Tears welled in her eyes. “I thought I could be brave, but I was so scared.” Overcome by emotion, Midori confessed what she’d never intended Hirata to know: “I did it to get your attention. I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”
“Midori-san.” Hirata grasped her shoulders. “Listen.”
Gulping back a sob, Midori looked up at his face. The concern and warmth she saw there startled her.
“You were clever and brave,” Hirata said, his voice rough with sincerity. “You got inside the temple when professional spies had failed. You risked your life to find evidence against the Black Lotus. Of course you were scared; who wouldn’t have been? But you endured your fear. You survived.”
Suddenly shy, he released Midori and stammered, “What I wanted to tell you is that—even though I would have stopped you from going if I could have—and I hate that you suffered—I admire you.”
“You do?” Midori stared, confused. “But I don’t deserve your admiration. I was such a fool to get caught.”
“No, no.” Hirata waved his hands in eager contradiction. “You weren’t caught because you’re a fool. You were caught because you’re good and kind. You couldn’t leave that girl Toshiko in danger, and I think you would have tried to save her even if you’d guessed she was a spy.” He bowed his head, mumbling, “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve your admiration.”
Rain spattered through the trees. Hirata hurried Midori into the pavilion that had sheltered them from another storm two years ago. Side by side, hands clasped, they watched the rain, as they’d done then. Midori’s heart raced with the same anticipation.
“It’s I who should apologize to you—for the way I’ve treated you,” Hirata said humbly. “I was the fool, to throw away your friendship, and to think that all those other women mattered, or that moving up in society was so important. Now I know there’s no one else in the world who would do for me what you would. When I found out you’d gone to the temple and hadn’t come back, I realized—”
Turning to her, he said in an ardent voice, “How much I love you.”
Midori felt a radiant smile erase the misery from her face. Her tears spilled, for joy.
“Then it’s not too late?” Hirata said, gazing hopefully at her. “You still care for me?”
Midori blushed and nodded. Hirata’s face brightened. The rain streamed down, blurring the world outside the pavilion. Then Hirata turned serious.
“I want us to be together always,” he said.
Too shy to echo his bold declaration, Midori signaled her agreement with an adoring glance and heartfelt smile. But a marriage between them required their families’ approval. “What shall we do?” she whispered.
Hirata tightened his warm grip on her hand. “Whatever it takes,” he said.
Alone together in the nursery, Sano and Reiko sat facing each other. The distant sound of Masahiro’s laughter emphasized the uncomfortable silence between them. Reiko, rigid with apprehension, braced herself for recriminations. She deserved punishment for her mistakes, and for her disobedience to Sano. It was his right to divorce her and send her away from Masahiro if he chose. That he hadn’t yet done so might only mean he’d been too busy working. Fearing heartbreak, she waited with dread to learn her fate, just as she’d waited for the past four days.
She’d spent that time going through the motions of domestic life. For Masahiro’s sake she’d tried to act as if nothing had happened, while the unfinished business from the investigation hovered over her like a storm cloud. She felt suspended in time, still caught up in the horror of her experience at the temple. Her mind was a shifting collage of terrible scenes—savage nuns and priests, bloody corpses, flashing blades, fire, dim tunnels, and Anraku slain by her hand. But the image of Haru’s death was more vivid, more persistent than any other.
Even now, with her future threatened, Reiko couldn’t forget Haru. The girl’s spirit was still here between Reiko and Sano, a haunting reminder of Reiko’s errors of judgment, a debt unpaid, and a relationship severed without conclusion.
“It’s natural to grieve for her,” Sano said quietly.
Reiko was surprised that he’d guessed she was thinking of Haru, and that she mourned the girl. Though still fearful, she drew cautious hope from Sano’s apparent sympathy. “But Haru was a selfish, immoral person. Why should her death haunt me more than all the others?” Reiko lifted empty hands. “Why do I miss her?”
“Because you were her friend. And she proved herself yours in the end.”
“How did you know?” Reiko said, puzzled; she hadn’t told Sano about Haru’s choice.
“When I interrogated Abbess Junketsu-in, I learned that you’re alive because of Haru,” Sano said. Irony tinged his faint smile. “To think that after I worked so hard to convict her, she did me a great favor.”
His implication set Reiko’s heart racing. She murmured, “Was it a favor?”
Sano’s expression turned tender. Wordless communication crumbled a barrier, filling Reiko with relief and joy. Difficulties still precluded complete reconciliation, but now Reiko had the courage to confront them.
“You were right all along to believe that Haru was dishonest,” she said. “I regret all that I said and did to hurt you. Please accept my apologies.”
“If you’ll accept mine,” Sano said with equal, pained contrition. “You were right that Haru didn’t kill Chie or the boy, or set the fire. I should have heeded your suspicions about the Black Lotus sooner, instead of concentrating so hard on her. I drove you to protect her.”
Humbled by his honesty, Reiko said, “But she was manipulating me, just as you thought.” Even as she acknowledged Haru’s fault, sorrow for the girl overwhelmed her.
“It turned out to be a good thing that you did form a bond with Haru,” Sano pointed out. “Her feelings for you saved your life, and Midori’s.”
His willingness to assuage her humiliation didn’t excuse her other mistake. “I let Midori see how much I wanted a spy in the temple. I should have guessed she would go, and I’ll never forgive myself for what happened to her,” Reiko said.
As Sano’s features clouded, despondency undermined her happiness at discovering that their love had survived. Certainly her lapse of caution regarding Midori had cost her the privilege of ever again participating in investigations.
Then Sano said grimly, “Midori is alive. But Minister Fugatami, whom I might have helped, was murdered. As was his wife. And their children are orphans.”
They sat in shared self-recrimination until Sano said, “The worst of our problems wasn’t that you made mistakes or that I did, but that we worked against each other. No good will come of accepting blame unless we learn from our experience and do better next time.”
“Next time?” Reiko thought she hadn’t heard him right. Doubt vied with excitement. “Do you mean … you still want my help, after what happened?”
“A few days ago I would have said no,” Sano admitted. “But I’ve come to understand that I’m no less susceptible to bias than you, and my errors can have serious consequences, too. I need someone to oppose me when I’m too quick to draw conclusions.” He said with a wry smile, “Who better than you?”
Reiko beamed at him, savoring the exhilaration of wishes fulfilled, harmony restored. Bad memories began to pale in the light of her happiness, and Sano looked less exhausted. Perhaps their partnership would be better for accommodating differences of opinion; perhaps someday the thought of Haru would cease to torment her. But experience had taught Reiko caution. There would be other suspects, other disagreements.
“Can we prevent a future investigation from dividing us again?” she said.
Sano took her hands in his. “We can pledge to try our best.”
The warm contact with her husband stirred in Reiko a powerful sense of all they’d experienced together during their marriage—the dangers faced and surmounted, the birth of Masahiro, the love for each other and their child that had sustained and gladdened them. She fel
t Sano’s strength and hers join to meet the challenges yet to come.
“And we shall succeed,” she said.
St. Martin’s Paperback Titles by LAURAH JOE ROWLAND
The Assassin’s Touch
The Perfumed Sleeve
The Dragon King’s Palace
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
Black Lotus
The Samurai’s Wife
The Concubine’s Tattoo
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR LAURA JOH ROWLAND AND HER NOVELS
“Sano may carry a sword and wear a kimono, but you’ll immediately recognize him as an ancestor of Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade.”
—Denver Post
THE SAMURAI’S WIFE
“An exquisite tale of murder, passion, and revenge. Feudal Japan springs to vibrant life under Ms. Rowland’s skillful hand, and the sleuthing team of Sano and Reiko will touch your heart. All lovers of mystery, the Orient, romance, and history will enjoy this magnificent tale.”
—Romantic Times
“The Samurai’s Wife is the latest in Laura Joh Rowland’s bracing books about Sano Ichiro, a 17th-century warrior who serves as a detective for the imperial shogun … . A mixed blessing for Sano is his wife’s insistence—virtually scandalous in feudal Japan—on accompanying him in his investigations; but she proves invaluable in what turns out to be a probe into deep duplicity indeed.”
—Seattle Times
“Unlike historical mysteries that try to dazzle us with research to hide their shortfalls in the story department, Laura Joh Rowland’s richly detailed books about 17th-century Japanese samurai-warrior-turned-detective Sano Ichiro are also packed with plot and narrative.”
—Chicago Tribune
More …
“Rowland … uses her fine eye for detail as she creates memorable vignettes of a place and time far removed from this one.”
—The Times-Picayune
“Rowland has a painter’s eye for the minutiae of court life, as well as a politician’s ear for intrigue.”
—The New York Times Book Review
THE CONCUBINE’S TATTOO
“An exotic setting, seventeenth-century Japan, and a splendid mystery … make for grand entertainment.”
—New York Daily News
“Rowland is a sturdy, persuasive storyteller, and well worth keeping an eye on.”
—Washington Post Book World
Read on for an excerpt from Laura Joh Rowland’s
THE PILLON OF LADY NISTERIA
Now available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Northwest of the great capital of Edo, isolated among marshes and rice paddies, the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter adorned the winter night like a flashy jewel. Its lights formed a bright, smoky halo above the high walls; the moon’s reflection shimmered silver on the encircling moat. Inside the quarter, colored lanterns blazed along the eaves of the teahouses and brothels that lined the streets. Courtesans dressed in gaudy kimono sat in the barred windows of the brothels and called invitations to men who strolled in search of entertainment. Roving vendors sold tea and dumplings, and a hawker beckoned customers into a shop that sold paintings of the most beautiful prostitutes, but the late hour and chill weather had driven most of the trade indoors. Teahouse maids poured sake; drunken customers raised their voices in bawdy song. Musicians played for guests at banquets in elegant parlors, while amorous couples embraced behind windows.
The man in an upstairs guest chamber on Ageyach Street lay oblivious to the revelry. A drunken stupor immobilized him on the bed, which seemed to rock and sway beneath him. Singing, samisen music, and laughter from the parlor downstairs echoed up to him in waves of discordant sound. Through his half-open eyes he saw red lights glide and spin, like reflections in a whirlpool. A painted landscape of gardens slid along the periphery of his vision. Dizzy and nauseated, he moaned. He tried to recall where he was and how he’d gotten here.
He had a faint memory of a ride through winter fields, and cups of heated sake. A woman’s beautiful face glowed in lamplight, eyes demurely downcast. More sake accompanied flirtatious conversation. Next came the hot, urgent intertwining of bodies, then ecstatic pleasure, followed by much more drink. Because he possessed a hearty tolerance for liquor, he couldn’t understand how the usual amount had so thoroughly inebriated him. A peculiar lethargy spread through his veins. He felt strangely disconnected from his body, which seemed heavy as stone, yet afloat on air. A pang of fear chimed in his groggy consciousness, but the stupor dulled emotion. While he tried to fathom what had happened to him, he sensed that he wasn’t alone in the room.
Someone’s rapid footsteps trod the tatami around the bed. The moving hems of multicolored robes swished air currents across his face. Whispers, distorted into eerie, droning gibberish, pervaded the distant music. Now he saw, bending over him, a human figure—a dark, indistinct shape outlined by the revolving red light. The whispers quickened and rose to a keening pitch. He sensed danger that shot alarm through his stupor. But his body resisted his effort to move. The lethargy paralyzed his limbs. His mouth formed a soundless plea.
The figure leaned closer. Its fist clenched what looked to be a long, thin shaft that wavered in his blurry vision. Then the figure struck at him with sudden violence. Pain seared deep into his left eye, rousing him to alertness. A squeal of agony burst from him. Music, laughter, and screaming rose to a cacophonous din. Turbulent shadows rocked the chamber. He saw a brilliant white lightning bolt blaze through his brain, heard his heart thunder in his ears. The impact heaved up his arms and legs, which flailed as his body convulsed in involuntary spasms. But the terrible pain in his eye pinned him to the bed. Blood stained his vision scarlet, obliterated the person whose grip on the shaft held him captive. His head pounded with torment. Gradually, his struggles weakened; his heartbeat slowed. Sounds and sensations ebbed, until black unconsciousness quenched the lightning and death ended his agony.
The summons came at dawn.
Edo Castle, reigning upon its hilltop above the city, raised its watchtowers and peaked roofs toward a sky like steel coated with ice. Inside the castle, two of the shogun’s attendants and their soldiers sped on horseback between barracks surrounding the mansions where the high officials of the court resided. A chill, gusty wind flapped the soldiers’ banners and tore the smoke from their lanterns. The party halted outside the gate of Sano Ichir, the shogun’s ssakan-sama—Most Honorable Investigator of Events, Situations, and People.
Within his estate, Sano slept beneath mounded quilts. He dreamed he was at the Black Lotus Temple, scene of a crime he’d investigated three months ago. Deranged monks and nuns fought him and his troops; explosions boomed and fire raged. Yet even as Sano wielded his sword against phantoms of memory, his senses remained attuned to the real world and perceived the approach of an actual threat. He bolted awake in darkness, flung off the quilts, and sat up in the frigid air of his bedchamber.
Beside him, his wife, Reiko, stirred. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.
Then they heard, outside their door, the voice of Sano’s chief retainer, Hirata: “Ssakan-sama, I’m sorry to disturb you, but the shogun’s envoys are here on urgent business. They wish to see you at once.”
Moments later, after hastily dressing, Sano was seated in the reception hall with the two envoys. A maid served bowls of tea. The senior envoy, a dignified samurai named Ota, said, “We bring news of a serious incident that requires your personal attention. His Excellency the Shogun’s cousin, the Honorable Lord Matsudaira Mitsuyoshi, has died. As you are undoubtedly aware, he was not just kin to the shogun, but his probable successor.”
The shogun had no sons as yet; therefore, a relative must be designated heir to his position as Japan’s supreme dictator in case he died without issue. Sano had known that Mitsuyoshi—twenty-five years old and a favorite of the shogun—was a likely candidate.
Ota continued, “Mitsuyoshi-san spent yesterday evening in Yoshiwara.” This was Edo’s pleasure quarter, the only
place in the city where prostitution was legal. Men from all classes of society went there to drink, revel, and enjoy the favors of the courtesans—women sold into prostitution by impoverished families, or sentenced to work in Yoshiwara as punishment for crimes. The quarter was located some distance from Edo, to safeguard public morals and respect propriety. “There he was stabbed to death.”
Consternation struck Sano: This was serious indeed, for any attack on a member of the ruling Tokugawa clan constituted an attack on the regime, which was high treason. And the murder of someone so close to the shogun represented a crime of the most sensitive nature.
“May I ask what were the circumstances of the stabbing?” Sano said.
“The details are not known to us,” said the younger envoy, a brawny captain of the shogun’s bodyguards. “It is your responsibility to discover them. The shogun orders you to investigate the murder and apprehend the killer.”
“I’ll begin immediately.” As Sano bowed to the envoys, duty settled upon his shoulders like a weight that he wasn’t sure he could bear. Though detective work was his vocation and his spirit required the challenge of delivering killers to justice, he wasn’t ready for another big case. The Black Lotus investigation had depleted him physically and mentally. He felt like an injured warrior heading into battle again before his wounds had healed. And he knew that this case had as serious a potential for disaster as had the Black Lotus.
A long, cold ride brought Sano, Hirata, and five men from Sano’s detective corps to the pleasure quarter by mid-moming. Snowflakes drifted onto the tiled rooftops of Yoshiwara; its surrounding moat reflected the overcast sky. The cawing of crows above the fallow fields sounded shrilly metallic. Sano and his men dismounted outside the quarter’s high wall that kept the revelry contained and the courtesans from escaping. Their breath puffed out in white clouds into the icy wind. They left the horses with a stable boy and strode across the bridge to the gate, which was painted bright red and barred shut. A noisy commotion greeted them.
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