  ‘There’s one way to be sure. The next time she gives you a letter, we have to open it and read it.’

  ‘What if there are no more letters?’

  ‘Then we have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’d better go.’ He reached again for the prints, and again I stayed his hand.

  ‘Will you leave them with me?’

  He looked reluctant, but at last he nodded.

  When I was alone, I continued to pore over the pictures. If they did mean something, there must be symbols, so those whom they were intended for could recognise their significance. I had to look for patterns.

  As my eye roamed over the picture of fireworks, I remembered the flowers in the sky. Here was one that resembled trailing wisteria. A shower of cherry blossoms. A blazing chrysanthemum. And a starburst that looked like the sun.

  I turned to the Tanabata picture: the corner of a teahouse visible on the right-hand side; the blazing sunset; and there, tucked among the leaves of the bamboo, a golden chrysanthemum. The sun and the chrysanthemum, I realised with a sickening jolt, were both symbols of the Emperor. Revere the Emperor . . . sonnō jōi.

  And now I saw that every picture in the series had them. But that meant nothing, I argued with myself. The sun was in the sky every day, was it not? The chrysanthemum was a beloved flower. Why shouldn’t these things appear time and time again?

  It wasn’t enough. I needed more symbols, more patterns.

  I found several repeated motifs — a pair of birds, hollyhock leaves in a circle, a wooden flute — but who could say if they were deliberate?

  Hearing footsteps on the gravel, then the deep voice of Lord Shimizu dismissing Haru, I hurriedly thrust the pictures into the cabinet behind the shell-matching box.

  Then, afraid of what he might see in my face, I went out into the garden.

  I had to cleanse my mind of suspicion and fear so I could face Shimizu with a clear countenance. Rubbing my arms against the chill air, I sat by the pond and watched a bird skim across the water. I thought about the gliding movement of the bird across the still surface, imagined how I would capture the interplay of fast and slow with my brush.

  When I felt sufficiently calm, I went inside and served my master his dinner.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Kasumi,’ he observed. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Painting,’ I answered.

  A week passed in which I didn’t go near the prints I had hidden in the cabinet. There was nothing left to do now but wait. I avoided Misaki as much as possible, which wasn’t hard as she still spent much of her time in bed. Every day, no matter how cold, I went out into the garden, looking for subjects to paint; I would lose myself in beauty.

  A pair of red-crested cranes, their long black legs and dark feathery wing tips stark against the snow.

  (The argument between Misaki and Kenta at the kabuki had precipitated some kind of crisis, I reasoned; Misaki was no longer sending messages.)

  The first plum blossoms, the clusters of pale pink a light touch of warmth.

  (Then there were her ramblings when her illness was at its worst: They must be stopped! Had she meant the Shogun’s government? Those who would negotiate with the foreigners? Or had she been referring to her own father and brother?)

  Frost on a branch, a drawing done in crystals.

  (What if she hadn’t wanted to do it? What if she had been forced by her father? Even so, she should be held to account for her part in the plot. Taro had been killed, I reminded myself. Shimizu himself had been injured.)

  At the end of that long, long week, Isamu appeared.

  ‘I just saw my uncle at the mansion. He said Misaki was asking for me.’

  We stared at each other numbly, then Isamu crossed the corridor to Misaki’s room.

  He was gone barely a minute before he re-entered the room and said in a low voice, ‘Misaki has given me a message for her father. Shall we go into the garden?’

  The snow crunched under our feet as we followed the path to the pond. When we were out of sight and earshot of the house, Isamu opened the letter Misaki had given him. He read aloud: ‘Dear Father, Remember how we used to celebrate the doll festival of Girls’ Day when I was little and Mother was still alive? How we would stand beneath the boughs of the ginkgo tree by the river in Ryōgoku? Your loving daughter, Misaki.’ He folded the note.

  ‘The doll festival is on the third day of the third month,’ I said.

  ‘The Ginkgo Tree is a restaurant in Ryōgoku. I was there once with my uncle.’

  My heart was thudding so hard I felt my whole body trembling with it.

  So it was true. Misaki was the traitor.

  I looked at Isamu. He was breathing deeply, as if determined to stay calm, controlled, though I noticed his hands were shaking as they clutched the letter.

  ‘We need to tell someone,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Urgently.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We gazed at each other.

  ‘Lord Shimizu,’ I suggested.

  He nodded once. ‘But let’s not break the news at the mansion. It’s best we do it in private. I’ll send a message asking him to meet me here.’

  I was pleased that Rin wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing Misaki denounced publicly.

  Isamu shook the letter. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to confront Misaki’s father and brother. I will make them confess to what they’ve done.’

  ‘I’m coming too.’

  Isamu gave me a weary look that, in other circumstances, would have been almost fond. ‘I suppose there’s no point in arguing with you.’

  ‘None.’

  At the gate, we paused so Isamu could instruct the guard to organise for a message to be sent to Daimyo Alley, and then we set off.

  The route to Nihonbashi was growing familiar to me now. We took the road east, and had not gone far — we were still in the high part of the city — when we passed a house with a dozen or so young men milling about the gate. I could sense Isamu tense beside me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Do you know them?’

  Isamu’s mouth tightened. ‘Not personally, no. But I know of them. They’re from the Mito domain.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  He nodded at the house. ‘See the roof tiles? Three hollyhock leaves? That’s their crest.’

  Sure enough, at the end of each row of ceramic tiles was a rounded tile featuring a hollyhock design.

  ‘They’ve been getting more open in their criticisms of the Shogun,’ Isamu muttered. ‘It’s causing my uncle a lot of stress.’

  As we walked on, I mused on the symbol with three hollyhock leaves. ‘I’ve seen that crest before,’ I said. ‘I can’t think where.’

  ‘Probably the last time we walked down this street.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head impatiently. ‘I saw it printed somewhere — oh. There were hollyhock leaves in the woodblock prints.’

  Isamu turned his head to look at me. ‘Are you saying Misaki’s father has put the Mito crest in his pictures?’

  I hesitated. I had definitely noticed some hollyhocks, but were they put in the pictures by accident or by design? ‘I — I’m not sure.’r />
  ‘If he has . . .’

  He didn’t need to finish the sentence. If the Mito crest was in those pictures, we knew who Misaki and her family were spying for.

  ‘I’ll go back to check,’ I suggested.

  ‘Good idea.’ I suspected he was glad that I wouldn’t be with him when he confronted the old artist and his son. ‘I’ll meet you back at the house when I’m done and we’ll tell my uncle what we’ve found out.’

  As I walked back past the Mito house, I surreptitiously studied the roof tiles again. My eyes moved to the men clustered around the gate. They all wore the crest on their over-jackets. Again, I was disturbed by a sense that I’d seen it before; not recently, but long ago. It was scratching at my memory like a leaf against a screen, its silhouette barely visible.

  Back at the house, I went to the cabinet in the reception room and pulled out the sheaf of papers. The Tanabata picture was on top, and I found myself staring at the figures of a boy and girl tying wishes to the bamboo poles. The girl’s face was mostly obscured, as she was positioned in such a way that her face was behind the trunks, almost as if she were in a bamboo cage. I felt an eerie sensation as I noticed a scar on her cheek. It was just a slip of the artist’s brush, surely, or the block-cutter’s chisel.

  Quickly I turned to the next picture in the pile. I studied the faces in the crowd watching the fireworks, and then I saw it: a young woman with a faint mark on her cheek beneath her makeup, a shadow of the light’s trajectory casting bars across her face.

  My heart beating fast, I snatched up a third picture. One of the serving girls in the Yaozen restaurant stood behind a latticed screen, her hand held to the place on her cheek where a scar would be.