Pathway to Japanese Literature

One “Well, the cherry blossoms have bloomed splendidly.” A young samurai who appeared to be twenty-four or twenty-five stood on the stone steps of Sannō Shrine in Kōjimachi, gazing up at the cloud of blossoms that seemed ready to come crashing down upon his head. He wore a deep woven hat, carried white-hilted swords at his side, wrapped a fashionable dashing haori around his waist, and wore his hakama trousers with a high crotch. Behind him swaggered two fearsome retainers with sickle-shaped beards, their imposing presence rivaling even Sannō’s great torii gate as they followed.

Following their master’s words, one of the retainers shouted. “It looks just like artificial flowers." “If one were to tear apart red Tanabata streamers and scatter them all at once around here, I reckon it’d look just like this.” "You sure come up with complicated stuff," the other retainer bellowed with a loud laugh. "Just say it looks like festival-eaves decorations in one go." “Ha ha ha ha!” While exchanging idle banter, the three of them descended the long stone steps and took seats at a tea shop beneath a large cherry tree that beckoned to customers. At the tea shop sat two prior customers. Both men wore long swords thrust into their belts; one ostentatiously exposed his bulldog-like face to the radiant sunlight. The other wore a ceramic-pot-shaped hood. The two men glared at the three newcomers who had just entered, then exchanged meaningful nods.

As if paying no heed to that, the samurai and his retainers were leisurely drinking their tea. In mid-March of the first year of Meireki [1655], the spring sun—already past the Hour of the Monkey (2 PM)—slid across the tea shop’s shallow eaves, casting black cherry blossom shadows at their feet.

“Hey, Miss! Bring us another cup over here.” “Bring us another cup over here,” barked the bulldog-faced man. A demand for tea. The tea shop girl promptly poured tea and brought it over, whereupon he pressed the bowl to his lips and exaggeratedly wrinkled his nose. “Whoa, this’s scalding!” “It’s like you dragged this straight from Tengu’s realm—my drinking tea turns to flames!” “This’s unbearable, I tell ya!” He shouted as though he couldn’t bear it any longer and splattered the tea from the bowl at the samurai’s feet with a wet slap. Because it looked so obviously staged, the retainers rather than their samurai master all sprang up at once.

“You insolent bastard! What’s the meaning of dumping tea before us?” “Don’t look like amateurs, do ya? Tryin’ to pick a fight, you bastards?” The other side had clearly been waiting for this confrontation. Even when roared at by the demonic pair, the two men stood their ground without blinking. They smirked and put on airs of indifference. “Whether I’m sellin’ or not’s my business. Don’t wanna buy? Then don’t.”

“This isn’t a scene for penny-pinching scum to meddle in. Stay back. We’ve got no business dealing with the likes of you.”

“So you deign to take on the likes of us?”

The samurai removed his woven hat with a flourish. He was a samurai of refined character—fair-skinned, large-eyed, with the faint bluish shadow of a beard—a truly manly and splendid figure. "You pick fights without cause! It’s precisely because rootless scoundrels like you infest all 880 districts that His Excellency’s capital grows restless," he declared, turning to glare at his opponent’s face.

The fact that the bulldog-faced group had harbored an ulterior motive from the very beginning to pick a fight with this samurai was further proven by what followed.

Besides the bulldog-faced man and the pot-hooded one, three more companions had been following behind the samurai party, watching from beneath the cherry blossoms since earlier. From their midst emerged a man around thirty who appeared to be their leader, striding boldly between the opposing groups. "A rabid cur that bites without cause? We ain't got none of those in Edo," he said with a derisive sidelong glance at the samurai. "The so-called Shirahata Group that goes round bullying townsfolk—you'd be Lord Aoyama Harima, samurai comrade of Mizuno Jūrōzaemon himself. That's you right enough."

As his assessment concluded, this young samurai was Aoyama Harima—a 700-koku hatamoto who maintained a mansion in Banchō. That he belonged to the Shirahata Group under Mizuno Jūrōzaemon could be discerned from the white hilts of his daishō swords. Given the need to advance events, there was no time here to detail the Shirahata Group’s origins—nor any need to do so. Let it simply be noted that factions like the Shirahata and Jingi Groups, formed from hatamoto samurai, had long been locked in standoffs with the so-called machiyakko: townsman-vigilante gangs. This mutual animosity had deepened since that New Year’s clash at Kobikicho’s Yamamura-za theater gate, where Mizuno’s group and Banzuin Chōbei’s machiyakko had collided over trifles—the root of their present enmity.

At that very moment, Aoyama Harima brought along two retainers named Gonji and Gonroku; since this morning, they had visited a relative of the Aoyama family, been treated to a midday meal there, and on their way back had come to visit Sannō Shrine while cherry blossom viewing. At that very moment, Banzuin Chōbei’s underlings happened to arrive for worship as well. Among them, Hanaregoma Shirōbei—recognized as their senior leader—stepped forward to provoke a quarrel with the Shirahata Group’s young samurai and his retainers. Harima was not one to quietly sidestep a fight that was being picked. Especially since they were challenging him to a fight knowing full well he was Aoyama Harima of the Shirahata Group, he naturally had no reservations about confronting them.

“Since you knew I was one of the Shirahata Group and still picked a fight—then you lot must be underlings of Hanakawado’s Banzuin Chōbei.” When questioned, Shirōbei stated his name. In keeping with machiyakko custom of this era, the others also proudly announced their names one by one: Namiki no Chōkichi, Hashiba no Nisuke, Shōten no Manzō, and Tamachi no Yasaku. By this point, both factions had reached a juncture where they could no longer part peacefully. Harima faced the white-hilted daishō, his retainers confronted the sickle-bearded foes, while their opponent Shirōbei squared off against the golden square handguards and plum-blossom-engraved finger—none would yield an inch. Moreover, these adversaries had come seeking conflict from the outset. Harima, who loathed defensive postures, gripped his sword hilt with wildfire eyes, whereupon his retainers—emulating their master—threw back their bull-necks and roared.

“Hey, hey, you lot! You lowly townsmen daring to defy the esteemed hatamoto—puny gnats who don’t know your place! If you’re so desperate to sell a fight, no need to beg our Master—we’ll buy it off you at a fair price!” “Lucky today ain’t no lord’s death anniversary—makes it prime slaughterin’ weather. Just picture it: us mountain-hand ruffians grabbin’ them downtown eels dragged up here and plantin’ every last one in Tameike Pond’s mud.”

Shirōbei refused to back down. “If we were the sort to tuck our tails and run from such threats, we wouldn’t have climbed up to the mountain-hand where your Shirahata Group nests just to pick a fight. Before we dump you lot into Tameike Pond, you’d better steel yourselves not to end up as Sannō’s tied monkey charms—offerings for the shrine brats!” Provoked by their mockery, Harima grew all the more impatient. “We had long intended to punish Banzuin Chōbei for opposing Lord Mizuno—the leader we revere—with his endless disrespect. But now that you underlings deliberately provoke a fight, we shall show no mercy. As you wish—Aoyama Harima himself will personally take you on.”

“That’s quite the resolve. Don’t you dare run away,” Shirōbei sneered again. “What nonsense!” Harima was now blazing like wildfire. He sprang up as if kicking over the camp stool and loosened his sword in its scabbard. Gonji and Gonroku also drew their straight-bladed swords. The opponents also drew their swords without delay.

Though such brawls were hardly uncommon in this era, having blades recklessly brandished before one’s shop was nothing short of a nuisance. Yet the teahouse woman, who knew no way to quell this disturbance, could only pace restlessly while keeping watch on how things unfolded—when a woman’s palanquin, its studded metal fittings glinting in the spring sunlight, came hastening up to the stone steps below. The rikisha men unloaded the palanquin into the heart of the brawl without even wiping the sweat from their brows, and two young attendants—having hitched up their hakama trouser legs—took positions flanking it on either side. “Wait, wait!” shouted the young attendants. Even in the midst of their desperate fight, Gonji and Gonroku immediately recognized the faces of those young attendants.

“Oh! That’s Lady Shibukawa’s palanquin!” When an obstruction was thrown into the heart of the brawl, even the machiyakko crowd hesitated momentarily. The palanquin door slid open smoothly, revealing an elderly woman—appearing over fifty—dressed in a katabira robe. Having quietly put on the sandals adjusted by the palanquin bearers, she first fixed a piercing gaze at one side of the quarreling parties. The one being scrutinized was Harima. He hurriedly bowed. “Oh! Aunt of Shibukawa, what brings you here…” “On my return from Buddhist prayers at our family temple in Akasaka, I happened upon this timely scene.” “For a hatamoto who should uphold the realm’s dignity to brawl daily with townsman riffraff over petty squabbles—what exemplary conduct.” “The advice I’ve daily impressed upon you falls on your wild horse ears like sutra chants! As the master behaves, so follow his retainers—Gonji! Gonroku! You lot take your mischief too far!”

Crushed beneath the stately authority of this woman who could outmatch any man, even the demon-like bearded retainers ended up cowering with their heads in their hands. Harima also listened in silence with a troubled look. The elderly woman was Harima’s aunt—Mayumi, mother of Shibukawa Iorinosuke, who maintained a 1,200-koku estate in Koishikawa. When Harima came of age, he lost his father and then his mother, leaving this elderly woman—his mother’s elder sister—as his only true relative. The Shibukawa were a distinguished house whose ancestor So-and-so had met a glorious end in the Battle of Mikatagahara’s retreat. The present head, Iorinosuke, was a young man nearly the same age as his cousin Harima, but his mother Mayumi—who served as his guardian—was a woman of robust temperament, nurtured by the admirable Shibukawa family traditions. Moreover, since she was both his late mother’s elder sister and a senior relative of higher standing, even the stubborn Harima could not snort like a wild horse before this aunt. He was meekly being scolded.

However, this concerned only the relationship between Harima and his aunt; it held no relevance for the opposing party.

Shirōbei said impatiently. “From what I observe, you appear to be an esteemed lady of noble standing—but what could be your purpose in coming into this brawl’s midst? Do you mean to somehow settle this dispute?” “Or if you’re merely spectating, might you step back a bit further?”

“Though I may not know the justification for my interference, would you not entrust this quarrel to me?” said Mayumi quietly. “I will reprimand Harima severely afterward.” “Now, I ask for your forbearance—please withdraw.” “Well…” Shirōbei paused to consider for a moment.

“If you remain unwilling, I shall not press the matter further.” “Yet having intervened thus, should you refuse compliance and force me to oppose you, this too follows the samurai house’s ways—there can be no alternative.” With this decisive declaration, Shirōbei found himself increasingly cornered. Even were she a samurai woman, a man of Shirōbei’s standing—renowned even among machiyakko—could hardly brawl physically with a woman. Victory here would bring no glory. Clashes with the Shirahata Group had always been spontaneous affairs, hardly unique to this day. Realizing there might be wisdom in withdrawing obediently to preserve the elderly woman’s dignity, he gracefully conceded.

“In deference to your excellency’s handling of this matter, we shall take our leave today.” “You have listened well,” Mayumi said with evident satisfaction. “Then would you withdraw peaceably?” “My deepest apologies for the disturbance.” The samurai matriarch and the machiyakko leader exchanged formal bows before parting. Following Shirōbei’s lead, all his underlings withdrew without protest. In the wake of this human tempest, an abrupt hush descended—only the sight of cherry blossom petals drifting soundlessly downward now held sway.

“Harima,” Mayumi said, turning to face her nephew. “This is a public thoroughfare. I shall explain the details when you come to the mansion, but for a samurai to imitate machiyakko riffraff—even hearing names like Shirahata Group and Shingi Group turns my stomach. This has nothing to do with some inescapable martial pride or obligation—you brawl simply because you find it entertaining. How could that ever serve as a model for samurai? You must renounce this brawling business of ruffians by day’s end. Refuse, and Aunt will disown you. Do you understand?”

No matter what was said, Harima found this aunt difficult to handle. Having seemingly resigned himself to the futility of resistance, he submitted meekly before her. Mayumi’s katabira-clad figure soon disappeared back into the palanquin, which was then borne quietly toward Kōjimachi—leaving behind the retainers who stood dazed, as though their very livers had been ripped out.

Seeing off that retreating figure, the master and servants who had been crouching until now exchanged looks in relief. Then they burst into loud laughter all at once.

Two “I am the mother of the maid Okiyo.” “Please allow me to see my daughter.”

Before long, a woman who looked about thirty-seven or thirty-eight but appeared older than her years stood at the kitchen entrance of Aoyama Harima’s mansion in Banchō and humbly requested entry, whereupon the maid Osen emerged from within. “Ah, Mother of Okiyo?” “You’ve come.”

While Osen went to call Okiyo, Okiyo’s mother sat waiting on the kitchen threshold. A seven-hundred-koku estate would normally command an imposing mansion, yet its master Harima remained young and unwed. The household’s sole administrator was steward Shibata Jūdayū—a hereditary vassal of proven loyalty, yet also an elderly bachelor of naturally indifferent disposition. Beyond these were two young retainers named Tetsunojō and Yagorō; two servants called Gonji and Gonroku; and gatekeeper Yojibē—seven men in total across high and low ranks. These demonic youths and underlings would cluster together to cook three daily meals and even handle dusting. They took pride in this Mikawa-style austerity until receiving reproof from Aunt Shibukawa. However much their frugality might be deemed ancestral tradition from Mikawa days, every mansion requires decorum befitting its station. In such peaceful times as these, maintaining constant battlefield living conditions would hardly do. With only rough men about, mansion upkeep suffered—not to mention inconveniencing visiting guests. Given their grand estate’s stature, it stood argued they must employ at least two or three proper female staff members.

Harima declared that keeping half-hearted women in the Aoyama mansion—a household that prioritized martial prowess—was nothing but trouble. Yet between his formidable aunt’s insistence—which he found deeply uncomfortable—and Jūdayū’s counsel that opposing her would be unwise, Harima reluctantly agreed to hire two women as a token gesture. They summoned a woman named Osen from their domain’s fief to work in the kitchen, while for personal attendance on the master, they employed a girl from Edo—Okiyo, born in Yotsuya near Banchō—who had entered the mansion in the autumn two years prior. She was the only daughter of the mother now come visiting.

Osen, who worked in the kitchen, was honest, while Okiyo, the lady’s maid, worked diligently and attentively. With both servants proving to be excellent additions, Aunt Shibukawa would periodically come to inspect and offer praise. Indeed, compared to when Okiyo first came for her interview, the mansion’s interior had grown considerably cleaner. The kitchen in particular had become unrecognizably well-ordered. When Okiyo’s interview concluded and her mother came to deliver her belongings, even she found herself inwardly taken aback. In a mansion of such standing, the only woman was Osen in the kitchen; all others were rough men who looked like they’d eat dog meat without hesitation. Though the lord carried himself with refined dignity, his eyes gleamed with a sharpness that hinted at a volatile temper. Sending her young only daughter to live in such a ramshackle mansion—like some demon-haunted island—filled her with unease, but with the interview settled and both parties agreed, her mother could only formalize the master-servant contract before the steward and depart.

Three full years had since passed. Both the lord and his retainers were fond of brawling. Members of the Shirahata Group came and went frequently. Yet beneath their rough exteriors, each carried tender tears within. Though making a trade of prowling for fights might sound fearsome, people said it served to awaken a society grown complacent. So long as she kept this reasoning close and faithfully served while understanding their temperament, Okiyo found nothing particularly difficult about her duties. She had told her mother that serving in this mansion felt more comfortable than working in households where many feigned docility while nursing ill intentions beneath.

Even so, as a mother, she still harbored some unease. The Shirahata Group’s brawls seemed to grow increasingly violent, and each time Okiyo’s mother heard rumors of them wherever she went, her heart ached. The kind of ruffian who swaggered through Edo’s streets flaunting white-hilted swords was her daughter’s master. Of course, even if the master were to commit some misdeed, it seemed unlikely the female servants would be involved—yet she couldn’t help feeling uneasy about entrusting her beloved daughter to such a violent master.

Even now, as she sat repeating these thoughts to herself while waiting to see her beloved daughter’s face, Okiyo soon came briskly out from the interior.

“Mother.” “Oh, come over here!”

When she tried to take her mother's hand and lead her to her room, her mother hastily refused. "No, no, it's better here—less need to stand on ceremony." "I can't stay long." "I'll speak here and take my leave." With these words, the mother studied her daughter's face. There was no particular reason for her visit. The mother would be satisfied simply seeing her daughter's safe face once before returning home. The face reflected in the mother's eyes belonged to a beautiful woman none could call lowly—her complexion radiantly pale, eyebrows gentle, with only the slight melancholy of narrow features detracting from perfection. She had come here in her sixteenth autumn, and by this past spring had bloomed into eighteen-year-old maidenhood. Though mother and daughter had met after New Year's formal visits and little time had passed since, each viewing revealed the girl's face growing more lovely—the mother gazed enraptured with melting eyes at this ever-brightening youth.

“You haven’t had any troubles, have you?” Okiyo asked her mother. “By good fortune, I’m in perfect health as you see.” “I’ve safely avoided this spring’s epidemic too,” her mother replied cheerfully with a laugh. “And has there been any trouble with Lord Harima?” “Lord Harima is also thriving.” “Today he visited relatives of the Aoyama family and has just now returned.” “I was attending to his change of garments when you arrived, which delayed my coming to meet you.”

“No brawls today, I hope?” “According to Gonji, there was some sort of scuffle with the machiyakko at Sannō-shita again today, and Lord Harima’s haori sleeve was slightly torn.” “That’s dangerous…” The mother furrowed her brows. “And was he injured?” “Brawls are just part of the routine.” “He rarely sustains any injuries.” Gradually growing accustomed to serving in the Shirahata Group’s mansion, even the quiet girl now seemed to regard bloody brawls as no more significant than dogs fighting. That composed demeanor became an increasing source of anxiety for her mother.

“But still… When brawls persist too long, even a lord as formidable as Lord Harima cannot always avoid injuries or mishaps in the heat of the moment. Moreover, if such matters were to reach the authorities, who knows what would become of Lord Harima’s standing?” As her mother tilted her head with an air of grave concern, deep wrinkles forming across her forehead, Okiyo gazed at her with a faintly mocking smile. “Oh, you’re just borrowing trouble. Lord Harima is counted among the Shirahata Group’s foremost swordsmen and is also skilled in Hōzōin-ryū spearmanship—Lord Mizuno, our leader, has often praised him for this. Hoho, even if he were to face five or ten ordinary men at once, what mistake could there possibly be? When one speaks of brawls, it may sound unsettling, but they are merely a method to hone martial skills in these peaceful times—being of a different nature than banditry or murder—so even the authorities would not find cause to make things difficult.”

Whether the family’s ways had naturally seeped into her or she was simply mimicking her master’s speech patterns, Okiyo spoke fluently without pause, trying to ease her mother’s concerns. Contrary to what her mother had imagined, her daughter remained unexpectedly composed, leaving the older woman unable to muster a response. The mother’s primary purpose in visiting today had been to see her daughter’s face, but depending on how their conversation unfolded, she had privately wondered whether to suggest requesting leave from this disquieting mansion. Yet here was her daughter, not only unperturbed but actively praising her brawl-prone master. This mixture of reassurance and unease kept the mother silent until Okiyo spoke again.

“I know not what the world may say of him, but Lord Harima is a man of upright heart and deep compassion—he shows care even in how he employs retainers and servants.” “Such a splendid lord cannot be found again.” “Since I wish to serve in this mansion for many years to come, please endure being alone for now, even if it inconveniences you.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to hardship, so that doesn’t trouble me—but I worry more about your circumstances than my own.” “If it’s a mansion where brawl-loving crowds constantly come and go, who can say what kind of disturbances might arise within at any time?” “If they keep loitering about like that, you might get caught up in the fray…”

"Hmm, I'm not like you," Okiyo laughed. "Even now, as things stand—neither you nor I are townspeople by birth. To be so timid..." Even when laughed at by her daughter, the mother didn't utter a word. This mother and daughter were not of townspeople lineage. Okiyo's father had been a ronin from the western provinces named Torigoe Nanigashi, and her mother who accompanied him was the daughter of a samurai. Having lost her husband early, the mother had raised her daughter single-handedly through widowhood, but due to their impoverished circumstances, had eventually sent her only child into service. Yet precisely because of this lineage, both had disdained serving in townspeople households and sought positions in samurai mansions instead. That her mother would now express anxiety about service in a warrior household struck Okiyo as somewhat inconsistent.

Of course, as a mother, she had her own valid reasons. For samurai households varied, and she reasoned that serving a master who treated brawling as his trade over time would be precarious. However, she had no desire to quarrel with her lovely daughter—even if it meant her own face reddening in argument—so when laughed at by her daughter, she remained meekly silent.

At that moment, Osen came bringing tea. Afterwards, steward Jūdayū also emerged.

“Ah, Okiyo’s mother.” “You’ve come at last.” “Now then, serve some tea,” Jūdayū said with a beaming smile.

“In a mansion teeming with nothing but men—utter chaos.” “The other women must be terribly busy too, but you work yourself to the bone without rest.” “Especially since our lord favors you so—with you handling all his personal affairs so dutifully, it’s been an immense relief to us.” “Lord Harima has such a violent temper, yet remains pleased with everything you do.” “Hahaha.” Okiyo’s earlobes flushed scarlet as she bowed her head. Without acknowledging this, Jūdayū produced gold coins wrapped in white paper from his robe.

“When I informed Lord Harima of your mother’s visit, he instructed me to have her take this as a token and bestowed two gold coins.” “Accept it with gratitude.” Two gold coins—in this era, they were a considerable sum. Was it prudent to accept them so readily? As the mother hesitated to reach out, Jūdayū thrust the money pouch before her knees. “Mark this well.” “Okiyo, observe this too, and later convey your thanks to our lord.” “We are deeply grateful.”

The mother and daughter bowed in thanks simultaneously. Hearing this, Jūdayū stood up. “Well then, take your time talking.” He casually went off to the back. Osen, tying her sash, went out to draw water from the well at the back, and the spring evening sun illuminated the long well rope as jewel-like water spilled from the bucket.

“Oh, this water’s good…” said Okiyo’s mother, drawing near the wellside as she prepared to leave. “It’s troublesome how deep it is,” said Osen. “The depth of Yamanote wells is their renowned feature,” her mother remarked, peering into the well’s depths. “My, how deep indeed! This must make drawing water morn and eve quite trying for you.” Though she voiced complaints about the hardship, Osen explained that when there were no official duties, the men would help draw water, so it wasn’t so terribly difficult after all. In the mansion’s garden frontage stood another well curb—shallower than this one with even clearer water—but since they couldn’t make their way to the garden front each time they needed water, she said they resigned themselves to drawing from this deeper well.

During that conversation, Okiyo appeared. She joined her mother in peering into the depths of the well, and their smiling faces rippled faintly upon the distant water’s surface.

Three

It was the morning of the second day. Okiyo had come to the kitchen as usual and was helping Osen when the retainer Gonji shrugged his shoulders and entered from outside.

“A guest has come.” “A guest has come.”

“A guest has come…” Okiyo paused in her tidying up. “Who might it be?” “No—a right troublesome guest.” “The Master finds them troublesome too, and we’re forbidden to be seen—so lying low’s our best bet.” In the midst of this, Gonroku too came sneaking in. The person whom even those grown men found so bothersome was easily imagined by the women as well. Osen asked with a laugh. “Is it... the Aunt from Koishikawa?”

“That’s right, that’s right. Her Ladyship the Aunt is even more terrifying than the demon aunt who came to Watanabe’s mansion to reclaim her severed arm. If we show our faces, we’ll surely be scolded. Especially today of all days—two days since then! There’s plenty of grounds for reprimand. After all—no need to show our faces till she’s gone.” Though it was a common occurrence and nothing unusual, the sight of the men with scythe-like beards cowering before the fearsome aunt—their innocent, childlike demeanor—was unbearably amusing, so Osen let out an unrestrained laugh. However, Okiyo didn’t crack a smile. The moment she heard the name of the Aunt from Koishikawa, her pale face turned as white as water. She pursed her lips tightly and headed toward the inner rooms.

Since serving guests was her duty, Okiyo immediately began preparing tea. When she had prepared the tea and carried it out to the drawing room, Mayumi was sitting face-to-face with her master Harima conversing amicably. Though there seemed fewer scoldings than the men had feared today—leaving Okiyo somewhat relieved—she still harbored greater unease within herself. “Hoho, Okiyo.” Mayumi smiled as she turned her gaze to the young maid serving them. “You remain as lovely as ever. With your master unmarried, managing women’s affairs must prove troublesome. Endure but a little longer—I ask this of you.”

“Yes,” Okiyo responded demurely, bowing with her hands placed properly. A little more endurance—that phrase rang strangely in her ears and sent waves crashing through her young breast. “If there is need, I will call. You may withdraw,” Mayumi said quietly. Okiyo bowed politely once more and stood up. When she stood up and glanced at her master’s face, Harima was looking at the tatami mat’s pattern with a troubled expression. When faced with his formidable aunt, it was his usual habit to fall silent with a lonely expression as though taken hostage, but today, that particularly troubled look caught Okiyo’s attention. She withdrew to the veranda once but then stealthily retraced her steps and peered through the sliding door from the neighboring drawing room one room away.

When the tea had been finished, Mayumi’s voice was heard. Though spoken softly, its dignified tone carried clearly even to Okiyo’s distant ears. “Well now, Harima.” “I shall not nitpick over each of your recent misdeeds.” “You will surely mend your ways, will you not?” “Yes.” Harima’s reply consisted solely of that single word. “That is an unsatisfactory answer.” “Will you swear it? Or make a pledge?” Mayumi pressed further. “As peace endures in our time, even martial discipline grows lax.” “Fawning weaklings multiply among both samurai and townsfolk.” “Even I find this disgraceful.” “Yet when warriors ape the machiyakko and rampage through every quarter of Edo, they achieve naught but needless disturbance of His Lordship’s capital.” “Should you squander lives meant to be sacrificed before His Lordship the Shogun’s banner on petty quarrels—what then?” “Surely you are not so witless as to misunderstand this reasoning.” “If samurai cannot withdraw from associations like the Shirahata Group under oath’s pretense, I shall meet Lord Mizuno myself and ensure refusal.”

Okiyo secretly imagined that if it were Her Ladyship the Aunt, she would surely bring even Mizuno Jūrōzaemon—revered as the leader of the Shirahata Group—to heel and force her own arguments through, twisting right into wrong if need be. But if such a thing were done recklessly, the master would likely be troubled. As she strained her ears to hear how he would respond to this, Harima indeed hurriedly cut it off. “No, there is no need for such measures.” “If Your Ladyship were to personally intervene, it would trouble Lord Mizuno and trouble me as well… I humbly request that you refrain from such measures.”

“That is not something I would prefer either,” said Mayumi. “Then will you not join their ranks? Will you now swear to behave meekly henceforth?” “Yes.”

Just when it seemed the conversation had lapsed for a moment, the aunt’s voice was heard again. It was different from before—a voice filled with genuine warmth, gentle and tender.

“Now then, there is another matter to discuss.” “You refuse to settle in the mansion, swaggering about wherever you please.” “I suppose that ultimately stems from our household lacking a restraining rein.” “You are already twenty-five—an age when some have become parents of two or three children—how long do you mean to remain unmarried?” “It is high time you took a proper wife and made plans to ensure prosperous descendants.” “This aunt would never suggest anything improper.” “The second daughter of Lord Ōkubo of Iidamachi—the one I mentioned briefly the other day…”

Okiyo leaned against the sliding door as if to push it over, straining her ears so as not to miss a single word.

“Her name is Fujie.” “She is eighteen years old—her features comely, her manners excellent.” “Truly worthy of Lord Ōkubo’s upbringing, her disposition shows spiritedness.” “Were my son unmarried, I would desire to bring her into our mansion as well, but Iori-suke is expected to become a father this autumn—there’s no helping it.” “To send such a girl to another household would be regrettable—by all means I wish to make her kin to us.” “Now then Harima—though I may sound persistent—this aunt would never counsel anything improper.” “Were you to take that girl...”

Okiyo felt her vision blurring and her ears rang fiercely. Even to her ears, Harima’s reply came through clearly.

“I appreciate your consideration, but Lord Ōkubo of Iidamachi is of high standing—after all, to our mansion…”

“Nay, there is no need for such reserve.” “Lord Ōkubo being the sort of man he is—he would not trouble himself over matters of family standing.” “He knows you particularly well.” “Should your aunt make but a single entreaty, he would surely consent—that I will handle.” “What say you?”

This reply marked the critical juncture of his life. Okiyo listened without breathing, and Harima did not immediately respond. Urged by his aunt, he quietly began to speak. "I fully comprehend your words, but as this concerns my own affairs—a matter of once-in-a-lifetime gravity—" "When it comes to choosing opponents for a brawl, I make no distinctions, but in matters of marriage proposals, even I must exercise proper judgment." "That is reasonable." "I do not expect an answer immediately." "After careful consideration, give me your answer again." "Understood?"

“Yes.”

Okiyo let out a sigh of relief and collapsed into a heap on her knees. The sliding door she had been leaning against creaked and swayed from the movement, forcing her to crawl away stealthily before scrambling into her room—only then noticing the clammy sweat drenching her neck and armpits. Though regretting she hadn't heard the parlor conversation to its end, Harima's response had let her grasp how matters stood. The marriage proposal raised by Aunt appeared left unresolved for now. Yet Okiyo found no peace—the Aunt of Shibukawa pressing the master to wed was no new development. She'd faintly known of last month's similar discussion now growing urgent enough for Aunt's special morning visit. Given Aunt's formidable persistence—how could Master possibly refuse outright? What if those unanswerable demands piled up twice or thrice over? At these thoughts, Okiyo's composure shattered completely.

She took out a pocket tissue and wiped the sweat from her collar. As the sweat finally subsided, both eyelids grew moist in turn. She grew sad, as though the precarious shape of her own future had already been laid bare before her eyes. The year after Okiyo began serving at this mansion—at the end of her seventeenth spring, on a hazy moonlit night about one year prior to now—three or four friends from the Shirahata Group came visiting, and as usual, a modest drinking gathering commenced. At that time, Mizuno Jūrōzaemon had also come. Mizuno seemed to take a great liking to Okiyo, who had served the drinks, and praised her before his master. The others also praised her in unison. Since these men prided themselves on never offering empty compliments or flattery, the fact that they all praised her in unison meant she understood their words held no sycophancy toward their master.

When the guests had left and the parlor was tidied up, Harima requested tea from Okiyo. It was already past the fourth hour (10 p.m.), and the cherry blossoms halfway in bloom under the hazy moon cast pale shadows along the eaves. The lukewarm night wind that gently stirred the shadows flowed past, scattering white petals like moonlit dewdrops onto the sleeves of Harima, whose face—still flushed from sobering up—was brushed by the breeze at the edge of the veranda.

Okiyo now recalled, as though it were happening anew, the dream from that night carved into her heart's depths. The love between young master and maid had gradually deepened from then onward, until Harima swore to Okiyo that he would make her his lawful wife. Never had Okiyo forgotten that vow. To her mother's anxious eyes, this mansion of quarrel-seeking Shirahata warriors seemed perilous—yet to the daughter, it remained paradise. But since marriage talks had begun for her master days earlier, the young maid's heart found no respite. Now today came this knee-to-knee confrontation with Aunt. Though matters might settle temporarily now, dread of what must follow left her weeping in utter despair.

As the voices of Osen and the men could still be heard in the kitchen, Okiyo suddenly stood up and took out her hand mirror. After fixing her tear-streaked face reflected in the mirror, she too headed to the kitchen, where Gonji and Gonroku sat side by side on the raised threshold, their large frames lined up as they leisurely groomed their sickle-shaped beards with silver tweezers glinting in the spring sunlight. When they saw Okiyo’s face, they asked. “Has Aunt not returned yet?” “It does not appear their discussion will conclude anytime soon,” Okiyo said. “However, it does not appear to be her usual reprimand.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Gonji laughed. “This year’s rainy season might come a month early. But I wonder if Her Ladyship has any business beyond scoldings.”

“Could it perhaps be regarding the marriage proposal?” ventured Osen.

“Hmm, I’ve heard such rumors,” said Gonroku disinterestedly. “That Her Ladyship sure is a meddler—making such a fuss over every little thing. His Lordship, who hates face powder, would rarely take on such a troublesome wife—would he?” “Wahahaha!” “Could it be that the master is taking a wife?” Okiyo probed. “That’s obviously going to be refused,” Gonji declared. “Are you acquainted with the daughter of Lord Ōkubo of Iidamachi?” Okiyo pressed again.

The men, who held no regard for half-hearted women, claimed to know nothing of daughters from other mansions. However, as the Ōkubo family had no sons, the one to be sent as a bride would likely be the second daughter. The younger sister was reputed to surpass her elder sister in both beauty and charm, but they said they had never once laid eyes on her.

“Is she truly that beautiful…?” pressed Okiyo in a trembling voice. “’Tis nothing but a rumor.” The men didn’t even deign to engage.

IV

After seeing Aunt off, Harima too immediately went out somewhere. Gonji and Gonroku also accompanied him as attendants and left.

The long days of late were reluctant to fade. Though she knew it was his usual habit that once gone, there was no telling when he might return, today alone Okiyo found herself waiting restlessly for her master's return. She wanted to know her master's true intentions regarding this marriage proposal.

From society’s perspective, Master Harima might be considered an uncontrollable troublemaker. From Aunt’s perspective, he might be a quarrelsome nuisance. Yet through Okiyo’s eyes, he seemed beautifully noble—straight as split bamboo, without a trace of deceit or pretense, so much that one might call him a samurai among samurai. Whether the man was a seven hundred koku lord or not mattered little—she had never once considered erasing this love now etched into her soul. She had trusted utterly in her master’s unfeigned promise. She clung fiercely to her belief that her lord would never deceive her.

Okiyo still believed this. And what cast this dark shadow over the depths of her heart was the cruel, sorrowful law of human society—each person’s immutable station. In every era, this law had manifested in various forms, but it was particularly severe during the Edo period in which she was born. A master could torment and kill retainers without consequence. For retainers, not only killing their master but even inflicting a single scratch would result in capital punishment; depending on the circumstances, they could face public display of the head or crucifixion. Born into an era of such stringent class hierarchy, a retainer falls in love with their master. Whether that love would be fulfilled depended entirely on the master’s discretion, and from the retainer themselves, not a word of resentment could be voiced. Even if one swore by the mountains, swore by the sea, swore by all the gods and buddhas, it was no different from the empty vows of courtesans—for the master to cast them aside meant nothing. Of course, even between those of equal social standing, once a man’s heart changed, any promise being cast aside followed nature’s course—but in love across differing stations, no matter how cruelly and pitifully one was rejected, the abandoned party received little sympathy, and the one who abandoned them faced no reproach. In love too there existed a hierarchy—Okiyo had long known of unfortunate women who, though heavy with their masters’ children, were cast out from mansions.

This cruel edict was not limited to the relationship between masters and retainers. Among relatives too, this law lay like an immovable stone. When one lacks a father, regard one’s uncle as father—so it was decreed. When one lacks a mother, regard one’s aunt as mother—so it was decreed. Therefore, for a self-reliant man like Aoyama Harima—who had no father, no uncle, no mother—the aunt stood as the most formidable figure. When she pressed down with parental authority head-on, repelling it required extraordinary resolve. Bound by the Shirahata Group’s code that prioritized duty above all, Aoyama Harima—their sworn member—found himself constrained to honor his aunt’s rights completely. Now this aunt demanded he wed the daughter of Ōkubo so-and-so. Given his strong-willed nature yet equally unyielding adherence to obligation, whether he could muster the courage to defy his aunt until the end seemed precarious to Okiyo.

If this were taken to its logical conclusion, the aunt would force her nephew into an unwanted marriage. The master would force his retainers to abandon their love against their will. One could not accept that a day when such a tragic fate loomed would never come. Okiyo’s premature anxieties took strong root from one worry to the next.

“His Lordship is not such a liar.” She reconsidered once more, mocking her own narrow-mindedness. Human edicts and worldly obligations—in the end, they all hinged on a man’s heart alone. If only the resolve of the man she relied upon remained steadfast, there would be no need to fear any storm. With how a man handled the rudder, no matter what tempests he battled, he could surely drift to the opposite shore. The master and retainers needed not reconsider now. Aoyama Harima was a man without deceit. She need only cling in her heart to that man’s hand. She would think of nothing anymore. To fret and waver like this was her own shallow-mindedness—Okiyo strove to drive these doubts from her mind.

Osen had been working on altering her summer kimono, but the long daylight hours of needlework seemed to have wearied her; with eyes so heavy she could barely see the needle's tip, she dazedly let her hands rest. The four o'clock bell (seven strikes) of Ichigaya tolled drowsily, its sound sinking heavily. Okiyo soon left Osen's side and quietly rose.

Though knowing her master was away, she found herself drawn toward his quarters. Peering into the stewards’ duty room, she saw Shibata Jūdayū leaning against a small desk, his white-haired head tilted as if half-asleep. Okiyo stole past on tiptoe, and when she reached the veranda edge of her master’s quarters, even the broad-eaved cherry tree’s pale silhouette seemed abruptly gaunt compared to yesterday. As she gazed up mournfully, the sunlight—already wheeling westward—faded gradually, while petals quivering in dusk-summoning chill fell soundlessly. When the cold floral scent pierced Okiyo’s flesh, tears rose unbidden once more.

While gently wiping her eyes, she intently watched the fluttering petals' path—a small flurry of them wavered lightly and was blown onto the garden well curb. Beside the well curb stood a single slender willow, as if peering into the water. Okiyo slipped into her garden clogs and approached the well curb. While brushing away willow threads that teased her disheveled Shimada-style sidelocks with her long-sleeved kimono sleeve, she peered into the well's depths—yet in the water's reflection lay only her shadowed face, her mother's beloved visage nowhere to be seen. She remembered what had happened the day before yesterday.

His Lordship had bestowed two koban upon her mother. Mother had been surprised, but she herself had been startled as well. When she accompanied Mother to the gate upon her departure, Mother seemed to harbor unease about the unexpected gift and repeatedly asked her as if to confirm whether it was truly acceptable to receive it. Of course, for the parent of an ordinary servant, this was an extraordinary bestowed gift. It was only natural for Mother to be suspicious. She considered whispering the explanation that was no mystery at all to reassure Mother, but lacking the courage to reveal the secret between her master and herself, she made some hasty excuse and parted ways. She was glad she hadn’t told Mother about it. She thought that if she were to carelessly reveal it, there might come a time when even Mother would be plunged into the abyss of disappointment. Thinking of this, she was overcome by an inescapable sadness. However, on the other hand, the fact that he had bestowed two koban upon her mother could also be seen as evidence that His Lordship loved her. There’s no way His Lordship, being who he was, would cruelly cast her aside. She gazed at her tear-dried smile reflected in the distant water mirror.

Whether she should weep or laugh—Okiyo could no longer tell. Even so, teardrops flowed from her eyes for no reason. While clinging to the willow's green branch, she wanted to weep to her heart's content at the well curb.

“Okiyo. What are you doing? Did you drop something from your head?” When suddenly called out to, she turned to find her master Harima standing firmly on the veranda, laughing. “You’ve returned, my lord? I hadn’t realized…” Okiyo hastily bowed, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

Harima silently beckoned. Summoned, Okiyo returned to the veranda, but as if fearing her tear-streaked face would be noticed, she revealed her white collar and gazed down at the scattered flowers beneath her feet.

“Okiyo. “You were crying.” “Why are you crying?” “Did you quarrel with your peers?” “Did Jūdayū rebuke you?” Okiyo remained silent as if abashed. “Don’t conceal it. “Give your account.” “Or do you mean to cast yourself into the well curb?” Harima laughed again.

Where had he been drinking? The young samurai’s lustrous white cheeks were faintly flushed.

“I am not crying,” Okiyo answered softly. “Then show me your face. “Ha ha, you won’t show me,” Harima taunted again. “If you don’t speak honestly, I’ll dismiss you.” Startled, Okiyo raised her face. Dismissal—she could no longer brush that off as a joke. Uncontrollable grudge and jealousy swirled like a whirlwind in her chest and arose. Harima gazed suspiciously at that extraordinary look in her eyes but soon burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Ha ha… Dismissing you—that was just a jest.” “Don’t be angry.” “Or is there another reason?” “If you won’t explain yourself, it’s only natural I end up teasing you.” “If you’re so angry, then explain yourself properly.” When Okiyo thought of what unsightly appearance she had shown the man, her shame gave way to sudden sorrow. She buried her face in her long-sleeved kimono and prostrated herself in tears on the veranda edge.

“Hmm, you sniveling wretch. How could such a weakling ever become the wife of a Shirahata Group samurai?” Seizing the moment, Okiyo asked back through her tears. “A samurai’s wife… Could this Kiku ever become a samurai’s wife?”

“Of course.” “Aoyama Harima is a samurai of some standing.” “If you were that wife…” “But Lady Shibukawa…” “Oh. You knew about that?” Harima remarked casually. “Even my formidable aunt cannot force this matter through sheer will alone.” “So that’s why you were crying?” “Ha ha, you fool!” Harima laughed loudly with an unclouded voice. Having been dismissed too lightly, Okiyo—as if losing her momentum—blinked her tear-swollen eyes and glanced up at him. The face of the man gradually sobering from his drunkenness appeared to glow brilliantly.

“Do not doubt Harima.”

The master took the maid’s hand.

Five

About ten more days passed, and Harima was summoned to Shibukawa’s mansion. Okiyo thought it must surely be a demand for his response to the marriage proposal. She grew impatient to discern the situation from her master’s complexion after his return from Koishikawa, but with her young, love-clouded eyes—shadowed as they were—she could not discern any secret from her man’s face. Yet, the thought of being perceived as a jealous, vulgar woman was also sorrowful, so she could not bring herself to persistently interrogate her master either.

"Do not doubt Harima"—clinging to these words as her staff, Okiyo spent her days in torment until the cherry blossoms in the garden became battered by storms, and departing spring vanished behind new foliage.

The Fourth Month arrived with cuckoos singing, and the change to summer robes lightened one’s skin, but Okiyo’s heart did not lighten at all. With the changing of the month, Harima was once again summoned to Shibukawa’s mansion.

“What could be the honorable purpose behind these frequent invitations to the Shibukawa mansion?” When Okiyo casually inquired with Jūdayū, even the indifferent steward tilted his head.

“I don’t know. “Is it the usual reprimand, or perhaps an honorable consultation about bringing in a wife?” “Most likely, it must be something like that.” “Shall I summon the lady?” “The master is already twenty-five—one cannot say such a thing is out of the question.”

“Did the master himself say that directly?” “No—I haven’t heard anything.”

Whether stewards, young retainers, or servants—none in this mansion had ever treated matters concerning women as worthy of consideration from the very beginning. Since they maintained an air of indifference toward whether a mistress came or not, Okiyo found herself unable to discern how this affair might develop no matter whom she approached. She remained alone and grew increasingly agitated. That such unconcerned individuals were assembled regarding matters of romance had proven advantageous for shrouding the secret between master and maid—yet precisely because they had succeeded in preserving that secrecy until now, Okiyo discovered she could find no allies in this predicament. Even Osen, being another woman, failed to become someone she might consult.

On the night of the seventh day—said to commemorate Buddha’s birth—eight or nine leading members of the Shirahata Group were to assemble at the Aoyama mansion. There was no particular occasion. Just as in years past, members of their faction would gather to host a private drinking banquet. Mizuno Jūrōzaemon, their leader, had naturally declared his attendance. “The gathering begins at the sixth hour of dusk.” “Do not slacken in your preparations.” “And have those Korean plates brought out.”

Having given instructions to his retainers, Harima went out somewhere around noon.

Today was a busy day for the women. Jūdayū and the young retainers pitched in as well, and the men tucked up their hakama hems to begin preparing the sake and dishes.

“First, this should settle the essentials,” said Shibata Jūdayū, wiping sweat from his balding forehead while speaking.

“It’s still early yet—shall we retrieve that important item now?” “Okiyo and Osen, come along as well.”

The two women followed the steward and went to the inner storehouse. The old storehouse was like a storage shed and held almost nothing of value, but for the Aoyama family, it contained the one truly important item they possessed. It was a rare set of Goryeo ware plates, ten in total. No one fully understood why a samurai family treasured such vessels, but as their significance as rarities in the world gradually intensified, a terrifying legend emerged in some generation: should all these plates ever be shattered, the house would perish. Thus, in the Aoyama household, these plates were regarded as treasures. Servants were sternly informed that should they accidentally shatter even a single one, they must consider their lives forfeit—a stricture that had become the family’s ancestral edict.

Since carelessly retrieving such a troublesome treasure was dangerous, it had rarely been used since Harima’s time, but Mizuno—having somehow learned of it—spoke to his lord Harima about tonight’s gathering. “I hear your household possesses a rare set of Goryeo plates.” “I would very much like to see them tomorrow night.”

“Understood.” Harima readily agreed and instructed Jūdayū to add his ten Goryeo plates to the vessels that would hold tonight’s dishes. Both Okiyo and Osen had handled those plates when they were boxed during seasonal airing, but tonight marked the first time they were to be placed on serving trays for a meal. They had long been aware of the terrifying legends surrounding those plates and the strict edicts associated with them. “It goes without saying, but these are precious items.” “Be absolutely sure not to let your guard down.”

Even now, having been sternly reminded by Jūdayū, the two women were terrified afresh. With layer upon layer of caution, they reverently carried out the boxed plates from the depths of the storehouse, whereupon Jūdayū opened the lid and meticulously inspected the ten white plates. “Good, good. “I may sound repetitive, but handle them with utmost care. “Not only breaking even a single one—even chipping them will bring calamity.” This was truly a grave matter. It was a matter of life and death. At this thought, both Okiyo and Osen were horrified to the point their hair stood on end. The two women received the plates in their trembling fingers and resolved to carefully return them to their original box until the moment came to finally carry them out to the drawing room.

“It’s already past seven.” “The master will soon return.” “The eager guests may start arriving at any moment.” “Okiyo, go to the back and make sure the drawing rooms are properly prepared—check every corner as a precaution.” Instructed by Shibata Jūdayū, Okiyo promptly headed to the inner drawing rooms. Under a pale overcast sky, the young leaves in the poorly maintained garden had gradually thickened into green shadows, darkening the veranda of the study hall—its two ten-mat rooms left wide open. In the dimly lit tokonoma of that drawing room hung the kerria that Okiyo had arranged that morning, its branches laden with yellow blossoms. She adjusted the branch arrangement ever so slightly and gazed at the Three Shrines’ Oracles hanging scroll before her as if seeing it anew. After confirming there was no visible dust in every corner of the drawing room, she stepped out onto the veranda and neatly arranged three pairs of garden geta on the stepping stones.

There was nothing amiss now, she reassured herself. The standing lanterns would be lit after dusk.

While muttering to herself, she stood entranced on the veranda. The deep, resonant tones of a koto from the neighboring mansion filtered through the young leaves and drifted softly toward her. She listened half-consciously, her ear drawn to the sound. Okiyo knew the owner of the koto. She was the eldest daughter of the neighboring mansion, taken as a bride four or five years prior to a high-ranking family of vastly mismatched status due to her beauty. At first, their marital harmony was so enviably close that it drew admiration, but as time passed, the husband’s affection gradually cooled, and true to the proverb “disparity breeds estrangement,” the bride was sent back to her parents’ home. And so, she consoled the wretched sorrow of her returned existence with the strains of the koto. Whether real or imagined, those plucking sounds trembled piteously, as if to flick away people’s tears. Whenever Okiyo heard those deep, somber tones, she would be moved to tears by the sorrow of a woman cruelly cast aside by a man—and now those tears welled up once more. This must be what they mean by having one’s heartstrings plucked. To Okiyo now, especially, the koto player’s plight seemed painfully vivid. The melancholy koto song sang of the player’s sorrow, and she began to suspect it might also make the listener aware of their own grief.

Okiyo leaned against the veranda pillar, listening entranced to the song and melody as if being drawn in, while the overcast early summer sky gradually dimmed and the shadow of the willow by the well grew dark. She suddenly recalled something. Though she thought it unthinkable, it now seemed the perfect opportunity to ascertain the true nature of the man who must not be doubted.

That referred to those Korean porcelain plates. They were the ten plates said to be treasures of the Aoyama household. Okiyo conceived the idea to shatter one of those plates to measure the depth of Harima’s affection. When she prostrated herself before her master with claims of having carelessly damaged the precious plate during a moment’s distraction—what would Harima say? What would he do? If he truly loved her, then even if she damaged his family’s treasure, he ought not punish her harshly. “I should feign carelessness—break one of those plates—and test whether Master’s true heart values Okiyo or his treasure.”

While conceiving this plan, she nevertheless hesitated once more. She feared the ominous legend that when all those plates were shattered, the House of Aoyama would perish. However, if only a single plate were damaged, surely no calamity or curse would befall the house. If the person who damaged it received the master's punishment, that would settle the matter. In this situation, I naturally could not afford to fear death. If he were a master who would mercilessly punish me for damaging a single plate, then it was clear he held no deep affection for me. If my master's heart were truly so cold, this marriage proposal would indeed materialize as reality, and I would ultimately be cast aside without question. Could I go on living if Harima were to discard me? Okiyo turned her gaze to the well curb where dark willows swayed.

Since there was no love from the man, I could not go on living no matter what. If he truly loved me, then even if I damaged the treasure, I could certainly go on living. Okiyo resolved to stake her life to lay bare the man’s soul. Though she thought it wasteful to destroy even a single precious plate so needlessly, she could no longer afford to fear such consequences.

The sound of the koto from next door still continued. When Okiyo returned to the kitchen—suddenly emboldened as if demon-possessed—neither Jūdayū nor the young retainers were anywhere to be seen. Osen was drawing water from the back well.

Six “Ah!”

By the time Jūdayū rushed into the kitchen upon hearing Okiyo’s frantic scream, one of the Korean plates lay shattered. Even Jūdayū—ordinarily indifferent to material concerns—widened his eyes in panic. Okiyo claimed she had dropped the precious plate through carelessness.

“Even after I gave you such explicit warnings earlier, this careless blunder endangers not just yourself—I myself, Jūdayū, cannot begin to imagine what retribution we may incur.” “Withdraw to your chambers at once and keep yourself there in meek silence.”

Okiyo was confined to her own room. She, who had resolved herself from the start, waited without the slightest hint of unease—and before the evening bell marking the sixth hour could sound, Harima returned.

“My lord, an unthinkable incident has occurred.”

When Jūdayū saw his master’s face, he immediately appealed.

“An unthinkable incident…” “Jūdayū,” Harima laughed, “this ill becomes you. What could possibly warrant such panic?” “My lord—truly, I cannot remain calm.” “One of the precious plates has been damaged.” Harima’s countenance hardened. “What… A precious plate damaged…?” “The maid Okiyo, through her blunder, has shattered it cleanly in two.” “Summon Okiyo.” Summoned, Okiyo went to the inner quarters. She carried the broken plate wrapped in a silk cloth. Her face, illuminated by the lanterns the young retainers had brought out, was deathly pale. Harima asked quietly.

“Kiku.” “The Korean plate—it was you who broke it, was it not?”

Okiyo calmly stated that it was undoubtedly her own carelessness. She declared that having damaged the family treasure through her grave incompetence, she would harbor no resentment regardless of what punishment she received. "First and foremost, you demonstrate proper resolve," Harima nodded. "For the House of Aoyama, this is indeed an ancestral treasure of great import, but being mere carelessness, I cannot bring myself to censure you severely." "Take utmost care henceforth." Needless to say, she would have to exercise caution from then on. The reprimand for damaging the precious heirloom ended with only this. Okiyo's taut composure slackened all at once, and she collapsed onto the veranda with hands braced. As even Jūdayū stood dumbstruck by his master's excessive leniency, Harima spoke quietly again.

“This evening’s guests number seven besides Lord Mizuno as the guest of honor, and including the host, that makes exactly nine. Even if one plate is missing, it won’t pose a problem.” “Regardless of the esteemed guests’ circumstances, for Okiyo’s transgression in breaking one of the ten precious utensils that were finally gathered in full, I too humbly offer my apologies,” Jūdayū said, pressing his forehead to the edge of the tatami mat. Harima’s countenance gradually softened. He stared intently at the undulations of Okiyo’s black hair in the shadow of the lantern light—Okiyo, who remained prostrated on the veranda, trembling faintly—then turned back to Jūdayū with a faint smile.

“No, no—set your mind at ease. Even if they’re called ancestral heirlooms, they’re different from weapons or horse gear—in the end, they’re just plates and bowls. I don’t consider them particularly valuable. But if those old-fashioned relatives hear of this, it’ll be troublesome. Ensure that publicly, it still appears all ten remain intact. Understood?” “Your repeated gracious consideration is most humbling. I shall attend to every detail. Kiku, offer your thanks once more.”

Okiyo silently bowed her head. Her chest felt so tight she could no longer speak. Tears of gratitude streamed down without stopping. Rather than pride in her scheme’s success, she felt overwhelmed by the man’s genuine devotion. The sin of having dared test such a noble heart now filled her with terrifying emptiness. “The guests will arrive shortly. Jūdayū, prepare to receive them at the entrance,” Harima instructed, dismissing the steward. Only the shattered plate and the girl who broke it remained.

"What a terrible blunder I’ve committed. I have no excuse to offer," Okiyo spoke for the first time. The low, trembling quality of her voice Harima interpreted solely as regret over her carelessness, so he comforted her compassionately. “Enough of your long-winded apologies.” “One apology suffices.” “To speak truthfully, it is our house’s law that any retainer who accidentally shatters a family heirloom spanning generations faces execution by sword—but do you think I would have you executed?” “Dispose of the shattered plate in the well’s depths where none may see it.”

“Yes.” Wiping her welling tears once more, Okiyo took the chipped plate and descended into the garden. Her long sleeves swayed the willow branches as one of the family treasures was sunk to the water’s depths.

“To tell the truth, when I encountered Lord Mizuno earlier, he inquired whether my maid Kiku was still performing her duties without mishap.” “Was that indeed so?” “Lord Mizuno holds an uncommon partiality toward you.” “Attend to your service with care again tonight,” Harima said with a cheerful smile.

Seeing the man’s cheerful face—beautiful as ever and free of shadows—Okiyo felt a happiness so profound it verged on sorrow. Even if it had been mere carelessness—for herself, who had damaged the family treasure—he had not uttered a single harsh rebuke but instead offered gentle words. Understanding the man’s heart all too completely, Okiyo felt it verged on sacrilege. Her own sin of having shattered the precious treasure through groundless doubts grew ever more regrettable. Relief and regret entwined as one as she gently wiped her eyes again.

Along the veranda came the sound of hurried footsteps, and Jūdayū reappeared there. That was not news of guests arriving. He glared and pleaded once more to his master.

“My lord.” “Okiyo is an utterly insolent wretch.”

The secret was instantly exposed. Okiyo’s damaging of the plate was no accident. She had struck it against the kitchen pillar and deliberately shattered it. This was because Osen, the maid, had indeed witnessed this from a distance near the well. "If it were mere carelessness, there would be nothing to be done," he said, "but deliberately shattering a precious heirloom is utterly beyond pardon—even should my lord grant forgiveness, I cannot consent." "That Okiyo must be interrogated without fail," Jūdayū declared vehemently, his voice sharpening.

Harima was unexpectedly surprised. Unable to believe that anyone in this mansion—not just Okiyo—could commit such violence, he questioned Okiyo just to be certain while doubting his own ears.

“Well, Kiku? Jūdayū makes such claims, but surely that cannot be the case. Explain yourself clearly.”

To deceive the man further was something Okiyo could not endure. The witness was merely Osen alone. Even if she were to make any accusation, as long as we persistently maintained it was mere carelessness, it would ultimately amount to nothing more than a water dispute. Moreover, since the Master was on our side, it stood to reason that if I persisted in my stubbornness, I would surely prevail. Moreover, she lacked the courage to repeat that deception. While fully recognizing the man’s sincere devotion, she thought repaying it with deceit would be too grave a sin. She honestly confessed.

“In truth, just as the Lord Steward said, it was due to my own misunderstanding that I deliberately shattered the plate.” Harima was shocked as though forced to grasp a red-hot branding iron. That someone who would intentionally damage his ancestral treasure—such an ill-intentioned person—could be nesting within his own mansion was something he had never even dreamed of, yet this had now been discovered in his very midst. Rather than growing angry, he was simply astonished and suspicious. “Yet I can’t believe Kiku has gone mad either.” There had to be some reason behind this. “I will personally conduct the interrogation. You are dismissed for now.”

Jūdayū was once again dismissed. The shattered plate had already sunk to the bottom of the well. This time, it was a confrontation between the woman who had broken the plate and her master. Nevertheless, Harima conducted the interrogation gently. “Now, Kiku.” “Under what reasoning did you deliberately shatter the precious plate?” “By house code, breaking that plate warrants execution by sword.” “Knowing that full well, there must be a reason you deliberately shattered it with your own hands.” “Out with it!” “What more could I possibly hide?” “It was from my baseless suspicions that…”

“Suspicion… What suspicion?” “I doubted Master’s heart…” Okiyo began to speak but then trembled violently, as if only now realizing the gravity of her words. Harima stared fixedly as he listened. “As I mentioned before, through the esteemed matchmaker arranged by your honorable aunt in Koishikawa, a lady from the Ōkubo residence in Iidamachi is likely to enter your household as your bride.” “Day and night, that alone stuck in my chest…” “In my presumptuousness, I sought to test Master’s heart…”

“Hmm. “So you thought this Harima viewed you as nothing but a fleeting flower? “Did you take this heart for one that would never forsake you? “To ascertain that true heart, you deliberately shattered the family’s treasure—to see whether I valued the heirloom or you more dearly—and sought to confirm the nature of this Harima’s resolve? “Kiku, is this truly the case?” “Yes.”

“Is that truly the case?” Harima pressed for confirmation.

“Yes.” Before her second reply could finish, Okiyo was already pinned down on the wooden veranda, Harima’s hand gripping her collar hair tightly.

“You wretch! To go to such lengths to test my heart—this is beyond hateful!” The man’s soul seemed seared and ravaged by fury—his voice and body trembling as he hurled abuse. Aoyama Harima, hatamoto of the realm, had sworn in his heart that in matters of love there would be no divide between lord and retainer—that even mingling with you, a mere maid, the only flower he saw blooming across all Japan was the solitary chrysanthemum of his household. I am a Mikawa samurai of unyielding loyalty. Once resolved single-mindedly, he had never once set foot in Yoshiwara even through dealings with the Shirahata Group. I’ve never taken up women’s cups even at tanzen bathhouses. Do you think maintaining such unyielding duty could be achieved through lies and deceit? Even when laid bare for all to see—what deficiency made you doubt this Harima?—he roared with near madness and, using all his strength, dragged the frail woman about and tormented her mercilessly. The woman’s white cheek was pressed against the wooden floorboards.

Tonight, as there were to be guests, Okiyo had put on a new ceremonial kimono. It was a long-sleeved kimono emblazoned with chrysanthemum flowers—her namesake—dyed large in white and yellow against a pale violet ground, but its sleeves and cuffs were crushed under the man’s violent grip, the beautiful blossoms trampled into ruin as he mauled the fabric. The body of the woman wearing it was likewise crushed into ruin, and her freshly styled Shimada updo came completely undone from the roots. Under labored breath, she apologized to the man through her tears.

“The suspicion has already been cleared.” “Please forgive me.” Even though the woman’s suspicions had been cleared, the man’s resentment remained unresolved. No matter what the aunt from Koishikawa might say, how could he have interpreted that oath sworn so vehemently—to never take another wife? “What lack made you test this Harima? What evidence made you doubt this Harima?” he reproached the woman while tears of frustration gushed forth. No matter how he considered it, he was vexed. His unclouded heart had been doubted by the woman—the thought of it made him writhe with vexation.

Okiyo also apologized while choking on tears. She had always known that Master’s heart was unclouded. Even knowing this, that she had doubted him out of the shallow-heartedness of a woman was a grave error. "Please forgive me," she pleaded with the man in a voice choked as if coughing up blood.

Even then, Harima could not bring himself to forgive. To have been doubted by the woman, to have been tested even through the shattering of the ancestral treasure—to uphold his manly honor, he could not bear it unless he killed her. With eyes filled with tears glaring, he delivered his final verdict to the woman.

“No matter how much you apologize now, the sin of having once doubted an innocent person will never vanish in your lifetime.” “Now, prepare yourself and face it directly.”

Pushing Okiyo away there, Harima went to take the sword from the sword rack. The sound of the koto next door was no longer heard.

Seven

It was true that Okiyo had intentionally broken the plate. Osen had not lied at all. The woman had carelessly let it slip to Jūdayū in a moment of loose lips, but later came to regret it. If something like Okiyo facing execution were to happen because she had blurted out something careless, it would be disastrous. Okiyo’s grudge was terrifying. She could no longer remain calm, and when she stealthily crept to investigate the inner chambers—finding Okiyo being brutally punished by her master and weeping in a pitiful state—Osen became utterly unable to endure it.

She went to Jūdayū and pleaded for Okiyo’s intercession, but as Jūdayū seemed to hold little sympathy for Okiyo regarding the matter, Osen grew increasingly frantic and turned next to the retainers Gonji and Gonroku.

Okiyo’s crime was grave. No matter what punishment she faced, it couldn't be helped. However, from the retainers’ perspective, she was merely a woman. Handling boneless jellyfish or tofu wouldn’t require any effort to manage. If by any chance it came to execution, we would somehow offer apologies—so having agreed, the two retainers circled around to the garden entrance and were quietly peering in when indeed the master came out carrying his sword. Seeing that there was no more time to delay, the two men rushed out and prostrated themselves before the stepping stones. They pleaded in unison for Okiyo’s life, but Harima paid no heed.

In the course of their pleas, Gonji let slip words to the effect that attempting to trade a single human life for one plate—no matter how precious a treasure it might be—constituted too cruel an act.

“The resentment Harima feels today is beyond your understanding.” “No matter how precious a treasure it may be, I would never think to exchange a single human life for one plate.” “If you think I’m punishing Okiyo out of regret for the plate—that’s a grave misunderstanding.” “Call Jūdayū.” Harima summoned Jūdayū and had him bring four or five more plates. Then, striking those plates against his sword guard, he smashed them all into tiny fragments. The master explained to his retainers, who were watching in astonishment.

“That Harima doesn’t value the plates—this should’ve made even you lot understand.” “There are other reasons for executing Kiku—things you lot know nothing about.” “But Kiku must have been prepared.” “Step out to the garden without hesitation.” “Yes.”

Okiyo stepped down into the garden without hesitation. She was fully aware of her great crime—having doubted the sincerity of an innocent man. She thought it was only natural that the man would show no mercy. At the same time, having fallen in love once in her life and having clearly discerned that there had been no deceit in that man, she thought she could die satisfied. She tidied her disheveled appearance and knelt quietly on the ground. A cold wind passing through the young leaves rustled her disheveled hair and made the lamplight in the room flicker. Okiyo exposed her white nape in the lamplight, bowed her head, and pressed her hands together.

Harima took his sword and descended into the dim garden. Jūdayū and the retainers could only watch in silence. Even they, though accustomed to bloodshed, could not bear to witness the young woman’s mournful death and had slightly averted their eyes—when suddenly a sword’s strike rang out. Then came their master’s voice. “Dispose of the woman’s corpse.” When the three raised their eyes, Okiyo lay on the cold earth, cut diagonally from her right shoulder down her back. Harima ordered them to sink her body to the bottom of the well curb.

Gonji and Gonroku lifted Okiyo’s corpse and quietly sank it into the well, and the sound of water swallowing the woman echoed as if trapped in the dark depths. Harima ordered them to light that standing lantern. Before long, the lantern grew bright, casting a pale light over the willow-shaded edge of the well, and Harima quietly approached to peer into the depths of the well curb. He gave orders to Jūdayū and had all of his own shattered plates thrown into the well. The Aoyama family’s ancestral treasures and Harima’s lifelong love—all were buried in the deep depths of this well.

The dusk sixth-hour bell resounded.

“Why are the guests so late?” Harima returned to the reception room and furrowed his brows. Jūdayū, also feeling uneasy, went out to the gate to check, where the gatekeeper Yojibē whispered to him. Though he hadn’t seen it himself, there was a rumor going around that the Shirahata Group and the machiyakko were brawling somewhere nearby. The speculation was that this might indeed be Lord Mizuno’s group. Deeming this impossible to ignore, Jūdayū immediately turned back to the inner chambers to report to his master, whereupon Harima stood up halfway through listening.

“Good.” “Harima will rush there at once and chase off those hateful wretches, I tell you.” He hitched his hakama high at the hips. When he removed the spear hanging from the rack, the black scabbard was instantly flung away, and the ice-like long blade glinted coldly in the lamplight. Tucking it in, Harima rushed out through the front entrance in long strides, and the two retainers rolled up their sleeves and followed after their master. Harima, who had been resolved to rampage freely and would not be satisfied until he had run three or five men through with his spear, was suddenly disappointed. He exited the mansion gate and, before he had run even one chō, encountered Mizuno’s group coming from ahead.

“The brawl…?” Harima asked hurriedly. “Nah, nothing’s happened,” answered Mizuno at the front with a laugh. “There hasn’t been a single brawl today. Even the hungry ghosts of hell can’t get their fill when it’s not their hour. Ha ha ha ha!” As he inquired further, it became clear this didn’t involve their group—rather, some samurai had detained a townsman over minor disrespect, the rumor having grown beyond reality—and Harima’s disappointment deepened. Now making his retainer carry the cumbersome long spear while escorting Mizuno back to the mansion, an indescribable loneliness came pressing thickly against his chest.

In addition to Mizuno, seven guests were shown to the reception room. A lively banquet was held. Noticing Kiku’s absence from the gathering, Mizuno asked the master. “I don’t see my favored maid here.” “The maid… that maid called Kiku has just been executed by sword,” Harima said in a slightly subdued voice.

“Execution by sword…” “That’s a cruel punishment,” Mizuno remarked, his straight eyebrows furrowing slightly. “What transgression did she commit?” When told the details of how the Korean plate had been shattered, Mizuno’s expression grew even darker.

“Because I said I wanted to see that plate, you killed a woman?” “Killing her is no great matter.” “It is human law that those who bear guilt must be slain.”

Harima suddenly let out a loud laugh. He had someone bring out the three or four remaining plates he had shattered and showed them to Mizuno.

Mizuno also praised them. The others also praised them. No matter how much he was praised, Harima felt nothing. He simply drank sake recklessly and occasionally let out a loud laugh.

“The other day, I met your aunt at a certain place,” said Mizuno. “Your aunt seems sorely troubled by your brawling habits and pointedly asked me to admonish you.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “That aunt of yours is quite a crafty one.” “Seeing I couldn’t prevail in a war of words, I quietly retreated from the verbal confrontation.”

“Ha ha, what’s this about your aunt…” Harima sneered with an eerie grin. “Even if she threatens disownment with her next breath, that trick won’t work on me now. What’s a lone man like me to do but live like this? Roam all eight hundred neighborhoods of Edo—brawling day and night… That’s Harima’s only trade now.” “Stubborn to the core,” Mizuno laughed.

Eight After the guests had left, Harima smashed all the remaining Korean plates and threw them into the bottom of the same well. When all these plates were shattered, the household would perish—he had never given such a notion any thought.

From then on, his temperament grew increasingly violent. Having lost both love and treasure at once, he had no path left but to make brawling his trade. Already prone to quarrels, he became like a tiger that had tasted blood and rampaged throughout Edo. Even among the Shirahata Group, which gathered ruffians, his actions stood out particularly. At times, he left even Mizuno, their leader, astonished. He had of course brushed aside the marriage proposal from Iidamachi. He had of course been disowned by his aunt Shibukawa as well. He went around picking fights everywhere he went, using his two devilish retainers as his wings. In the course of spending nearly five years this way, his house had fallen into ruin like an abandoned mansion.

There was a reason for this. The rumor that he had executed the maid and sunk her into the well's depths spread from mouth to mouth, until his mansion became widely known as a place harboring supernatural phenomena. It was said that on dark rainy nights, blue will-o'-the-wisps burned above the well curb. It was also whispered that a young maid in a chrysanthemum-patterned furisode could be heard counting plates in a sorrowful voice. —The servant Osen hastily took leave and fled back to her hometown. Banchō’s Dish Mansion—this eerie name chilled women’s souls, and none would come to serve there. The young retainer Tetsunojō claimed to have seen the ghost’s shadow; even this bold youth turned pale with terror, fell ill, and ultimately fled the mansion. The other Yagorō perished in a brawl. Yojibei the gatekeeper too took leave, fearing the specter. As male and female retainers steadily dwindled, the dark mansion grew ever more desolate. With none left to properly clean, both rooms and garden were left to ruin until the residence took on the very image of a derelict worthy of being called a haunted house. The seven-hundred-koku samurai mansion seemed to sink beneath a wilderness of overgrown grasses.

Harima paid no heed to rumors of spectral phenomena. When Tetsunojō claimed to have seen a phantom shadow, he scolded his cowardice from the outset. He was not entirely without regret over Yagorō’s death, but what dealt him an even greater blow was losing Gonroku. Gonroku too died in a brawl. He perished in September of Kanbun 3 (1663), when ambushed by Karainu Gonbei and others at Nihon Embankment—fighting fiercely as rear guard only to be minced like pickled vegetables under their blades.

This brawl marked the beginning of the Shirahata Group’s downfall. This originated when Mizuno Jūrōzaemon summoned Banzuin Chōbei to the mansion at Shirakawa in Koishikawa and ambushed him in the bathhouse, whereupon Chōbei’s subordinates—under the leadership of Karainu Gonbei, Hanaregoma Shirōbei, and others—had been secretly awaiting an opportunity for revenge. And so, lying in wait at Nihon Embankment for Mizuno’s group as they returned from sightseeing in Yoshiwara, they suddenly surrounded them. At that time, only Mizuno was mounted. Harima was also present. There were also twelve or thirteen other samurai. Five or six retainers were accompanying. However, the enemy machiyakko numbered fifty or sixty strong, and having been taken by surprise, the Shirahata Group were locked in a desperate struggle. Moreover, they were drunk on brothel sake, so there were those among them who could not fight effectively. Of course, while the machiyakko side sustained no small number of wounded, in the Shirahata Group as well, nearly a majority were found injured. If the wounded were taken alive by the enemy, it would be a disgrace to the samurai; therefore, Mizuno ordered them to retreat swiftly.

The samurai left behind numbered no more than seven or eight men, but even so, they fought desperately. Mizuno gnashed his teeth at the thought that showing their backs to townspeople would bring lifelong disgrace, but try as they might, they could not reverse their crumbling momentum. He spurred his horse and fled, fearing capture. Even Harima, who had held out until the end, finally fled. It was at this time that Gonroku fell in battle. Gonji fortunately survived, but having sustained a deep wound in his left leg, he ended up becoming lame.

Of the two he had relied on as his wings, one had died. The other had been crippled. Harima felt as though his shadow had suddenly grown gaunt. In the already deserted mansion, their numbers dwindled further until only three remained in desolation—the master, the steward, and a retainer. Shibata Jūdayū had been growing increasingly frail. Gonji could no longer walk properly. The dilapidated house had rotted and tilted, its spacious garden transformed into a den for foxes and raccoon dogs. Then came the time for the Shirahata Group’s destruction. When rumors spread throughout Edo that hatamoto samurai had been routed by machiyakko at Nihon-zutsumi, even the shogunate could no longer turn a blind eye. The Shirahata Group’s violence had grown intolerable to high officials, with varied discussions about necessary measures—precisely when this incident occurred. The shogunate showed no further mercy.

In March of the following year, Kanbun 4 (1664), Mizuno Jūrōzaemon was ordered to commit seppuku on the grounds of improper conduct. He met his death properly in his own mansion.

“The Shirahata Group is finished too.”

This was a collective sigh that burst forth from the mouths of the allies. Harima felt that sorrow most acutely. The Shirahata Group, having lost its head, could no longer prosper as it once had. Moreover, it was completely clear that the pressure from those above against them would grow extremely strong, leaving them unable to move hand or foot. The destruction of Mizuno had been a warning example directed at us. Having been chastised by this severe punishment, the Shirahata Group had no choice but to naturally disband. Even if it didn’t come to seppuku, we too might sooner or later incur some punishment. We must brace ourselves for at least house confinement. House confinement was a temporary matter not worth excessive fear, but through these tangible and intangible pressures, the Shirahata Group would meet its end. That fate felt tragic to Harima.

Those who grieved over the Shirahata Group’s downfall were certainly not limited to him alone. However, while the others could leave the Shirahata Group and live respectably, if Harima were to leave the group and abandon his brawling trade, there would be no path left for him to survive. He who had been numbing the pain of his lost love through nightly brawls—how would he now soothe that ache? When he thought of this, desolation washed over him. Grief tightened his chest. He even wondered whether meeting the same fate as Mizuno might have been kinder. Resentment coiled within him at being left half-alive in this purgatory.

On the evening of the 29th, the funeral of Mizuno, who had committed seppuku on the 27th, was held at the Mita family temple. It had naturally been conducted modestly to avoid provoking the authorities, but even so, many discreetly came to pay their respects. Harima too attended the funeral procession to the temple, his hat pulled low. By the time he returned to the Banchō mansion, a fine rain had begun falling softly on the brim of his hat. “Lady Aunt Shibukawa has been waiting most anxiously,” said Shibata Jūdayū as he came out to the entrance to greet his master. While wondering why his aunt, with whom he had long been out of touch, had suddenly come to visit tonight, Harima handed his wet hat to Jūdayū and proceeded inside, where his aunt Mayumi sat beneath a dim lamp. Perhaps owing to her spirited disposition, Mayumi appeared as robust in health as she ever had.

“It has been a long time since we last met.” “How time flies—it’s been nearly five years now,” Mayumi said, gazing nostalgically at her nephew’s face. “Perhaps due to some hardship, your face has grown so haggard it’s barely recognizable.” “Or is it perhaps exhaustion?”

Being addressed with such forced kindness was unbearable for Harima in his present state. He placed his hands on the frayed tatami and apologized for his prolonged silence. “Though I have long desired to inquire after your well-being, Aunt, and that of Iori-suke and his household, being in a state of disownment, I naturally found the threshold too daunting to cross…”

“Of course.” “Once disowned, allowing your presence at the mansion is unthinkable.” “There’s no need for either of us to speak of neglect.” “The reason this aunt came intruding tonight is none other—” Mayumi began, then cast her gaze about the room. “The mansion’s interior has fallen into dreadful ruin.” “Truly, with this state of affairs—a Haunted Mansion through and through—the rumors circulating hold no falsehood.” “To let a seven-hundred-koku estate decay so utterly, even if you’ve wasted away…” “Ah, but physical decay can be rebuilt.” “The ruin of one’s heart cannot be so easily reconstructed.” “You might presume this aunt has come to berate you anew, but I shall not utter another word tonight.” “As kin bound by blood, there is but one matter I must address—” “Now, Harima.” “What think you of Lord Mizuno’s seppuku this time?” “Even a man of such fierce temperament appears to cling most desperately to life.”

At her mocking tone, Harima grew slightly impatient. “What—to cling to life…” “Is it not precisely because he valued his life that he fled from Nihon-zutsumi? No—if he had merely fled that place, an excuse could still be made. If by chance he were to die fighting there, even having his helmeted head trampled by townspeople would be bitter regret… Now, you fleeing together must have been the case as well. But now, as for what came after. I cannot fathom Lord Mizuno’s heart—driven by townsman ruffians, his comrades wounded, his retainers slain, suffering such pitiful disgrace yet continuing to live shamelessly. Returning to his mansion and immediately committing seppuku… Is that not what a true samurai would do? He clung to life all this time, only to be ordered by his superiors to commit seppuku in the end and have his life taken against his will. What a truly shameful end for Lord Mizuno.”

When told this, Harima too found himself at an impasse. Mizuno was no coward who clung to life. I am no different. Moreover, his aunt’s reasoning was, for the time being, entirely valid. Resolved that he too must endure being branded a coward, he kept his head bowed in silence, whereupon his aunt began to lecture him earnestly once more.

“Lord Mizuno is a separate matter—what weighs on this aunt’s heart is your circumstances. Even disowned, you remain dear. Setting aside all past matters, what’s vital now is the prudence to avoid compounding shame—this is why I’ve come to offer my counsel. With Lord Mizuno, whom you trusted as the Shirahata Group’s leader, now perished, you can hardly expect peace. Before official censure falls upon you, why not make a splendid end by cutting open your belly?”

Harima remained silent and continued to listen.

The rain still had not ceased. After his aunt had left, Harima began preparing for seppuku. The night had likely already passed the fifth hour (around 8 PM). Harima set down his brush and gazed at the late-blooming cherry blossoms in the garden—their pale forms scattering hurriedly under the rain’s assault, visible in the lamplight spilling from the sitting room. He was drafting a suicide note addressed to his superior. Lest he be thought a madman for perishing in silence, he meticulously detailed the circumstances necessitating his death.

Having finished writing, he looked out at the dark garden. The rain-soaked willow hung low over the well's edge like a woman with long flowing hair, its faint shadow trembling. As Harima stared fixedly at it, a bluish-white flame flared up from the well and immediately vanished. The rain grew slightly stronger, and just as the willow's shadow appeared to sway mightily, the bluish-white flame flared up again. He kept his gaze locked intently. As an icy blue flame wavered faintly, the figure of a young woman materialized like an apparition. A woman with stray locks from her disheveled Shimada hairstyle spilling over her pallid face, clad in a chrysanthemum-patterned long-sleeved kimono - Harima recognized her instantly as Okiyo. This night marked his first encounter with the ghost of Dish Mansion known throughout the land.

“Kiku,” he called out as he stepped onto the veranda. The will-o’-the-wisp vanished once more, but Okiyo’s figure remained standing there, lingering. Harima called out again.

“Kiku.” “Show me your face.” The ghost quietly raised her face. It was Okiyo’s beautiful face, unchanged from when she had been alive. It was a beautiful, pure face that seemed to know neither resentment, jealousy, nor curses. Harima found himself smiling involuntarily.

“Kiku.” “Harima will go now too.” The woman’s face seemed to bear a faint smile, but as another strong gust of wind blew in, whipping the willow’s threads into disarray, her phantom figure was hidden within their tangled shadows. The rain began to fall more fiercely. Okiyo’s soul did not resent him. When he thought this, Harima suddenly felt a surge of strength. In a resolute voice, he called for Jūdayū and Gonji. And then, he revealed his resolve to commit seppuku. “Harima will commit seppuku tonight. “Once you have properly performed your duty as kaishaku, deliver this letter to the magistrate’s residence.” The downfall of the House of Aoyama went without saying. “Once you have dealt with the aftermath, each of you take a suitable master as you see fit.”

The master gave some money as a memento, but Gonji refused. "I am already a cripple with no purpose in life." "A man once hailed alongside Aoyama’s retainers cannot now become another family’s lapdog." "I will cut my belly in junshi and accompany you to the afterlife," he declared resolutely. Once he had completed all his duties, Jūdayū said he wished to shave off his white hair. Judging both requests to be reasonable, Harima granted them. The three exchanged a perfunctory water cup ritual. Despite their resolve, there were no tears in anyone’s eyes.

The sound of the rain seeing off spring echoed all the more strongly through the willow over the well curb. Jūdayū placed the Bizen Norimune short sword upon a ceremonial tray and reverently presented it before his master.