Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue On the second day of the first month of Tenpō 5 (1834), in a place called Shirakawabata near Kameido Tenjin in Honjo, an eccentric man named Nakamura Butsuan died of illness. He was eighty-four years old. He was a master carpenter and tatami maker, but he was also skilled in calligraphy and went by the name Unkesha Yadayū. This name originated when he went to Hakone for a cure, bought a breathing cane from palanquin bearers, had poems from various luminaries carved onto it, and proudly hung it on a pillar. Though he came to call himself Unkesha, before that—when he had been living in Koume, Honjo—the actor Iwai Shijaku purchased that land. As Iwai Shijaku was building a house there, Butsuan—evicted in anger—wrote the following satirical poem on the wall of his long-inhabited home before departing.

Since it was the house where Unke had lived, Would that riverbank beggars now dwell in its place!

He was certainly an eccentric, but it seems he wasn’t particularly well-liked by society.

About one chō south of Butsuan’s residence, also in Shirakawabata, stood Musashiya Kihē’s dormitory. Musashiya was a medicine shop located at Nihonbashi Honmoku 3-chōme that also operated an oil shop next door, and was widely known throughout the city both as a long-established business and a wealthy household.

Four days after Butsuan’s death, on the sixth day of that same first month at midnight, the Musashiya dormitory burned down in a fire originating from within, and three corpses were discovered in the ashes. Perhaps because oil products from their side business were stored there, the building’s interior showed signs of the oil having fueled the flames; the pillars burned clean away, and the three corpses were nearly impossible to distinguish between male and female. At the dormitory were a middle-aged maid named Omasa and a male servant called Gosuke. Gosuke commuted, returning home each evening, but Omasa naturally lived on the premises. However, Omasa too had returned to her brother’s house in Honjo Narihira that day, and only upon coming back to the dormitory the next morning did she first learn of the incident.

In response to the town officials’ interrogation, Omasa answered as follows. “The mistress was always at this dormitory,” said Omasa, “but on the twenty-ninth day of the twelfth month—yes, since Mr. Butsuan passed on the second day, I’m certain of the date—she went out that morning. Afterward, I kept watch the whole time. Then in the afternoon of the sixth day, they brought the master from the Nihonbashi shop on a plank, with Miss Oshino arriving too. Yes, Miss Oshino was Musashiya’s only daughter—she must’ve turned eighteen that New Year. Such a lovely, quiet, gentle young lady she was.”

Master Kihē was an adopted heir. He was forty-five years old and had collapsed from tuberculosis three years prior, but Osono, the wife who had married into the family, fearing infection from the disease, entrusted his care to their daughter Oshino and moved to the dormitory herself. Since then, they had continued living separately, and she never even approached the shop. "The master was carried into the inner room still on the plank, and the young men returned immediately," said Omasa. "Miss Oshino stayed glued to his side in that inner room. Even when I went to ask if there was anything needed, she only said: 'Please keep quiet. Father's illness is grave.'"

Before long, the scent of incense began wafting through—and when its overpowering strength made someone go check what was wrong—Oshino replied they were burning it because the patient’s body smelled foul and there was no need for concern. When evening fell, Oshino came to the kitchen herself and washed rice with a snow shovel*, announcing she would cook porridge on the charcoal brazier before declaring her own dinner could be anything and withdrawing deeper into the house. Then Omasa went shopping up to Tenjinbashi Bridge frontage—buying fish and vegetables—and returned to cook rice and prepare stew. During this interval—though Omasa remained wholly unaware—the housewife Osono had apparently returned after seven days’ absence; her daughter Oshino came ordering sake preparations since her mother was back. *NOTE: “Snow shovel” retains literal rendering of「ゆきひら」due to lack of cultural equivalent for this Edo-period utensil.

“Just as we had run out of sake,” Omasa continued, “when I said I would go place an order at the sake shop, she told me to also get some appetizers while I was at it. ‘Since you know Mother’s preferences,’ she said, ‘handle it as you see fit.’ So I went to the sake shop and the caterer.”

When the sake arrived and the appetizers were delivered, and as she was setting out the meal arrangements, Oshino came again and said: "I'll handle things from here. It's grown quite late, but I'll give you leave—go stay at Narihira's place tonight." Omasa had left her child at her brother's house. The year before that, she had separated from her yakuza husband, entrusted her seven-year-old son to her younger brother, and gone into service as a live-in maid. This year she still hadn't returned home even for New Year's—this was because the housewife Osono had been entertaining guests daily, making it impossible for her to request time off.

“Then I said, ‘Please go ahead,’ prepared immediately, bought souvenirs along the way, and returned to Narihira,” Omasa said. “Yes—since there was no one else there, what emerged from the ashes must have been the master’s, the mistress’s, and Miss Oshino’s corpses. Whatever one might say about the master or mistress, I truly think it’s tragic for Miss Oshino.” Though Kihē had been critically ill, when the town officials asked why she felt no pity for Osono, Omasa replied that she couldn’t explain the reason.

“Though I served there myself, I can’t speak details from my own mouth,” Omasa said coldly, “but I believe Madam’s death like that was heaven’s punishment.”

The shop was also investigated, but ultimately no clear circumstances came to light; the corpses were determined to be those of the parent and child trio, and on the fifth day, a funeral for the three was held at the house in Honmoku. And after that, relatives and connections gathered to deliberate, concluding it would be a pity to let a long-established business like Musashiya collapse. Thus, Ishirō—the second son of Kameya Ihee, a branch family member—entered as an adopted heir and came to inherit Kihē’s position.

Chapter One

1

Kihē’s condition deteriorated on the night of December 27th. After closing the shop at dusk and finishing dinner, it was customary to review accounts with the head clerk and two assistants. With year-end approaching and provincial transactions to manage, they finally reached a stopping point past eleven o’clock. As always, Oshino directed two maids to serve tea and sweets at nine before going to prepare for bed in the room where her father’s bedding lay beside hers. She adjusted the brazier’s flames by sprinkling ash over them and set an earthenware pot of decoction to brew. Beside it on a tray sat a teacup and a metal basin veiled with cloth—the basin filled with water and five folded towels stacked neatly. Oshino meticulously inspected these items and verified that three changes of her father’s nightclothes had been laid out. Her father endured violent night sweats and nightly coughing fits that made such preparations indispensable.

When Oshino was about to change clothes, the head clerk Kasuke called out and entered.

He was thirty-seven years old, held a commuting position with a house in the fourth block, and had two children with his wife. It was his custom to leave at nine-thirty, always offering only a greeting from outside the sliding doors before departing, but that night he called out and entered the room.

“What’s wrong?” Oshino asked quizzically. "About the master," Kasuke whispered, "he seems to be in worse condition than usual. Would you kindly tell him to rest now?" “How is he?” "He must have a terrible fever—his face is flushed, he seems short of breath, and there were two violent coughing fits," said Kasuke. "No matter how much I urged him to rest, he just kept telling me, ‘You’re the one who should go home now.’"

Oshino nodded. “Alright, I’ll go check on him. Please go home now, Mr. Kasuke.” “I’ve decided to stay a bit longer tonight.” “No, on the contrary, it would only make Father worry more. It’s better to keep things as usual.” Kasuke seemed quite reluctant to leave, but Oshino told him to go home and immediately went to check on the shop. The clerks Chūzō and Tokujirō were sitting across the desk from Father, doing the accounts. Chūzō was twenty-one, Tokujirō twenty-three—once the new year arrived, they were set to split off under their own shop’s banner. Including the apprentice, there were seven people in the shop, but they were all in the next room over, practicing reading, writing, and abacus arithmetic.—Oshino observed her father’s condition. Kihē looked much older than his forty-five years. His frame had grown utterly emaciated; his face lay exposed from cheekbones to jawline, and his sunken eyes, hollowed temples, and lusterless gray hair all seemed to directly manifest the visage of death.

No, that wasn't true.

Father had always been like that, Oshino shook her head. At twelve he had entered service, and at twenty-five become an adopted son-in-law. For twenty years since then, he had never indulged in leisure outings, never attended vaudeville or theater performances, and of course never known the taste of sake or tobacco. He had lived solely for Musashiya, prioritizing business and persisting in his duties. Though the long-established shop bore a renowned name, the steady accumulation of assets, the purchase of the neighboring paper merchant's store, and the founding of the oil shop—all these were Kihē's achievements.

His fatigue had begun to show five or six years before. "It was from when I was eleven or twelve," Oshino thought.

From a young age, Oshino had been made to sleep between her father and mother. This had been Mother’s insistence, but from around age eleven or twelve, whenever she awoke in the dead of night and saw by the dimmed lantern light Father’s sleeping face—so gaunt and haggard it seemed almost inhuman—she had even wondered multiple times whether he might already be dead.

From that time on, there had been moments when he looked like this. This wasn’t what they called a deathly pallor, Oshino thought as she casually approached her father and leaned against the accounting lattice with an affected childishness. “What’s wrong?” Kihē raised his eyes. “Haven’t you gone to bed yet?” “I feel so lonely tonight somehow.” Oshino gave a small shrug. “If you don’t go to bed, Father, I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep either.”

Kihē smiled gently. “Thank you, but I’m all right.” “I’m truly lonely.” “I know,” Kihē said as he picked up his brush and turned back to the ledger. “I’m fine—I know my own body well enough. You must go to bed now.” Then he resumed cross-checking with Tokujirō.

Oshino gave up. She had given up because she knew well that once her father started saying such things, he would not yield. She returned to her room, changed into her nightclothes, checked the buried embers in the brazier once more, slipped into the bedding, and spread open the partially read storybook titled *Matsushiro Monogatari*. It was a story about sisters born in Matsushiro, a castle town in Shinano Province, who traveled through various provinces in search of their real mother, enduring all manner of hardships and sorrows. Though Oshino had already read it twice—memorizing the plot—she never grew tired of rereading it. But that night, it seemed she had fallen asleep without reading much. When she was shaken awake and opened her eyes, Tokujirō stood there with a deathly pale face. "The master—" he said, pointing toward the shop. Seeing the altered expression on Tokujirō’s face, Oshino became fully awake, sat up, and threw on her hanten coat.

Father was lying on arranged zabuton cushions but must have coughed up blood—it had splattered around his mouth, across his kimono collar, and even onto the tatami mats, where shop employees were wiping it away. “Don’t make a fuss,” Kihē said with his eyes still closed. “I don’t need medicine. Bring me lukewarm water with salt. Don’t wake Oshino.” This wasn’t his first hemoptysis, but he had never coughed up such a copious amount before. Oshino began trembling from her feet up, feeling as though her breath would stop. Since she couldn’t speak, she nodded to Tokujirō with her eyes, went to the tea room, and prepared lukewarm saltwater. She had heard from the physician beforehand that this was what one should do when hemoptysis occurred. To calm herself, Oshino slowly drank a glass of water, then went back out to the shop. Kihē opened his eyes and stared at Oshino as she entered.

“Here’s the saltwater,” Oshino said with a smile as she sat down. “I can dilute it if it’s too strong.” “You didn’t have to get up.” “Don’t speak,” Oshino instructed. “Just lift your head gently. Toku-don, Chū-don—support him quietly from behind.” The two men cradled him upward from behind while Oshino administered the saltwater to her father. Since he couldn’t be moved immediately, they left his soiled kimono untouched—letting him rest on a pillow and draping a quilted cover over him—before wringing out a hand towel in hot water to wipe from his chest up to his mouth.

"My chest feels unsettled," Kihē said. "Soak a hand towel in cold water and put it on me." "I'm sorry," Oshino said, immediately standing up. "I completely forgot about that." "You all can leave it." Kihē said to the shop employees, "It's late already. Leave the cleaning for tomorrow and get some rest." "Let's call Dr. Yokoyama." "No, that can wait until tomorrow as well. Even if we call him now, the doctor can't do anything. There's nothing to do but stay still."

II

In the morning, she called Yokoyama Santoku. A doctor residing in Gofukubashi who had attended Kihē since his tuberculosis diagnosis, he shook his head slightly at Oshino when she came out to see him off after his examination. "This has taken a grave turn," Santoku whispered. "Unless we exercise extreme caution now, matters may become irreversible."

Oshino swallowed a sleeping draught.

“It won’t do to keep him at the shop,” Santoku said while tilting his head pensively. “Given his temperament, he’ll start moving about again the moment he feels even slightly better. This time we must move him to the dormitory and make him forget all shop matters so he can rest and recuperate properly—and the sooner we do this, the better.” “Yes,” Oshino nodded and said, “is there no medicine that might prove particularly effective?” “There isn’t, I’m afraid. For this particular illness, no especially potent medicine seems to exist.” Santoku shook his head again with gentle finality. “At present, there’s nothing to be done but have him rest calmly in a place with clean air, eat nourishing food, and wait for the disease’s progression to abate.”

“Understood.” Oshino nodded again. “I will make sure to do so as soon as possible.”

As soon as the doctor left, Oshino sent a messenger to the Kameido dormitory. She had ordered a message requesting her mother to come, sending her via palanquin, but when the young maid named Otami returned, she conveyed this reply to Kihē: "The mistress says she feels unwell and cannot come." While Oshino had briefly stepped away, Kihē—unusually—became angry. “Why on earth did you send someone to fetch her?” “You know perfectly well she wouldn’t come even if you sent someone!” Kihē said in a piercing voice.

“I’m sorry.” Oshino answered with apologetic eyes, “There’s something I absolutely must discuss. May I go out for a little while?” “What do you mean by ‘discussion’?”

Oshino told her father what the doctor had said, mustering her courage. Kihē sharply interrupted Oshino without listening to the end. “I won’t go to the dormitory or anywhere like that—there’s no need for such a thing.” “But Father—” “No, when I say I’m fine, I’m fine,” Kihē said. “When it comes to this illness, I understand it better than any doctor. I’ve been mindful of my constitution since youth, and since contracting this disease, I’ve learned how its symptoms ebb and flow—even the trick of avoiding its cresting waves. Truly.” Kihē paused for breath to suppress an oncoming cough. “Humans have their natural lifespans. Through care or negligence, one might diminish what they were born with—but by staying attentive to your body’s condition, you’ll know how to preserve it. Besides, with year-end approaching, I can’t possibly close up shop. I’ll be fine, so spare yourself worry.”

That day marked the year-end koto lesson. Around noon, Kihē said to Oshino, "I've settled now, so go change your clothes and come back." "If you don't get up later," Oshino said, "but Father, you'll surely rise once I'm gone, won't you?" "Are you still saying such things?" Kihē shook his head on the pillow. "Don't pester me so. When illness strikes, one's patience wears thin."

“I’m sorry,” Oshino said brightly, “then I’ll be going.”

“I’ll be sleeping, so take your time.”

“Yes.” Oshino nodded energetically. After thoroughly entrusting matters to the two maids—particularly Oko—and the clerk Tokujirō, Oshino quickly finished preparing herself, left the house, and hailed a street palanquin. Of course, she wasn’t heading to her year-end lesson—she had the palanquin go straight to the Kameido dormitory. Along the way, rain began to fall and the temperature dropped; by the time she arrived at the dormitory, the surroundings were already a blanket of snow.

It was the second snowfall since winter began—unusually heavy for the season, with large peony-like flakes so dense that even the dormitory entrance was barely visible from the gate. The one who emerged was Omasa, but upon seeing Oshino, she became terribly flustered, said "Please wait a moment," and hurried off toward the back rooms. From the back came the sound of a shamisen and singing; paying no heed, Oshino stepped inside and removed her tabi socks there. When Omasa returned, she said that area was currently in disarray and ushered her into the eight-mat guest room.

“I’ll get the brazier going right away.” Omasa said while fidgeting with the floor mat and brazier, “The sudden nasty weather must have made your journey quite cold. The mistress will be here shortly.”

“It’s fine; there’s no need to fuss,” “She said she’s feeling poorly and out of sorts...” Omasa replied with a pained expression, “I was just attending to something earlier. I’ll light the brazier now.” The shamisen and singing had fallen silent. When Omasa lit the charcoal brazier and brought tea with sweets, Mother Osono soon appeared. Thirty-five years old and broad-shouldered, her figure maintained elegant lines with a girl-like slenderness at the waist and bust. Her slightly dusky oval face held narrow eyes that seemed veiled in melancholy beneath their long lashes, paired with delicately thin lips—features so arrestingly beautiful they could make even her own daughter Oshino catch her breath in admiration.

“You were caught in the rain along the way, weren’t you?” Osono sat hunched over the brazier, her glistening eyes fixed on her daughter. “Let’s get you something warm—this cold is dreadful. You only grow lovelier by the day.” “You claimed you were unwell,” Oshino said. “But you weren’t resting at all—there seemed to be guests here.” “Guests? What nonsense.” Osono waved a slender hand. “I was napping until this headache muddled my thoughts—just fidgeting about on the floorboards after waking. Now tell me—what shall I have prepared for your lunch?”

“Mother, you heard from Otami, didn’t you?” Oshino said. “Father’s illness has taken a terrible turn this time—he’s been vomiting blood like never before.” “Stop it, stop it!” Osono waved her hand with its beautiful long fingers and frowned like a mischievous child. “Hearing such talk makes me queasy. Dr. Yokoyama’s attending him, so let’s leave patient matters to the doctor, shall we?”

“That’s what Dr. Yokoyama says.” Oshino said with patient firmness, in a tone meant to soothe a child, “This time we must take particular care—we can’t leave him at the shop. The doctor says we need to move him to the dormitory for proper convalescence.” “No! No, absolutely not! Such a thing!”

Three “Mother,” Oshino said. “That’s out of the question!” Osono turned her face aside, then immediately turned back and, staring into her daughter’s eyes, said, “You understand too, don’t you? Even if you say such things, he won’t agree. That man isn’t the type to leave the shop—not even if the doctor frightens him with talk of death. Isn’t that right?” Oshino gazed at her mother’s face. “See, I can tell just by looking at your eyes,” Osono said, narrowing her eyes with a smile. “Since that man won’t agree, you came here intending to have me persuade him, didn’t you?”

“Father,” Oshino said, “he’ll surely listen if it’s you who tells him.”

“Do you think I’d be pleased by that?” “Please, Mom.” Oshino gripped her mother’s hand as she spoke. “This time it truly seems dangerous. Just this once—please come home and tell him to recuperate at the dormitory. Please, Mom—it’s the one plea I’ll make in my lifetime.” Osono gently stroked her daughter’s hand and cooed, “Now now, don’t say such dramatic things. You’re heartless toward your own mother yet lose your head over that man. Couldn’t you spare a thought for me once in a while?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Oshino nodded with an awkward motion. With a stiff nod that seemed to suppress unspoken words, she continued: “I truly feel terrible for not taking care of you, Mom. Once Father’s condition stabilizes, I’ll do absolutely anything to please you this time. So please grant my request.” “Fine, you win.” Osono lightly tapped her daughter’s hand and released it as she said, “Tomorrow or the day after… Yes, let’s go with the evening of the day after tomorrow.”

“I’m happy. Truly.” “I’ll tell you plainly—whether things will turn out as you imagine isn’t something I can guarantee.” “You’ll truly come, won’t you?” “If I said I’ll go, I’ll go,” said Osono. “What shall we eat for lunch—shall we order a chicken hot pot?”

Oshino ate lunch with her mother. They brought a kotatsu into the parlor and sat facing each other for the first time in ages, talking as they ate, but she felt as though someone was in the back room and couldn't settle down because of it. There was neither sound nor sign of anyone present, and neither Omasa nor Mother showed any unusual behavior. Perhaps it was because the memory of Omasa's flustered demeanor when they had first entered, along with the plucking of a shamisen and low singing voice, still lingered in her ears. The sensation that someone was holding their breath in the silent back room, watching their every move, simply would not leave her mind.

“Then it’s settled.” Oshino pressed once more as she prepared to leave: “I’ll be waiting on the evening of the day after tomorrow.”

“And don’t you forget what you just said,” Osono replied, “about skincare and makeup—and do pay a bit more attention to fashionable hairstyles. Alright?”

The palanquin they had called for arrived, and avoiding the snow under the umbrella Omasa held out, Oshino stepped out through the gate with careful footing.

“Skincare.” After the palanquin began moving, Oshino muttered quizzically, nodded to herself—“I see”—and continued, “We were talking about that all through lunch.”

Hair styling, obi, kimonos—those are the only things Mother cares about. It had always been that way, Oshino thought. When I close my eyes and try to recall Mother, only images come to mind—her applying makeup, selecting bolts of silk, dressing up to go out. I have memories of being held by Father to sleep and having him sing me lullabies, and of course during measles and smallpox—even when I just caught a cold—he never left my side, nursing me through it. But as for having Mother take care of me—at least in my own memory—no such recollections remained, Oshino thought. Mother would do my makeup, dress me up, and take me along to theaters, vaudeville halls, pleasure outings, and sightseeing. At theater teahouses, she would summon her favorite actors, seat me alongside child performers, and host lively banquets—this happened numerous times. And when Mother claimed to be practicing Ichikotsu-bushi ballads with her companions, they would gather at dining teahouses—though there was never any sign of actual practice—and instead invite male and female entertainers and actors for revelry; such occurrences were hardly rare.

—I feel terrible about Father. At such times my conscience would prick me—I would vow never to accept Mother’s invitations again—but the thought of those vibrant parlors full of delights would make me forget my resolve. This pattern continued until I was ten or eleven. —Mother remained unperturbed.

She had never said, "This is our secret," nor had she ever sworn me to silence. From around age eleven, I began rejecting Mother’s temptations and gradually grew distant from her. Mother seemed not to notice such things and had continued living exactly as she pleased ever since. The fact that I wasn’t with her even seemed to grant her freedom, Oshino thought.

“Would she really keep her promise so readily?” Oshino muttered as the palanquin jostled her about. “Given the situation, she’ll probably come… But if she doesn’t—this time I’ll tell her everything.” This time I’ll say everything that needed saying, Oshino resolved.

When night fell, the snow turned to rain, and the following morning dawned clear and bright. Kihē’s condition showed no change—his lack of appetite remained concerning—but his coughing had lessened and his fever seemed to be subsiding. Osono did not come. She had been waiting since the afternoon of the promised thirtieth, but even by nightfall Osono hadn’t so much as sent a messenger.

―So it was true after all. Oshino trembled uncontrollably from sheer frustration. She immediately wanted to go fetch her mother herself, but with the merchant household swamped by year-end duties—even the maids pressed into assisting at the shop—and no one but Oshino available to care for her father, she had absolutely no time to make the trip to Kameido.

On New Year’s Eve night, just past twelve o’clock, Kihē coughed up blood again. At ten o'clock, they closed the shop; the head clerk and junior clerks began their accounting. After that was completed, the three brought the ledgers and gave an explanation at Kihē’s bedside. Kihē sat on his bedding and listened while checking each ledger one by one. Just before twelve o'clock, the New Year’s Eve soba arrived, and the three—head clerk and clerks—ate. Oshino barely touched her chopsticks and tried to make her father drink the medicinal broth, but Kihē refused to set aside his abacus, saying, “I’ll finish soon.” When he had finally finished, Kihē went to wash his hands, and on his way back down the corridor, he coughed up blood and collapsed.

The amount of blood was not particularly great, but as the previous episode had been severe and his physical strength had not yet recovered, after coughing up blood he lost consciousness and remained comatose until daybreak.

IV

Oshino waited for dawn and sent a messenger to Kameido. The physician Yokoyama Santoku shook his head.

“No great physician can save him now,” Santoku said at the patient’s bedside. “It’s beyond human hands—I doubt he’ll last through tomorrow.”

Oshino consulted with the head clerks and decided to celebrate New Year's Day as usual. No matter what happened, Father had always upheld the shop's traditions. Oshino used her father's stubborn nature as a shield to overrule the head clerks' objections and made them prepare the customary New Year's gifts.—The one sent to Kameido was Oko, an older maid; though she went by palanquin, her return came swiftly. She called Oshino to the corridor and whispered, "The mistress was out."

“What do you mean, ‘out’?” “She’s gone to Enoshima, they say.”

Oshino’s mouth slowly opened. “On the morning of the 29th,” Oko continued, “the Mistress of Isekyu in Ishichō, the Mistress of Yoshiidaya in Tōri Second District, and two others accompanied her. They say they planned for seven days total—including the trip there and back—to pay respects at Benten-sama in Enoshima.” “Mother… on the 29th—” Oshino murmured vacantly, “...Enoshima...?” “Omasa-san said so.”

“The 29th,” Oshino asked again, “is that really true?”

But without waiting to hear Oko’s reply, Oshino staggered unsteadily into her room and collapsed onto the tatami mats. The 29th was the day after Oshino’s visit; at that time, her mother had promised to leave on the evening of the day after tomorrow. Father had clearly stated that his condition was truly critical this time—different from before—and it should have been understood that this was no exaggeration.

“Mother lied.” Oshino muttered through clenched teeth, “Mother lied to me. She’d already decided to go to Enoshima by then.”

From the night of the 27th onward, that room—left unheated—had grown so cold that the chill seeped through to the walls. However, Oshino remained oblivious to the cold and sat motionless alone until Otami came to call her. Otami called out from outside the sliding door and, receiving no reply, opened it. “Are you here?” Otami said. “The master is calling for you.”

Oshino slowly looked at the maid. “The master closed his eyes,” Otami said, “and asked where Oshino-san is.”

Oshino, as if jolted awake from a dream, let out an—Ah—and stood up. At Kihē’s bedside, the clerk Chūzō had been listening in a posture of leaning forward to catch whatever he might say, but left for the shop as Oshino took his place. When Kihē saw Oshino, he nodded with apparent relief and closed his eyes. Oshino sat down and asked how he was feeling. After some time had passed, Kihē said in a feeble, hushed voice, “I’m all right.”

“There’s no need to worry, I’m all right,” said Kihē in a voice that seemed to come from beyond the wall. “I know I keep saying the same thing, but I’m fine. I won’t die from something like this. Dr. Santoku doesn’t understand.” “Father, please don’t talk so much.” “There’s something I must say,” Kihē continued with his eyes still closed. “I’ve been aware of everything since collapsing last night—every moment except when briefly unconscious or lightly dozing. I even heard Dr. Santoku declare no great physician could save me now.”

And Kihē opened his eyes, looked at his daughter, and formed a smile on his lips. "You understand, don’t you?" Kihē said. "I’m not going to die yet. What I coughed up last night was the remaining bad blood—the tainted blood that had taken root in my illness. It all came out cleanly last night. The doctors don’t understand, but I know it well. Never since..." He closed his eyes again. "Never since falling ill have I felt this unburdened. My chest feels as though it’s been scrubbed clean."

“Thank goodness, thank goodness, Father,” Oshino said. “But let’s stop there with the talk. Please get some sleep now.” “Ah, I’ll sleep.” Kihē said, “I’ll sleep now, so don’t you fret over needless things—it seems everyone has arrived.”

Oshino turned around. Immediately, the sliding door opened, and the head clerk, clerks, and all the shop staff entered, lining up along the doorframe and sitting down. “I was the one who said that,” Kihē said. “You handle the greetings.”

Oshino turned around. “Happy New Year,” said head clerk Kasuke, bowing deeply with both hands pressed to the floor. The others also bowed in unison, and Kasuke continued, “We are indebted to you for your care throughout last year. May the shop prosper ever more this year, and we humbly ask for your continued favor.” Then the others chorused in unison, “Happy New Year.” Oshino gritted her teeth. “Yes,” Oshino answered, bowing her head. “Happy New Year.” Then, with great effort, she managed to continue: “Please continue to show me your favor this year as well.”

The shop staff left as though fleeing. —Happy New Year. Oshino remained in that position, repeating the words again in her heart. —Happy New Year.

Oshino was seized by an impulse to scream out, and to suppress it, she clenched her hands with all her strength. Kihē sighed and said, “Now it feels like New Year’s Day.” “I’ll sleep now,” said Kihē, “so you go celebrate with zōni and greet the New Year’s guests in my place. It’s unfortunate, but we can’t be rude to the relatives.”

On the third night's midnight—around 1:00 AM—Oshino awoke to her father's voice calling out. Exhausted from year-end duties, she had apparently fallen into a deep, involuntary sleep. Though she could hear her father's voice calling, she couldn't rouse herself to open her eyes. Kihē was drenched in greasy sweat, his breaths coming in short, feeble gasps. Oshino started upright in her nightclothes, but Kihē faintly shook his head. "Stay as you are—keep lying down," said Kihē. "You mustn't catch cold. Listen while staying under the covers. There's something I need to tell you."

Oshino nodded but threw on her hanten and rose, edged closer to her father’s bedside, wiped his sweat with a hand towel, and asked if she should prepare medicinal broth. “I don’t want anything. It’s cold—you should lie back down quickly,” Kihē said. Oshino did as she was told.

Five “In the second floor of the Okura storehouse—there’s my trunk,” Kihē began. “Inside it are 870 ryō in gold. Listen carefully—the trunk on the second floor of the Okura. The same one I carried on my back when I first came to work at this shop, filled with my clothes. It’s old now, holes worn through its four corners. The gold’s wrapped in oilpaper inside.” “I had intended to make a thousand ryō, but it only came to eight hundred and seventy.”

“Why are you talking about such things?” “Because it’s your money,” said Kihē. “Once it reached a thousand ryō, I intended for us to leave this house together and start a separate business. Osono is not a good woman—I didn’t want you left at that woman’s side. But she comes from a prominent family, so I couldn’t divorce her and cast her out. Shameful as it is, you know well that as an adopted son-in-law, I couldn’t defy her. No—wait, let me finish. Until now, I’ve endured what no man should have to bear. When I married into this family, the late master pleaded with me in tears, and you existed—that’s why I endured until today. Otherwise, I would have left long ago, or worse things might have happened.”

"Such talk—stop it, Father," Oshino interrupted. "What if it aggravates your condition? I don’t want to hear this anymore." “It won’t take long now. Just a little longer—listen,” said Kihē. “Understand? I’ve lived depending on you alone. The reason I never arranged a marriage match was because we were meant to leave this house together. Once we’d started a separate business, I’d planned to arrange your marriage then.” The money had been saved for that very purpose. “Even as an adopted son-in-law, I’m Musashiya’s master—so these household assets are mine to claim.” “But I wanted money of my own.” “That’s why I opened the oil shop and set aside my share from both shops’ profits to save up.”

“It never reached a thousand ryō,” Kihē continued, “but even so—it should be enough to start some small trade. If... if anything should happen to me... take that money and go with Tokujirō—” “No—stop.” Oshino sat bolt upright. “I don’t want to hear such talk, Father.” “Let me speak plainly, Oshino,” Kihē said. “I’m finished.” Oshino threw on her hanten once more and went to sit by her father’s bedside. Her entire body trembled, her tongue stiffened, and she couldn’t utter a word immediately.

“When I collapsed on New Year’s Eve, I knew it,” Kihē continued. “I hid it to spare you worry, but I understood—this time would be the end.”

“If Father dies,” Oshino said in a hardened tone, “I’ll die too.” “Do you think that would make me happy?” “How could I go on living without you, Father?” Tears spilled down Oshino’s cheeks. “If Mother’s left alone, she’ll turn this shop to ruin in no time—who knows what’ll become of me then.” “That’s precisely why you must leave this house.”

“If Father dies, I’ll die too.” Oshino burst into tears. “What would I live for without you? What joy could I find in living?” “One final thing,” Kihē said. “I’ve spoken thoroughly with Tokujirō. Understand? When I’m gone, you two must leave this house immediately. He’s young but reliable—a man you can trust. I’ve told him about the money too. No matter what Osono says, get out at once. Do you understand?”

"Father, are you intending to pair me with Toku-don?" Kihē shook his head. "No, that’s not my intention. Tokujirō isn’t thinking anything like that either. If you come to care for him, then by all means be together. But even if that doesn’t happen—he’ll surely protect you. This much I know for certain. Trust in that."

With that, the talk was concluded; having said everything, he felt relieved. "I'll sleep too, so you should rest," said Kihē, closing his eyes.

—Father will die.

When she returned to the futon, Oshino pulled the quilted coverlet over her head up to her forehead and wept in silence. Could such things truly be allowed?

Father endured unrelenting hardship. Though he had a wife, he was never treated as a proper husband. Even after the employees had gone to bed, he wore himself to the bone for the business—it’s said that Musashiya’s assets grew to nearly double what they were under the previous generation—but Father sacrificed his own life to achieve this. In reality, he indeed sacrificed his own life.

And so now, he would die without having tasted a single joy from all his years of living, having done nothing but endure hardship. This was too much—too cruel! Oshino screamed in her heart. I don't know if gods or Buddhas exist, but if they do, please save Father. If there truly are such things as gods or Buddhas, they shouldn't be able to stay silent and watch my father die like this. Even if my own lifespan must be shortened—even if I must split my life in half—please don't let Father die now. Oshino sobbed, clasped her hands inside the winter quilt, and prayed with her entire body rigid.

The next morning—after taking a couple of sips of rice gruel mixed with egg yolk—Kihē said that if there were any camellias, he’d like to see them. “If there are red mountain camellias, I would like them.” Kihē looked searchingly at his daughter. “Since childhood, I’ve loved mountain camellias. Having not seen them for so long, I’d like to if any exist—but isn’t this their blooming season now?” “No, they’re blooming. I’ll go buy some right away.”

“You’re going to buy them?” "They grow around the Kameido dormitory, but finding them here in town would be impossible." Oshino smiled. “Even if we buy them, they’re inexpensive—it’s fine, really. I’ll go fetch some.” Oshino went to the florist herself, selected branches resembling mountain camellias and purchased them, then chose the plainest Banko ware pot for arranging. When she brought them in and arranged them for optimal viewing, Kihē remained silent, gazing at them for a long while with rapt attention.

“Was it not to your liking?” “No, no. They’re fine. The branches are well-formed.” Kihē said, still gazing at the flowers, “I’m remembering my childhood. Ah, how nostalgic.”

Noticing tears spilling from the corners of her father’s eyes, Oshino moved closer and gently wiped them away with a hand towel.

Six

Kihē spoke. He had been raised in a farming family near Kawasaki. Though his elder brother now inherited the household and became a considerable landowner in their village, during Kihē’s upbringing they had still been half tenant farmers, their life marked by hardship. But all that was beside the point—behind the house stood a small hill, and beyond it lay a pond encircled by bamboo thickets. Within those thickets grew several young mountain camellias, while an ancient tree at the pond’s edge submerged part of its gnarled roots in the water and stretched its branches over the surface. When blooming season came, fallen flowers would blanket the pond until its waters disappeared from view.

“When I close my eyes, I can still see that scene as vividly as if it were right there,” said Kihē. “When I was a child—whenever I was scolded by my parents, or after quarreling with friends, or when I felt sad and forlorn—I would often go alone to that pond’s edge and spend time in a daze.”

He knew nothing of other seasons; only those times when camellias bloomed remained etched in memory. The bamboo thicket was yellowed and withered by frost; the pond water lay stagnant, bitterly cold. The camellia tree trunks were gray, and the sky seemed oppressively overcast. Amidst everything painted in faded, pale hues, the clusters of camellia leaves—darkened yet glistening—and the red flowers blooming modestly beneath the foliage appeared starkly vivid yet paradoxically forlorn, their poignancy seeping deep into one’s heart.

“This flower,” Kihē said, turning his gaze toward it. “When I was small, I would stand at the edge of the pond and gaze at these blossoms all alone—sometimes weeping, sometimes utterly lost. When I look upon them now, my own form from decades past rises so vividly before my eyes… how nostalgic.” While murmuring, “It’s truly nostalgic,” Kihē shed tears once more. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Oshino said while wiping his cheek, “If you had told me, I could have arranged camellia flowers for you anytime.”

Nodding, “You’re right,” Kihē remained silent for a time before continuing in a low voice, as if speaking to himself: “But Oshino—a merchant doesn’t meddle with flower arranging unless he’s retired. Especially one like me—an adopted son-in-law bound by duty to the late master. Truth be told, I thought of nothing but building Musashiya’s fortunes. I hadn’t even recalled those camellias until today.”

Oshino quietly averted her face.

When evening came and she had confirmed that her father was asleep, Oshino visited Isekyu in Ishimachi. "Isekyu" was a ceramics wholesaler, and its housewife Oto-yo had long been close with her mother. She wasn’t particularly elegant—her corpulent frame was rather unappealing—but her flamboyant style and fondness for amusement bore a striking resemblance to Mother. The matron of Yoshiiya in Nihonbashi-dōri 2-chōme also belonged to that circle, but whether due to proximity or compatible temperaments, it was Isekyu’s matron who had been closest to Mother. If they had departed on the 29th for a "seven-day round trip," then the 4th would be their return date. Had she returned to Isekyu as planned, they would have sent for her immediately from Kameido—yet when Oshino went there herself seeking answers, Oto-yo stood before her. Oto-yo—her plump frame clad in an overly gaudy kosode, emerging with a posture that seemed to lean backward—shook her head at Oshino’s inquiry and answered in a childlike, thin voice: "I don’t know."

“But...”

Oshino was bewildered. “Didn’t you and Mrs. Yoshiiya go to Enoshima with Mother?” “I didn’t go,” Oto-yo shook her head again, “Mrs. Yoshiiya stayed at my place overnight from the evening of the 2nd until yesterday.” “Then she hasn’t gone anywhere since year-end?” “But Mrs. Osono did go to Enoshima,” Oto-yo retorted. “Then she must be with Tōzō—yes, absolutely.”

“Tōzō—where is he from?” “He’s an actor from Nakamura-za—don’t you know?” said Oto-yo with a nonchalant face. “Just became a name-taking actor recently—still young, but they say he’ll rise to stardom soon. Plenty of fine patrons too.” However, upon hearing that Mrs. Osono had begun obsessively monopolizing him since last year’s kaomise performance, Oshino took her leave as if fleeing.

“Oh, Oshino dear,” Oto-yo called from behind, “If you ask Sakichi at Masuya, he’ll tell you all the details.” Oshino felt her body shrink with anger and shame. Oto-yo’s manner of speaking and the sordid vulgarity of her story were unlike anything she had ever experienced, and when she realized it involved her own mother, she was overcome by such violent nausea that she nearly vomited.

But what should I do? Father is on the verge of death. No matter how repulsive and contaminating it may be, I cannot let Mother remain unaware.

I’ll go to Nakamura-za.

Masuya was Nakamura-za’s playhouse tea shop, and Sakichi was an attendant belonging to that establishment. The idea of a young actor skipping out on New Year’s performances struck her as somewhat unnatural, but when they mentioned the palanquin’s destination, it turned out Nakamura-za was undergoing renovations to expand its frontage, with the spring play season not set to begin until around the 10th.

“Fine,” Oshino said. “Just take me to Masuya.” “If you ask Sakichi, you’ll find out all the details,” Oto-yo had said. Sakichi was a man who had been around for a long time, and Oshino knew him well. Oshino had reasoned that if Mother was with that actor, Masuya would surely know about it—they’d also be able to tell whether she had returned.

When Oshino alighted from the palanquin in front of Masuya, Sakichi was standing and chatting with a young man before the shop’s closed entrance. Oshino had not come here in about a year and a half, so he seemed not to recognize her at first. Then, as if startled, he put a hand to his head and leaned back. "My deepest apologies—you’ve grown so radiant since last we met," he began effusing endless compliments, prompting Oshino to cut him off with "Wait," gesturing for him to come closer as she moved aside.—The young man silently stepped away in the opposite direction while Sakichi came to Oshino’s side.

“You know about Mother, don’t you?” Oshino said in a low voice. “I’m not blaming you, so be honest—you know she went to Enoshima with an actor named Tōzō, don’t you?” “This is awkward—no, absolutely not! I’d never dream of hiding anything like that.” Sakichi scratched his head and shrugged with an air of utter helplessness. “Well, that actor Tōzō—he’s right over there. Yeah, the man I was just talking to.”

Oshino turned to look. The young man was fiddling with the pine needles of the New Year’s pine decoration erected before the shop. “The troupe’s Sawataya—Shimamura Tōzō’s his name. An onnagata who’s been rising fast lately—” “Then who did you say it was?” Oshino interrupted again, “Who? What kind of person?” “There was someone named Kikutarō—he used to play child roles, but after last year’s kaomise performance ended, he left the theater. Since then, he’d apparently been under Madam’s care. So if she did go to Enoshima, it would be with that Kikutarō.”

“Where is he?” Oshino said. “Where does that Kikutarō live?” “W-well, that…” Sakichi stammered. “I believe he’s been staying at the Kameido dormitory all this time—though I don’t know the details.”

Oshino’s face suddenly turned pale, and—likely from biting too hard—blood could be seen seeping into her lower lip.

Seven

Oshino was about to leave there but suddenly caught sight of Shimamura Tōzō and came to a halt. Tōzō stood by the pine decorations, his profile turned toward her, yet he was clearly watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Let me talk to that person,” Oshino said to Sakichi. “I won’t keep you long—there’s just something I need to ask. You’ll allow it, won’t you?”

“With Sawataya?” Sakichi pursed his lips. “Just a moment, please,” Oshino said. “Even a corner of the shop will do—just a standing conversation. Let me have a moment alone with him.”

Sakichi went over to Tōzō and spoke in a low voice. Tōzō immediately nodded, then entered Masuya’s shop as he was. Sakichi returned and waved one hand in invitation. “You know the Paulownia Room on the second floor, don’t you?” “Was it the left end?” Sakichi nodded. “Please go ahead first—I’ll follow shortly. Though I must warn you, we can’t offer any proper hospitality.”

“I need to hurry back too.” Oshino told the palanquin bearers to wait, briskly wrapped something in paper, and handed it to Sakichi. Sakichi received it with practiced nonchalance and ushered her into the shop. “Inspections get strict when there’s no performance,” he whispered urgently. “Best make this quick.” She nodded and climbed the dim staircase soundlessly—the Paulownia Room came back to her at once from all those visits with Mother. Only one storm shutter stood open. Dusk bled through it into the unlit eleven-mat space, its cold biting deeper than shadows.

Oshino put her hands into both sleeves, overlapped them on her chest, and, trembling, watched the pair of folded screens leaning against the wall.

During New Year's, pine and crane motifs would typically adorn them. Oshino dimly thought this. Screens with pines and cranes on cut-gold grounds stood erected; candleholders bearing hundred-momme wax pillars glowed; lacquered meal trays lay arranged; actors and geisha sat mediating—dazzling radiance, resplendent hues, songs and instruments and coquettish laughter... all had once unfolded throughout these very banquet quarters.

I too had sat in such seats many times. Flattered by actors, geisha, and Masuya staff with compliments and pleasantries, I would eat delicious food and feel my heart race at discussions of theater. —That was how it had been until Father collapsed. Father was always sitting in the shop. Apart from unavoidable engagements—meetings with fellow merchants, celebrations or condolences—he had scarcely gone out, keeping the shop running alone all this time. “In this banquet room,” Oshino murmured, “even while I was merrily amusing myself with Mother like that, Father was in the dimly lit accounting lattice of the shop——”

Oshino tightly closed her eyes. At that moment, Tōzō entered. When she heard the voice behind her say, “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Oshino tightened her hands folded over her chest, took a deep breath, and stood motionless for about five heartbeats. “What business might this be?” asked Tōzō. Oshino slowly turned around. Though tension made her movements sluggish, the eyes she fixed on Tōzō were sharp—filled with a fierce light that seemed to pierce every corner of his heart.

“You know my mother, don’t you?” Oshino asked without moving her eyes. “You do know her, right?” “I know,” Tōzō answered. “I was greatly indebted to her when I attained lead actor rank, but beyond that there has been no other involvement.”

Oshino narrowed her eyes. Tōzō was probably nineteen or twenty. For an onnagata, his face was angular—his gaze and the lines of his lips too severe—yet he maintained an overall clean-cut neatness. This person could be trusted—Oshino felt this intuition pierce through her. "I couldn't play mediator like others could," Tōzō continued. "That must have offended Madam's sensibilities—I haven't visited since then. Is that all you wished to ask?"

Oshino shook her head. “Father is on the verge of death. That’s why I want to bring Mother back home—but they say she went to Enoshima with someone.” “I see.” Tōzō nodded. “I shouldn’t say this, but given the circumstances, I must inform you—the one accompanying Madam was a child actor named Kikutarō, and their destination was Hakone, not Enoshima.” Oshino widened her eyes.

“Kikutarō had been taken back to the residence in Kameido—there was nothing to do but wait for his return there,” Tōzō said. “Madam certainly indulged in misconduct, but being ensnared by Kikutarō was a calamity. He turned eighteen this year, but that wretch was born evil—a plague incarnate for ladies of standing.” “You know Mother quite well, don’t you?” “I don’t know the details—Mr. Sakichi has been a patron for ages, so he’d know better,” Tōzō said. “If the patient is in such a state, wouldn’t it be better for you to return now?”

Oshino felt there was something she wanted to ask. This man could be relied on; this man would know the truth; there was something important she had to ask. She strongly felt this conviction, yet in reality found herself unable to formulate the question; Oshino offered her thanks and took her leave. "How awful—how awful, Mother!" Oshino muttered aloud as she urged the palanquin bearers homeward. "To go to Hakone with that man so brazenly, knowing full well how gravely ill Father is..."

Oshino opened her hand and brought it close to her eyes to look. Through the palanquin’s lowered curtain, in the faint glow of the lingering sunset that seeped in, Oshino saw her own fingers trembling.

Kikutarō had been taken back to the dormitory.

When I went on the 28th, Kikutarō had indeed been hiding in the back room. The shamisen and singing voices—Mother had deceived me. Until I arrived, Mother and Kikutarō must have been leisurely enjoying snow-viewing sake together. And after I left, the two of them must have continued drinking while discussing and decided to go to Hakone. Oshino clenched her opened hand tightly, closed her eyes, and murmured prayerfully under her breath.

“Mother, please come back—if Father dies like this, even you won’t be able to face society! I beg you, Mother—please come back in time!”

VIII

After returning to Honmoku-chō, Oshino explained the circumstances to Tokujirō and sent a young apprentice named Tomokichi to the dormitory in Kameido. "Stay there and wait until Mother returns," Oshino said. "When she comes back, have her come here at once. Do you understand?"

“About how many days should I wait?” “Until Mother returns.” “If the mistress doesn’t return…” “Don’t say unnecessary things.” Oshino glared, then said to Tokujirō, “Have them prepare a palanquin.” That night, Oshino hardly slept.

Kihē’s condition appeared stabilized, and his cough only occurred occasionally now. However, Yokoyama Santoku said, “It won’t be long now.” He explained that this apparent calm came from his physical strength being exhausted, declaring it was now merely a matter of time. When the fifth night came—as if confirming Santoku’s diagnosis—Kihē began saying, “Call Osono for me.”

His voice was frail and hoarse, his sunken temples and hollowed cheeks utterly devoid of living color, yet his eyes alone burned with a bloodshot sharpness. "Send a messenger—tell her to come immediately," Kihē said. "There's one thing I must say... Make haste so I may speak it while there's still time." Oshino felt her breath constrict. That phrase—"while there's still time"—meant Father knew death pressed close. She longed to protest this truth, but meeting those fiercely gleaming eyes left her tongue paralyzed. Rising mechanically, she moved to dispatch the messenger.

Tokujirō went to Kameido. When he returned, he called Oshino and quietly shook his head. “Ah,” Oshino sighed, returned to her father’s bedside and sat down, then said, “Mother isn’t feeling well and is resting.” The pain and guilt of lying to someone on death’s threshold were clearly evident in Oshino’s voice. “Very well, very well.” Kihē closed his eyes and said, “If that’s how it is, then so be it. At this point, it makes no difference.”

“I’ll go later.” “No, don’t—you must stay here with me.” Kihē opened his eyes and looked at Oshino. “You mustn’t leave my side—something could happen at any moment.”

“Alright,” Oshino nodded. “Then I’ll have Toku-don go again.” “That can wait until tomorrow,” Kihē said. “It doesn’t matter either way now.” There was no need to send a messenger—if Mother returned, Tomokichi would bring her back. Even if he didn’t accompany her, there should have been word that she’d come home. —Mother, come back. Please come back soon—Oshino kept screaming in her heart.

Kihē appeared to be wandering between darkness and dawn. His breathing was shallow and short; moreover, it now and then trailed off as if interrupted. Even in sleep, his eyelids refused to close fully; he remained in a ghastly half-eyed state, now and then glancing toward Oshino as if startled, only to drift back into slumber the moment he confirmed her presence. On the morning of the sixth, Santoku came to examine him and was astonished to find Kihē still alive. His body was already half-dead; but his heart alone remained strong. "It’s beating quite firmly and strongly—I’ve never seen a patient like this," Santoku said.

Since the strength in his throat had vanished, when he complained of thirst, there was nothing to do but soak cotton in lukewarm water and let him gently suck on it. His consciousness seemed to be gradually fading, and he muttered incomprehensible delirious things, but around ten in the morning, he suddenly opened his eyes clearly and said, "I'm going to the dormitory." She thought it was delirium, but no—he looked up at Oshino with eyes that blazed, his voice hoarse yet clear.

“If Osono won’t come here, I’ll go there,” Kihē said. “There’s something I must tell her while I still live.” “But Father—that’s impossible!” “No—carry me there on a door plank if you must. There’s something I must say—I can’t die without speaking it. Please, Oshino.” “I’ll send another messenger.” Oshino desperately tried to stop him. “Going to Kameido in your state will only bring you agony!”

“I’m accustomed to suffering.” Kihē bared his teeth. “In nearly twenty years,” he said, “I’ve endured suffering worse than death dozens of times. Oshino, I must go to the dormitory. Tell them to prepare the door plank—I beg you.”

Oshino stood up. Even if Father went to the dormitory，Mother still wouldn’t have returned. Should she just tell him the truth? Would that be better? No—Oshino shook her head. That could wait until later; Mother might return before Father went to the dormitory，and if she hadn’t returned by then，telling him then wouldn’t be too late. Having resolved herself，she conveyed Father’s wish to Kasuke，the head clerk，and Tokujirō，and requested they prepare a door plank.

Their regular palanquin bearers brought a litter, and Kasuke and Tokujirō lifted Kihē onto it. Kihē, who had lain down among the layered bedding, immediately had someone cover him with an oilcloth and insisted, “No one is to follow me.” “If people come along, it’ll draw attention—tell the neighbors I’ve gone to the dormitory for recuperation. I leave the shop in your care,” he repeated to Kasuke.—Oshino tied her sandals, took a bottle filled with herbal decoction and a bundle containing cotton and paper, and accompanied the litter as they departed Honmoku-chō.

“Get in the litter,” Kihē said about three times. “Walking will tire you out. Get in the litter.” “When I get tired, I will ride. Please don’t worry about me,” Oshino replied. There were four young palanquin bearers who took turns in pairs. Though the patient was light, keeping their pace steady to avoid jostling proved unexpectedly laborious. At intervals Oshino called to her father—asking if he felt unwell or suggesting they rest—but until they crossed Ryōgoku Bridge, Kihē kept answering, “I’m all right.” When they passed beyond the bridge’s span into Kamezawachō from Koizumichō, Kihē called Oshino’s name.

“Just for a moment—let me rest.” Oshino had them lower the litter. “Is it painful?” she asked. “Shall I ease your throat?” “No,” Kihē rasped, shaking his head as he fixed her with an unblinking stare—an earnest, imploring gaze that seemed to both question and entreat. “What?” Oshino pressed her head beneath the oilcloth, bringing her ear close. “Do you need to say something? Is there something you must tell me?”

“A word—” Kihē rasped from his throat, “to Osono—a word—while I’m alive.” “I’ll say it,” Oshino pressed her ear closer. “Since I’ll say it, let me hear—tell me, Father, what should I say?”

Kihē parted his lips but said nothing. When Oshino repeated the same thing, Kihē’s pupils rolled up, revealing the whites of his eyes.

“Father,” Oshino called. A sigh escaped from Kihē’s mouth, and then his breathing ceased altogether. Like the faint breeze that had been blowing in through the gaps suddenly vanishing, his breathing stopped with a soft whoosh—thereafter, neither inhale nor exhale could be heard.

In the middle of town, on the road— Oshino nearly screamed—she pressed both hands over her mouth, barely stifling the sound. It must not be noticed. She couldn’t let others discover he had died in such a place. "They mustn’t suspect," Oshino thought, lowering the oilcloth. "Do it now," she told the young men.

What did you want to say, Father? While walking alongside the litter, Oshino called out to her father in her heart. He had never even mentioned Mother, yet once he knew he was truly dying, he suddenly wanted to see her—insisting they go even if carried on a door plank, saying there was something he must tell her. What was it? What had he wanted to say? Oshino kept thinking about this until she reached the dormitory.

When they arrived at the dormitory, they carried the litter into the sitting room with him still on it. Oshino had everyone leave the room, then lowered her father from the litter by herself, re-laid the bedding, and moved him into it. Then, after surrounding the area around his pillow with a small folding screen, she called Tomokichi, and together they carried out the litter, handed it to the young palanquin bearers, and gave them a slightly extra payment wrapped in a packet.

“Go on home,” Oshino told Tomokichi. “Please tell the head clerk that Father has arrived safely.”

Tomokichi left.

Oshino called Omasa and had her bring an incense burner and incense, which she then burned by her father’s bedside. “Father is critically ill,” Oshino told Omasa sternly, “but he dislikes being seen by others. Do not enter this room.” Until Mother returned, she had to make it appear he was alive. Fortunately, it being winter, the corpse likely wouldn’t begin to smell so soon—but just in case, she burned the incense more strongly and poured herbal decoction into the brazier. ―In the evening, Oshino went to the kitchen and, saying she would prepare rice gruel, took rice from the storage area and washed it herself.

“What would you like for dinner?” Omasa asked. “I’m about to go shopping.” “Anything is fine,” Oshino replied. “Do as you see fit.” And then, as Omasa went out, her mother returned nearly at the same moment. Oshino, unaware, was adding more incense to the burner when she sensed someone’s presence and heard them say, “What an awful smell!” Oshino quickly stood up and went to slide open the door, where she found Osono standing entangled with a young man.

--That's Kikutarō.

Oshino stepped out into the four-and-a-half-mat room and closed the sliding door behind her back.

The man was small-framed, his body swaying limply like a woman’s, and with an affectedly coquettish gesture, he helped Osono out of her dust cloak. Both appeared thoroughly drunk; even in removing their cloaks, they staggered against each other, making little headway. “Masaya,” Osono called, “come help for a moment. Are you not here?”

“That person has gone shopping.” Osono turned around and narrowed her eyes. “Oh? Oshino-chan—you were here? Then lend me a hand.” The man staggered aside limply, and Oshino helped her mother out of her dust cloak. “This person here,” Osono waved toward the man and said, “This is Kikutarō from Harimaya’s troupe—Kiku-chan. And this is my daughter Oshino I told you about.” “Good evening,” Kikutarō bowed and said. “I am Nakamura Kikutarō. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Oshino shuddered in disgust. The way he bowed—that nasal, saccharine affected voice—both were filthy and repulsive enough to make her spine crawl. "Come, let's start drinking again," Osono said, taking Kikutarō's hand and leading him into the six-tatami room at the back. Oshino did as instructed—lit the kotatsu and prepared the drinks. Though there was only one heated sake flask, Osono poured it cold into cups, and she and Kikutarō gulped it down like water.

Before long, Omasa returned and was ordered to procure more sake and side dishes, but Oshino thought that Omasa must not see Mother and Kikutarō in such a state. Of course Omasa likely knew, but being seen by her there made her feel as if even she herself were being sordidly tainted. There were things I had to tell Mother about Father. I’ll dismiss Omasa. Oshino thought this and, as soon as the sake and side dishes arrived, said, “I’ll handle the rest from here. Go back to your child.” In Yanagihara, Honjo, Omasa had a younger brother, and she had left her child there. Although the hour was late, saying she was giving her time off for New Year’s, she wrapped some money in paper and handed it over, telling her to buy a souvenir for the child on her way. Omasa delightedly left without even changing her clothes.

―She noticed. Oshino thought that Omasa had realized why she’d been given leave so late in the evening. In Omasa’s delighted demeanor and her hurried departure without even changing clothes—every gesture laid bare that understanding—Oshino’s body burned with shame and humiliation. Even as she carried the sake and dishes, her mother drew Kikutarō close, cheerfully recounting amusing stories from their trip while they laughed together over fond memories.

“Why don’t you come in too?” When preparations were complete atop the kotatsu, Osono said to her daughter in a coquettish voice, “If you just move the long brazier closer, we can warm the sake without even getting up.” “I hate kotatsu,” Oshino said. “You know I’ve always hated them. I’d rather stay here.” “But you must warm yourself up—your way back will be cold otherwise!”

“Oh, I’m staying the night.” “Staying the night, you say?” Osono narrowed her eyes. “But if you stay, wouldn’t that man be inconvenienced?” “I’ll talk about that later,” Oshino said. “Yes, let’s have the sake warmed.”

Nine “Miss Oshino staying over? How delightful!” Kikutarō said. “It’ll liven things up—let’s all bunk together!” Movement stirred beneath the kotatsu quilt. Kikutarō gripped Osono’s hand, his fingers pressing some secret message through her palm. The proof came in Osono’s voice—that sudden breathy pitch sliding through her next words.

“Group sleeping does sound amusing,” Osono said while taking her cup. “Why don’t we let Masaya join us?” “I gave that person leave.” “You dismissed him?” “He hasn’t even returned home for New Year’s yet,” Oshino replied. “I let him go earlier because I felt sorry for him—told him to go see his child.” “But what are we supposed to do without Masaya?” “I can handle replacing Omasa.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Osono laughed, “Cooking rice isn’t some trifling matter you know. Even I’ve never done it once—and you think you can manage such a thing?” “That’s not it at all,” Kikutarō said, shifting his position. “I’ve been watching you closely, and Miss Oshino carries herself with such poise. Even if one were raised under a nursemaid’s parasol, I’m certain someone like you would have the mettle to manage such trifles.”

“Oh my, you’re really taking her side—have you fallen for Oshino?” said Osono. “That’s right,” Kikutarō replied. “I’ve gone and completely fallen for her!” “You said it!” “But it’s true!” “You said it! And now you dare say such things with that mouth?” “It hurts! It hurts, Madam! Oh, how cruel you are!”

Oshino's body began trembling; to suppress the urge to scream she clenched her fingers with all her strength while quietly standing up and leaving the room.

“Where are you going?” Osono called out. “Just—” Oshino answered without turning back, “I’ll come right away.”

Oshino went to the eight-tatami room. "This is unbearable." Sitting beside the brazier and lowering the snow guard that had been set up, she faced her father’s lifeless face and called out. "You deceived even me, your only daughter, and won’t even try to explain yourself." "It seems you don’t even feel sorry—and perhaps don’t even remember deceiving me." And now she was drunk and fooling around with a boy my own age. "I can’t bear this—I’ll tell him off. Once that man falls asleep, I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Listen to me, Father," Oshino vowed inwardly.

From the back six-tatami room came the sound of mouth-shamisen and singing voices. They likely didn't even register Oshino's absence; between verses drifted Osono's laughter and theatrical shrieks, even thuds suggesting they were grappling. "Oh, I want to die." Oshino clamped both hands over her ears. "Why did you die and abandon me, Father? If I must endure this humiliation, I'd sooner die myself."

But if I were to die, I wouldn't go alone—I'd drag Mother along with me. "I'll take her to where Father is in the afterlife and make her apologize," Oshino vowed. "That's right," Oshino said, lifting her gaze. "I truly want to do it—if I were a man—no, even without being a man, if I had the courage... The longer Mother lives, the more shame she heaps upon us. If I could manage it, I should do it."

How much time had passed? When she suddenly noticed, the rear fusuma slid open quietly, and someone approached softly. Turning to look, she found Osono. "Kiku-chan's fallen asleep," the woman said as she registered Kihē's form, her pupils contracting sharply.

“There’s someone here!” Osono staggered. “Who’s lying there?” “Father.” “Don’t be absurd.” Osono snickered, “That sick man couldn’t possibly have come here! Who is it really?”

At that, Osono was left speechless. Her eyes opened so wide they might tear, her jaw dropped to leave her mouth gaping like a hollow. “Father,” Oshino said quietly. “He wanted to meet you and say one thing—so we brought him here on a plank. He passed away on the way, but since his last wish was to see you, we carried him here just as he was.” “He’s dead,” Osono murmured in a voice like a tongue gone numb, “—he’s dead?”

“It’s Father’s corpse.” Osono let out a sound like “Hee—” and tried to stagger away. Oshino leaped up, grabbed her mother’s arm to stop her, then forcibly pushed her toward their father’s bedside and made her sit there. “Let go,” Osono writhed, “It’s unsettling—let me go!” Osono, nearly dead drunk, could not wrench herself free from her daughter’s grasp.

“Father is dead. He can’t do anything anymore, nor can he speak, so there’s nothing to fear,” Oshino said. “Now sit properly, calm yourself, and listen. There’s something I must tell you, Mother.” “No! No!” Osono shook her head violently like a child. “I won’t stay beside a corpse! Have mercy—it’s too ghastly!”

Oshino grabbed her mother’s shoulders and, while saying “Mother,” shook her vigorously. Osono fell silent. Her body seemed to lose all strength; she listlessly raised her head—which had drooped abruptly—and looked at her daughter. When her head drooped, the flat silver hairpin clattered to the floor. “Speak,” Osono said to her daughter. “What is it you want to say to me?” “You don’t think you’ve gone too far, Mother.” Oshino stared into her mother’s eyes. “I’ve seen it all with these eyes since I was old enough to understand. For twenty years after you married him, Father was treated like a hired hand—living without a single complaint. Isn’t that right? He didn’t drink or smoke, never glanced at a play or vaudeville show, not once went on a pleasure outing. And he kept living that way until he died.”

“You just wouldn’t understand.” "You don’t think this is excessive at all," Oshino continued heedlessly. "Father worked himself to the bone—not because of you, Mother. He did it thinking himself an adopted heir who had to devote everything to Musashiya. But if that’s so, then all the more reason you should’ve treated him like a proper husband."

Ten

“You’re still young,” Osono said. “There are things you couldn’t possibly understand.” “Yes, I’m sure,” Oshino interjected, “I know there’s much I don’t understand. But I can at least tell whether how you’ve treated Father—especially these past three years since he fell ill—has been right or wrong.” “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

"What about the end of the year?" Oshino retorted. "When Father coughed up blood and was told he was in critical condition, didn’t you come pleading it was your most desperate lifetime request? You promised to go the day after tomorrow—don’t you remember making that promise?" “It’s because you kept insisting.” “Even though you properly promised—even though Father was dying—you took that childish man and went off to Hakone for fun, didn’t you?”

“That’s not true—nothing like that!” Osono made a motion with one hand as if striking something. “I went to Enoshima with Ms. Otoyo from Iseku and others.” “Stop it, Mother—I went to Iseku’s place too.” Tears spilled from Oshino's eyes. “I met Aunt Iseku—she told me everything—so I went all the way to the Nakamura-za.” “Goodness, you’ve gone to such lengths!” “Father collapsed again on New Year’s Eve night, and this time they said even the greatest doctors couldn’t save him—that’s why.” Wiping beneath her eyes with a finger, Oshino said, “Even Father—who’d always been so strong-willed—started saying he couldn’t go on this time. That’s why we absolutely had to have you come back.”

“Even so,” Osono said, “isn’t it awful to go snooping after someone like that?” “How dare you say that’s awful—don’t you think you’re the awful one, Mother? You didn’t even visit your critically ill husband, running around with another man instead—and you don’t think that was wrong?”

“Let me speak. Let me have my say too.” Osono tried to sit up straight but, too drunk to manage it, remained sitting sideways as she said, “You wouldn’t understand this, Oshino, but marrying that man was a mistake from the start. I only went along because Grandfather insisted. I never liked him from the beginning. You’re right—he knew nothing of pleasure, just worked day and night alongside the hired help. He was earnest and honest, made Musashiya thrive more than the previous generation did, even started the oil shop branch. All true—but as a husband? No charm, no warmth. Dull and tedious. He couldn’t grasp a woman’s feelings, not one bit of appeal in him.”

“Let me finish,” Osono continued, swaying her head unsteadily, “—a woman like me, Oshino, wants someone who’d throw everything away for her sake, someone who’d dote on her madly. If he’d poured himself into me so completely that Musashiya’s shop and wealth meant nothing—not even a damn—then maybe I could’ve felt a little more affection for him.”

“That’s not how it works!” Oshino cut in. “That kind of ‘love’ isn’t natural at all—it’s just your excuse!”

“What am I lying about?” “You just love your amusements and pleasures, don’t you? It wasn’t enough to lose yourself in plays and artistic pursuits—you had to call actors and performers to teahouses, indulging in food and drink while they flattered you. All that talk of love was nothing but a pretense.” “You’ll see,” Osono smiled, her lips curving like a Noh mask’s painted crescent. “Once you’re a woman yourself, you’ll understand how I feel.”

“Your feelings belong only to yourself, Mother—you never consider anyone but yourself! You’d do anything for your own pleasure, but wouldn’t lift a finger for others. After doing so many heartless things to Father—not even giving him his final water—how dare you call him some boring man!” Oshino’s voice caught as she covered her face with both hands and said, “To call him a man with no charm or warmth—a boring man—how cruel that is to Father!”

“You don’t need to grieve so much for this man,” Osono said. “Now that it’s come to this, I’ll tell you the truth—Oshino, he wasn’t your father.” “I don’t want to hear your excuses!” “This man was a complete stranger.” “Don’t talk nonsense,” Oshino said. “You don’t even know what you’re saying, do you? What do you mean he’s a complete stranger?”

“You’re not this man’s child. Your real father is someone else.” Oshino stared at her mother’s face. “Mother, stop saying such foolish things.” “Don’t be ridiculous!” Osono cut in. “I’m only telling you this because you’re grieving so much over this man. There’s a bag merchant called Maruume in Nihonbashi Yorozuchō—the owner, Genjirō, is your real father.”

Oshino silently stared at her mother. “It’s shameful to admit, but it’s true,” Osono said. “Even though we were only involved for about half a year, Gen-san from Maruume knows you’re my child.” Oshino sat motionless for a long time, her face as stiff as a mask. And with eyes that seemed to see nothing, she stared fixedly ahead. At last, in a voice parched and brittle as dead leaves, she asked: “So it’s true.”

“How could I lie about something like this?” Osono replied. “If you don’t believe me, go ask at Maruume yourself—you’ll see.” Oshino paused for a moment and said, “Go away.” “‘Go away,’ you say? Oshino.” “Don’t say anything,” Oshino cut in with an emotionless tone. “I need to think. Please go away.”

Osono started to say something but, overwhelmed by her daughter’s rigid expression and posture that rejected all entreaties, murmured “Very well” and rose unsteadily.

Oshino gently closed her eyes.

Eleven

In the six-tatami room at the back, Osono’s voice roused Kikutarō. “Let’s drink again. Wake up, Kiku-chan—it’s not even late yet.” Kikutarō’s groggy protest of “I can’t take anymore” could be heard. They’d stop the palanquin to drink, then drink until they were jostled back into the palanquin—exhausted to the marrow of their bones. If they drank any more, they’d die. “What spineless talk. I’ll tickle you.” Kikutarō let out a scream, and then his voice could be heard saying, “How cruel!”

“Still planning to drink, are they?” Oshino muttered. Her lips moved as though disconnected from the thoughts in her head.

After a while, Oshino looked at her own hands, frowned, and muttered, “It’s flowing inside here—what flows through this body of mine is Mother’s blood.” And, as if shaking off something filthy, she violently shook both hands. “Not human,” Oshino muttered again. “Mother isn’t human—this body flowing with Mother’s blood isn’t human either. How filthy.”

Oshino shuddered. She shuddered violently, as if seized by convulsions, then her upper lip curled back to bare her teeth.

―There was one thing I had to tell him. Kihē's voice reverberated in the deepest recesses of her ear. ―I couldn't die without saying this.

Oshino whispered through bared teeth in a tone meant to confide a secret, "You knew, didn't you, Father?" And then she whispered again, "Everyone knew." Even if I must ride upon a door plank to reach the dormitory and tell him that one thing—I cannot find peace even in death. The tenacious demeanor he had shown then—something never before revealed—made it abundantly clear he had known.

Father had known, Oshino thought. That I was not his child. He had known all along yet said nothing, treating me as his own flesh and blood. "For my sake," Oshino whispered, "you saved up money, hoping that someday I would leave Musashiya and live with you." Oshino squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'll do it," Oshino vowed through clenched teeth. After a long pause came her parched whisper: "This concerns every woman alive—a shame upon our entire sex! No—worse! A defilement of all humanity! We cannot let this stand unaddressed! Someone must atone! Such disgrace to humankind must not go unchallenged!" She opened her eyes calmly toward where her father lay entombed by incense smoke. "There was a camellia by that little pond—remember? Wait there for me by its shore. I’ll join you soon enough—but come meet me when I arrive lost."

Oshino tried to stand up. Having sat motionless for so long, she couldn’t rise immediately; bracing one hand against the floor, she waited for the numbness in her legs to subside. Then her hand pressed against the tatami touched a flat silver hairpin. It had fallen from Osono’s hair earlier—Oshino stared fixedly at the hairpin. Her face stiffened again like a mask, her upper lip gradually curling back to bare her teeth.—Oshino picked up the hairpin, switched it to her right hand, and stood. The six-tatami room at the back had long since fallen silent; Oshino slid open the door to the central corridor and then opened the door to the six-tatami room.

Still inside the kotatsu, Osono and Kikutarō lay asleep in each other's arms. The aftermath of their drinking and eating remained scattered, and by their heads lay a sake flask and teacup, toppled over. Osono had folded a zabuton cushion to use as a pillow, and Kikutarō was using her arm as his pillow. Osono had one arm around Kikutarō, her face pressed against his as she slept with her mouth open. Seemingly drained of their senses by the exhaustion of travel and drunkenness, Kikutarō was snoring loudly. Oshino did not avert her eyes. The sight of the two sleeping in each other’s arms was unbearable to behold, yet Oshino watched their forms for a short while longer, as though meticulously confirming their sin and disgrace.

“No,” Oshino murmured at length. “I cannot die yet. There are others who share Mother’s guilt—men like the one sleeping there now, men who conspired with Mother to torment Father. Those men too must atone for their sins. I will make those men pay for their crimes.” Oshino threw down the hairpin she had been holding, went out into the central corridor, fetched a hand candle from the storage room, lit it, and entered the maids’ room.

And about an hour later, Oshino emerged from the dormitory’s back entrance. The time was just past midnight; a weak north wind blew, and the thoroughly frozen ground creaked beneath Oshino’s feet. The surroundings were dark—no matter where one looked, not a single light was visible. To the south lay a local farmhouse; to the north stood the dormitory of some long-established shop in Kyōbashi—both had spacious gardens with trees, but in the night’s darkness, the houses themselves remained unseen. —Oshino searched for the hedge gate, then returned and stood at the house’s rear. She wore a purple quilted coat over her kimono, her head wrapped in a hooded scarf. The face peering from beneath the hood was pallid, her lips devoid of any blood’s hue.

The fire began to emerge from the storage room. When smoke started flowing through the door's gap, that crevice soon turned crimson, and the stench of burning lamp oil permeated the area. Oshino gasped for breath and moved toward the kitchen entrance, but halting mid-step, she tilted her face upward toward the sky. "I'm faltering, Father—lend me your strength," Oshino implored like a prayer. "Keep holding me tight, Father." Dense smoke coiled out from beneath the eaves, followed by scarlet tongues of flame that flared briefly before vanishing. Smoke gushing from doors and under roof edges finally engulfed the entire house, disseminating the oily reek as the crackling roar of combustion intensified—until abruptly, orange flames surged upward along the eaves, ripping through the darkness.

Oshino stepped back and listened intently to the sounds within the house. Amidst the crackle of burning objects and the roar of flames, she thought she heard a cough. But it lasted only an instant—no screams came, nor was the cough heard again. Oshino slipped through the gate and stepped outside, standing motionless as she watched the house wrapped in flames.

“It’s alright now,” Oshino whispered. “Father—please wait for me.” Part of the roof burned and collapsed with a thunderous roar, erupting into a monstrous pillar of flame. Beautiful, blinding sparks scattered through the air as the distant fire bell began clanging. Oshino walked silently away toward Tenjin Bridge.

Part Two

I

On the afternoon of January 28th, Tokujirō, a clerk at Musashiya, received a letter. The delivery was made by a town courier, and the letter bore no sender’s name. Tokujirō broke the seal but immediately furrowed his brows in confusion. Then, after tucking away the partially read letter into his pocket, he lit a metal-netted lantern with an air of purpose and entered the inner storehouse.—He emerged shortly after, his face stiffening fearfully, growing gaunt as his eyes lost focus. “No way,” he muttered without moving his lips. “No way such a thing could happen.”

On January 29th, Tokujirō left the shop carrying a small package. The previous day, having been informed from his hometown of his mother’s illness, he had already requested a day’s leave from Manager Kasuke. Tokujirō’s family home was located in the Ebara District—a fairly substantial landowning family that had persisted for over a dozen generations, granted the privilege of bearing a surname and wearing a sword. He was the second son and had entered service at Musashiya of his own volition, but everyone knew that when the time came for him to branch off under the shop’s name and open his own store, he would receive financial support from his family home.

Tokujirō walked to Ichibashi Bridge, hailed a street palanquin, and instructed them to go to Yanagibashi. After alighting at Yanagibashi, he found another palanquin there and rode to Kanda Myōjin-shita. After alighting from the palanquin and walking along Dōbōchō’s main street, Tokujirō found Taizandō—a writing brush, ink, and inkstone shop—on his left, then turned into its side alley.—The quiet neighborhood of modest houses showed only one drunkard staggering unsteadily while complaining to a dog. The small black-spotted dog barked noisily as if deranged, circling around the drunkard, while the man—staggering on unsteady legs—shouted that the dog must be barking at him because it suspected him of wrongdoing: "If I’m doubted by the likes of you, my honor’s ruined! Take me to your owner—I’ll settle this properly!"

Tokujirō slipped past them and, looking to his left, found a house with a black-plastered wall and latticed gate, its gatepost bearing a sign that read: “Yabunouchi-ryū Tea Ceremony Instruction Kitao Rinjo.” ―He glanced around briefly, opened the lattice gate and entered, then called out from outside the latticed door. Immediately, a response was heard; the shoji on the far side slid open, and a comely young maidservant of about seventeen emerged. “My name is Tokujirō,” he said. “Is the master in?”

The maidservant smiled and said, “Please. The master is waiting for you—please come in.”

He entered the house. The house appeared to have a spacious layout. After proceeding down the central corridor and turning left, the maidservant stopped before a sliding door on the right and announced, "We have arrived." “Please,” came a young woman’s voice from within. “Masa-chan, you can leave the rest. Go take care of that errand now.”

“Yes,” answered the maidservant. “Shall I leave the gate open?”

“Please close the gate.”

The maidservant named Masa departed, and Tokujirō called out and opened the sliding door. As soon as he entered the room, a voice instructed him to close it and come closer, and Tokujirō complied as directed.

Then, about a quarter of an hour passed—the sliding door remained closed, and the room stayed hushed. They were conversing about something, but both voices stayed at whispers, their words nearly inaudible. At the back of the house toward Kanda Myōjin Shrine, a bush warbler kept singing incessantly. The bird appeared young still, its song fragmented and faltering; amidst chirps among bamboo grass came occasional tentative chirps. Whether startled by its own voice or overcome with timidity, it would lapse into an awkward silence before tentatively resuming its song in halting, uncertain tones.

About a quarter of an hour later, Tokujirō’s voice grew slightly louder. “I’ve brought the money here,” he said. “I’ll deliver the remaining amount as well. However, I promised the late master that I would take responsibility for you. Until I hear what you intend to do from now on, I cannot hand over this money.” The woman answered something. “No—even if you tell me to consider you dead,” he continued, “as long as you’re actually living like this, I can’t just stand by silently.” After a brief pause, he added, “You say this will inconvenience me—what sort of inconvenience?”

For a considerable time, the woman spoke about something. "Is that truly the case?" Tokujirō pressed. "If it is, I'll ask nothing more for now. I shall deliver the remaining money within two or three days—but in return, you must uphold our agreement." The woman answered something.

Soon after, Tokujirō emerged, and from inside the room came the woman's voice: "Forgive me for ending here." "The main gate must be closed by now, so go around to the side and leave through the kitchen entrance." "When you come next time," her voice continued, "use that same entrance." Tokujirō visited the Myōjin-shita house again after two days' interval. This time he stayed barely half an hour before departing, his eyes red and swollen as if from weeping, lashes still glistening. Both his arrival and departure were handled by Masa the maidservant; the woman in the inner chambers remained unseen.

“Please take good care of her,” Tokujirō said as he handed Masa the paper-wrapped package. “I’ll be back again—I’m counting on you.” Masa replied, “Yes,” and smiled with an air of knowing wisdom.

Shortly after February began, on his way back from an errand to Shitaya, Tokujirō stopped by Myōjin-shita again. Then, the signboard that had been hanging on the gatepost was gone, the main gate and front door were both closed, and even the kitchen entrance’s wooden door was locked from the outside.

“No one’s home,” he muttered outside the kitchen gate. “They must have gone out together.”

Then from beyond the alley came a voice saying, “That house has moved away.” When he turned to look, a white-haired old man of refined appearance wearing a juttoku robe was watching him from within a hedge of straight-grained pine. Having likely been tending to the hedge, he made clipping sounds with shears in one hand as he addressed Tokujirō in an easygoing tone.

“It was the evening before last, I believe—after dusk had already fallen when they suddenly moved away.” The old man nodded to himself. “We never interacted, but it seemed to be a women’s household. No—actually, an agent came by earlier and said they were simply returning to their parents’ home, though even he didn’t know the exact destination. Are you...?” Tokujirō expressed his thanks and left the place.

“Oshino-san, what will you do?” He muttered vacantly as he walked, “Where have you gone? What will you do now? What in the world do you mean to do, Oshino-san?”

Two

“The first time I met you was on the twentieth day of the New Year—do you remember, Oriyu-san?” “Of course I remember.” The woman called Oriyu looked at the man through half-lidded eyes and drawled in a spoiled tone, “But I was the one who summoned you first, wasn’t I?” “From then until May we met once or twice each month, then not a word all summer—and now it’s already October. Nearly a year.”

“I’ll be another year older—how dreadful.” “Oriyu-san.” “Drink, please,” the woman said. “You had to go counting months—now you’ve made me think about my age, you horrid Master.” “It’s strange,” the man said. “That voice modulation and how you drop your left shoulder to tilt your body—they’re identical to Sawadaya’s signature techniques.” “Not this again.” “Look at those eyes—young lady, you must have ties to Sawadaya.” The man set down his cup. “No mere admirer could mimic Tōzō’s vocal inflections and gestures so perfectly just from watching performances. I am Kishizawa Chōdayū—I know these things when I see them.”

“If you’re going to keep pressing me like that, I’ll leave.” “Are you admitting I struck true?”

“Oh, come now.” The woman adjusted her seating—perhaps unconsciously—but this only made the soft contours of her figure and coquettish charm more pronounced. “Really, Master,” she said in a honeyed tone, “I do adore the theater—naturally I attend performances, even Sawadaya’s productions—but I’ve never once met any of those actors, no matter who they might be.”

“It’s because I’m meeting with you like this, Master,” the woman continued, “so I can’t blame people for calling me a flirt—but it’s painful to have even you think of me as that kind of woman.” “If that’s true,” the man said, “why keep torturing me like a half-dead serpent?” “You don’t understand my feelings at all, do you, Master?”

“Oriyu-san,” the man said, reaching out his hand.

While offering one hand to the man, she leaned her body away in the opposite direction and let out a heated sigh—"Ah..."

“Don’t touch me, Master,” the woman said in a trembling voice, “please don’t touch me—I’m already at my limit. If you lay a hand on me now, it’ll be the end of everything.” “What exactly are you enduring? If you truly care for me, Oriyu-san, there would be no need for such endurance, would there?” “How cruel,” the woman said, gently shaking her hand, still held in his grasp. “You know perfectly well why.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your wife,” the woman said. “You do have a wife, Master—a former Yanagi Bridge courtesan, yes? A splendid woman from these parts, her temperament was fine, her figure was lovely. She abandoned everything to be with you.” “Wait—wait a moment.” “I could never compete with such a person,” the woman continued undeterred, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll settle for being some fleeting affair or kept woman, fully aware you have a wife. That’s the one thing I refuse.”

“I’ve already said this once before,” the man pressed urgently. “If Oriyu-san truly intends it, I’ll leave her.” The woman wrenched her captured hand free. “Lies—nothing but empty words.” “It’s no lie—she’s a jealous harpy who can’t cook rice properly or hold a needle steady. I’ve been sick of her for ages.” The man steadied his tone and declared, “Honestly, I’m ready to part with her anytime—if you’ll join me properly, Oriyu-san, I’ll cast her off even tomorrow. I swear it.”

“I can’t cook meals either.” “Do you think I’d ever make Oriyu-san do such a thing?”

“I can’t even hold a needle, let alone do laundry or cleaning.” “And I’m dreadfully jealous,” the woman said in a coquettish drawl. “If I were your wife, Master, and you met another woman like this—I wouldn’t let either of you live.”

The woman reached up to her head, pulled out a silver flat hairpin, and gripping it in a reverse hold declared: “I’ll definitely kill them both—I swear I will.” “How delightful! Such admirable resolve!” The man laughed with a parched voice, his eyes glinting like a beast’s as he licked his upper and lower lips. “To be believed in so deeply by someone like you, Oriyu-san—that alone would make my life’s purpose fulfilled. Oh yes! If such a thing were to happen, kill me. I won’t flee or hide.”

The woman adjusted her grip on the hairpin, quietly tapping her left palm with it as she whispered, “This will do it...”

The man abruptly stood up, and the woman raised her eyes. "I’ll go to the restroom," the man said. "And take care of the alcohol while I’m at it."

The woman nodded. The man went downstairs, called a maid, whispered something to her, and headed to the lavatory. His face—commonly described as bitter-looking, with thick eyebrows, a long face, and taut features—broke into a smile as he hummed a cheerful tune. His bitter-looking face suddenly revealed a shallow baseness, while his eyes took on an even more beastly, covetous gleam. "They say her dance is refined," he cheerfully sang a Tokiwazu ballad, "and I too have taken a fancy to that otsu-goe voice and the ondo melody—it chilled me to the bone as I made my way back."

After climbing the stairs and finishing his song in front of the same room as before, he slid open the shoji door and entered. A young maid was clearing away the empty warmed sake decanters and small dishes, but there was no sign of the woman. "The Murasame rain seeps deep into one’s bones—"

Continuing to sit as before, he called to the maid: “What happened to the one here?” “Do you mean your companion?” said the maid. “She left just now.” “Sh—” The man opened his mouth, then asked suspiciously: “Gone? That person who was here—my companion—is gone?”

Three

About half an hour later, the man exited the restaurant called Hanada.

As dusk approached and the town’s lanterns began to glow, the sky arched high in a burnished blue, while a faint breeze from the Ōkawa River blew through with a cold that seeped into one’s bones. “The bill has been settled, and we’ve received your kind gratuity.”

The man staggered while walking and swung the souvenir box he held in one hand carelessly. “This is the souvenir,” he muttered. “Left for the Master—open it and you’ll find one ryō inside. Hah! Nothing spared, eh?” He seemed to have drunk in despair. Probably after being abandoned by the woman named Oriyu, he had drunk himself into a stupor alone; staggering in all directions, he muttered under his breath. “Hey, pull yourself together,” he told himself. “You’re Kishizawa Chōdayū, through and through—right? The disciple of Tokiwazu Tsunadayū himself, the one they called Little Tengu! The current Tsunadayū? Pah! He used to straighten my sandals—true story!”

It was dusk, and the streets were bustling with people. Under the eaves of the houses, the darkness swiftly deepened, and the smell of evening meals being cooked wafted through, as if urging on the people hurrying to and fro. "But to be honest, I preferred the strings over the singing—yes, whenever I heard that Koshikibu Master’s strings, it made my very bones turn to mush." He nodded to himself. “That’s right—jōruri ain’t about the singing, it’s the shamisen! Whether jōruri lives or dies depends on nothin’ but how you work that plectrum! Let that Bungo no Daijō strut around all he likes—my plectrum work alone could twist him any which way. Hell, I could make ’em choke on their own songs just by siccin’ the audience on ’em! Swear it’s true!”

Because his final words came out as a shout, a man approaching from ahead nimbly stepped aside, but he paid no heed and continued across Yanagi Bridge. “Hmph! They had the nerve to say Nakajirō’s shamisen is better—what nonsense are they spouting?” He shook the souvenir box he was holding. “The world’s full of fools with no ears—can’t even tell the tightening of a single shamisen string! Scram! Nakajirō’s nothing but trash now.” “What the... Why the hell did I start talking about that bastard? Tch—scram! What lousy timing.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say.” He swayed his head as if negating all his previous ramblings, then staggered and—still staggering—walked diagonally across the road while muttering: “I’m Kishizawa Chōdayū, supreme in all the land! When it comes to women, I’ve never been bested—from green girls to seasoned matrons, daughters, wives, widows, professionals—not a single woman I marked ever slipped my grasp. Didn’t need to lift a finger—they’d come swarming till I choked on their numbers! And yet… that wench Oriyu… Hah! Near a year since we first met, and today’s the first I’ve held her hand! What burns worst is me being the one fevered for her!”

He stopped. “What the—” he muttered, looking around. “What’s this about Nakajirō? Who’s saying anything about Nakajirō?” “Hah!” He shook his head and started walking again. “Don’t get ahead of yourself just ’cause you’re some little girl! The reason I haven’t even held your hand till now is ’cause I wanted to watch you burn for me! And then what? I go downstairs for a sec after telling you to get the side room ready—come back and you’re gone! Hah! What a joke! Me—Kishizawa Chōdayū—asking for a side room setup! ‘Your companion has returned home—the souvenir box is left as is.’ What a farce!”

He crossed the bustling Hirokōji avenue, passed through Yagenbori and the rows of hatamoto residences, and made his way toward Sumiyoshichō. He said nothing for a time, but his chest was filled with an oppressive anxiety and the rage of one whose pride had been wounded.—What a strange girl, he thought. From their first meeting until now, he still didn’t know where her home was—whether she was a merchant’s daughter or a rich man’s child, how old she might be—none of it. Even the name Oriyu could be an alias for all he knew. —The first invitation came to Nakamura-za’s backstage, he recalled. The meeting place had been Nakasu’s Daibachi. They’d met twice at Daibachi; next would likely be Tsuraya in Horidome. No—Tsuraya came after that. The third time was Igaume.

"By May we'd met seven times," he muttered, "yet never used the same place more than twice. Only Daibachi saw us twice—the other five were all different spots." She doesn’t want her face to be known, he thought. He’d been plied with food and drink, made pleasantly drunk, then led around by the flirtatious wiles of one not yet even a mature woman—as if coached by Shimamura Tōzō himself—left dangling without resolution, yet still he’d come wagging his tail whenever summoned. Is this still Kishizawa Chōdayū? Hah! Hey—is this still Kishizawa Chōdayū? he jeered at himself inwardly.

“Hey, Master, where you headed?” a voice called from behind. “Ain’t you headin’ home?”

He stopped and turned around, staggering. “Who is it?” he said, narrowing his eyes. A man in a mekurajima-patterned long happi coat with a three-shaku hem, a karasanzima-patterned happi coat thrown over it, barefoot in hemp-soled sandals with a tenugui cloth covering his cheeks, was picking his teeth with a toothpick while staring this way. “Ain’t you headin’ home?” the man said again. “You’ve gone right past the alleyway.” “Who the hell are you—Matsu-kō?” “Ah, whatever—let’s just get goin’ home.”

“What a strange fellow,” he said while turning back. “Ain’t Matsu-kō… Who the hell are ya?” “Keep your voice down,” the man whispered as they entered the alleyway. “Ain’t ya got a clue? Musasabi no Roku.” “Hah!” He stopped abruptly and drew a slow, deep breath. “—Who did you say?” “Don’t get sore on me—I just headed back from Kamigata.” The man started walking ahead. “C’mon—there’s somethin’ way more shockin’ waitin’ at home.”

Chōdayū followed the man from behind. The alley was now fully dark, with no children playing, and in the row houses where the smoke of cooking had settled, the lively sounds of evening meals being eaten could be heard. The man calling himself Musasabi no Roku walked along humming a tune, opened the lattice door of Chōdayū’s residence—the third house from the well—without a word and briskly stepped inside. Kishizawa Chōdayū, as if his very spirit had been drained, stood blankly at the doorway like a stranger visiting another’s home.

“Hurry up and get in here!” the man called from inside the house. “Your wife’s gone and left.”

IV

Around the butterfly-legged tray sat two one-shō sake bottles. The messily eaten dishes, bowls, and pots—appetizers likely taken from a caterer—lay scattered desolately in the dim, flickering light of a paper lantern whose oil had burned out. Chōdayū stiffened, pressed both hands against his knees, and shook his bowed head unsteadily like a papier-mâché tiger. His face was sallow and ashen, the muscles slack; whenever drool dripped from the corners of his lips—which it did occasionally, as if suddenly remembering to—he wiped it away sideways with the back of his right hand. Musasabi no Roku sat cross-legged, slurping noisily from the sake in the rice bowl he held in his left hand as he spoke with evident relish.

“She couldn’t take it anymore, see,” Roku said. “When I came back, she’d already prepared this furoshiki bundle—‘Oh, if it isn’t Mr. Roku,’ she said—then out of the blue she put on that face. Just like that! ‘I’m leaving this house,’ she says.” “She couldn’t take it anymore,” Chōdayū muttered flatly—not so much asking the other as posing the question to himself. Then he raised his eyes to look at Roku. “—When’d you get here?”

“How many times you gonna ask? I got to Edo yesterday afternoon, stayed last night at Lord Oda’s company quarters in Sanbanchō, and came here this noon,” Roku said. “Then it was just like Oyū said—all set up for a tragic scene with the sake ready and all. No, scratch that—a crisp brush-off. A total brush-off, I tell ya. Hey, Master—heard you’ve got yourself a favorable situation now.”

“I see… She left.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed slovenly with a pitiful expression. “That’s tailor-made,” he said. “Well ain’t that just dandy.” “Perfect interlude timing. I’d been wondering how to broach the breakup myself.” “Well ain’t that dandy,” Roku said. “Makes it easier for me to spit it out. Had you gone and let me down, Master—even bein’ Musasabi no Roku—I couldn’t stomach such heartless work. Was thinkin’ I’d have to go consult Nakajirō or some such.”

Chōdayū narrowed his eyes and looked at Roku. “—What about Nakajirō?” “I need you to come up with fifty ryō.” “Is it me or you?” Chōdayū said, putting down his cup. “One of us seems drunk.” “This time’s girl’s a real stunner, ain’t she?” Roku said, drinking from his bowl. “Seventeen or eighteen years old, looks outta this world, family’s loaded. For Master’s sake, she’d hand over a hundred or two hundred ryō like passin’ coins from right to left—that’s the talk.”

“What a cheerful story,” said Chōdayū. “Even lies of that sort lift the mood splendidly. Should such an opening arise, by all means—do take charge of it.”

A sharp crack sounded, and Chōdayū’s head snapped to the left. Roku’s slap was so fierce that Chōdayū’s cheek turned white, then gradually flushed red. Roku took the 1-shō sake bottle and poured a generous amount into his own bowl. “Forgive me, Master,” Roku said in a gentle voice. “I just can’t hold back anymore these days. Did it hurt?” “Do you think I’ll shrink away just because you pull this stunt, Roku—” Chōdayū retorted in a sullen tone, “You’ve lost your edge. You’ve gone soft in the head. You never used to pull such crude tricks before. Did you eat something rotten in Kamigata or what?”

“That’s about right,” Roku meekly smiled. “Even I’m surprised at how little patience I’ve got left. After all, I’m already at the point where I gotta sell out Edo again any minute now—oh, and when exactly am I gettin’ that fifty ryō?” “Going to slap me again?” “Ain’t no such thing—that was my blunder. Didn’t I say to forgive me?” “Not planning to try that again?” “My hand’s hurtin’ too,” Roku said, laughing without sound. “But headin’ over to Master Nakajirō’s’ll get things movin’ quicker.”

Chōdayū fell silent. “Seven years—yeah, exactly seven years,” Roku said, taking a swig. “Back then in Kishizawa, Nakajirō—who played lead shamisen for the grandmaster—got himself into a fight he couldn’t handle. Ended up with his right arm smashed to pieces. They set the bone, but he couldn’t work the plectrum proper no more. Left Kishizawa and fell into ruin. But Nakajirō’s lot—it came around to you.” Roku pressed his bowl to his lips, slurped noisily with evident relish, let out a loud belch, and continued: “Master Chōdayū here’s the lead shamisen of Kishizawa, married to Yanagibashi’s top courtesan amid raucous acclaim—and still wants for neither women nor coin. But compare that to Nakajirō—poor bastard’s now a street performer drowning in drink, they say he’s always passed out drunk in the back alleys of the pleasure quarters.”

Chōdayū began to chuckle quietly. Reaching out his hand, he skimmed the broth from the soup bowl, poured sake into it, and slowly took two deliberate sips. "That's pitiful," he said. "Pitiful that Nakajirō's come to such a state. What say you, Rokusuke—why not take him in and care for him?" "We'll handle this through proper discussion," Roku said. "Seven years—let's talk 'bout why that fight got forced on him and why his arm got broke. Then we'll work somethin' out."

Chōdayū chuckled again, “Hope it works out.” Then he laughed once more, “I sure as hell hope it works out.” “That all you gotta say?” “Got one thing I wanna ask ya.” Chōdayū lowered his voice, “You just got back from Kamigata—how’d you sniff all that out so quick?” “Wanna know?” Roku stared at his empty bowl. “This swill’s awful.” He hurled the bowl onto the tray. The soup bowl rolled away as the small dish shattered into pieces.

“You—” Roku looked at Chōdayū, “know a handler named Sakichi who was at the Masuya in Nakamura-za?”

Chōdayū remained silent.

“Don’t you know he quit Masuya since New Year’s?” “I see,” Chōdayū nodded after a pause. “Did you get that from Sakichi?” “Sakichi seems to be kept by someone—don’t know who or why. He wouldn’t crack about that no matter what. But since he’s the bastard who’s been pimpin’ out female clients and actors, there’s gotta be some scheme behind it. You better watch your back.”

Five “Where did you meet Sakichi?” Chōdayū asked.

“That was terrible sake.” Roku stood up as he spoke. “When you get the money, let me know at the usual shared room. I’ll wait five days—counted from today. No discounts.” “My apologies for the terrible sake,” Chōdayū said. “Next time my pockets are warm, I’ll treat you to the good stuff.” Roku left without saying a word. Once the carefree humming of Roku—now departed—faded away, Chōdayū lay down with his elbow propped as a pillow. His complexion turned ashen, his lips slackened, his eyes fixed unmoving on a single point on the wall. Yuu had left, he thought. But that hardly mattered—the allure of Yuu’s body was a rare thing, cloying in its sweetness, yet its very distinctiveness had begun to irritate him like a persistent odor. In all his romantic escapades thus far, what had he gained? Either drenching himself in sweat trying to make stones dance—a futile endeavor—or being dragged about until he collapsed from exhaustion. Either way, it always ended with him spent and broken.

"With this, I won’t let that girl say no anymore," he muttered. "Since she’s the one who started saying we have to become husband and wife, I won’t let her slip away this time." It was generally said that women of that sort—those with charmingly graceful allure and expressions overflowing with sensuality—tended to become surprisingly modest when it came to that matter, their approach restrained and quiet. In Chōdayū’s experience, there had been many such cases, and he had taken no interest in those kinds of partners. But now it was different. It’s about time I settled down too, he mused. Not that he meant to settle permanently—as a man, he was still in his prime—but establishing a stable household here might let him devote himself fully to his art. Right—thirty-two was about that age. Oriu would be perfect—her parents would likely provide funds. He could take half a year off from theater work and thoroughly hone his skills, he thought to himself.

"But that Rokusuke guy..." After a moment, he suddenly exclaimed, “No, that’s not it.” He shook his head at himself. “Nakajirō doesn’t matter. Even if someone spills the backstory about his arm being broken—the one who actually broke it was that Roku bastard. There’s no proof I asked him to do it. If Nakajirō wants revenge, the target would undoubtedly be Rokusuke. That’s fine.” Then he closed his eyes and muttered suspiciously under his breath, “What’s more concerning is that Sakichi is being kept by someone—he left Masuya at New Year’s, and I just thought ‘Oh, really?’ without paying it much mind. But this business of him being kept—it’s strange. Who’s keeping him? For what reason? He wouldn’t talk about that part… But he did say there’s likely some scheme involving theater teahouse people who connect female patrons with actors and performers.”

Chōdayū fixed his gaze intently and stared at a single point on the dark ceiling. *You better watch your back too.*

The mocking voice of Musasabi no Roku echoed deep within his ears. Indeed, he too had met several female clients through Sakichi’s arrangements. Widows, married women, daughters. There were middle-aged women and younger ones. He couldn’t recall most of their faces, but there were two or three he still remembered. "But what of it?" he muttered defiantly, eyes still shut as he visualized the women from his memory. "All those I arranged through Masuya—they were the ones who made advances first. I just did my part in the parlors. There’s no reason for them to hold grudges over that. Quit tryin’ to scare me."

The whisper lacked the force of his words; he opened his eyes and sat up.

“I’ll move,” he said aloud. “Having Roku loitering around is a nuisance, and I’ve stayed in this neighborhood too long. To change my mood, I’ll move.” The next day, Chōdayū moved.

He was strapped for cash. In that month’s play, he only appeared in an important dance piece called *Matsuchō Ōgi Utsushie*, and since his advances had piled up, his salary had been halved; moreover, the number of parlors was few. Out of the one ryō he had received from Oriu—this too being in arrears—he put only one bu toward the shop rent, kept the bare minimum of household items, and sold off everything else without a trace. There were Yuu’s clothes and such, but he sold those off as well, entrusted the meager luggage to a cart driver, and went out to search for a house. In Kugengabori, there was a colleague named Tokiwazu Sanzendayū; he inquired there and had them accompany him to Fukui-chō in Asakusa. In a side street of Fukui-chō’s first block, an elderly couple ran a hardware store downstairs and were offering a six-mat room on the second floor for rent. The hardware store was a retirement project, and their living expenses seemed to come from their son. When they heard about his line of work, they grimaced slightly, but with the promise that he wouldn’t take disciples at their place, the matter was settled.

After that day’s performance concluded, while sharing a drink with Sanzendayū, he informed him that Rokusuke had returned from Kamigata and requested that he keep his new residence a secret. “I know Rokusuke’s back too,” Sanzendayū said. “I won’t blab, but you can’t slip past Roku’s eyes.” “I’m not running away—it’s just a nuisance,” Chōdayū said. Sanzendayū shot a sidelong glance but said once more, “I’ll keep quiet.”

Chōdayū waited for word from Oriu. These notices had always come to the Nakamura-za greenroom, but with the October performances concluded and the next opening performance scheduled to begin on November 20th, he found himself at a loss for how to receive word.

Even when the theater was closed, the greenroom attendant remained stationed there continuously. This was due to backstage preparations for the upcoming performance, but a narrative artist couldn’t very well be peeking into the greenroom every day like that. He had made such arrangements with Heizō—the elderly greenroom attendant—and Heizō understood them well enough. But even so, his pride wouldn’t allow him to go asking, “Any news?”

“Nearly a year of meetings, and I couldn’t even learn where she lives…” He clicked his tongue at himself. “What a sloppy tale for a man of Kishizawa Chōdayū’s stature.”

Well, perhaps I was being careless too, but that girl never showed any openings. Just when one more push would have done it, she'd always twist away—how masterful that was, he thought. He pondered this thoroughly, then laughed by himself.

“Hey, get a grip,” he said. “I held back ’cause she was untouched—that’s all there was to it. This time I’ll make her mine—even if I gotta force it—so just watch me.”

Musasabi no Roku did not show himself.

Roku Rokusuke did not come, and there was no sign of Nakajirō appearing either. Chōdayū spent his days commuting to his master Kishizawa Koshikibe’s training hall to instruct disciples, then proceeding to Tokiwazu Bungo no Daijō’s residence to rehearse the shamisen accompaniment for the narrative piece in the upcoming kyōgen performance. About once every three days, he stopped by the Nakamura-za greenroom, but there was no “notice” from Oriu, and his finances were only growing tighter. As if everyone had conspired, Yuu too did not come near. Even if she felt no attachment to the tools and clothes she had left behind, she should at least have come to say a single word of farewell. If I did that, I could at least wheedle some pocket money out of her, Chōdayū muttered deep within his heart. If Oriu were never to return, he couldn’t afford to make a clean break with Yuu. Yuu was good at managing a household and skilled at procuring money when in trouble.

“Cutting ties with Yuu would be risky, hmm,” Chōdayū muttered as if reconsidering. “Either way, it’s bad timing now. Best to keep a string attached for the time being.”

He decided to go to Yanagibashi. In Yanagibashi, there was Osei, who served as Yuu’s elder sister figure. If he were to seek shelter, Osei’s place would be the first option. Just as he resolved to do so, the Nakamura-za’s kyōgen program was altered, the Tokiwazu performance was canceled, and his schedule was unexpectedly cleared. That was on November 10th, and Chōdayū was thrown into a panic.

“Everything’s gone off track—this is strange.” He muttered anxiously, “It’s like everyone’s watching me, peeling off my possessions one by one, isn’t it?”

Now that things had reached this point, he absolutely needed to mend his ties with Yuu—just as this thought struck him, a "message" arrived from Oriu. After learning about the changed program at Bungo no Daijō's residence, when he visited Nakamura-za, the greenroom attendant Heizō handed him a letter. "I didn't know where you'd moved to—I was at a loss about what to do." Ignoring Heizō's words, Chōdayū hurried away from the theater.

He felt his heart pounding. Just as when he was a boy receiving a letter from a lover, the pit of his stomach grew hot, and he felt as if his feet were lifting off the ground. "So this is how it goes." He said sheepishly to himself, “Hey, Chōdayū, so even you have such a side to you.”

The location was written as Okada restaurant in Monzen Nakachō, Fukagawa, at 4:00 PM. Even running wouldn't make him arrive in time—Chōdayū frantically summoned a palanquin. He hadn't bathed in two days; his hair remained tied as it had been three days prior, the loosened hair tie nagging at him. Being thick-bearded by nature, though he'd shaved that morning, stroking his face revealed stubble already rough around his mouth and jaw. "I hardly look presentable for a tryst." He clicked his tongue. "In this state, even a love scene would appear suspect."

The teahouse did not appear to have been built long ago; it was a large two-story structure with a spacious central garden containing a pond, and the arrangement of stones and plantings was quite elaborate. Guided by the maid, he proceeded along the second-floor corridor, turned right, and arrived at a room that stood apart like a detached annex. The eight-mat room already had a meal tray laid out; in the well-stoked brazier, the sake warmer was steaming, and two gaudily colored cushions had been placed.

“She is currently adjusting her makeup,” said the maid, “so please go ahead and eat first, as she instructed.” Then she took the sake flask from beside the meal tray and placed it into the warming pot. When he looked, there on the tray were seven sake flasks arranged in a row. A private tête-à-tête, is that the idea? The idea must be to heat the sake here and drink alone together. This was too polished a setup for someone so young. “This one might be formidable,” Chōdayū thought. Saying he’d heat the sake himself, he dismissed the maid, moved the cushion to the brazier’s side, and sat down. He took out the sake flask and drank two cups—then Oriu arrived. When someone called out from beyond the sliding door, he thought it was the maid—but upon seeing who entered, it was Oriu.

Had she bathed? Her washed hair was tied back in a quick bundle cascading down her back. Over a yukata layered with a padded winter kimono, she wore a workman’s coat with a black collar—purple fabric dyed with a bold maple leaf pattern using shibori tie-dye—applying no lipstick, only light makeup. Chōdayū inwardly went, “Ugh.” Her appearance—flirtatious, even brazen, a complete reversal of her former demure demeanor—combined supple movements with a youthful shyness that seemed ready to dissolve from embarrassment; together, they exuded an ineffable allure tinged with sensuality.

—It’s Sawadaya, Chōdayū thought. She’s the spitting image of Tōzō. Oriu came to sit before the meal tray and, keeping a faint smile, looked downward. Chōdayū felt his heart race again and poured himself another drink, but spilled the sake. “You’re a heartless woman.” He noticed his voice rising. “Back then you vanished like that—ever since it’s been a weasel’s trail. No matter how I longed to meet you, there was no path left. You’re a cruel one, Oriu-san.”

Oriu turned her face away. She remained bowed, slowly turned heavily to the side, and stayed utterly silent. Chōdayū voiced his resentment. How intensely he had longed for her, how desperately he had wanted to meet her—and above all, the critical matters that concerned their entire lives, matters that made him yearn to see her even sooner—as he spoke, his breath grew rough, and his body trembled from a strange surge of emotion.

“This is the first time I’ve ever felt this way,” he said. “The first time since birth I’ve known love could be this painful—this torturous.” Oriu neither spoke nor stirred. “Hear me, Oriu-san,” he pressed in a strained voice, “I’ve left Yuu—just as you wanted, just as Oriu-san desired. You haven’t forgotten our promise from that time, have you?”

Oriu kept her face averted as she asked, “Do you know a wholesale drug store called Musashiya in Honmoku-chō?” Chōdayū looked perplexed. “Well… I do seem to recall hearing about it,” “There was a mistress named Osono,” Oriu said quietly as she turned around, “…Master, you do know about that, don’t you?” Chōdayū nodded vaguely, “Now that you mention it… I did have such a patron for a time.”

“Don’t lie,” Oriu said. “I’ve heard everything.”

Seven “What do you mean by ‘heard’?” “You skillfully manipulated that person and continued meeting for over three years.” Oriu gazed at him with liquid eyes. “Though she had an ailing husband, she became infatuated with you, Master—neglected his care and obsessively kept up those secret meetings—or so I’ve heard.” “Wait—wait a moment.” He raised his hand to cut her off. “Who on earth told you such things?”

“Do you think knowing the name would let you weasel out of this?” “I am an entertainer,” he said, straightening his posture. “Patrons are inseparable from my trade—without them, no performer could endure.” “Was the Musashiya woman just another patron too?”

“At least, it was before I knew Ms. Oriu.” “Don’t be so formal.” Ms. Oriu smiled, sliding closer on her knees as she took the heated sake flask. “Let me pour for you. Oh—your hands are trembling, Master. I’m not burning with jealousy or anything—I simply wanted to know the truth.” “I’ll tell you the truth.” “Don’t be so formal.” Ms. Oriu smiled again, “Please have another.”

“Ms. Oriu...” He set down his cup and stiffened upright. “Don’t you believe what I’m telling you?”

“You expect me to believe some made-up story?” “I did meet with Madam Musashiya.” He spoke like a witness giving testimony: “But it wasn’t love or anything like that—just a patron’s relationship with an entertainer. You must understand this yourself—we performers can’t keep going without our patrons’ support and their backing.”

Oriu gave him a sidelong glance. “Oh, really?” “This is a showy profession that demands money—embarrassing to admit, but there are clothes and accessories to maintain, social obligations with colleagues, and even when performing in plays, you must make offerings to everyone from the lead actors to the backstage crew and prop handlers. For instance—” He said mournfully, “Just because those offerings fell short, the narrator’s platform collapsed once—there was even a master who suffered injuries from it.”

“So even someone like the mistress of Musashiya—you were meeting her just for the money, right?” “Of course.” He swallowed. “You probably don’t know this, but that woman was an incorrigible philanderer—there’s no telling how many men she took besides me. Though mind you—they say her husband was a consumptive wretch, gloomy and utterly charmless.” “Let me pour.” Oriu took the sake flask. “Do keep talking while you drink.”

Chōdayū held his sake cup. “There’s nothing more to discuss. They say the master of Musashiya coughed up blood while burning to death in a fire that started in their own home alongside his wife. When you act as willfully as they did—flaunting your wealth at every turn—it’s only natural divine retribution would strike.” “Do have some more.” “There is such a thing as karma.” Chōdayū continued drinking as he spoke, “Turning that young wife into such a philanderer was her husband’s fault—they’re both as bad as each other. In the end, they punished themselves through their own sins. Their very union as husband and wife was what you’d call karma from the start.”

“So...” “So punishment doesn’t strike you, Master?” said Oriu. “Punishment for me?” he said, looking at Oriu. “Why would punishment befall me?” “Very well, drink up.” Oriu poured his sake. “I’ll give you another,” she said.

And as Oriu rose to her feet, rough footsteps approached from down the corridor. They halted outside the sliding door, and a voice called out, “Is Master Kishizawa here?” Chōdayū started. Unmistakably Musasabi no Roku’s voice—he frantically gestured at Oriu. But before he could intervene, Oriu answered the voice.

“Yes, Master is here, but who are you?” “Name’s Rokusuke,” came the reply from beyond the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon for the intrusion.”

Sliding open the door, two men entered. One was Rokusuke; the other wore a cotton-striped padded kimono with a stiff sash and had a sleeveless workman’s coat draped over his shoulders. He appeared to be thirty-two or thirty-three, but his complexion was sallow, his eyes and cheeks sunken, and whether due to his grown-out shaven pate, he looked far older.

“Hey, Chōdayū,” the man said. “Nakajirō here. Remember me?”

Chōdayū remained silent, still holding his sake cup. He looked as though bracing his entire body to hold it up, as if the cup’s weight demanded nothing less. Both men seemed drunk. Rokusuke grinned foolishly and dropped cross-legged with a loud thud, while Nakajirō approached and knelt on one knee before Chōdayū. His sallow face had turned a livid, swollen hue, sunken eyes burning with hatred like fire. “You got nothin’ to say?” Nakajirō said. “Can’t even manage a fuckin’ greeting when you’re lookin’ at my face?”

“Can’t even say ‘gu’?” Roku jeered from across the room. “How ’bout it, Chō—can you manage a ‘guh’ now?” “You’re a beast wearin’ human skin,” Nakajirō said. “Couldn’t make a name for yourself in Jōruri, so you switched midstream to become Kishizawa’s disciple. I was the one who looked after you! Sure, you had good instincts, but craft ain’t just ’bout instincts—your damned instincts actually got in the way of your art. Took you by the hand and taught you to abandon those very instincts.”

“Wait,” Chōdayū cut in, “I’ll own up to my wrongs—let’s hear that talk over there.”

“Don’t want that young lady hearin’ this, eh? Shut yer trap,” Nakajirō said. “Ya think pluggin’ one or two ears now’ll hide what you’ve done, Kishizawa Chōdayū? —You only got yer claws into shamisen ’cause of me. I backed ya in the shadows and out in the open. Ain’t that right?” Kishizawa Chōdayū hung his head.

“Chōdayū—wasn’t that how it was?”

With his head hung low, Kishizawa Chōdayū nodded. "But you—the moment you started gettin’ a shred of recognition, I became dead weight. ‘With me around, he can’t even pluck the shamisen proper,’ you thought—yet lacked the spine to outplay me fair! So you pulled this coward’s trick—you hear?!" Nakajirō yanked up his right sleeve. "Hired goons to start a brawl—look here! Made ’em snap my arm! Had you done it yourself like a man, I might’ve borne it. But no—you hid behind that pretty mug while others did your dirty work, you animal!"

Remaining on one knee, Nakajirō raised his fist and struck Chōdayū’s cheek.

Eight

“I’m sorry.” Chōdayū thrust his hands against the floor. “A demon possessed me—show mercy!” “You bastard!” Nakajirō snarled, lunging at him. Mounting Chōdayū, he struck again. “You inhuman wretch!” He pummeled him with fists and open palms—right, left—then pressed his right hand against the man’s throat and roared, “I’ll kill you, you fucker!” “That’s wrong—you’ve twisted it!” Chōdayū rasped desperately, “It wasn’t me who broke your arm—it was Roku there! I just paid him! Rokusuke did the deed!”

Rokusuke burst into laughter. “Finally spat it out, did ya? Knew you’d blurt that out.”

Rokusuke stood up nimbly and approached.

“Naka-san, let me take over,” said Rokusuke. “I wanna reap what I sowed myself. Since I broke your arm, I’ll take care of breakin’ this bastard’s too. Move aside.”

“Please, Ms. Oriu,” Chōdayū pleaded in a strained voice, “he’s really going to do it—do something, Ms. Oriu, I beg you!” Nakajirō released his grip and stood as Chōdayū sprang up. Rokusuke forced his opponent upright, then swept his leg out from under him. As Chōdayū lurched forward, Rokusuke pressed him facedown against the floorboards, climbed onto his back, and wrenched his right arm behind him.

“Ms. Oriu!” Chōdayū shouted. “Alright, you got that, Chō?” Rokusuke pressed his left hand against the base of the twisted arm and relentlessly tightened his right grip. “I did Naka-san’s arm like this too.” Chōdayū screamed, “Agh!” “That’s enough now.” Oriu said, “You’ve done enough now, haven’t you? Let him go, please.” “You’re stopping me now, after all this?” Roku raised his face. “I’ll give you what was promised,” said Oriu as she placed two paper-wrapped bundles there. “Use this to help your master establish himself properly. One is Roku-san’s share.”

“Hey, you hear that?” Still twisting the arm, Rokusuke said, “Since the young lady’s sayin’ so, I’ll let ya off this time—now, you better apologize proper to Naka-san.”

Rokusuke released his grip and stood up. Chōdayū remained prostrate, lying stretched out while panting heavily; Nakajirō apologized to Oriu for his rudeness; and Rokusuke received the paper bundle. “Hey, aren’t you gonna apologize to Naka-san?!” Rokusuke shouted, and Oriu tried to mediate. Nakajirō refused to take the money, but urged on by Rokusuke, the two soon left.

“It’s alright now, Master,” Oriu said in a gentle voice. “They won’t come back anymore. Come on, get up and let’s have another drink.” Kishizawa Chōdayū let out a groan.

Oriu gazed at him. Kishizawa Chōdayū clasped his head in both hands, turned his face to the side, and groaned again—"Those scoundrels..." "They’d flip to any side for money—those bastards," he said. "Relying on such scum was my mistake. I must’ve been out of my mind." "It was just a moment of madness," she said. "Isn’t that enough?" "You couldn’t possibly understand—there are layers to this," he insisted. "But after tonight’s farce, even if I told you the truth now, you’d never believe me. And now I’ve lost my chance to see you too—Ms. Oriu."

“Oh, why? It’s nothing to me at all,” Oriu said. “That’s precisely why I arranged the money for those men—otherwise they would’ve fled, don’t you think?” “Money—” He held his breath, then said as if weighing his words, “Did you just give those men the money?” “But Master, you did promise to give them fifty ryō, didn’t you?” Chōdayū flinched, then suddenly sat up. The edge of his left eye was swollen, and both cheeks had reddened and swollen. He looked at Oriu with an anxious, restless manner.

“Who told you that?” Oriu smiled knowingly. She touched the sake decanter in the warming pot, remarked “This one’s still not heated,” and took the one she had set out on the tray. “It’s cooled down a bit too much, but do bear with it until the next one’s ready.” “You—those men,” he stammered.

“Do come over here.” “If you have a little something to drink, your mood will lift,” Oriu said coyly. Chōdayū came to sit beside the tray. “I’ll take care of this here,” he declared, opening the soup bowl. Growing impatient with Oriu’s measured pouring, he began gulping sake straight from the decanter, reaching for the cold drink between swallows while chattering incessantly—clearly trying to smooth over his dealings with Nakajirō. But then, as if struck by renewed suspicion, he turned to her: “How do you know about the fifty ryō?” “Oh, what does it matter now?” Oriu evaded, brushing it aside like ash from incense.

“But I can’t let it end here.” He said while pressing his swollen eye, “The money matter was between me and Roku—no one else could’ve known about it.” “Are you truly so troubled by it?” Oriu smiled.

“Please don’t torment me like this—tell me where you heard it, and from whom.”

“Sakichi.” Oriu said slowly, “The bouncer who used to work at Masuya in Nakamura-za. Now you understand, don’t you?” “You know Sakichi—?” “When I went to see plays at Nakamura-za, Sakichi handled admissions,” Oriu replied. “I’d gotten bored with it over the past two years or so—hadn’t peeked at a single performance. But about half a month ago, I ran into Sakichi on the street, and your name came up in conversation.” “Where did you meet him?”

“At that time, regarding Master Nakajirō,” Oriu continued without pause, “I heard you were being threatened by Roku-san. Though I didn’t know whether it was true or a lie—and thought it was likely a lie—I worried about you, Master. So I decided if Nakajirō-san could establish some small business, it would be best to arrange the money for both Roku-san’s share and his.” Chōdayū swallowed hard. “Then,” he asked haltingly, “the matter about Musashiya’s master—you heard that from Sakichi too?”

“Yes.” Oriu nodded. “I shuddered when I heard.”

“What do you mean, ‘shuddered’?” “The master of Musashiya, they say, died a resentful death while vomiting blood.” Oriu shuddered. “That daughter Oshino also died filled with resentment upon resentment, they say.”

Nine "Oshino, the daughter?" Chōdayū shot back. "I don't know any such person." "I don't know her either," said Oriu. "I only heard from Sakichi—they say this Oshino kept vowing she'd slaughter every last man who'd done wicked things with her mother."

“But now, I hear that daughter has died.”

“They say she died in a fire along with her parents.” “But a person’s single-minded resolve is a terrifying thing—you’d do well to be careful, Master, you know.” “Such threats—like you’re scaring a child—this is no joke.” He poured more sake into the soup bowl, drained it completely, then suddenly seeming drunk, laughed with a drunken cackle. “No joke,” he said. “—If a wife strays, it’s ’cause her husband lacked the gumption to keep her. And that daughter—if she’s gonna resent anyone, it oughta be her ma. If I got killed every time some dame held a grudge like that, I’d need nine lives to keep up!”

“I’d love to let her hear that.” Oriu’s eyes gleamed strangely. “If she heard that, how bitterly Oshino-san would resent it in the afterlife.”

“Once you’re bones, you can’t even grind your teeth.”

Oriu stood up smoothly. As if by some invisible force—a motion as though being hoisted from above—Chōdayū started in surprise.

“What’s wrong? So suddenly?” “I’ll have some too,” said Oriu, removing her work coat. “I’ll go take this off, so wait here, okay?”

Oriu slid open the fusuma to the next room, tossed her removed work coat inside, and promptly returned. When she slid open the fusuma, she saw that a folding screen had been set up in the six-tatami room, with bedding laid out. The moment he saw the gaudy colors of the bedding and the standing screen, Chōdayū flushed crimson, suddenly stood up, and embraced Oriu as she tried to sit down. “Oh, careful!” Oriu staggered and clung to Chōdayū. “What are you doing, Master?”

“Wait.” His tongue stiffened and tangled. “Let’s rest—please, Oriu-san. To tease me further would be sinful.” “Wait.” Oriu trembled, “Please wait.”

Oriu turned pale instantly, her whole body expressing disgust, yet her hands, trembling, held fast to Chōdayū. “Father!” Oriu trembled and whispered, “Lend me strength.”

Chōdayū apparently did not hear. Even if he had heard, he likely wouldn’t have understood the meaning. He embraced Oriu, staggered into the next room, and slid the fusuma shut behind him with his back hand.

About half an hour later—in the downstairs sitting room, Oriu changed her clothes. With the maid’s assistance, she roughly redid her hair as well. Once during that time, suddenly seized by nausea, she ran to the toilet and vomited. The suddenness of it all left the maid dumbfounded, but Oriu said, “It seems I had a bit of bad sake.” “Your companion,” inquired the maid, “shall I summon him?” “No, he’s passed out drunk and asleep.” Oriu shook her head. “I know it’s troublesome, but please leave him be until he wakes up.”

“Not at all troublesome.” The maid hurriedly said, “—But truly, will you be all right alone?” “I’ll hail a palanquin on the way, so I’ll be fine.” Oriu gave the maid something wrapped in paper. “This is for you—thank you for your care.”

And then she left that sitting room.

It was past ten o'clock at night when Chōdayū's death was discovered. He had been stabbed through the heart with a flat silver hairpin, which remained embedded in his chest. A single camellia petal lay fallen by his pillow—since there were no camellias arranged in that sitting room, it must have been brought from elsewhere. The single crimson petal gave people an eerie impression, as if hinting at something. “That person did it,” the maid in charge said timidly, “that’s why she was vomiting. Oh, how dreadful.”

“Maybe it was a botched love suicide,” said another maid. “That one seemed so meek—she’s probably thrown herself into the Ōkawa by now.”

Chōdayū’s identity was soon uncovered, but the girl named Oriu—her origins and whereabouts remained unknown.

Part Three

I

“It’s done,” Umino Tokuseki said. “Get up and fix your clothes.” Lying supine on the examination futon, the woman—hiding her breasts with her kosode collar while appearing utterly oblivious to her exposed lower body—breathed quietly and deeply with evident satisfaction. “Come now, you’ll catch cold.”

After wiping his hands, Tokuseki draped the hems of the kosode that had been spread to either side over her. The woman sighed rapturously, opened her eyes slightly, and looked up at him.

“You feel lighter now, don’t you?” Tokuseki asked. The woman nodded with her eyes. “Thanks to you.” “If it starts hurting again, come back,” Tokuseki said. “I must go make a house call. I’ll have a family member bring you the medicine now.”

Tokuseki left the sitting room, leaving the woman behind. When he peered into the medicine room across the central corridor, his wife Okuni was grinding herbs in a mortar. She was thirty-five, three years his junior, but no one would have taken her for under forty. Her scant hair made the topknot small; with bloodless parched skin, a flat chest, and hips like scraped meat, her entire body appeared shriveled and withered. Her face alone was angular and large—its sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes that paradoxically seemed to bulge outward exhibited a tenacity and vigor strikingly at odds with her frail frame.

“The treatment at Nodaya is finished,” Tokuseki said to his wife. “Is the medicine ready?” Okuni remained silent and jerked her chin toward the side. “Take that and go collect the payment for the medicine,” Tokuseki said. “Today’s payment is the ‘B’ category.”

Okuni stopped her hands and looked at her husband. Tokuseki slid the fusuma shut, went to the kitchen, and meticulously washed his hands. As if something filthy were clinging to them, he washed thoroughly even between his nails, then took a hand towel and wiped meticulously before entering the inner living quarters.

"October 21st—it’s today." He muttered this while hanging the hand towel on the clothes rack in the corner of the room, went to the window, and opened the shoji. “—Yoshidaya in Ukiyo Alley at seven and a half... Plenty of time left.” Outside the window lay Sanjūgenbori moat. Since this was Kyōbashi Mizutani-chō, the window offered a full vertical view of the waterway—likely at low tide, its sunken surface reflecting the wintry afternoon sky’s steely blue and blurred white clouds. Tokuseki narrowed his eyes, surveyed the rows of houses along both banks, then looked up at the clouds.

"Today I'll settle it," he muttered under his breath, "even if I have to use force—today I'll settle it once and for all." Tokuseki used his tongue to form a lump in his right cheek, then quietly stroked it with two fingers. His lips—red, plump, and moist like a girl's—twisted, while his clear, unmistakable eyes took on a greasy, glittering hue of greed. The two fingers of his right hand, stroking the lump in his cheek pressed there by his tongue, continued their motions—pressing upward, stroking downward, kneading—with a skillful persistence that seemed entirely divorced from his will.

“Oh—” He listened intently. “That’s the fire bell—a midday fire.” When counted, it had been one-and-a-half strikes. “Far off,” Tokuseki muttered as he closed the window. “No wind either—this’ll burn itself out quick enough. How tedious,” he grumbled to himself while opening the chest and pulling out clothes. Just as he finished unpacking and began changing, Okuni violently slid open the shoji screen and stormed in. Her angular face twisted with venomous contempt, eyes bulging as if about to leap from their sockets—their gleam a mix of jealousy and mockery.

"You used that method again." Okuni spoke moving only the corner of her lips. "Disgusting. You used that trick again." "What do you know? Don't meddle in my affairs." "Your medicine fee." She threw the paper-wrapped bundle at her husband's feet. "Even corpse-burning grave robbers show more decency! How can a man stoop to such filth for money?" Tokuseki's well-groomed mustache twitched sideways. Yet this stemmed not from anger, but resembled the defiant expression of a drunkard settling into mud.

“It’s with that money that you’ve sheltered yourself from the elements,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ve had food to eat, clothes to wear, lived free from exposure to rain and wind—all thanks to that.” “Are you expecting me to be grateful for that?” Okuni snorted through her nose. “Hmph. I’d rather starve to death than live off such filthy money.” “Then do it.” He said while changing clothes, “I won’t stop you.”

“You should think carefully before saying such things. If you put on airs so recklessly, you won’t be able to take it back later.”

Tokuseki looked at his wife. "What did you say?" His eyes narrowed sharply.

“It’s nothing… for now.” Okuni spoke slowly: “For nine years since I became yours, I’ve ground herbs in the mortar, handled everything from patient visits to kitchen work—serving as both assistant and maid all alone until I’m sick to death of it. I endured thinking someday we’d become real husband and wife—that I’d bear children, become Umino Tokuseki’s proper wife, and face society without shame. But these past months I’ve finally understood your true heart—you never meant to be my husband from the very beginning.”

Tokuseki made a face that said "How dull," tightened his obi, then picked up the paper-wrapped package at his feet, checked its contents, and slipped it into his sleeve.

“Nine years and more I’ve been worked to the bone, worn down in body and soul, only to be cast aside when I’m old and withered—you must think I’m an utter fool.” “Yes, I’m a fool—an utter fool to think I could ever find happiness by the side of a doctor who does such filthy things as you.” “The tragedy of humans,” he sneered, “is realizing afterward that they’ve done something foolish. Beasts don’t even notice such things.”

“Are you saying I’m no better than a beast?”

Tokuseki turned around and looked at his wife. On his handsome mustached face—feminine in its features—a coldly cruel, inhuman expression surfaced. Okuni instinctively raised an arm to shield herself. For whenever that expression had appeared on his face before, a slap or fist had always come flying her way. Yet Tokuseki did not strike her now. With an icy gaze he scanned her entire body, then quietly donned his haori.

“If you don’t want to be thrown out, stay meek as you are now,” he said. “Putting on airs of humanity will only bring you sorrow.” “You said you wouldn’t stop me from dying, didn’t you?” “I’m going out. Bring me my footwear.” “I can’t take it anymore. I’m sick of this.” “I can’t go back to my parents’ house now,” Okuni said, edging sideways, “and there’s nowhere else to turn. If this is how I have to live—skulking in the shadows like some wretched outcast—I’d rather just die.”

“Bring me my footwear.” “I’ll kill myself!” “But I won’t die like this,” Okuni said venomously. “Not until I’ve reported you and exposed everything.”

Tokuseki froze. “There’s no one who knows you as well as I do—isn’t that right?” Okuni moved along the wall, her breath ragged as she continued: “You were Dr. Sekijun’s gatekeeper—I was a maid in the back. Then you seduced the mistress of Musashiya, that medicine wholesaler in Honkoku-chō—I knew all along! Even while still a gatekeeper, when Dr. Sekijun and his assistant were away, you conducted treatments on gynecology patients—those stomach-turning, filthy treatments—didn’t you?”

Tokuseki tried to step forward, but Okuni swiftly slipped out through the open sliding door.

“After seducing Musashiya’s mistress, you coaxed funds out of her, left Dr. Sekijun’s residence, and bought this house in Mizutani-chō—Umino Tokuseki! That ‘Hondō Gynecology’ sign wasn’t hung because you properly obtained a license, but because you used Musashiya’s money to get it!” Okuni bared her teeth in the corridor: “You dragged me along because you knew I was aware of your filthy treatments and sordid dealings with female patients—maybe following Musashiya’s mistress’s scheme! For over five years we couldn’t break free, and whenever your medical blunders nearly caused scandals, you’d beg her for help—listen here, I know it all! The worst was Madam Mantoriya of Nakabashi—after bewitching her with your usual tricks, you got her pregnant. When she realized, poor woman hanged herself.”

“What do you hope to achieve by listing all that here?” Tokuseki interrupted softly, “That’s for courts and gossipers to chatter about.” “Do you think I won’t speak out?” “Think before you rant,” he said. “Do you imagine the authorities will investigate every jealous accusation from a hot-blooded woman? —Not that a fool like you could grasp it, but the world’s workings turn two and one into seven, then three and nine. Here I stand as Dr. Tokuseki, treating bannermen and lesser samurai in respectable households. Mark this well.”

Two

Tokuseki exited, walked to Kyōbashi, hailed a palanquin, and said “To Eitai” as he boarded. “There’s also the matter of the mantis’s axe,” he muttered. Inside the palanquin, he muttered, “She was a woman who never made a sound no matter how she was trampled or kicked—but hmph, if she learns the truth, she’ll cause another uproar.”

After alighting from the palanquin at the foot of Eitai Bridge, Tokuseki went along the riverside path to the right. This was the area called Ōkawabata-chō, where boat inns and fishing tackle shops stood among fishermen’s houses crammed together, and along the moat, mooring posts formed a long row on just one side. The fishermen must have been out at sea, for only a handful of boats remained moored. On the white, sun-dried path along the moat, several groups of children were playing.—At the far corner of the town facing the Ōkawa River stood a restaurant called "Kaiiseki," its stylish hanging lantern displayed prominently. Though it had a gate structure, the property lacked space—the entrance stood just a step beyond the gate, and barely three shaku separated the plank fence from the building. The number of rooms was limited—three small ones downstairs and only an eight-tatami and a six-tatami room upstairs—but the front eight-tatami room faced the Ōkawa River, and stepping onto the veranda offered a view of the wide river mouth, Tsukuda Island close at hand, and the sea stretching all the way to Shinagawa Bay. “Kaiiseki” had its view and fresh seafood dishes as selling points, and though it had been in business for less than two years, it was already thriving and had attracted a loyal clientele.

When Tokuseki entered, a young woman came out and, looking startled, rushed back inside. Then Okane slid open the inner shoji screen and emerged. Tokuseki acknowledged the woman’s flushed face. “Welcome back,” Okane greeted with a smile. “I was just keeping Mr. Fujii company. Please go upstairs.” “Who is this Fujii?” “Oh my!” Okane pretended to swat him and whispered, “Mr. Fujii Shingorō from Lord Kuze Izumo’s secondary estate. You know him, don’t you?”

“Is he drinking in the back room?” “Let’s go upstairs.” Okane skillfully guided him toward the stairs. “He went to Naka—Shin-Yoshiwara—with friends last night and had a fight when parting this morning,” she explained. “Now he says he wants to drink again and told me to keep him company.” “You haven’t forgotten this is a business, have you?” At the top of the stairs, he turned to face the woman and said, “We’re a restaurant. Guests should be seated in the tatami rooms. If they want entertainment, have them call geisha or jesters. Even if you play hostess in the back, it won’t do any good for business.”

“Geisha and party jesters? Don’t be absurd! Mr. Fujii’s built up quite a tab,” Okane said, plucking a stray thread from his collar. “So today I’m serving him exactly as instructed—simmered preserves and pickled vegetables with tepid sake. He was three sheets to the wind when he arrived—couldn’t tell refined brew from ditchwater at this point.”

Then she looked toward the Ōkawa River and said, “Oh, what a lovely water color,” before entering the tatami room. Tokuseki stroked his mustache with the back of his finger as he sat on the zabuton Okane had provided, placing his deerskin handbag beside him. Okane pulled the brazier closer and was about to leave, saying she would bring the fire now.

“Lukewarm sake?” Tokuseki muttered. “Hm? Did you say something?” “I said ‘lukewarm sake.’” He reached toward the unlit brazier’s edge. “Well, never mind. Bring the fire.” “Right away,” Okane replied, turning away with a scowl. “Don’t get angry now. The world belongs to those who keep their temper.” When she left, he twisted his mouth and growled under his breath: “Fujii’s her old flame. They’ve been romantically involved since her days at Manseirō. Does she think me blind to such obvious history?”

Tokuseki took the handbag, untied its strings, and pulled out a yatate writing set and small ledger from within. Just then came Ohatsu—a young maid—bearing a charcoal container and shovel upstairs. She bowed with a “Welcome back,” then began transferring embers to the brazier. In foul temper, he ordered her: “Go tell the mistress to come for accounting when you go down.” Ohatsu acknowledged him and left. She later returned with tea, but Okane remained conspicuously absent. Month-end, eleventh, twenty-first—accounting days. I must visit Hiramatsu-chō too, then keep my five o’clock appointment at Yoshidaya. “What game is this?” He clicked his tongue irritably yet checked his anger, clapping his hands sharply.

The one who came up was Ohatsu. "What's with the mistress?" "I did say we'd settle the accounts, didn't I?" he said calmly. "Yes." Ohatsu flushed her round cheeks crimson. "I did tell her, but the mistress is currently... occupied, so she instructed me to ask you to wait a little longer." "I'm in a hurry," he said. "I have other business to attend to, so tell her to come here at once—again."

Ohatsu went downstairs, but even after an additional quarter-hour had passed, Okane finally came up. She appeared thoroughly drunk—eyes bloodshot to the core, hair roots loosened, kimono slipping forward in disarray—and as she staggered in, she stepped on the trailing hem of her robe and nearly tumbled over. “I’m sorry—they made me drink.” Okane collapsed sideways by the brazier and blew a puff of air at her straying hair with visible irritation. “Oh, nothing’s been brought in. That good-for-nothing Ohatsu!”

“Today is the 21st,” he interjected. “I came to settle accounts. You should know today is the day for settling accounts.” “Oh, that’s a lie!” Okane glared. “Today’s the twentieth, isn’t it? The twenty-first is tomorrow.” “Today is the twenty-first.” “It’s the twentieth.”

Tokuseki pulled a brush from his yatate writing set and opened the inkwell. “Enough—bring me the account book and money box.” “It’s impossible to be told such things out of nowhere! I’ve been swamped these past few days—no time for ledgers whatsoever. And besides... oh yes, I meant to ask when you came.” Okane jerked her body sideways. “Look, the liquor shop’s tab has piled up and they’re hounding me for payment. Couldn’t you arrange just three ryō for me?”

Tokuseki stared fixedly at the woman’s face. “I came to settle accounts and collect payment. I left three ryō and two bu outstanding from the eleventh’s settlement—what do you mean by asking me to lend three ryō?” “Didn’t I just tell you? It’s because the liquor store keeps pestering me!” “What period does that debt cover?” “From the month before last.” Tokuseki coughed and stroked his mustache with the back of his finger. “You’re drunk and not thinking straight. The liquor store in question is Harimaya, correct? We’ve paid every bill punctually each month, with proper receipts kept.”

"Oh, that's a lie! I did mention that before." "What exactly do you mean by 'that'?" "The clerk at Harimaya did something terrible and absconded with the money," Okane said. "It's been going on for half a year now. Even the payments we made haven't been entered into their ledgers since the month before last. Surely I told you about this?" "This is the first I'm hearing of it. But if that's true, it's hardly my concern. I've settled what needed settling with proper receipts."

Okane waved her hand to interrupt. “Those receipts are worthless—the paper differs from Harimaya’s standard stock, and the seals don’t match either.” It had been that clerk Toyoji who’d stamped forged seals onto counterfeit paper he’d commissioned from some printer. Our failure to detect this had been an inexcusable oversight. The master of Harimaya was reportedly insisting that even if the matter went before the authorities, we’d still be forced to settle the account.

“Let’s take this to the authorities then,” he said. “Harimaya bears responsibility for employing such a person. This is absurd—no court would accept such reasoning—just how much does this debt total?” “It’s nothing major.” Okane blew at the stray hair dangling before her nose. “It was twelve ryō and some change, wasn’t it?” “Twelve ryō—” Tokuseki drew a breath. “You talk about taking it to the authorities, but if you’re serious, handle it yourself—I want no part in lawsuits.”

“You want me to handle it?” He stammered slightly, “But this shop is registered under your name! I can’t be the one dealing with official matters.” “How should I know about that?” Okane snorted through her nose. “Even if it’s under my name, I’m treated like some underpaid maid—plus having my body played with on top of it all. Frankly, I’m sick to death of my own stupidity.” “You’re drunk beyond reason.”

“So what?”

Today was a strange day, Tokuseki thought. First Okuni had said something odd, and now here was Okane getting involved—if he didn't stay alert, who knew what might happen. Having thought this, Tokuseki softened his voice. "Think carefully," he said. "When you were at Manseirou, I saw potential in you—that this woman could competently manage a tea house and wouldn't shame me as a wife. Precisely because I believed that—"

“Oh, enough already!” Okane waved her hand again. “I’ve heard enough of that already.”

III

“Deceived by those promissory notes, I’ve been used however you pleased until today—from managing this troublesome shop to serving as your mistress—and all I’ve gained are four or five kimonos and two obis. Then when trouble comes, you’ll cast me aside.” Okane belched unceremoniously. “Even working as a restaurant maid would’ve earned me some money. How ridiculous.” “Let’s discuss that later.” “Be patient,” Tokuseki insisted through gritted teeth. “When the time comes, this shop will be yours, and I’ll certainly leave my current wife. We’ll live here together and I’ll commute to Mizutanichō.”

“I’m going downstairs now—the customers are waiting. Oh, and how do you intend to handle the three ryō for the liquor store?”

“I don’t have that kind of money.” “Are you fine with them cutting off the restaurant’s sake?”

“There are countless other liquor stores.” “Fine—then find yourself a new liquor supplier.” Okane rose to her feet. “I’m merely an employee here—such matters don’t concern me.”

“Just an employee,’ you say?” “Perhaps it’s best to settle this now,” said Okane, still standing. “You’ll pay me all my wages from the day this shop opened until today—both for my work as a maid and the services of my body. We’ll discuss what comes next after that’s done. That settles it, doesn’t it?” Tokuseki said, “You…,” and tried to stand up. At that moment, a man came stomping up the stairs, shouting, “What’s happened to Okane?” Okane slid open the shoji screen and called out, “Stay here!” The man staggered over and peered into the tatami room from the corridor. He appeared thirty-one or thirty-two; his worn everyday clothes without a sash, gaunt frame, dark face with piercing eyes—all gave him the air not of a samurai but of a wandering gambler. The other man likely didn’t recognize him, but Tokuseki had spotted him two or three times at Manseirou. A retainer of Lord Kuze Izumo-no-kami serving at the lower residence in Kita-Shinbori just one moat away—his name was Fujii Shingorō. Though his drinking habit made him disliked even at Manseirou, his hopeless infatuation with Okane was common knowledge among the maids.

“How long are you going to keep doing this?” While staring at Tokuseki’s face, Fujii said to Okane, “Leaving people unattended and flirting around here isn’t acceptable. Now, cut it out and go downstairs to tend to them properly.”

“I’d like to go, but this one is complaining.” “Complaints!” Fujii said. “What’s that man’s problem? Does he think he’s the only customer here?” “No, he’s not a customer—he’s the master of this house.” “The master? This guy?” Fujii staggered left and right, narrowed his eyes, and licked his lips. His sharp eyes glistened fiercely as his cheek muscles twitched. “So this is that greedy quack? A doctor who runs a tea house on the side and pockets all the profits—what a shameless leech!”

“Okane, go downstairs—” Tokuseki said with a meaningful glance, “Go downstairs and keep him company. I’ll be leaving now.” “What about my share?” “We’ll discuss that next time.” “What about the money for Harimaya?” “I’ll come by tomorrow or so, and we’ll sort it out then.” “Hey, greedy quack,” he said, “if you’re slinking around with this shady business, you must be skimming cream off your real work too—killing dozens of patients with botched diagnoses while raking in profits, then using that money to run some day-to-day moneylending racket, ain’t ya?”

“How harsh of you,” Tokuseki parried lightly while stowing the ledger and writing set into his handbag. “Okane, why don’t you move this gentleman’s seat here? I’ll be taking my leave now.” “Got some skeletons in your closet making you run, eh?” Fujii jeered, “you damn clown with that stupid mustache.” “Now now,” Okane seized Fujii’s hand, “what’ll it be? Will you dine here?”

Tokuseki swiftly exited into the corridor. "A weasel-like bastard," Fujii Shingorō said as he hurried down the stairs. "Women—every last one of them." Once outside, he muttered sorrowfully, shook his head, then laughed with a sly edge. "Well, fine—if you're going to act that way, it's actually convenient for me. I'll cast out both Okuni and Okane. I'll throw them out naked, so mark my words. Kawaiya knows nothing about this—over here, there's Omi."

Tokuseki stopped in his tracks with a jolt. Right—he had no time to stop by Hiramatsu-chō now. Settling accounts there would take too long. It was a bit early, but he would just go straight through. He thought he’d have a drink before Omi arrived to shake off this unpleasant mood—with that thought, he hailed a palanquin.

Even within Nihonbashi's Floating World Alley—the neighborhood bearing that evocative name—Yoshidaya stood as an unconventional restaurant. Its front featured lattice doors and water buckets stacked in regulatory compliance, yet lacked both hanging lanterns and shop curtains, leaving strangers unaware it was a tea house at all. Built entirely in the storehouse style, its interior nevertheless spread wide, containing five tatami rooms on the lower floor and six above in its two-story structure.

Tokuseki arrived at Yoshidaya a little before four o’clock. Of course, Omi had not yet come; he began drinking in the four-and-a-half-tatami room downstairs. That day was busy with customers; both upstairs and downstairs, the lively voices of several groups chatting and the sound of shamisen could be heard. “There should be a reservation made by someone named Omi—is the tatami room prepared properly?” “Yes, we understand.” The middle-aged maid attending him said, “The tatami room has been properly prepared, and the current guests will likely leave before nightfall.”

“Pour me a drink.” He offered his cup to the maid. “What’s your name?” “I’m Otoki. Please take good care of me.” The maid took a sip from the cup, said she’d return shortly, and left with purposeful haste. Okane, that woman—perhaps Fujii put her up to this, he thought as he poured himself another drink. The liquor store’s story didn’t add up either—pinning the blame on me for some manager embezzling a huge sum like twelve ryo. Even if the receipt was forged, where’s the logic in claiming it’s my responsibility? They’re in cahoots—maybe even colluding with the liquor store, he thought.

“Do you think I’d fall for such a crude trick?” He snorted derisively. “Just wait—I’ll strip that facade off you cleanly soon enough. Don’t start whining when I do.” “Enough already,” he muttered, shaking his head. *Stop thinking such stupid things*, he chided himself inwardly. *Today’s the day you’ll finally claim Omi. Clear your head of this trivial nonsense.* But then it struck him—why had both Okuni and Okane turned on him simultaneously? Until now, they’d always been docile. No doubt they’d harbored grievances, but never before had they confronted him so brazenly. Stranger still—their defiance had erupted on the same day, as if coordinated. He tapped his forehead with one hand, knuckles rapping lightly against bone.

"Forget it. Forget that," he clicked his tongue at himself. "With this mindset, how could I possibly coax Omi down? Don't think about anything else. This is the critical moment that will change my entire life." When the sake ran out, he clapped his hands. A reply came from down the corridor, footsteps approached, and the sliding door opened. Tokuseki looked at the girl who had entered with a startled expression.

“Miss Omi,” he said, straightening his posture.

The girl called Omi smiled at Tokuseki with a dripping smile, remained silent as she leisurely approached him, circled behind him, draped both kimono sleeves over his shoulders, and gently embraced him from behind.

“Didn’t you wait for me?” Omi cooed in a coquettish whisper. “...You horrid Doctor.” She bit Tokuseki’s left earlobe. He twisted his body to pull her into an embrace, but she laughed throatily while deftly slipping free of his grasp, moving to sit properly beside the brazier. “It’s not that I didn’t wait,” he said, taking the sake cup and offering it to her. “I grew tired of waiting and began taking sips. But I suppose you won’t have even a drink?”

“I’ll take one now,” Omi said, extending a hand. “No, not the sake cup—show me what you promised the other day.” “The promised item—” “You swore you’d bring all the loan documents to show me, didn’t you?” “Ah, right.” The maid Otoki brought sake and asked, “Shall we move you to the second floor?” Omi shook her head, saying they’d wait a while longer, and the maid withdrew.

"Today was too hectic," said Tokuseki while holding the warmed sake flask, "I didn't have time to stop by Hiramatsu-chō. I'll definitely bring them next time. Have a drink."

"No." Omi shook her upper body in refusal and glared at Tokuseki. "I won't take a thing unless you keep your promise." "I'll bring them next time without fail—I swear I'll keep my promise—so please, just take one drink."

IV “But you truly are an enigma.” With his tongue loosened by drink, Tokuseki licked his mustache repeatedly as he spoke: “You know about my dealings with the mistress of Musashiya, about my affairs stretching to Toyoshima-ya in Hiramatsu-chō—hell, even that they’re running petty loans through Toyoshima-ya. Honestly, I feel like someone’s got me by the scruff of the neck here.”

“That’s only natural.” Omi poured the sake from her cup into the cup washer and offered it to him. “When it’s someone I’ll spend my life with, any woman would want to know everything about them—especially someone like you, Doctor, who’s so popular with women.” “Those eyes,” he said. “With those honeyed words and that look of yours, you always reduce me to a spineless wreck, Omi-san.”

Tokuseki, still holding the sake cup, extended his left hand. Omi softly avoided his hand, glared “No,” and shook her head.

“You’re cruel,” he said resentfully. “You get me all worked up like this, then slip away every time things come to a head. You’ve investigated me from root to leaf, yet won’t open up about yourself at all—won’t even tell me where you live! What exactly are you feeling? Are you just toying with me?” “Shall I tell you the truth?” Omi smiled with a sidelong glance and gazed at him. “—I came today resolved to accept whatever may come. I even asked them to prepare the second floor for that very purpose.”

“If that’s really true—” “No, don’t.” Omi shook her head again. “You didn’t keep your promise, Doctor. After making such a firm vow, if you won’t honor it, then I too must reconsider. For a woman, this is a matter of a lifetime—no, Doctor.” “You truly are an enigma.” Tokuseki drank by himself. “I don’t understand—I’ve never heard of a woman your age taking interest in moneylending.”

“I want to know everything about you, Doctor—that’s all there is to it.” “Then once we’re together, you can see all you want until you’re sick of it.” He drank by himself again. “—I don’t see why you’d want to look at such mood-killing things at a time like this.”

“Oh, I do love money.” Omi poured him sake and said, “The only reason I can meet you like this is because I have money of my own to spend. You’re a doctor yet have others run a restaurant-teahouse, an inn, and even a moneylending business—I think our natures align perfectly. And if I could be with you, I intend to have you let me manage Toyoshima-ya for you.”

“So that’s why you want to see the promissory notes?” “Every last one you have,” Omi said, “so I can understand you completely, and so you’ll trust me completely too.” Tokuseki looked at Omi’s sake cup on the tray and realized she had not taken a single sip. When he offered her a cup, she would accept it but pour all the sake into the cup washer. If I’m not careful, I’ll be the one crushed here, he thought.

“Very well, I understand,” he said, stroking his mustache with the back of his finger and straightening his posture to demonstrate sobriety. “I understand perfectly. If you’re truly resolved, I’ll bring them without fail next time.”

And suddenly, with a motion as if collapsing, he grabbed Omi’s hand. Omi did not resist. With her hand still gripped, she arched her back and, furrowing her brows with a pained “That hurts,” stood up. “Ms. Omi.” He straightened up. “I don’t like it here,” Omi whispered. “I’ll be waiting upstairs.” “You mean it?” Omi cast a smiling glance and said, “If you tell the maid that, have her come here.” “You’re not going to run away again, are you?”

Omi smiled, gently released the hand gripping hers, and with a leisurely gait, went out into the hallway.

"Did she escape me again?" He muttered to himself while gripping the warmed sake flask, "No—that couldn’t be. Today felt different from before. Come what may—today would—"

The warmed sake flask had no sake. Tokuseki set it down, roughly clapped his hands, and when no reply came, clapped again—but the motion caused his seated body to lurch, and as he nearly toppled over, he thrust out his left hand.

“This is war,” he told himself. “Pull yourself together, Tokuseki—this is Sekigahara! The first battle is about to begin—steady now!” A young maid brought sake, and moments later Otoki arrived. Tokuseki had been drinking alone, but when Otoki moved to sit down, he waved her off. “No need to explain—I know,” he said with a dismissive wave. “The second floor’s prepared, isn’t it? I know.”

“Are you going upstairs?” “Going? — Weren’t you the one who came to fetch me?” Otoki held the warmed sake flask, covering her mouth as she laughed and poured his drink. “My apologies—Madam Omi has already left.”

Tokuseki’s hand, holding the cup that had been poured for him, stopped moving.

“You mustn’t do that,” Otoki said. “It’s a sin to seduce such a young and beautiful lady, Doctor.” “She went back—you mean she truly went back?” “Since you wouldn’t keep your promise—” said Otoki as she took Omi’s cup, drank the now-cold sake, and held out the empty cup. “Care for one?” Tokuseki drank his own sake and poured some for Otoki. “The next time I send word,” Otoki said, “if you still don’t keep your promise, she told me to inform you that she will never rely on you again.”

“Got me good,” he said. “What a farce—what a damn disgrace.” “She’s so young and beautiful, yet remarkably composed,” Otoki said, offering him a cup. “When she first came here yesterday with a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old maid in tow, she stated it plainly herself—‘I’d like a quiet second-floor room, and please prepare it for resting after drinking.’ Even us old women would hesitate to say such things outright. We all exchanged glances afterward.”

“Got me,” he gulped down the sake in his cup. “No one’s here to dance—is this place even a regular haunt?” “No, as I just said, yesterday was her first time here.” “Let’s go with a big one.” He removed the lid from the soup bowl. “Today, you’ll get me drunk.” “Shall I call someone?” “You’re called Otoki, aren’t you?” He handed the cup to Otoki. “I’ve taken a liking to you. If you’re willing, I’ll have you keep me company.” “That young lady will scold you.”

“She’s a demonic creature.”

Tokuseki was more drunk than he himself realized. Determined to make Omi his today, he had started drinking for that very purpose—yet the alcohol instead sapped his strength. Had he not been drunk, he would never have let her escape; he would have certainly made her his. As he thought this, he grew furious at both Omi and himself, and in his drunkenness became loquacious. “That girl is a demon,” he said. “The first time we met was half a year ago—since it’s October now, May, I suppose—when she came requesting an examination with a maid in tow. I practice medicine in Kyōbashi, you see.”

“If I examine your head, I’ll understand.”

“Pour me a drink.” He thrust out the bowl’s lid and said, “She told me, ‘My chest hurts—examine me,’ and before I could say a word, she spun around and boldly stripped down—two layers off! My, what a vision! I’ve seen women’s skin aplenty, but never such exquisite breasts.” Tokuseki spoke rapidly, gesturing wildly as he described every detail—from the small yet taut breasts known in vulgar parlance as “blind teats” with their nippleless pale-birch areolae, to the fine-pored skin bluish-white like raw silk, the dainty rounded shoulders, and the cinched slender waist.

“Here, around your mouth.” Otoki took out a folded paper from her sleeve and handed it to him. “You’ve got some drool here.” “There was nothing wrong with her.” He accepted the paper and said, “Not a single ailment—but I told her we should observe things longer. Would’ve been a waste to end it there.” When he instructed her to visit for four or five days consecutively, she left payment for the medicine and departed. Later, upon opening it, he found two ryō of gold inside—an astonishing sum. He had only learned her name was Mino and age eighteen; she disclosed neither address nor family trade. She must be from a wealthy household—he assumed she wouldn’t return—but two days later, an invitation arrived from Kiyokawa restaurant in Kobikichō district. [The message stated] she wished to express gratitude for his recent services through a modest gesture. Upon arriving, he found Omi waiting there with an extravagant three-course meal and sake laid out for him. Omi dismissed both her personal maid and serving girls before attending to him herself—coquettishly stoking his desires between pours of wine. Ah—she’s taken an interest in me—he realized then deflected her advances with practiced nonchalance, assuming her status as a merchant’s daughter demanded discretion.

“From then until today—we’ve met twelve or thirteen times in six months, I’d say,” he said. “Each time she grows more alluring, acting like she’s on the verge of giving in—but at the critical moment, she slips away. Slips away—”

Tokuseki demonstrated a certain gesture with his hand.

Five

She never speaks about her residence or her family’s business. When they meet, it’s always Omi who sends word—the location invariably a first-rate teahouse—and she has never once let him pay the expenses. The total spent must be close to fifty ryō. He had become utterly infatuated. “With that exquisite beauty of hers, money to spare, and on top of it all dangling herself before you like some blossom that’ll drop at a touch—if a man doesn’t lose his head over that, he’s no man at all. Right?”

“It feels like I’m being bewitched—isn’t this rather a bad omen for you?” “If this is what being bewitched feels like,” he said, gulping his sake, “then I’d gladly stay under the spell my whole life.” At this point, the intoxication seemed to have seeped into the very core of his brain; he grew terribly heated, rambled on at length, and finally collapsed in a drunken stupor. He had naturally assumed he’d collapsed in that very room at Yoshidaya, but when he opened his eyes, he found himself in his own home in Mizutanichō, the night having fully given way to dawn. When and how he had returned—he had no memory whatsoever from the moment he’d passed out. By his pillow lay a boxed meal, a handbag, a wallet, a handkerchief, and other items. Upon checking, both the handbag’s contents and the wallet remained exactly as he had brought them out, with no signs of disturbance.

"What a strange girl." Grimacing from his headache, he muttered under his breath, "I broke our promise—she should be furious—yet she still paid the bill and even let me take home gifts?" Even the most worldly-wise middle-aged woman couldn’t have managed something like this. He shivered with joy in the heavy haze of his hangover. He was thirty-eight years old and had grown thoroughly accustomed to women—so much so that he’d grown weary of them—yet he honestly admitted to himself that he was now trembling with joy.

That day, with few patients coming for treatment, after eating breakfast around noon, Tokuseki announced he was going to visit a patient's home and set out for Toyoshima-ya in Hiramatsu-chō.

—Toyoshima-ya was an inn managed by a man named Mon-shichi. Although it had only seven guest rooms since opening five years prior, its clientele was excellent and business so prosperous that they were now in the midst of an expansion. However, the inn was not their only business; he had Mon-shichi run a moneylending operation as well.

As was the case with Okuni, with whom he cohabited in Mizutanichō, Mon-shichi had also served as a manservant in the household of Tokuda Ishijun, a physician specializing in mainstream gynecology. While training at the Tokuda household, Tokuseki took notice of Mon-shichi’s character; when he purchased Toyoshima-ya five years prior, he extracted him from the Tokuda family and entrusted him with its management. As he had anticipated, Mon-shichi proved a remarkably sharp man; within less than two years, he recovered the initial investment. At this point, Tokuseki saw no sense in letting money sit idle; after consulting with Mon-shichi, he had him try offering daily repayment loans. These too generated steady profits initially, and currently the total amount lent reached over one hundred twenty ryō. Of course, they primarily focused on “daily repayment loans,” but given their proximity to the wholesale district, they also began offering “30-day term loans” since last year.

“Luck has always favored me.” On the way to Hiramatsu-chō, he muttered with satisfaction, “Strangely enough, luck clings to me.” His family home in Toyosima-zai was that of a small-scale farmer. He was named Matauke, the eldest of five siblings, but after clinging to less than five *tan* of land, working himself to the bone only to barely scrape by, he abandoned that life and was sent to Edo as an apprentice at the age of thirteen. He served at a fuel merchant called Shimousa-ya in Shitaya Okachimachi but resigned after about half a year and moved to Tokuda Ishijun’s residence in Chōjamachi 2-chōme. The Tokuda family were customers of Shimousa-ya, and as Matauke came and went delivering charcoal and firewood, he came to be recognized by Ishijun’s wife.

Women had brought me luck from the very beginning. He now thought this. Matauke had put on a show of tears before Ishijun’s wife. “Becoming a doctor was my lifelong wish—I’ll endure any hardship to become one,” he’d said, shedding tears. “I was born with a talent for grasping women’s hearts,” Tokuseki muttered. “And not just their hearts—even when it comes to their bodies, I understand subtleties others can’t perceive.”

He became a gatekeeper at seventeen; though he had studied diligently until then, his academic progress remained limited. Through observing Ishijun and his assistant at work, he gradually mastered examination techniques and medication administration. During secret excursions, he tested these methods practically on women in unlicensed pleasure quarters—repeating this until he realized most ailments of middle-aged women stemmed not from true illness, but from stagnation and obstruction of vital energy. Here too, women became his means of advancement. When Ishijun and his assistant were absent, he experimented on gynecology patients. About three in five showed clear reactions, their discomfort demonstrably alleviated.

That treatment method was deemed shameful. In gynecology, such examinations and treatment methods were said to be the most vile and shameful things. He remained unaware, but as more patients began specifically requesting him by name, Ishijun—having likely discerned the reason—informed him how shameful such acts were for a physician and prohibited him from conducting examinations in their absence. Yet since the Tokuda household thrived and Ishijun along with his assistant were often absent, his conducting examinations came to be tacitly permitted. Thus before long, the wife of Musashiya appeared.

She had apparently heard about his treatment method from someone and come out of curiosity. The wife named Osono became infatuated with him from the very first session, and after visiting about five times, she began saying, "I’ll provide the money—why don’t you start your own practice?" He was in a precarious situation at that time. One of his female patients had become pregnant with his child, been discovered by her husband, and taken her own life. During treatment, he had momentarily committed an indiscretion; though there was no evidence identifying him as the father, the husband seemed to have discerned it was him.

"I was saved back then," he murmured with a slight shudder, as though recalling that precarious situation. "Had Musashiya's Osono not appeared, I would have been driven from the Tokuda household too. By now, I might have become a common laborer."

When leaving the Tokuda household, bringing Okuni along had been a wise decision. Okuni knew his secret, but that was not the reason he had brought her along. Since he now maintained a household, he needed someone to tend to his daily needs; moreover, his “treatment method” was unorthodox—naturally, he couldn’t employ assistants—so it was better to have someone who fully grasped the circumstances. Okuni not only met these conditions but could also be easily cast aside if necessary.

――Once I’ve built up my assets, I’ll take a bride from a suitable family. Okuni was just a stopgap until then, he had thought. Then, as if on cue, Omi appeared.

“Women always bring me luck,” he muttered, “but this time it’s finally time to settle down properly. When we meet, I spend lavishly without hesitation—she did say she likes money too. The way she’s eager to examine loan documents… our natures might align perfectly.” She likely possessed a substantial dowry as well. If things went well, he might abandon his medical practice altogether and focus solely on Kaiseki and Toyoshima-ya—as he was pondering this, the palanquin came to a stop. It was the corner of Hiramatsu-chō, where he never permitted the palanquin to approach his establishment directly. He always disembarked about a block away; but when he paid the fare and began walking, someone called out from behind him.

“You’re from Toyoshima-ya, aren’t you?”

Tokuseki turned around. A disheveled man who looked like a ruffian stood there. He wore a striped unlined kimono layered with a double-striped lined one, straw sandals with three-inch soles, and a hand towel tied around his face at the tip of his nose, hands tucked into his sleeves. Tokuseki shook his head. “No.” “I go to Toyoshima-ya, but I’m not affiliated with that household,” he answered. “I’m a doctor from Kyōbashi-Mizutanichō.” “You’re Umino Tokuseki, ain’t ya?” the man said.

Tokuseki’s hand went to his mustache. “Walk over there,” the man jerked his chin, “to the vacant lot behind here. Won’t take long—come on.” “If you have business, state it here,” he replied without flinching. “Who exactly are you?” “Get to the back an’ you’ll see—quit yappin’ an’ move.” The man curled his lips in a smirk. “We can do this here if ya like, but there’s eyes on the street. You ain’t eager to get shamed in front o’ folks, are ya?”

“But what exactly is this about?” “Shut yer trap!” the man snarled, cutting him off. Yanking his hands from his sleeves, he grabbed Tokuseki’s arm in one swift motion. “Think you can swagger ’round ’cause we been polite? C’mon, bastard—you comin’ or not?”

Already, four or five passersby had stopped and were watching them. “Fine,” he said, trying not to show weakness, “if you insist that much, I’ll go. But no violence.” “Ain’t gonna go that far.” “Come this way,” the man said, keeping his grip on Tokuseki’s arm as they passed through the alley between the paper shop and dry goods store. Beyond the alley lay a hundred-tsubo vacant lot, where old lumber was piled in one corner and the ground had turned to squelching mud from the thawing frost.

“Hey, brought him along!” the man shouted toward one side, “This here’s that scammer bastard!” At the same moment he shouted, the man delivered a leg sweep to Tokuseki and violently shoved his shoulder with full force. Tokuseki pitched forward cleanly and collapsed onto the muddy ground. Then, two more men appeared.

Six

Tokuseki held his breath, remaining on all fours. His face, both hands, and the front of his kimono were all smeared thick with mud from the frost-thawed mire he had been slammed into. If he tried to get up carelessly, he would undoubtedly be attacked again—thinking this, he called out to them while remaining in that posture. “Let’s talk this through—you’ll understand. Don’t resort to violence,” he said. “What exactly do you want?”

“Don’t spout that nonsense, you bastard!” As the man roared this, one of them kicked Tokuseki square in the lower back with full force, sending him sprawling face-first again. When his face sank into the thaw-muck with a sickening squelch, humiliation and fury seized him. These bastards’ll kill me! he screamed inside his skull—yet as he pushed himself up, swiped mud from his face with his knuckles, spat filth from his mouth—somehow he choked down the rage, let his body go limp.

“What’s the point of this?” Tokuseki said quietly. “You must want something. Wouldn’t it be quicker to discuss what matters rather than tormenting me?” “Cheap bastard, ain’t ya?” mocked the man with the gruff voice. “Think everythin’ can be settled with a finger-snap or some loose change? This scum here—might just have to make ya a proper cripple if ya don’t wise up.” “Then that’s my job,” another man said. “Which’ll it be? Hands or feet?”

“Wait,” Tokuseki said, raising one hand. “Stop this violence and explain it clearly. Why are you doing this? What must I do? Tell me that.” “Can’t figure it out yourself?” The gruff-voiced man spat as if disgusted. “You been runnin’ filthy ‘treatments’ on cheatin’ wives an’ widows to milk ’em dry—used that cash to start your restaurant-teahouse, your Toyoshima-ya, even them bloodsuckin’ daily loans drainin’ the poor! Just ’round these tenements alone, dozens bawl ’cause of you! Listen—if loan-sharkin’ was your main gig, we’d let it slide ’cause hate comes with the trade. But you’re s’posed to be a damn doctor!” The man’s face flushed crimson. “No matter what filth you peddle, you’re still a doc by trade! But you skulk in shadows, wringin’ the flesh off paupers with them high-interest loans! We ain’t lettin’ scum like you slither ’round our turf no more!”

“A bastard like you,” another man said, “we oughta just beat ya dead ’n’ dump ya in the Ōkawa River. But that’d make us murderers too, so we’ll settle for cripplin’ ya so ya can’t slink ’round no more. No complaints now, got it?”

“I understand. I understand perfectly.” While scraping the mud from his face with his nails, Tokuseki bowed his head humbly and said, “If that’s how it is, I’ll do as you all say. If money will settle this, I’ll pay. If you want me to stop the daily loans, I’ll end them even today. I’ll do exactly as you say—just please refrain from violence.” “If money will settle this,” The gruff-voiced man bellowed at the top of his lungs, “You still spoutin’ these half-assed excuses, bastard?”

“Do him in!” shouted another man.

Tokuseki screamed, "Someone, help!" The three men took turns kicking him, and Tokuseki shrieked, "Murderers!" They must have heard his cries, for as people rushed over, the voices of five or six individuals could be heard shouting—"What's happening?" "What's wrong?" "Stop this violence!" "Help me, please!" Tokuseki screamed. "I haven't done anything, yet these people are—"

However, the mud in his mouth slid down his throat, and he remained collapsed on his side, curling his body as he coughed violently. The kicks had stopped, replaced by an argument among the men until all three left while hurling parting threats. Those who remained were likely townspeople—they called out to Tokuseki with questions like “Are you hurt?” and “Where are you from?”—so Tokuseki asked them to summon Monjū from Toyoshima-ya. He requested something to cover his head and inquired whether the three men were from this neighborhood. They replied that the men weren’t locals—strangers to the area—but when the name “Toyoshima-ya” was mentioned, those same people suddenly turned cold, muttering things like “I’ve got business” or “Well then…” before starting to leave.

“Please contact Toyoshima-ya,” Tokuseki said. Caked in mud and unable to even open his eyes properly—with no way of knowing whether his message had been delivered—he grew increasingly uneasy. “I’ll show my gratitude; please, I implore you, pass on the message.” “Don’t want no thanks from you,” came a gravelly voice. “Message’s been delivered, so quit your frettin’.” Must be the neighborhood headman, Tokuseki thought.

Soon Monjū arrived. After draping something like a rain cloak over his head from above, he finally managed to stand up. Offering thanks to no one in particular, he began to walk, supported by Monjū’s arm. No one responded to his thanks, but as he began to walk, laughter erupted behind him, and he heard someone say, “That should teach him a lesson.” While waiting for the bath to heat up, Tokuseki washed his face and limbs, changed his clothes, gave a summary of what had happened, and asked if he had any idea who might have done it or for what reason. Monjū answered that he had no idea.

"If someone held a grudge over the daily loans, they should have taken revenge on you rather than me," Tokuseki said while applying ointment to his bruised right thigh. "Moreover, it's strange they knew everything from Ōkawabata's Kaiseki to the treatments." "Did you mention even that?" "They seem to know everything," he tilted his head. "This isn't about grudges over daily loans—there's some other reason at play."

Tokuseki stared fixedly, lost in thought.

―Okane. Fujii Shingorō. The names Okane and Fujii suddenly crossed his mind. Then Okuni’s name too. That’s right, he thought to himself. Either of them could have done it—it might be one of their doings. Otherwise, there was no way they’d know such intimate details. As he pondered whose work this was, Omi’s name surfaced again. “What about that girl Omi?” he muttered aloud. “She knew everything about me too.”

But he immediately shook his head. “Don’t be absurd—Omi is a girl who intends to become my wife. She has ample funds and no reason to bear me any grudge.” “If anyone did this, it would be either Okuni or Okane—most likely Okane, the one tied to Fujii.”

When Monjū came to inform him the bath was ready, he said, "A messenger brought this," and handed over a tied letter. When Tokuseki opened it, it was a summons from Omi.

7 After emerging from the bath, Tokuseki faced the mirror while having his hair arranged, repeating in his mind, This is bad, this is bad. His face bore two large bluish bruises, and his left eye was nearly swollen shut. His right thigh also throbbed with heat where the bruises had formed, and when walking, he had to slightly favor it. "Wait at 'Hirano' in Asakusa Miyoshi-cho." The letter stated that he should come prepared to stay the night. With this face, limping along—no, I can’t do it. That’s impossible. I can’t let anyone see me like this. Not only would they lose all patience with me, but I’d become a laughingstock. He thought he would decline today.

“Did you say something?” asked Matahachi the hairdresser. “It’s nothing. Hurry up,” he said. As soon as his hair was finished, Tokuseki ordered liquor. Monjū advised against drinking due to his bruises, but he yelled at him to stop meddling. Because it was unheard of for him to yell, Monjū immediately called a maid and had her prepare liquor in the room next to the counter. Because all the tatami rooms were occupied, and even the available ones had prior reservations. “Anywhere is fine. I don’t need anyone to pour my drinks. Just leave me alone,” Tokuseki said.

“Just you wait,” he muttered while pouring himself a drink. “I’ll root out whoever’s behind this scheme. I won’t swallow this humiliation—I’ll repay today’s disgrace tenfold.” The sake tasted rancid, yet no amount could dull his senses. Some gutter-born scum had manhandled him—kicking, shoving, leaving him mud-caked and howling. The memory of his wretched figure made his whole body quake with fury, sake sloshing repeatedly from his trembling cup. The shop bustled around him. With lodgers and impromptu gatherings filling every space, the counter and kitchen seethed like cauldrons—trays clattering, patrons flowing through like floodwaters.

“Wait—wait, wait,” he said while taking the fifth flask, “Don’t obsess like this, Doctor. What good will revenge do? Even if you vent your spleen through retaliation, that’ll be the end of it. Hmph—a rich man doesn’t pick fights. Whether it’s Okane’s schemes or Okuni’s work—they’re both women I’ll discard soon anyway. Toss them out like stray cats. Then I’ll have Omi.” He held his breath there, pressing a hand to his swollen eye, and sank deep into thought.

“That’s right,” he muttered in a low voice, probing slowly as if testing the idea himself. “That’s one way. Hmm... There’s still something I can’t grasp about that girl. Yes—if I show her this face, I might uncover her true feelings.” He stared at the cup clutched in his hand. “If she truly loves me and means to become my wife, seeing me like this wouldn’t make her lose patience—but if she laughs at this state or turns cold, it’d be wiser to cut my losses now.”

He clapped his hands and ordered sake.

"There's still plenty of time," he said, soothing himself. "Let me think a bit longer. After all, she's still just a girl."

Tokuseki drank two more flasks. The saying about being at that giggly age where even a dropped chopstick would make you laugh had stuck in his mind. Even if Omi truly loved me, given that she was at that age, she might burst out laughing. To test her true feelings over something like this was a sin, he thought. Yet on the other hand, the words of the letter—"Come prepared to stay the night"—gradually seized him with an ever-strengthening, irresistible force, drawing him toward Omi.

“Alright, let’s test my fate,” he nodded to himself. “A man’s got to have grit—strike even if it shatters.” Tokuseki clapped his hands to summon Monjū and ordered him to call for a palanquin, but immediately reconsidered and said, “Gather the promissory notes and bring them here.” Monjū hesitated when he saw how severely intoxicated he was. Before Monjū could even ask, “What will you do with the loan documents?” Tokuseki bellowed again, “Do as I say!”—Unaware of his own condition, he had become utterly inebriated. Having forgotten the appointed hour entirely, he boarded the palanquin.

"Hirano" was a restaurant-teahouse facing the Sumida River—an old single-story structure but seemingly quite spacious, with a pine-planted garden containing two separate small teahouses. When he gave his name at the entrance, a maid descended to the earthen-floored area and apologized, "Your companion hasn’t arrived yet," before guiding him around through a side doorway into the garden and leading him to one of the riverside buildings, explaining that preparations had been made there.

“I was told your appointment was at seven bells (four o’clock),” said the maid, adjusting the floor cushion by the brazier while gazing at the flames. “Would you like to wait until then, or have something now?” “Bring me sake,” Tokuseki said, “and a chilled towel.” “Oh—” The maid, as if noticing for the first time, looked at his face wide-eyed. “Oh my, how dreadful! What happened to you?” “The palanquin collided—those imbecile bearers charging head-on with a two-man palanquin from the opposite direction.” He smacked his left palm sharply with his right fist. “They rammed into me like this—bam!”

“Oh my, how dangerous! One can’t carelessly ride palanquins anymore,” said the maid as she stood. “I’ll bring them immediately.” The maid first brought a hand towel soaked in water from the gold basin, then carried in the sake and appetizers.

In the meantime, Tokuseki inspected the house. It had two rooms: one of six tatami mats, and an adjacent one of four and a half. Opening the window in the six-tatami room revealed a view of the river, while the four-and-a-half-tatami side kept its wooden shutters closed, bedding laid out within a folding screen enclosure. By the pillow stood a silk-covered round paper lantern alongside a tobacco tray and water pitcher. Cooling his eyes with a wrung-out hand towel, Tokuseki drank merrily with the maid. All rage toward those ruffians and speculation about their backers had evaporated from his mind—now only Omi’s imminent arrival and what might follow kept him from sitting still.

I won’t let her escape today.

While half-listening to the maid’s chatter, I repeated those words dozens of times in my mind. Starting today, my new life begins. She’s just a virgin—the inexperience makes me nervous, but no matter, with my skills, I’ll manage. Moreover, considering her bold methods so far, she might have already been with a man. That’s right—no, that’s wrong. I’d examined Omi’s chest—those breasts were proof she hadn’t been with a man.

“Oh my,” said the maid, “my name is Ofumi.” “Did I say something?” “You just mentioned Omi, didn’t you?” “My apologies.” He affected a pretentious air and bowed formally. “Well then, Ms. Ofumi, I’ll have more sake.”

VIII

He didn't know what time it was. He didn't even remember when Omi had arrived. When he came to, he found himself lying down with Omi right before his eyes. The pillow had fallen over, and his head had struck a box, leaving that particular spot numb.

“That’s enough, wake up now,” Omi said. “What a waste of a perfectly good evening if you go passing out this early.”

“Sorry—I’m not drunk enough to pass out,” he said, sitting upright, but a sharp pain shot through his right thigh, making him involuntarily let out a groan. “This is awful—what happened?” “What a dreadful misfortune,” said Omi. “Just who were those three men anyway?” “Those three—” Tokuseki instinctively pressed a hand over one eye and asked warily, “The palanquin I rode collided—”

Omi shook her head while smiling.

“Telling lies won’t work,” Omi said. “They came here earlier demanding to see you.” Tokuseki’s face stiffened with terror. “Here?” he stammered. “They came here?” “They say they followed your palanquin from behind, Doctor.” “And then—” he choked out, “what happened to those men?” “They’re over there drinking sake.” “Did you give it to them?” “But they say they followed the palanquin all the way to the front of this establishment, you know.” Omi smiled softly as she picked up the warmed sake decanter. “What’s the harm? Have one.”

“But those guys—” “Holding your sake cup like that, there’s no need to be so jittery.” “Me? Jittery?” Tokuseki straightened up and took his cup, though his hands trembled violently. “Nonsense! Those third-rate thugs? Hmph—actually, perfect timing. Could you call the maid for me?”

Omi straightened her torso. “It’s not about manners, Dr. Umino,” Omi said. “But today you’re speaking to me like I’m some servant. I hate being addressed in that tone.” “Oh, this is—this is inexcusable.” He hurriedly bowed his head. “I let my guard down and acted carelessly—truly, I did. If I’ve offended you, I beg your forgiveness.” “That will do.” Omi nodded. “Since I was raised to be headstrong, I want you to cherish me properly until we become one.”

“Understood. I’ll be sure to take greater care from now on.” “What exactly do you plan to do by calling the maid?” “Those men assaulted me,” he said, again covering his eye. “They’re complete strangers to me—no connection whatsoever—and all three kicked and stomped me without any reason.” “It’s quite clear there was no reason at all.” “Of course,” Tokuseki mumbled through tight lips, “of course there couldn’t possibly be any reason.” “So you just let them have their way without a word?”

“What could I do? They were reckless outcasts, and it was three against one,” he said with an earnest tone. “I gritted my teeth and endured, fearing that if I fought back clumsily, something terrible might happen.” “How noble of you.”

Omi suppressed a laugh. “According to those three, you were completely covered in mud—head to face, hands to feet—so much that your eyes and nose were indistinguishable. Though of course that must be a lie.” “Did you talk to those men?” “They said if I didn’t come out, they’d barge in here. I had no choice but to go over there, prepare sake, and calm them down.”

Omi poured him a drink, and Tokuseki took a sip but choked and coughed violently.

“So, what do you intend to do by calling the maid?” “I intend to report them to the town magistrate,” he said, pressing his swollen eye, the bruise on his face, and his thigh. “As you can see, evidence of the assault remains, and people from Hiramatsu-cho will testify for me.” “That’s right—it’s better to have such wicked men dealt with by the authorities.” Omi suddenly looked at Tokuseki’s face there. “That’s all well and good—but are you all right, Doctor?”

“My side—” “It’s about your business, Doctor.” Tokuseki looked at Omi suspiciously. “But,” Omi said, “isn’t there an edict from the authorities that physicians aren’t permitted to engage in other trades?” He hadn’t known. Yet as Omi spoke, he found himself recalling that such a prohibition might indeed exist. “That may be true,” he said haltingly, “but this matter stands apart.”

“Those three know all about you, Doctor—about Kaiseki, Toyoshimaya, even your daily loans,” Omi said. “—If those three are arrested, they’ll surely confess everything. Would that still be acceptable?”

Tokuseki was cornered. Immediately after vehemently declaring he would report them, he now had to retract it. Moreover, because it was directed at Omi, he couldn’t maintain any semblance of dignity.

“Let me have a drink.” He poured himself a couple of drinks. “Seems the alcohol’s worn off—What about you?” “You’re going to call the maid.”

“It’s troublesome—no, it’s grown too tiresome,” he said, downing another cup. “Let’s not ruin this precious evening with you over such nuisances. Merely contemplating it wearies me.” “Then I’ll go dismiss those people.” When Omi stood, Tokuseki lifted his hips in startled reaction. “What will you do, Ms. Omi?”

“Those people won’t move unless they get money,” Omi said. “So I’ll send them away by paying up.” “How much are they demanding?”

“That’s my job.” Omi shot him a coquettish look. “There’s no need for you to worry, Doctor.” “You’re not going to abandon me again, are you?”

Omi remained silent, shaking her head while smiling.

Nine When she stepped up into the main house’s corridor, Omi slid open the small room’s shoji screen. Inside sat a young girl hugging a brazier, reading a storybook by the light of a paper lantern. “Masa-chan,” Omi said, “have you eaten yet?” “Yes, I have.” “Then run an errand for me.” Omi took out a purse from her sleeve and handed coins to the girl while saying, “Use this to buy plum blossom incense—the powdered kind in a box. You know which one, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.” “And then, once you’ve bought it, come to the annex over there and quietly call me out—don’t mention why, just call me. Understood?” “Yes, I understand.” After the young maid went out toward the shop, Omi went to the counter, requested sake and side dishes from the maid, and slowly returned to the annex. She hadn’t encountered “the three men,” nor was there any sign of such individuals. She seemed to have spent her time merely talking to “them.”

“Ah, you came back.” When Tokuseki saw Omi, he stroked his chest with one hand. “Given how you bend with the wind, I thought you’d abandoned me again.” “After all that…” Omi sat beside the brazier, touching the sake warmer hung above it as she cast a sidelong glance dripping with coquetry. “—I wrote in my letter that you intended to stay tonight, didn’t I?” “This time, I mean it.” “Then does that mean you weren’t serious until now?”

Omi poured the sake into the flask, refilled the warmer with fresh liquor, and served him a drink. “Don’t be absurd—I’ve been earnest from the beginning, yet you always slip away at critical moments, Ms. Omi.” As if suddenly remembering something, he glanced around frantically. “I did bring what I promised today—how odd, I was just here…” “The handbag?” Omi said. “If you mean the handbag, it’s right here.”

Taking the handbag from beside the brazier, Omi passed it to his hand. He hurriedly tried to open the handbag, but the strings were tangled and wouldn’t come undone. “What are you taking out?” “This is what I promised you before,” Tokuseki said impatiently, trying to untangle the knotted strings. “—I’ve brought the compiled promissory notes for the loans.” “Oh my, but you already showed me that earlier, didn’t you?”

Tokuseki looked up. "Did I show you?" "You showed them to me and then lay down right there—don’t you remember?" "Did I?" He stopped struggling with the strings, placed the handbag there, and took his cup. "So I really was drunk after all." "I’ve seen the promissory notes, but there’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you."

“Oh dear, is there still something else?”

At that moment, the maid brought sake and side dishes. Omi went out to the entrance step and carried them in herself. At that moment, Tokuseki overheard Omi whispering something to the maid. “What is it?” he said impatiently, waiting for Omi to sit down. “Is something wrong?” “It’s nothing,” Omi said. “Those men are still drinking, but I gave them exactly what they asked for, so they’ll leave soon. Everything’s fine.”

Tokuseki uneasily raised the cup to his lips. Omi watched this out of the corner of her eye, then poured him a drink and began to speak. "I did say before that I wanted to know everything about you, Doctor, didn’t I?" "You already know everything there is to know." "There’s still so much I want to know—how you became so popular with women, Doctor. They say people have even died for your sake. Like the mistress of Musashiya, who cast aside her husband and threw herself entirely into your arms. Why can you make everyone so obsessed? That’s what I want to learn tonight."

“That’s something you needn’t say aloud—you’ll soon come to know it yourself.” “But I want to know before that.” Omi swayed her upper body slightly. “Surely you’re not using sorcery, are you?” “It’s one of the finest medical techniques,” Tokuseki said, taking a sip of sake. “Though not just anyone can do it—this is something innate, I suppose—didn’t someone just arrive?”

A voice called "Excuse me" at the entrance step, and Tokuseki jolted, his body stiffening. Omi stood up and went over; after exchanging some words, she soon returned and sat down, smiling at Tokuseki. "What is it?" he asked.

“They said those three have left, so you can rest easy now,” Omi said, taking the cup from the tray. “I’ll have some too, so do go on with your story.”

Tokuseki began to speak. Freed from anxiety and tension, he appeared physically and mentally at ease. Omi poured drinks ceaselessly, gulping them down herself as she kept up her cheerful chatter. He started with the functions of the female body, though Omi seemed not to grasp the specifics well—or perhaps she feigned listening while offering mechanical nods, focusing entirely on warming sake and refilling cups.

“That mistress ended up hanging herself.” “Oh, how dreadful.” “You’d assume that, wouldn’t you? Everyone but the person herself would pity her—but the truth is, that mistress died satisfied.” “How do you know?” “That woman had been desperate for a child,” he nodded to himself. “She’d lived with her husband for seven years without conceiving—twenty-six years old, I believe—and on top of the childlessness, she was dissatisfied in that department as well. Do you grasp it?”

“Do go on.” “I knew it immediately upon examining her. The woman herself was oblivious—she simply wanted a child but her husband was unreliable, that’s all.” Then he repeated his explanation about the intricacies of a woman’s body: “When I treated her, she was astonished—she had no idea what had happened to her, saying she’d never experienced anything like it in her life. After that, for about two months, she came regularly every other day, except when indisposed.”

“Your cup’s gone empty,” Omi said.

Ten "The woman kept saying she wanted to bear a child." He took a big gulp of sake. “She pleaded so insistently that I overstepped the bounds of treatment—I must have lost my head back then. Then she became pregnant, but her husband had fallen ill in his youth—it was said doctors told him he couldn’t father children.” “Who knows if it’s true or not,” he waved one hand dismissively. “Even if it were true, she should’ve endured—but women falter so easily. Yes, she came to me and said it herself then—‘For the first time in my life, I felt joy from the deepest core of my being. Even if they kill me for this, I’d die content,’ she said.”

"So she meant to die at that time, then?"

“It was about ten days after that.” Tokuseki picked up his chopsticks to take some side dishes, but his hands were unsteady; unable to grasp the salt-grilled sea bream, he immediately set down the chopsticks and violently gulped his sake. “The woman didn’t mention my name,” he said. “A tabloid came out, but it only wrote about the adultery. Did you read it?” “I didn’t read it.” “There was no suicide note, I suppose. Of course he knew she’d been coming to me for treatment—that’s why he seemed to suspect me,” he said, jerking his upper body as if coughing. “Hmph—no matter how much he suspects, there’s no evidence. Without evidence, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Even if that person said they died content,” Omi asked, “once they’re gone, don’t you think even you did something wrong, Doctor?” “Are you saying I—was wrong?” “A human being died.”

“Don’t be absurd.” He laughed, “Someone like you, Omi, remains too innocent to grasp this yet—most women die having never known true joy from their very core. When she said she’d die content even if killed for it—that was her genuine heart speaking.” “Then you feel no remorse?” “I’d sooner call it benevolence—you’ll comprehend this yourself ere long.” “Drink,” Omi urged as she refilled his cup, “—wasn’t it just the same with Musashiya?”

He said, “Just a moment,” carefully stood up, and to pretend he wasn’t drunk, slowly made his way out to the veranda.

“Father,” Omi looked up and whispered softly, “please lend me your strength.” Tokuseki, having returned, tried to sit down but lost his balance, collapsing sloppily onto his side. “Oh dear, you’ve gotten so terribly drunk?” “Nonsense, I’m just getting started.” He sat back up and clutched his right thigh. “It’s this pain that made me slip—do you really think I’d get so drunk on this little sake that I’d fall over?” “Then drink as much as you like,” Omi said with a cheeky smile, pouring him more sake. “After all, you’re staying over tonight, aren’t you?”

“Tonight’s the night,” he said as he drank. “—Now, where had we gotten in our talk?” “We were speaking of Musashiya.” “Ah, Musashiya’s Mrs. Osono.” He grinned tautly, his face growing ashen. “That woman was formidable. I’ve known countless women, but never before or since encountered one like her—her very constitution must have been fashioned thus from birth.” “Nor was it mere lust—she demanded constant novelty in partners. To compound matters, the husband taken as son-in-law proved wholly inadequate.”

“Was he a bad person?” “You might say he was that kind of man.” Omi’s face stiffened, a sharp glint flashing in her eyes—though Tokuseki naturally remained oblivious. “A good man—gentle, never once raised his voice,” he continued. “The very model of a dutiful son-in-law, only more so. A paragon of virtue who knew nothing about handling women—in short, a blockhead.”

Omi squeezed her eyes shut tightly. "They say this sort of man is neither poison nor cure," he said, "but for someone like Mrs. Osono, he was pure poison."

Omi asked, suppressing her trembling voice. "Why does he become poison?" "For example," he swayed his head and spoke as if struck by inspiration, "it's like lacking the strength to feed firewood to a burning flame. The fire struggles desperately to keep burning, but if the one tending it can't add fuel, the flame will vanish." "That doesn't even qualify as a metaphor for poison."

“Imagine Mrs. Osono as fire—ah!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Right—the reason I compared her to fire was because she burned to death with her husband, yes. She’d always blazed like flames, but that son-in-law lacked even the strength to feed her a single stick of firewood. On top of collapsing from tuberculosis—for Mrs. Osono, he was pure poison, you see.”

“But that’s—that’s—” Omi said trembling, “how do you know such detailed things?” “It’s what you call pillow talk.” He laughed smugly and drank the poured sake. “No matter how prim a woman acts in daily life, once it comes to pillow talk, they become shockingly frank—so frank it makes us men blush with shame.” “And then… you two laughed about that son-in-law together, didn’t you?”

“Better to laugh than be laughed at—or so the saying goes.” “Now that those two have died, it must be your turn to laugh alone, Doctor.” “That matter’s long settled.”

“I want to see you laugh, Doctor.” “I said it’s in the past, didn’t I?” Sake spilled from the cup he held—“Now there’s a lovely person named Omi here. To hell with all that old nonsense!” “Yes, here’s your drink—drink up.”

“That’s enough—I’ll stop here.” “My, how spineless of you.” “A break.” While lying down, he quickly grabbed Omi’s hand. “Omi,” he said, “let’s take a break and then start drinking again.” “Let go. I hate rough behavior.”

“Shall we move to the next room then?” Omi turned her face away and nodded. “Mm-hmm.” “No more games tonight.” “Let go,” Omi whispered, “I’ll go first.”

Eleven

Omi stood up, entered the adjacent four-and-a-half-mat room, and as she closed the sliding door, whispered seductively.

“Please don’t come in until I say it’s okay.”

Tokuseki nodded, still resting his head on his arm. “Hey, Dr. Umino,” he muttered under his breath, “finally grabbed my luck—the grandest of fortunes. Splendid.”

Tokuseki’s face relaxed, and a smile floated to his lips. He closed his eyes and yawned, then opened them as if startled.

“Miss Omi,” he called out.

No reply came, and Tokuseki sat up.

“Miss Omi,” he called again. From the four-and-a-half-mat room came a faint voice: “Please.” Tokuseki stood up and staggered out to the veranda, but when he returned, his face—now even paler—bore an inhuman expression of raw desire. He carefully watched his footing, opened the sliding door to the four-and-a-half-mat room, and closed it behind his back. Omi had changed into a long under-robe and was sitting by the bedding’s pillow when Tokuseki entered; she took his nightclothes and stood up. Tokuseki disregarded her and approached, trying to embrace Omi with both hands.

“No—after you change.” “Before that—just a moment.” “No, you mustn’t.” Omi dodged sideways. “You haven’t even locked the door!” “No one’s gonna come.”

Tokuseki tried to grab Omi, stumbled over the lit round paper lantern, and frantically caught hold of it. Omi placed the nightclothes there and said, "Then please change by yourself."

“I’ll go lock the door.” “Surely not,” he said with a grave face—“you wouldn’t run away now after coming this far?” “In this outfit—” Omi spread out the sleeves of her underrobe—“I’m the one who won’t let you escape tonight.”

And then she went out to the six-mat room and closed the sliding door.

Omi crouched by the brazier, listening to Tokuseki changing clothes in the next room, then tilted her head back and tightly shut her eyes. Her face stiffened with tension, her body trembling in small, rapid shudders. "Father," Omi whispered like a prayer, "please give me strength." A heavy thud came from the four-and-a-half-mat room. Tokuseki must have lain down to sleep; Omi lowered her head and remained perfectly still for some time. Waiting for her trembling to subside, she finally pulled the silver flat hairpin from her hair, gripped it in her right hand, and quietly slid open the door to the four-and-a-half-mat room.

“Finally decided to show up, have you?” Tokuseki’s voice was heard. “Now, hurry over here.”

Omi entered inside and closed the sliding door.

Less than a quarter-hour later, Omi emerged with her appearance neatly arranged. She went out to the veranda as she was; the sound of vomiting was heard, and upon returning to the six-mat room shortly after, she took out a small paper box from her sleeve. The lid bore the label “Plum Blossom Incense,” but Omi pinched green powder from within it and placed it into the brazier’s fire again and again. A refreshing scent drifted through the room, and Omi picked up Tokuseki’s handbag and stood up. Then, walking with steady steps toward the doorway, she said, “I’ll just toss this in the river.”

The following day, around ten in the morning— The maid Okinu, who had gone to clean the annex, let out a scream and came tumbling into the main house. It turned out that someone had been killed in the annex. When asked who had been on duty last night, the answer was “Ofumi-san,” so Ofumi was summoned. “A girl named Mino-san was with them,” Ofumi said. “No, I don’t know where she’s from—they were first-time customers. Last night around nine o’clock, the companion said she was too drunk to leave and asked to stay over. We refused, saying we couldn’t accommodate them, but she insisted she couldn’t even stand.”

“You were bribed again, weren’t you?” said the proprietor. “So you didn’t go check after that girl left?” “Yes—I was so busy that I ended up not going.” “Someone call the town officials.” Two town officials arrived, and the proprietor guided them to the annex. The corpse lay within the bedding of the four-and-a-half-mat room. The coverlet had been thrown off; the nightclothes were disheveled, exposing the bare chest where, below the left breast, a silver flat hairpin was thrust.

“There’s blood spattered here by the pillow,” said one of the town officials.

“No, it’s not blood,” said the proprietor of Hirano, peering in and shaking his head. “This is a camellia petal.” “A single camellia petal by the corpse’s pillow…” The other town official licked his lips while narrowing his eyes upward and tilted his head. “This seems familiar somehow.”

Part Four

I “A silver flat hairpin,” muttered Aoki Chinosuke. “One side carved with a reverse-plum design, the other with a flower-diamond pattern—not custom-made. Likely purchased at a notions shop.” As the swiftly moving palanquin swayed, the sword guard pressed between his cross-legged knees kept striking his chin. Chinosuke instinctively turned his face aside. It would have been simpler to adjust the sword’s position, but so absorbed was he in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice it.

“The culprit is one person,” he muttered again. “After luring them into bed together, stabbing their hearts once with a hairpin—the methods match exactly in both cases, down to the last detail. And then a single red mountain camellia petal by the corpses’ pillows... Since both victims were women, there’s no mistaking that the killer is that woman.” One was an entertainer, the other a town doctor—both people of ill repute, he thought. The first victim, Kishizawa Chōdayū, had people who bore grudges against him. His senior disciple Nakajirō had his arm broken for his sake. It was said Chōdayū had used yakuza thugs to usurp his position as shamisen accompanist, ordering them to break Nakajirō’s dominant arm. When they investigated Nakajirō, a woman’s name emerged—Oriu. Her residence remained unknown; eighteen or nineteen years old, graceful as a merchant’s daughter. A ruffian named Musasabi no Rokusuke had accompanied them, claiming he’d broken the arm at Chōdayū’s request, then divulging information about a restaurant called Okada in Monzen-nakachō, Fukagawa. There Nakajirō confronted Chōdayū, verified the facts, and meant to break the man’s arm in turn—only to be stopped by a girl named Oriu and sent home. At that time, Oriu had reportedly given Nakajirō fifty ryō in gold coins, urging him to start some legitimate business.

“This is what I don’t understand,” Chinosuke muttered. “After killing Chōdayū, why did she call Nakajirō beforehand? What connection does she have with Musasabi no Roku? For what purpose did she give Nakajirō such a huge sum of fifty ryō? That part makes no sense at all.” When it came to the next doctor as well, it was the same, he thought. The physician Umino Tokuseki made money through dubious treatments, operated a restaurant called “Kaiseki” in Ōkawabata-chō, and ran an inn named “Toshimaya” in Nihonbashi Hiramatsu-chō. They had heard about the dubious treatments, and they had also learned the fact that a physician—prohibited from side businesses—was running a restaurant while even engaging in “daily loans” at his inn. Then, on the seventh day after Chōdayū was killed, Tokuseki too was murdered by a young woman at “Hirano” in Asakusa Miyoshi-chō. The woman was named Omi; this time, she took away all the loan documents without exception.

――This too seemed a mystery. The fact that Tokuseki had taken all the loan documents with him was clearly confirmed by Toshimaya’s manager. But there was nothing at "Hirano". Beside the corpse, even the handbag said to contain the promissory notes was gone. “Since it appeared in the scandal sheets, those in debt must have rejoiced,” muttered Chinosuke. “First she gave money to Nakajirō; second she aided those struggling with daily loans—but there’s no mistaking that killing those two was her true purpose.”

It could be discerned from the method of killing and the placement of a single camellia petal. The killing had been planned from the start; giving money and destroying promissory notes were merely incidental tasks. “A single red camellia petal,” he muttered again. “What on earth does it mean? Why would a girl so young and exceptionally graceful kill two men—what’s the meaning of this camellia petal?”

The palanquin came to a stop, and a voice said, “We have arrived.” The one who had aligned the sandals was Shichizō of Kazusa-ya, who had come to greet them. The town was already deep in twilight, and at the entrance of the restaurant before them, a paper lantern labeled “Kanemoto” had been lit. “Is the woman here?” “All is in order,” Shichizō said. “Please.”

“Have the palanquin bearers wait.”

Upon entering, they found an earthen floor stretching to the far end, with rooms lining the right side. The building was likely of rustic construction—Shichizō walked straight across the dirt-floored area and slid open the second-to-last shoji screen. Inside lay a small four-and-a-half-mat room illuminated by a paper lantern, where a middle-aged woman sat beside a hand warmer. When she saw Chinosuke, she retreated backward and pressed her hands to the floor in a bow. Chinosuke stepped up and sat down, positioning his sword to his right.

“No need for formal bows—relax,” said Chinosuke. “You’re the maid from ‘Okada’ in Monzen-nakachō, I hear.” “Yes, at ‘Okada’ I go by Tsuru, but my real name is Hana. I am twenty-six years old.” “Keep it brief.” “Since my younger sister serves at this establishment—today being my day off—I came here on an errand and to visit. Though my sister goes by Ohatsu here, her real name is—”

“Let’s focus on the crucial details.” “I’m sorry.” Ohana bowed. “Since the house isn’t busy today, the mistress suggested we might as well go to a vaudeville hall together. So my sister started changing clothes.” “Cut the irrelevant details.” “It isn’t irrelevant—this is the crucial part.” Ohana snapped back indignantly, “Or is my sister not allowed to change clothes?”

Chinosuke calmly removed his helmet. “Let her change. Go on.” “I’m sorry, but please don’t interrupt me,” said Ohana. “When you keep cutting in, my head gets all tangled up—now where was I… Oh right, my sister had just started changing clothes.”

“That’s right,” Chinosuke nodded patiently. “So I left the maids’ room and was chatting in the hallway with Oshin-chan—she’s my sister’s friend and also a maid here—but since Oshin-chan’s such a theater fanatic, she—please don’t interrupt me.” Chinosuke nodded. “She started going on about how fascinating this month’s play at Nakamura-za was,” Ohana continued, lowering her voice, “when suddenly Oshin-chan blurted out that a customer looking just like Sawataya had come to our place. You know Sawataya, sir?”

"I don't know," said Chinosuke. "Oh, come now!" Ohana made as if to strike him with one hand. "Sawataya is the shop name—the actor is Shimamura Tōzō, a rising star onnagata who's all the rage these days, isn't he?"

II

"When I heard that, I was startled," Ohana continued. "The reason is that when Chōdayū was killed recently, the woman who came with him—that is, the woman believed to have killed Chōdayū—closely resembled Sawataya. Because her graceful movements and alluring way of speaking looked exactly like Sawataya’s." "So I decided to verify it and, after discussing it with Oshin-chan, went to replace the tea," said Ohana breathlessly. "They probably forgot over there, but I went right up close and got a good look."

“Was it that woman?” Ohana stared at Chinosuke with a weighty gaze and nodded with excruciating slowness, as if physically manifesting the critical importance of her testimony. “Her hairstyle, kimono, and obi were different,” Ohana whispered, “but she couldn’t change her build, her face... not even her voice.” “No mistake about it?”

“Absolutely certain! There’s no mistake—it’s definitely that woman Ori from before. I’ll serve as a witness, I will!”

“Alright.” Chinosuke nodded and said, “Please call the master of this establishment.”

Ohana stood up and left, then promptly returned accompanied by a man around fifty. He was the master of this "Kanebon," and said his name was Yosuke. “I am Aoki Chinosuke from Hatchōbori.” Yosuke bowed and said, “I appreciate your efforts.” “I rushed here after receiving word from Shichizō of Kazusa-ya, but I assume you’ve already heard the gist of it.” “Yes, since we heard from Oshin and another person, I immediately informed the master of Kazusa-ya.”

“There was something I needed to consider, which is why I took charge of this case myself,” said Chinosuke. “I’ve notified all the informants in the city, and three times now—as recently as today—they’ve reported finding a woman matching the description, but all three times it turned out to be a case of mistaken identity.”

“I don’t make mistakes like that,” Ohana interjected. “I saw her clearly with these eyes—” “Be quiet for a moment,” Chinosuke cut her off and continued, “As I was saying—since we only have physical descriptions to go on, if what Oshin says—” “I’m not Oshin-chan—I’m Ohana, sir.” “My apologies.” Chinosuke said patiently, “Even if there’s no mistake in your eyes, we lack irrefutable evidence.”

"My goodness, why is that?" Ohana snapped back indignantly, "With a witness like me right here, do you really need any other evidence?" "Be quiet. I'm begging you—stay silent a little longer." Chinosuke looked at Ohana pleadingly, then continued addressing Yosuke: "—In other words, you understand this—without evidence that leaves no room for denial, we can't just recklessly arrest someone. Right?"

“Your reasoning is most sound.” “So I have a request.” Chinosuke slightly lowered his voice. “I want to observe that woman in the neighboring tatami room. I hear a companion will arrive later—I want to see how she interacts with them. Depending on their behavior, I’ll determine how to proceed.” “Understood,” said Yosuke after a moment’s thought. “Then let us change rooms. But—no, you must already be well aware of this—as it was a custom-made arrangement at the request of a client with particular tastes, I must ask for your utmost discretion.”

“There’s no need for that precaution.” Chinosuke gave a wry smile. “I don’t know yet, but it’s probably nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Then please wait a moment.”

Yosuke left. There, Ohana began to chatter again. This time she launched into personal stories—about her divorced husband, the young daughter she had sent to live with foster parents, and how no matter how much she earned she couldn't afford even a single obi—and after this litany of complaints, she started asking whether there might be some reward from the authorities if this really turned out to be that woman.

Aoki Chinosuke looked at Ohana with evident displeasure, his brow furrowed. He thought this woman might have informed on someone just for the reward—if that were true, her testimony became suspect. That she could be the one who had killed Chōdayū... he couldn't easily accept that possibility, Chinosuke reflected. "If this truly proves to be the culprit," he answered Ohana, "some reward might indeed be granted. But should this turn out to be a complete case of mistaken identity—if she's not the sort of woman who warrants such suspicion—you may face severe reprimand for troubling the authorities and harassing an innocent person."

Ohana’s mouth fell open, revealing her large, yellowish front teeth. “But if…,” she stammered, “But if that’s the case—I’m only trying to be of service to the authorities! I even gave up going to the vaudeville on my precious day off to do this!” “If that woman is the culprit, I’ll see to it that a reward is arranged.” Ohana licked her lips and began, “But what if—” when Yosuke returned.

“The preparations are complete,” Yosuke said. “I will guide you.” “You come along too,” Chinosuke said to Ohana. They were led to a detached room. This building also appeared to have a rustic design, but the six-mat room they entered resembled a storage closet—it contained a tokonoma alcove and staggered shelves, but no windows. Beside a lit paper lantern and a brazier with a warming pot sat a tray of food and drink, along with a square sake cask. On one wall, at eye level when seated, there was a small window-like frame with a sliding door measuring three sun in height and one shaku in width.

“Please take a look.” The master called to Chinosuke, “When you open this door, you can see into the neighboring room. But no—they haven’t come yet.”

Chinosuke opened the door. Made of paulownia with wax-coated grooves, it was light and opened soundlessly. The door's reverse side held a rosewood panel with two narrow horizontal holes at its center; peering through them revealed a clear view of the neighboring tatami room. Chinosuke inspected the apertures and observed black gauze stretched across them. "The adjacent wall incorporates a collage there," Yosuke explained. "So long as we maintain this level of illumination, there's no possibility of detection from their side."

What a wicked contraption, Chinosuke thought, but he didn’t voice his opinion.

Three

Within Edo City, the only places permitted to accommodate guests besides inns were four licensed pleasure quarters: Shin-Yoshiwara, Shinagawa, Naitō-Shinjuku, and Itabashi. However, that was the official story—depending on the time and circumstances, one could stay at small eateries. Such arrangements were likely common in any era, but particularly at traditional establishments near theaters and red-light districts—or in their surrounding quiet areas—there were many guests who came with clandestine meetings in mind. Even if they did not stay overnight, it was customary for such places to have small tatami rooms built for these purposes and all necessary preparations arranged. Moreover, from his position as a yoriki, Chinosuke had long heard that there were guests with unsavory tastes who would spy on such activities from neighboring rooms, and that certain establishments had special contraptions in place to cater to those very clients.

Humans are such peculiar creatures. It was undoubtedly vulgar and obscene. To be watched like this—for those subjected to it—would be an unforgivable humiliation. Yet Chinosuke thought this too was undeniably a desire and wisdom unique to humans. "They should be arriving soon," Yosuke said. "Please have a bite of what's available while you wait. The lantern's brightness is just right at this level."

“I don’t want sake,” Chinosuke said. “Take this tray away and bring tea instead.” “But we’ve specially prepared this,” Yosuke protested. “I won’t drink,” Chinosuke repeated firmly. “Remove it.” Yosuke murmured, “As you wish...” No sooner had the proprietor left than the woman entered the neighboring tatami room. She appeared seventeen or eighteen years old. When shown through the peephole, Ohana confirmed, “That’s her.” The maid guiding them—Oshin—tended the brazier’s flames and brought in trays laden with sake and delicacies. A warming pot sat atop the brazier, flanked by two meal trays and a square cask containing one shō of sake.

In the meantime, they cleared away the sake setup here as well, and a young maid brought in a sweets bowl and tea utensils. Pressing her mouth to Ohana’s ear, she whispered, “Sister, I’ll leave this to you”—likely indicating she was the younger sister named Ohatsu—then gave Chinosuke a silent bow before slipping away on soundless feet. He waved at Ohana. Gesturing “Tea later” with his hand, he kept his eyes fixed on the neighboring room. —This is wrong. Even if it’s my duty, this feels sinful, he thought. Spying like this—even on a murderer—seemed cruel. No, worse: it felt like defiling something sacred.

The girl in the neighboring tatami room held one hand toward the brazier while reading a book clutched in her other hand. From this angle, her profile revealed a face tinged with melancholy and quiet refinement—her upright posture, the graceful motion of her page-turning fingers, all exuding such composure that she could only be seen as a sheltered daughter raised in the inner quarters of a wealthy merchant house. This isn't right. However he considered it, nothing about her suggested a killer's nature. Someone who had slain two men in their prime should leave some trace detectable to his trained eye. Through his yoriki duties, he'd encountered countless criminals—though with some glaring misjudgments—yet he could distinguish between guilty and innocent through uncanny intuition. While he might mistakenly accuse the blameless, he'd rarely failed to recognize true perpetrators.

This girl isn’t the type who could commit murder.

Chinosuke was thinking this when he suddenly realized: "That sheltered daughter is waiting for a man in a place like this." The murder itself defied all normality—the pairing of a hairpin and single petal, both victims having led wicked lives, and women suspected as perpetrators in both cases—he retraced these details again with deliberate care.

At that moment, Chinosuke stepped away from the wall. The girl next door slipped the hand she had been holding over the brazier from her sleeve into her bosom. Her hand seemed to come to rest upon her breast—likely an unconscious gesture—but for Chinosuke, peering through the peephole, it felt like he had witnessed something forbidden, a guilty unease washing over him. There's no need to wait for the man—I should confront him directly.

Thinking things might grow more complicated once the man arrived, Chinosuke beckoned Ohana with his hand, leaned close to her ear, and explained the role she was to perform. “Understood?” he pressed. “The timing’s critical—got it?” “Yes,” Ohana nodded. “I believe I can handle it.”

Chinosuke stood up.

The entrance to that room was on the opposite side from the neighboring tatami room. Chinosuke stepped outside once, circled around the low bamboo fence along the stepping stones, and opened the lattice door of that tatami room. The entryway had a three-tatami-mat space with a folding screen, and immediately to the left appeared to be the tatami room proper. Chinosuke held his sword in his right hand, silently slid open the sliding door, and remained standing as he looked at the girl.

“My, you’re late…” she began, then closed her mouth and looked at Chinosuke with suspicion. Chinosuke looked down at the girl. The girl lowered the hand holding the book to her knee and, looking up at Chinosuke with calm eyes, said, “Is there official business?” She showed not the slightest sign of surprise or discomposure, maintaining an utterly composed demeanor. “I am Aoki Chinosuke, a yoriki of the town magistrate’s office,” he replied. “There are matters I need to discuss. May I sit?”

“Please,” the girl said, and as if suddenly remembering, took the zabuton cushion in front of one of the trays and offered it to Chinosuke. He sat there and placed his sword to his right. “Given my official capacity, I must speak formally.”

“Yes,” the girl said, sitting up straight. “First, I will ask for your address and name.” “My residence is Yushima Yokocho, and my name is Rin.” “Are you still dependent on your parents?”

“Yes and no.” The girl shook her head and lowered her eyes as if dazzled. “There are... certain circumstances. I have left my parents’ home and now work as a tea instructor in Yushima Yokocho.” “How old are you?”

“I am twenty years old.” “A tea instructor at twenty?” said Chinosuke. “I’ll ask about your family home—address, occupation, parents, and siblings.” The girl hesitated. “Um...” she stammered, looking at Chinosuke with pleading eyes. “If my parents were to find out about such a thing, it would be troubling.” “I’ll make sure your parents don’t find out. Though if you can’t say it, you don’t have to force yourself.” “Our house is in Nihonbashi Iwaichō, where we run a paper wholesale business called Iseya.”

4

“My father’s name is Kihee, and my mother passed away two years ago,” the girl said. “There are two siblings—my younger brother Masakichi, who is seventeen, remains at home.” “Why did you leave home?” “I don’t wish to speak of that,” the girl hesitated again, then continued with downcast eyes in a low, reluctant voice, “—after my mother passed away, a new mother came not long after...” The girl cut off her words there, raised her face, and looked at Chinosuke with a doubtful expression.

“You mentioned your official duty just now, but might I ask why I am being subjected to this inquiry?”

“There have been two murders.” Chinosuke said nonchalantly,“Since kawaraban news broadsheets circulated about them—the first in Fukagawa and the second in Asakusa—both victims being men murdered by young women each time—you’re aware of this?” “No,” replied the girl,widening her eyes in feigned surprise while shaking her head.“I keep no company with neighbors,nor do I partake of such vulgarities as reading kawaraban.”

“Didn’t you hear about it from your tea students either?” The girl lowered her eyes again. “To tell the truth, I have hung out my shingle, but I have not accepted any students.” “What do you mean by that?”

Chinosuke coughed. Then came the sound of the lattice door opening. Chinosuke thought, "Too soon." He had instructed that coughing three times would be the signal. He thought it was too early for her to come now, but it was already too late; Ohana slid open the sliding door and entered. Carrying tea utensils, she entered with an "Excuse me," placed them beside Chinosuke, and upon seeing the girl exclaimed "Oh!" in a loud voice. "My, what a rare sight!" Ohana said. "Isn't this Miss Ori, whom I had the pleasure of meeting at a shop in Monzen Nakacho some time ago?"

Chinosuke stared at the girl’s expression. The girl’s face seemed to stiffen, but it showed neither fear nor any sign of agitation. "I do not know you," the girl said. "You must be mistaken." “Oh, how can you deny it? Didn’t you come to Okada in Monzen Nakacho with Master Kishizawa? I was the maid on duty who attended to both of you that time!” “Is this the woman?” Chinosuke said.

“Yes, this is the person.” Ohana raised her hand and pointed at the girl. “There’s no mistake in my eyes—it’s definitely this person.” Chinosuke knelt on one knee and grabbed the girl’s left wrist. “Hey, tell the truth—you know this maid, don’t you?” “I don’t know.” The girl made no attempt to free her captured hand and, in a calm voice while shaking her head, said, “I have visited Lord Hachiman and Lord Fudō, but I have never set foot in any restaurant teahouses.”

“Restaurant teahouses?” Chinosuke retorted sharply. “How did you know they were restaurant teahouses?” “But this—” the girl stammered, “if you look at this person, I think it’s clear she works at a teahouse.” “Don’t play dumb.” Chinosuke yanked the hand he was gripping. He had intended to shake her once firmly, but the girl offered no resistance; her body yielded limply to the pull, leaning diagonally forward. Chinosuke shifted his grip and pressed his right hand against the base of her arm.

At that moment, the sliding door opened, and a man, looking this way, let out an astonished cry of “Ah!” “What are you doing?” the man shouted in a voice that seemed ready to leap out of his throat. “Who do you think you are? What’s happened to Miss Rin? What is this about?”

“Please don’t make a scene, Mr. Sei—it’s a case of mistaken identity,” the girl said quietly. “I apologize, but I won’t attempt to flee, so please refrain from any rough handling.”

Chinosuke released his hand and looked at the man.

“Get in here and close that.”

The man, trembling, closed the sliding door, came this way, and sat down beside the girl. The girl sat up straight, adjusted the hem and collar of her kimono, and ran her hand through her hair. Her face appeared pale, but both her demeanor and voice remained composed; in contrast, it was the man who seemed flustered.

“I am Aoki Chinosuke of Hatchōbori,” he declared to the man. “Do you know this girl?” “Y-yes, sir,” the man replied with deferential haste, “in truth, she is as good as my betrothed.” “What do you mean by ‘as good as’?” “You see... there are certain circumstances...” The man glanced toward the girl and faltered.

"It doesn't matter," the girl said to the man. "Please state that I am your kept woman." "A kept woman? That’s—" "I’ll ask you this," Chinosuke said. "Does that mean you’re the one managing the house in Yushima Yokocho?" "I beg your pardon," said the man, adopting a slightly defiant stance, "but I am Seiichi, son of the Kuramae rice broker Kaya Chūbē. This is Rin, who will soon become my wife. Might I first inquire what suspicion warrants this interrogation?"

Chinosuke looked at the man. The man who called himself Seiichi was probably thirty-one or two—tall and handsome, wearing expensive clothes—but he had the unmistakable air of a rice broker family’s wastrel, his defiant posture lacking any semblance of composure. “You’re suspected of murder,” Chinosuke said. “There have been two killings at restaurant teahouses in the past half-month.” “Murder?” Seiichi laughed. “That’s no joke—what an outrageous accusation!”

“Mr. Sei,” the girl interjected softly, “these are official matters. Please listen calmly.” The man fell silent with a dissatisfied look.

Rin saw the maid from the corner of her eye. Chinosuke explained the particulars while Ohana sat shrinking uncomfortably in the corner.

V

After Chinosuke and Ohana left, Seiichi began drinking alone, amusing himself by using the recent incident as a topic for his drinks. “To suspect you of murder charges—that Inspector’s judgment must be seriously off-kilter. If it were about killing men, then his suspicion might make sense, but...” “You’ve such steadfast resolve, Mr. Sei,” Rin said while pouring him sake, “when that town magistrate’s inspector holds such formidable authority. Yet you kept your composure and stood your ground so boldly—I was trembling inside wondering what might happen!”

“Whether it’s yoriki or town magistrates,” Seiichi declared, planting his hands on his knees, “there’s nothing to fear as long as you’ve done no wrong. Go look at the shops in Kuramae—samurai like that come borrowing money all the time, flattering the head clerks.” “But that person does visit the shop,” she said. “Absolutely,” he nodded firmly. “If you truly agree, I’ll speak with my uncle in Asakusabashi. Once they see I’m settling down with a wife, even Father will lift the disownment.”

“Will it really go that smoothly?” “Smoothly—yes, exactly.” Seiichi slapped his knee. “That commotion turned out to be a ridiculous farce, but thanks to it, I’ve discovered your whereabouts, Miss Rin. There’s no use hiding anymore.” “You’ve managed to find out about Yushima Yokocho, haven’t you?” “That credit goes entirely to the honorable Inspector,” Seiichi said. “Does this mean I can visit properly from now on?” “I’ve told you time and again—people from the shop come to check on things,” Rin said. “If they were to catch you coming here, everything would be ruined.”

“What’s wrong with it? Once you become mine, you won’t need your parents’ support anymore—isn’t that right?” said Seiichi, abruptly setting down his cup and edging closer to Rin. “—But before that…” “No, Mr. Sei,” Rin said in a sweet voice, “stop that. Let’s leave here.” “Leave here?” “That whole incident has left me feeling uneasy—let’s go to my place.” “That’s most gracious—but are you being truthful?”

"You've figured it out, so there's no helping it," Rin said. "But in return, you mustn't be selfish." "What do you mean by 'selfishness'?" said Seiichi, heaving an exaggerated sigh. "Does that mean putting it off again tonight? That's cruel, Miss Rin."

Rin looked at him with narrowed eyes, placed her hand on his shoulder, and wearily stood up. “Come, let’s go.”

VI

That was close. That was truly close—my heart was still pounding this violently, and if I didn’t clench my hands into fists, my fingers trembled so pitifully. But this was only when I became alone.

Why was the maid from "Okada" in Monzen-nakachō at that house? If one were working at a teahouse in this great city of Edo, they would be handling numerous customers every day.

Why did she remember me when we'd only met once?—Though remembering customers' faces must be part of those women's trade, I supposed. Had Aoki Chinosuke seen through me as Oriu? Or had he believed his own words and dismissed his suspicions?—I couldn't tell which. It seemed he had completely dismissed his suspicions—but perhaps he had not. Given his position as a yoriki, he would never abandon his suspicions so readily.

—That's right—there's no way that's true. When that maid said, "My, how unusual," I stopped breathing. A lump about the size of a fist welled up in my throat, my breath caught, and my vision began to darken as if being sucked away. Inspector Aoki had turned away, watching me from the corner of his eye. Even though his face was turned aside, Inspector Aoki's eyes remained sharply fixed on me. Because it felt precisely like being pierced by a needle, I found myself paradoxically able to suppress the urge to scream.

At that moment, the fateful match was decided. Even I find women frightening. My breath stopped, I felt my vision darken as if being sucked away, and when I was about to scream from terror, I realized Inspector Aoki was watching. Then that reaction occurred within my body. My breasts felt heavy and swollen; my hardened nipples chafed against my undergarments; the depths of my thighs burned as though scalded by spilled water. The pleasurable sense of fulfillment when something overflowing was quietly released—the terror was alleviated, and a confident, calm mood returned. Even when Inspector Aoki pinned me down, I never doubted that I would prevail. Because I "had not committed any crime."

Only when that maid called me "Oriu-san" did I feel something akin to guilt. Yet even then, it wasn't guilt over having killed Chōdayū and Tokuseki. No—it was something entirely different—how should I put it—I don't know—inexpressible. In that maid's words—"Aren't you Oriu-san?"—I sensed something that conjured guilt.

"That’s right—I 'never' committed any crime." "If that were murder and a crime, there’s no way I wouldn’t feel it myself." "If one were to wear a wet kimono, no one could fail to feel the cold and discomfort." "All the more so, taking a human life is an act so terrifying and grave that it cannot even be compared to something like wearing a wet kimono."

And yet I haven’t felt even a speck of guilt—except for that brief moment when the maid called out…

When I first killed Chōdayū, two reactions occurred in my body. One was vomiting; the other was that. Stripping him naked and drawing close, I felt around below his left nipple as instructed, placed the tip of the hairpin there, then mustered all my strength and plunged it in with both hands. I am Oshino of Musashiya—... And I tried to voice Father’s resentment, but my tongue cramped and the words wouldn’t come out. My head grew hazy, and my vision darkened. Then suddenly, my breasts grew painfully heavy and swollen; I could feel my hardened nipples brushing against my undergarments, and the depths of my thighs burned as though scalded by spilled water. A tingling, piercingly pleasant sensation arose in my palms and the soles of my feet, and my entire body went numb as if paralyzed.

For about three beats, I felt as though I had lost consciousness. With Umino Tokuseki as well, exactly the same kind of reaction had occurred. Had I vomited because I smelled blood? No—there was hardly any blood. Some might have come out—since I couldn’t bear to look directly—perhaps a little had come out—but there was no such smell, and when I washed my hands afterward, they weren’t soiled at all.

As I placed a single camellia petal by the pillow, I called out to Father. "Father—with this, one grudge has been settled now, hasn’t it?" And then I saw Father’s smiling face. On his face—emaciated as though only bones remained—a faint smile appeared, and I thought I could see him so vividly nodding on his pillow that it felt uncanny. Surely Father’s spirit remained with me still—aiding my actions and finding solace in what I had done.

Before he died, there was someone he had wanted to meet just once—something he had wanted to tell them.

The sound of Father’s voice when he said that, and his expression so pained it was unbearable to look at—they remain vividly etched in my memory even now. Mother, together with those men, trampled Father’s heart and tore his entire life to pieces. They ganged up on Father alone and practically hounded him to death. Powerless and gentle Father... How painful, agonizing, and humiliating it must have been for him. "He kept saying 'I want to tell them just one thing,' yet died without ever speaking that single word."

Three still remain.

Masuya Sakichi had listed eight people, but I selected five from among them. Those five still cause suffering, deceive others, and make people weep in countless ways. Even if I could forgive the other three, those five alone were people I could never forgive. —Three remained.

I must move out of this house in Yushima Yokochō. Inspector Aoki will surely be watching this house. If they investigate my family home, the lie will immediately be exposed. Because that is my friend’s house, and my friend Oise-san should have already married and left.

From now on, I decided I would choose locations more carefully. It was possible that arrangements from the town magistrates might extend to all restaurants in the city. While it would have been an enormous undertaking—perhaps impossible to cover them all—caution remained paramount. Seiichi Kaguya—now it was your turn.

Seven

Seiichi Kaguya was drunk.

“The first time we met was at Kobaian Temple in Negishi,” he said. “That was in late February, I think. Though Kobaian went out of business in June—it was known for its vegetarian cuisine and had thrived for a long time.” “Rather than that, it’s a conveniently discreet place for trysts, isn’t it?” said one of the middle-aged geishas. “You wouldn’t actually go there to eat something like vegetarian cuisine, Young Master—hmm?”

The five geishas chorused “That’s right!”, and the jester Yonehachi struck two beats on his wooden clappers. “Tozai touzai! You’re free to interrupt an all-night kyōgen performance if you like,” he shouted in a shrill voice, “but interrupting the confession of Narihira’s Young Master of Kaguya here and now shall not be permitted! All of you—keep quiet!” “I had Yonehachi with me,” Seiichi continued. “Actually, as Koine said, Kobaian Temple has three separate annexes that are conveniently arranged for secret rendezvous.”

“There, he confessed!” said the geisha called Koine. “It must have been Sister Umetsugu in there!” “Quiet! I was acting as a matchmaker,” Seiichi cut in. “False accusations are tiresome—the truth is, this Yonehachi here found himself a sweetheart...” “Wait, wait!” Yonehachi made a restraining gesture with one hand. “Some truths should stay buried,” he declared. “You’d spill secrets sworn through blood oaths between men before these unworthy wenches? That shan’t be permitted!”

“Don’t spout such slanderous nonsense—since when would I exchange blood oaths with the likes of Yonehachi?” Seiichi retorted. “Though I suppose it takes truly depraved tastes to fall for this guy. At any rate, we arranged a meeting spot, but being under his master’s thumb left him no freedom. ‘Please show mercy, Young Master!’—and here he was, weeping with his hands clasped in supplication.” “We’ve heard quite enough about Mr. Yonehachi,” said one of the middle-aged geishas. “Now open the curtain on how you first got acquainted with that young lady—do tell!”

“That’s right, that’s right!” the other geishas chimed. “Then I’ll strike the clappers,” said Seiichi, taking a sip. “After getting this guy and his lady settled, I was drinking with the maid when the proprietress appeared and said, ‘The customer over there wishes to share a drink with you.’ I told her I don’t drink with strangers, so she said, ‘But she’s such a lovely young lady—shall I decline then?’”

“There, his eyes lit up,” said Kogiku.

Among the six geishas present, Kogiku stood out the most. She appeared to be twenty-one or twenty-two years old; her elegance and artistic skills were not particularly different from those of the other geishas, yet even so, she alone seemed to shine. "The young lady caught my interest."

Seiichi glanced briefly at Kogiku but continued his story without acknowledging her. “When I asked about it, she said the person was apparently the daughter of a wealthy merchant—she’d come to eat a meal accompanied only by a single chambermaid but had spotted me in the garden and had some reason why she absolutely wished to meet me.” He had a geisha named Kikumi pour him a drink, took a sip, and said, “When I asked why she wanted to meet me, the proprietress said she didn’t know anything—that the young lady would explain once we met. I thought to myself, ‘This must be a girl I know.’”

“Then—” he drank again, “when the proprietress showed me in, there were two place settings with sake laid out—but only a red plum branch lay atop one of them. The girl was gone.” “There’s a clever weasel in that area too,” said Kogiku. Seiichi made a choked sound as if the alcohol had caught in his throat, then fell silent. “That person,” said Kikumi, “must have suddenly grown shy.”

“Seems so,” Seiichi continued. “When the proprietress and maids searched, they said she’d just left moments ago. That’s when I noticed the red plum branch on the tray—something was tied to it. I took it off and found a note: ‘I grew too embarrassed to meet you here. I’ll send word to your residence soon—please come see me then.’ That’s what it said.” “How cruel of you to do such a thing!” The eldest geisha named Omasa said, “My, my—to think there’s still a young lady nowadays who does such elegant things!”

“Why, this calls to mind the tale of Gojō Bridge,” declared Yonehachi. “What’s this about Gojō Bridge?” “Rush in and strike once—” Yonehachi chanted with theatrical gestures, “swerve right to dodge, reset your stance, then sweep through their hems!” “That’s not even a proper joke,” Seiichi cut in. “The one I’m talking about already left.” “Ah! So Ushiwaka makes his honorable return to Kurama Temple?” “Quiet and listen,” Seiichi said. “—I thought it was hatefully clever—to summon me only to leave a note on a red plum branch and vanish. Isn’t that just the sort of sleek, tantalizing move that gets under your skin?”

“An old trick,” said Kogiku. “If you read sentimental novels, such ploys are a dime a dozen.”

Seiichi suddenly splashed the sake from his cup onto Kogiku’s face.

“Ah!” Kikumi grabbed Seiichi’s wrist. “You mustn’t, Young Master! What’s come over you?” “Quit meddling every damn time,” Seiichi snapped. “Eyesore. Get out.” Yonehachi and the other geishas moved to intervene. Wiping her face and collar, Kogiku glared at Seiichi with smoldering eyes. “No—don’t you dare stop me.” “I’ll take my leave now,” Kogiku announced, “but not before saying one thing to everyone here.”

“Shut up! When I say leave, you leave!” “Afraid of what I might say?” “Kogiku,” Omasa said. “Let me be,” Kogiku said, straightening her posture to glare at Seiichi. “Young Master—is it my words you fear? Or me speaking of Sister Kowaka?” “Say your piece,” Seiichi said as he had Kikumi pour his drink. “If anything, I’m the one she bit. A man keeps quiet—but if you’ve grievances against her, out with them.”

“So you’re keeping quiet because you’re a man? Oh? And you call yourself a man for that, Young Master?” Kogiku gave a mocking laugh. “You toy with weak women to your heart’s content, then wash your hands of them the moment you hear they’re with child—‘I know nothing of this! I paid the proper pillow fee! Who can say whose brat a pillow geisha whelps?’ — Sister devoted herself to you alone, Young Master. I was there—I know everything from the start.”

Eight “Yonehachi!” Seiichi barked. “What are you standing there gawking for? Get this madwoman out now!”

Yonehachi stood, Omasa stood, and they tried to lead Kogiku out from both sides. "I can't bear to listen!" Kogiku screamed, struggling against their grip. "Sister Kowaka devoted herself solely to you, Young Master—even paid you money! Because of that, she's had to neglect obligations everywhere and ended up selling herself in Yoshiwara! And you call her a pillow geisha? —Sister might as well be dead!" Yonehachi and Omasa forcibly led Kogiku away, but her words—"Sister will die"—lingered in the tatami room with crystalline clarity, leaving a sorrowful resonance as though taking physical form.

“Shall I play something lively?” said Matsuji, a young geisha holding her shamisen. “Now, Young Master, what would you like?” “The story’s in the middle—aren’t you going to hear the rest?” “By all means, we’ll listen.” Kikumi said in a disinterested tone that feigned enthusiasm, “It’s a sin to stop such a story halfway through, isn’t it?” “Yes, indeed—we simply must hear the rest,” said Yoshino. Matsuji set down her shamisen, Omasa and Yonehachi returned, and then a maid arrived with sake and appetizers.

Seiichi kept talking as he drank. The six listeners clearly seemed disinterested; even their movements as they poured drinks and served appetizers appeared absent-minded. Seiichi continued speaking, trying to dispel the awkward mood from the earlier commotion himself. Whether Kowaka’s scream of “I’ll die!” had truly failed to unsettle him or not, he soon got into full swing, his storytelling growing increasingly fervent.

“The girl’s name is O-Rin—seventeen or eighteen, I’d say,” he said, licking his upper lip. “Every bit the sheltered young lady through and through—fair of complexion, with a figure and bearing so graceful, her speech overflowing with allure, yet carrying an air of unassuming elegance about her.”

Seiichi owned a house in a side street of Asakusa Kawaramachi and lived there with his housemaid, just the two of them.

Due to his excessive debauchery, he had been disowned seven years prior and barred from entering Kaguya, though the monthly stipend his mother sent remained more than sufficient. He was thirty-five years old now yet showed no interest beyond carnal pleasures, his mental development seemingly arrested at fifteen or sixteen. His masculine charms were undeniable, and with the Kaguya family ranking among the wealthiest rice brokers, women and sycophants never lacked around him.

"I am an only child."

He always said that. Even if I was disowned, when the old man dies, I’ll be the master of Kaguya.

With such a mindset, he never once considered reforming his ways. He did as he pleased, and whenever he got into trouble, he had his mother clean up after him. When he lived in his family home, he not only played around outside but also had his way with any maids or housemaids he could get his hands on. The cause of his disownment had been misconduct with the wife of a carpenter neighbor, but this habit remained unimproved even now; setting aside courtesans and geishas, he would make advances toward proprietresses of restaurants or any maids who caught his eye whenever an opportunity arose.

Even among profligates, one couldn’t claim they were all free with their money, but he was thoroughly self-centered—spending only on his own pleasures, his expenditures so miserly they bordered on stinginess. Yet the women and hangers-on remained close, likely due to his mother’s allowance and the prestige of the Kaguya name. But now, even those circumstances had grown precarious. The funds from his mother had been halved with autumn’s arrival, and his father Chūbee—having given up on him—had decided to adopt an heir from their relatives; his mother had relayed this news.

The talk of adopting an heir was just a bluff. He had thought it was merely a bluff, but the rumors spread like wildfire, and lately even his regular teahouses had ceased to show him kindness when his tabs grew slightly overdue. It was precisely at this juncture that O-Rin materialized. He could not begin to fathom why she had fixated upon him, but five days after receiving the initial letter at Kobaian Temple, a messenger delivered another missive to his Kawaramachi residence. How had she learned of this house?

Had she heard it from someone, or had she known all along? When he met O-Rin, he immediately tried to verify it, but she merely smiled without saying a word. “What do you think, Yonehachi?” Straightening his drunkenly swaying body, he said, “We’ve been meeting since spring, and now it’s winter—three or four times a month in between—but she absolutely won’t say where she first took a liking to me or how she knew about the Kawaramachi house.”

The dates, times, and locations for their meetings always came from O-Rin herself. During their encounters, she would act utterly beguiling—appearing ready to surrender her body at any moment—only to deftly slip away at the final instant. Moreover, with each successive meeting her coquetry intensified, until during their November rendezvous she proposed they marry—if he proved willing. "She says she's been testing my sincerity until now," Seiichi declared before taking a swig of sake. "If it's just some fling, I'm not interested—but if she'll be a proper wife... Yonehachi! Granny Omasa! Listen well! If she becomes my bride, she'll bring two thousand ryō in dowry chests! Two thousand ryō, mark my words!"

“What’s this paltry sum?” said Yonehachi. “Surely the Young Master of Kaguya needn’t make such a fuss over a mere two thousand ryō.” “Come on—it ain’t about the money! It’s the heart of it! Two thousand ryō wouldn’t even cover snot rag money, but I’m happy she’s got the guts to bring it! Right, you old hag?” “That’s all well and good,” said Omasa suspiciously, “but what sort of young lady is she, exactly?”

"I hadn't the faintest clue," he said, bringing the cup in his left hand to his mouth while hurriedly waving his right. "No—now I know. There was this strange mix-up the day before yesterday—that's when I learned about her family home and residence. She's the legitimate daughter of a proper big merchant, living separately in Hongo with just one chambermaid." "Well, well," said Yonehachi, "surely she’s not been disowned or anything like that, has she?"

“Don’t you go worrying your head over nothing—in any case, the night before last I went to that house in Hongo with her.”

At that moment, a maid entered with hurried steps holding a tied letter and, saying, "The messenger just brought this," handed it to Seiichi.

“Oh!” he half-rose, “It’s here—the summons!” He untied the letter with trembling fingers.

Nine When he finished reading the letter, Seiichi relaxed his facial tension, tucked the letter into his sleeve, and stood up. "My great ambition is fulfilled at last," he declared. "Taking a bride with two thousand ryō dowry means I can stride back to the Kuramae house in triumph. About time I straightened myself out anyway." "For the wedding ceremony, let's make it properly lively," Yonehachi said in a flat tone. "Heh—the Young Master must've been born under one hell of a fortunate star."

“I’m off now,” Seiichi said. “I’ve arranged the tatami room for all of you—stay behind and enjoy yourselves at your leisure, as my treat.”

"I'll call an escort," said Kikuya. "You're going to Hongo, aren't you?" "Hongo's not some backwater," he replied, "but let's keep this hush-hush for now."

Everyone stood up and exchanged perfunctory pleasantries as they escorted Seiichi out. Yonehachi and the five geishas soon returned and deliberated about their next move. They faced a choice between continuing their drinking or departing, since none had reserved another tatami room afterward. Given this, they resolved to keep drinking together as like-minded companions. "If what he said holds true," Yonehachi remarked, "we needn't fret over settling accounts. Shall we summon the proprietress too?"

“But is it really true?” said Matsuji. “Somehow I feel scared.” Kikuya laughed while taking his cup. “There you go again with your old routine—why, you’d jump at a bird’s shadow on the shoji screen!” “That’s not it! When Kogiku-chan said there were evil weasels around here earlier, I got goosebumps all over!” “It’s not an evil weasel—do you think such clever weasels even exist around here?”

“Nooo!” Matsuji covered her ears with both hands. “Don’t say ‘weasel’—I saw one standing up and beckoning!” Everyone started laughing, and for the first time, they drank together at ease. For a while, their conversation continued without focus, but then Yonehachi abruptly put on a serious face. “You’re absolutely right,” Yonehachi said. “The whole story feels off somehow. It’s strange enough that a young lady of seventeen would go all the way to Kobai-an in Negishi for meals, and if she knows about the Kawaramachi house, she must already know what sort of man the Young Master is. Don’t you agree, ma’am?”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Okane nodded. “His masculine charm is one thing, but given his age and being such an incorrigible libertine—for a sheltered daughter from a prominent family to willingly marry him with such a hefty dowry? If the story’s true, I mean… it just isn’t natural.”

"That man has done so many vile things," said Kikuya. "Perhaps that girl isn't human at all—she might be some kind of vengeful spirit." "No, no!" Matsuji cut in. "Please—I'm begging you—stop talking about that!"

“Oh, Matsuji,” Okane pointed at her back, “what’s that you’re carrying on your back?”

With a shriek, Matsuji leapt to her feet.

At that moment, rounding the latticed fence, the old footwear attendant arrived guiding a man. The man was around thirty years old, wearing a striped cotton-lined kimono layered with a short coat, his hem tucked up, and hemp-lined workman's trousers. He confirmed with the old man, “This tatami room?” before approaching the veranda edge.

“Open up,” the man called out. “I’m from Kazusaya in Sukamachi.”

The commotion in the tatami room ceased abruptly as Yonehachi stood and slid open the shoji screen. "You know Kazusaya the Informer," the man whispered through the gap. "I'm Shichizō. There's a guest called Seiichi from Kaguya here, yes?" "Heh." Yonehachi settled back onto the floor cushions. "The Young Master has returned home." "Returned? When?" "Just moments past," Yonehachi answered. "A messenger brought a letter. He read it and departed straightaway."

The man called Shichizō tightened his expression. “Wasn’t that letter a summons from a woman?” “Indeed, that was the nature of the summons.”

“And where did he go?” Shichizō pressed. “Do you know his destination?” “No, he didn’t mention anything.” “Do you have the letter?” Yonehachi shook his head. “The Young Master took it with him.”

Shichizō turned around sharply. With Yonehachi’s “Thank you for your trouble” behind him, Shichizō rounded the latticed fence and broke into a run. It was early evening, and given Yanagibashi’s nature as a pleasure district, the streets were brightly lit. Among the passersby, geishas in their banquet attire could be seen, while melodies from teahouses drifted through the air. Though winter, the area buzzed with an almost spring-like liveliness.

Aoki Chinosuke stood at the base of Yanagibashi Bridge and spotted Shichizō running toward him. “Was Seiichi there?” Shichizō waved a hand while gasping for breath, barely catching the jitte about to slip from his kimono’s fold as he rasped, “He wasn’t there.” “A summons letter arrived—he left moments ago upon reading it.”

“A summoning letter,” said Aoki. “Damn—was I a step too late?” “What should we do?”

“You’re done here. I’ll check Kawaramachi.”

Then he started running.

—He might have gone home to change. Kawaramachi was just a stone's throw away. If he was going to meet a woman, it was conceivable he would stop by to change clothes. If he hurried, he might make it in time—that thought drove him to run. He had just visited the house in Kawaramachi, where the caretaker left in charge had told him about the teahouse, but when he rushed back, Seiichi had not returned. "No, he has not returned," the caretaker said uneasily. "Has something happened to the Young Master?"

“I can only hope that’s not the case.” Aoki sighed deeply. “—If he returns, tell him to present himself at Kazusaya in Sukamachi. No—the man himself bears no blame here. But handled carelessly, this could cost him his life. Understood?” “Would that be Kazusaya the Informer?”

“That’s right. There’s no need to worry, so make sure you tell him he must show his face.” Reiterating that she must not forget, Aoki Chinosuke left the house.

Ten

On his way back to the samurai residences in Hatchōbori, Aoki Chinosuke relentlessly berated himself for his own inadequacy in being a step behind.

The night before last—he had followed the two of them. He could have sent Shichizō, but erring on the side of caution, he had followed them himself. After confirming they entered the house in Yushima Yokochō, he asked the neighbors about Rin. "She’s gentle, pretty, and such a good-natured young lady." He had inquired at three households, and all three praised her identically. Her family home was apparently a prominent merchant household in Shitamachi; she displayed a tea instructor’s sign but accepted no disciples. Perhaps due to her frail constitution requiring recuperation, she lived alone with just a chambermaid—no visitors called on her, let alone any scandalous rumors. Everything matched exactly what Rin had claimed.

—Was I off the mark? With that thought, he simply returned.

Yesterday, he had appeared at the magistrate’s office. There had been a thief requiring interrogation, so he conferred with the assigned yoriki before handling office work until evening. Then today, after attending to business at the North Town Magistrate’s Office, he suddenly recalled something on his return journey and detoured to Ishichō as a precaution. There existed a paper merchant called Iseya. The master’s name was Kihē; his wife had died two years prior, and he had a seventeen-year-old son named Masakichi. These details aligned perfectly up to that point—but the critical matter regarding the daughter diverged. Iseya’s daughter was named Oise and had wed into Yoshinoya, a thread-and-cotton wholesaler in Nihonbashi Makichō. Naturally she remained at Yoshinoya now—pregnant and due to deliver next month, so they said.

“Do you know a woman named Rin?” Aoki Chinosuke asked in that manner. He inquired as thoroughly as possible about Rin’s character, current residence, and the fact that she had put up a sign as a tea instructor, but the Iseya household replied that they knew of no such person.

“However, since she seems to know this household well, there must be someone—a friend of your daughter’s or a girl from the neighborhood—who matches this description.” “Our Oise was a shy child who only had two or three friends, and I don’t recall any girl in the neighborhood who matches that description.”

"What about those two or three friends she had?" Aoki Chinosuke pressed his questioning. "That is correct." Kihē paused briefly before replying. "Two were daughters from this neighborhood—one took a husband, and one still remains at home. There was another girl, the closest to Oise, but she passed away this New Year." "—She died? Where was that girl from?" "In Honkoku-chō, there is a medicine wholesaler called Musashiya. Their only daughter was named Oshino."

Musashiya... Musashiya. Two of the friends had lived in the neighborhood, he recalled being told, and one had died. Though the shop name "Musashiya" seemed to stir some memory, he decided capturing Rin took priority—hailing a street palanquin, he raced straight toward Hongō.

But Rin was already gone. When he inquired next door, he was told she had moved out early yesterday morning—apparently having gone around to inform people that "she had decided to return to her family home"—with no one else knowing her whereabouts. "She's sharp—frighteningly sharp," he muttered as he walked. "I thought I could at least get the Kōya heir, but even that was a step too late. What a disgrace."

He clicked his tongue.

The Kōya heir might be killed. He might return safely, but the woman had probably moved suddenly because she sensed danger. If that were the case—in other words, if she were watching him—then he likely wouldn't return safely, and there'd be no way to prevent it. "Is there any way?" Aoki asked himself. "After being outmaneuvered the night before last, and with her being this sharp, she probably wouldn't pick a place where she'd be caught so easily."

Even if they were to summon her to a restaurant-teahouse again, it would be impossible to take measures across the entire vast city of Edo.

"I should have resolutely arrested her the night before last." After muttering this, he shook his head firmly. "Enough complaining. The problem is what to do next. Let's give up on Kōya's profligate son. How can we apprehend that woman?"

His pace slowed, and he walked in silence for a while along the moat-lined street with buildings on one side. Then, when he crossed what appeared to be Edo Bridge, he saw a Yotaka Soba vendor by the roadside unloading their load while fanning the fire beneath a pot to boil water. He passed by after just a glance, but after walking about a block, he suddenly stopped and stared fixedly up at the night sky.

—Musashiya.

The paper lantern of the Yotaka Soba vendor had "Benkei" written on it. He had passed by with only a cursory glance, but the characters for Benkei must have sparked an association in his mind. It was then he first remembered the incident of three family members perishing in a fire. "At a lodging in Kameido—parents and their daughter burned to death. Yes, that's how it went, I think," he murmured aloud as he began walking. "My memory's hazy, but the mother and daughter were in robust health—the father lay critically ill, yet those two remained perfectly sound. I recall hearing people wonder how they all came to burn together."

It was said that Iseya's daughter had been closest to that Musashiya's daughter. He quickened his pace, hailed a street palanquin at the foot of Kaizoku Bridge, and urged it toward Hatchōbori.

When he returned to the group quarters, he summoned constable Iida Jūbei and ordered him to investigate who had performed the autopsy on the Musashiya family members. Upon learning it was Uchimura Itayū from regular patrol duty, he immediately went to visit his residence. Uchimura was drinking sake and first offered him a drink, but Chinosuke declined and stated his business.

“Ah, I remember that well.” Though quite drunk, Uchimura Itayū became sharp when discussing official duties. “Putting aside the critically ill patient, it was strange for a healthy wife and daughter to burn to death, so I investigated thoroughly.” “What condition were the bodies in?” “They were completely burned—all three nearly reduced to bones,” said Uchimura. “We had a doctor present too. Two were male and female adults, and the third was smaller with bones clearly indicating youth. Thus it was determined to be the daughter’s.”

“Can people burn completely down to their bones?” “I believe it was the oil. The scene reeked terribly of it, and there appeared to be a great quantity of lamp oil stored in the storeroom. Their main business was as a medicine wholesaler, but they also operated an oil shop on the side.”

Eleven There had been a maid named Omasa at the lodging; the mother had been drinking; and the daughter, worn out from prolonged nursing duties, had appeared quite frail. Uchimura Itayū recounted these details—about Omasa’s presence at the lodging, the mother’s drinking habits, and the daughter’s visible exhaustion from caregiving—as he pieced together his memories. “What’s wrong?” Uchimura asked after concluding his account. “Is there something suspicious about that case?” “No,” Chinosuke replied evasively. “Something else occurred to me regarding a different matter, but it seems my hunch was misplaced.”

With an apology for the intrusion, Chinosuke promptly stood up.

Even if there had been oil, would three people really burn down to their bones in a mere house fire? Moreover, the mother and daughter had robust physiques. Even though the mother was drunk and the daughter had been weakened by nursing fatigue, there seemed to be some reason behind it. Oil. One was drunk, one was exhausted, and the other was a dying patient. The oil had burned fiercely. The maid had been suddenly dismissed and sent home in the evening. “Such overlapping coincidences are not uncommon,” Chinosuke muttered. “But we must also consider the possibility of foul play. If we assume it was engineered—who would have done it, and for what reason?”

He focused his thoughts on that point.

The next day, Aoki Chinosuke visited "Musashiya." The current master was called Ishirō—the second son of Kameya Ibei from a branch family who had been adopted as heir—but the shop's employees had hardly changed. Only the senior clerk Tokujirō had reportedly taken leave to open his own shop. Aoki Chinosuke discreetly probed everyone from head clerk Kasuke down to the junior clerks and apprentices.

But he had gained nothing. The deceased master and his daughter must have treated the shop's people exceptionally well. They all praised the two unreservedly and still grieved wholeheartedly over their having perished in such a manner. In contrast, the housewife Osono did not appear to have been well-liked; while none spoke ill of her outright, even Kasuke, the genial-seeming head clerk, showed reluctance to speak about Osono.

After inquiring about Tokujirō’s shop, Chinosuke left Musashiya. Tokujirō’s family home was in Ebara District—a large landowner of over ten generations’ standing that had been granted the privilege of bearing a family name and wearing swords. He was the second son but had entered service at Musashiya of his own volition. Last autumn, his gratitude service completed, it had been decided he would be granted a branch of the noren this year. In May of this year, he had opened a shop in Shitaya Okachimachi, with substantial financial support from his family home.

―I'll try approaching Tokujirō.

Thinking this, when he returned to Hatchōbori, a constable named Yonezawa Sakuma, who had been waiting impatiently, said, “Another camellia petal.” Chinosuke gaped. “A murder?” “A man was killed,” Yonezawa said. “There’s a single red camellia petal at his bedside.” “So it was true after all.” “The murder weapon was the usual hairpin—a single stab through the heart.”

“Who was it?” Chinosuke pressed urgently. “Where’s the location?” “The location is the second floor of an inn called Yamatoya in Shiba no Tsukimachi,” answered Yonezawa. “No one has gone there yet. Ida is standing guard to ensure the scene remains untouched—we’ve been waiting for your return.” “Let’s go right away. Get ready.” That damn profligate son, Chinosuke thought. ――You brought this upon yourself. At that time he’d said things like “She’s practically my fiancée” and “I’m looking after her.” If you’d listened properly to what I said and used your head enough to doubt her background, this wouldn’t have happened.

――You must have been utterly infatuated. What a fool at his age. He rode ahead alone in the palanquin, urging the bearers onward while dwelling on these thoughts. Though the man was in his mid-thirties and well-acquainted with debauchery, Chinosuke deemed him an idiot; simultaneously, he derided his own incompetence for failing to prevent this outcome. To let himself be manipulated by some seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl and scurry about like a lost pup—it defied all reason. What a goddamned farce, he berated himself.

Yamatoya was a large-scale inn, and its proprietor was Niizaemon; two town officials and firefighters had come out to greet him. Chinosuke quickly gathered the details from the maid in charge, the head clerk, and Niizaemon. The entire sequence of events was identical to the previous two incidents—the man arrived first, then the woman came shortly after and ordered sake and food. The woman had come without a chambermaid, alone—it was said. The man had been quite drunk from the start, drank nearly a full *shō* there without touching his meal, and when he said he would stay over, the maid prepared the bedding.

“Then—about half an hour had passed, I think,” said the maid in charge, “when I realized I’d forgotten to prepare sobering-up water. I got it ready and went to the tatami room. I called out softly, but thinking they must already be asleep, I slid open the shoji as quietly as I could… That’s when I saw the female guest facing this way, wearing just her white underrobe. I froze—” The maid faltered in embarrassment.

The female guest seemed to have just woken up, her upper body exposed in nothing but a single underrobe. Had she not heard the maid call out? Startled, she hid her beautiful breasts, then whispered, "I will be leaving now." "I live nearby, so I'll return home," the maid said, recounting the female guest's words, "but since he's dead drunk and sleeping soundly like that, please let him rest undisturbed until morning." She continued, "Then I received payment for both of them and a generous tip, and there was nothing particularly odd about her demeanor."

"She said she had discovered the man had been killed a little past ten in the morning." While he was listening, the constable and scribe arrived, so Chinosuke went up to the second floor. The crime scene was an eight-tatami mat room at the end, where Ida Jūbei was listlessly puffing on his tobacco. In the center of the tatami room, bedding had been laid out, with a pillow screen enclosing the area around the head. The corpse was Seiichi of Kaguya; the coverlet had been thrown back, and a flat silver hairpin was thrust into his exposed chest beneath the left nipple.

Chinosuke shuddered and stiffened. The silver hairpin thrust deep and straight into the yellowish wax-like flesh seemed to cry out with voices of resentment and curses. He averted his eyes and looked toward the pillow. There lay a single red camellia petal, placed as though blood had dripped down—as if to suggest something.

“There was this thing here,” Ida Jūbei said. “I spotted it peeking out from under the pillow, so I went ahead and pulled it out.” It was a rolled and folded letter with “Sir Aoki” written on the front. Since it bore his own surname, he was slightly taken aback, and still crouching, he unfolded it. When he read it, it was indeed addressed to him, and the following was written. It is I, Rin, whom you met the other night. I deceived you then, and now I must trouble you once more. You must think me a hateful woman, but there are profound reasons for this. Should fortune favor me, I believe I shall impose on you only twice more. Once this is done, I intend to surrender myself to you and explain everything in full. But for now, let me say one thing more: In this world... there exist crimes that cannot be punished under the established law.

Rin.

Chinosuke tightened his lips.

Crimes that cannot be punished under the law.

He held his breath and stared at that single line for a long time.

“Two more people—” he muttered as if to himself, “Is there no way to stop them? …What exactly have these men done? What does the camellia petal mean?”

Ida Jūbei tapped his tobacco pipe, and at the sound, Chinosuke snapped back to reality. "Kurahashi," he said while rolling up the letter to the clerk, "draw me a floor plan."

V

I

“You’re not even taking a cup, Oyone,” Genjirō said. “You could humor me once in a while.” “I get noisy when I drink.” “Good—I don’t mind if you’re noisy.” Genjirō lifted the heated sake flask. “If you get rowdy drunk, you’d look alluring. No need to hold back—have one.” Oyone smiled bashfully, arching her back coquettishly as she accepted the cup. When he poured for her, she held it while glancing toward the garden from the corner of her eye before quickly meeting Genjirō’s gaze again. The man was Genjirō, proprietor of Maruume—a bag wholesaler in Nihonbashi Yorozuchō. Though said to be exactly forty, his appearance seemed far younger; even generously estimated, he looked no older than thirty-five.

“What should I do?” Oyone said. “They say you have a terrible reputation with women, and since I still don’t fully understand your true feelings… I’m worried about what might happen once I’m drunk.” “You claim *you* can’t discern *my* true feelings? Don’t be absurd—that’s *my* line!” Genjirō poured himself a drink. “Our first meeting was at the summer play at Morita-za, wasn’t it?” “It’s autumn, you know—July. And what’s more—you made it so that I, a woman, had to be the one to approach you first. You’re more terrifying than hateful.”

“That’s no joke—that’s a downright false accusation!” Genjirō said. “I didn’t even know you were in the box seats that time. Let me tell you, I’d been drinking with friends since the night before—” “There were geisha too, weren’t there?” “Just friends of that sort.” “Do those good friends of yours cling to you like this?” Oyone glanced toward the garden again but immediately turned back to glare at the man. “In a box seat packed with spectators, you didn’t even lower the blinds—flirting openly like that—and then you had to go and give *me* those sinful looks too. You’re truly a terrifying man, you know.”

“That’s a complete false accusation! Until the maid called me to the teahouse’s tatami room, I have no memory of ever seeing you—first of all,” he said, pouring himself another drink, “—first of all, if you thought I was a frightening man, you wouldn’t have summoned me to a teahouse’s private room, would you?” “You’re such a hateful man.” Oyone looked at him with meltingly seductive eyes. “People acquainted with the world might not understand, but someone like me—who knows little of society and even less about men—when faced with gestures and gazes like yours, finds herself utterly unable to control her own heart.”

“You do remember, don’t you?” “It was my first time—I must’ve gotten carried away. Had I known better, would I ever fall for someone as ill-natured as you?” “There—that’s precisely it,” Genjirō said. “Your eyes, your gestures, even your turns of phrase—you’re Sawataya’s mirror image, only more coquettish. Either you’re Shimamura Tōzō’s most devoted patron, Miss Oyone, or you’ve refined your arts through countless dalliances.”

“Yes, I do like Sawataya.” “There—you’ve changed again!” Genjirō kept hold of the heated sake flask and watched Oyone with an admiring gaze. “That’s what’s so strange about you,” he said. “One moment you seem like an innocent young lady who knows nothing of the world, the next you appear as someone thoroughly versed in romantic affairs, then in a flash you become girlish again. It’s been over a hundred days since we first met, and this must be our seventh or eighth time meeting alone like this—yet I still can’t understand you, Oyone.”

Oyone smiled and tilted her head. "It's *I* who wants to say I can't discern *your* true feelings," she said. As she spoke, a serious light surfaced in the man's eyes. "Miss Oyone—tell me the truth. Who are you? Why do you torment me like this?"

“Oh my, don’t make such a face.” Oyone shook her shoulders coquettishly. “I’ve begged you countless times not to ask until *I* speak first—and haven’t I kept from asking anything about *you*? I like you—I meet you because I want to see your face. Isn’t that enough?” “That may suffice for Miss Oyone, but it doesn’t satisfy me.”

“Oh my, wasn’t that our agreement from the very start?” Oyone straightened her upper body. “If you’re so dissatisfied, I’ll stop seeing you altogether.” “So you’re already tired of me?”

“It’s because you say such mean things,” Oyone said in a somber voice. “I’ve never once asked you to make me your wife, nor have I ever caused you trouble by meeting like this. Even if my family were wealthy beyond measure, a daughter like me must endure considerable hardship to do such things. Yet I bear these unspeakable pains—all for the sake of seeing you.”

“Alright, alright—spare me this.” Genjirō cut in with flustered urgency. “It was wrong to bring up such childish matters—I apologize for that. But I’ve told you countless times—as a man, it pains me to see you endure these hardships. If there’s anything I can do—” “My struggles are my own concern,” she countered. “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself over them.”

“That’s what I call distant—this aloofness of yours is unbearable to me,” he said in a voice that suggested he’d straightened his posture. “Let me ask just one thing—are you content with merely meeting like this?”

Oyone softly averted her eyes. "Miss Oyone, you're not some twelve- or thirteen-year-old child anymore. If you truly cared for me and were meeting me out of affection, we couldn't keep up this playacting forever," Genjirō said. "-If you're satisfied with just this charade, then your feelings for me can't be genuine."

“You wouldn’t understand.” “We’re a man and a woman.” “You just don’t understand, do you?” Oyone whispered in a voice barely audible, “—We can’t become husband and wife. A woman can’t take such a decisive step as easily as a man can.”

“I can’t argue when you say it like that—but for a man, there’s nothing more agonizing than enduring this kind of patience.”

“It’s hard for me too,” Oyone whispered. “—The truth is, tonight I…”

Two

A voice sounded from beyond the sliding door. Oyone cut off her own words and responded, “Yes.” A young maid slid open the sliding door, peeked in, and spoke while remaining seated in the corridor. “Would you happen to be the master of Maruume?” “Yes, that’s right.” Oyone answered before Genjirō could stop her, “What about it?” “There is a visitor here now.” “Is it a visitor?”

“Well, um...” The maid faltered slightly, “A woman accompanied by two small children—she said her name was Ms. Tsuru—wishes to meet with the master, even if just briefly.” “No, no—that won’t do!” Genjirō frantically waved his hands. “Who’d relay such nonsense? There’s no one here! I said no one’s here!” “But she claims she followed you and saw you enter.”

“Keep her waiting!” “Yes, tell her I’m coming now,” Oyone said.

The maid closed the sliding door and left.

“This is no joke—what are you planning?” Genjirō panicked. “I won’t meet such a person!” “I’ll be the one to meet her,” said Oyone. “If she’s come all this way with two small children in tow, following after you, she must be someone you’ve driven to tears—this Ms. Tsuru. Just what sort of person is she?” "This is troublesome." He frowned, though his foolish expression suggested less distress than pride. “It’s embarrassing this came out at such an awkward time—but it’s not some tearful romance where I made her cry or didn’t. She was just a maid who worked at a shop in Yorozu-cho.”

“My, what fine taste you have.” “It was a momentary lapse—I was drunk and unaware of my actions,” he said. “My wife happened to be away taking the waters, so I had Tsuru bring me sobering water. She apparently misinterpreted things—I never had the slightest intention of that sort.” “So you made her bear two children as well?” Oyone fixed him with a gentle glare. “They say a silver tongue is a gift, but you’re the wicked one.”

“No, it really was a momentary lapse—I’m not some woman-starved fiend. Who’d willingly lay hands on a maid of all people?”

“Kōraiya—that’s the place, then,” Oyone said as she stood up. “What are you going to do?” Genjirō said. “There’s no need to meet her—just leave it be!” “My conscience won’t allow it—I can’t just let things be.” “Since I’m essentially stealing you away from her,” Oyone said in a tone calculated to stroke his male pride, “I’d be remiss not to make some form of recompense.”

Oyone took the small fukusa-wrapped bundle that had been placed in the corner of the staggered shelves and quietly slipped out into the corridor. After about a quarter-hour—when he clapped his hands upon running out of sake—the middle-aged maid brought two warmed sake flasks on a tray and said, “Your companion has returned home.” “She’s gone? Really?”

“Yes, she said she must excuse herself first due to the establishment’s needs.” The maid sat down to pour drinks and made a gesture as if to strike Genjirō. “The bill has been settled, and since the master might drink more, she left us not just the usual gratuity but an extra sum as well.”

“Not again,” he clicked his tongue. “Complacency is the greatest enemy.” “To have such a lovely young lady go this far for you,” said the maid as she poured, “you must have quite the way with her, sir.” “Let’s have another.” He handed the maid his cup. “What’s your name?” “I am called Osada. Please remember me kindly.” “About that earlier story—” he jerked his chin, “is that girl a regular here?”

“Oh, come now!” The maid returned his cup, mimed striking him again with one hand while pouring sake with the other, and said, “Why play dumb when you already know full well?” “No, I don’t know this place—it’s my first time here.” “Then that lady must be a first-timer too—or do you have someone else you’re fooling around with here besides me, sir?”

Genjirō waved his hand to cut her off. “No, no—that’s not what I meant! I was just asking whether she frequents this place. If it’s her first time here, then first time it is.” “Do tell me everything—I’ll handle it.” The maid took a cup from the dining tray without permission. “Pardon my boldness—allow me to pour for you.” Genjirō gripped the sake flask with a sullen expression.

The establishment was called 'Iga Sho' in Bakuro-cho，Nihonbashi，functioning as both an inn and a restaurant-teahouse．Proceeding from there toward Kodenma-cho and turning left just before the moat stood a two-story buckwheat noodle restaurant． In that small second-floor room，Oyone was speaking with a woman named Otsuru． The five-year-old girl clutched a bowl of egg-topped soba，engrossed in eating it while repeatedly splashing broth around，while the younger girl—who would turn two come the new year—was held by her mother and suckling at her breast．

Nearly a quarter-hour had already passed since they arrived here. Otsuru continued to recount her history with Genjirō in slightly accented speech, constantly wiping her eyes.

“I was a fool too.” Otsuru said in a nasal voice, constantly wiping her eyes, “But why is it that when things come to this, we women all end up saying the same sort of thing? ‘In the end, I was just a fool’... How strange it is.”

Otsuru was fifteen years old at the time, it was said. She had come from a certain mountain village in Hitachi Province to work as a servant when, before even half a year had passed, someone had crept into the maids’ quarters. In that room slept three others—the cook, the maid, and the chambermaid. Had she cried out, she might have escaped disaster, but fearing that if those three were to notice it would lead to catastrophe, she found herself unable to scream or struggle. Having been raised in the countryside until fifteen, she was already quite knowledgeable about matters of intimacy. Of course she had only seen and heard about such things—with no concrete experience herself—and her body had not yet matured into womanhood, but she thought this must be that act, and believed it marked the divide between happiness and misfortune.

In the countryside, that was how things were. If such a thing happened even once, they were destined to become husband and wife; but if the man had no such intention and it was done as a mere dalliance, then the woman had no choice but to weep.

III

It is said that women from Hitachi are strong-willed. That may not be entirely true, but Otsuru was indeed strong-willed. Genjirō had a wife and three children. Maruume’s shop was thriving, and their household finances were prosperous. Under these circumstances, there was no hope of her becoming a proper wife, and if she remained silent, she would end up being nothing more than a plaything. Having come to this conclusion, she demanded that Genjirō provide guarantees for her future security. “Of course—that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Genjirō said so. "Even if you want it now, you're still too young. In two or three years I'll set you up with a house and open a bag shop for you. I like you more than my wife, so when that time comes I'll leave this place to the shop staff and live with you—that's what I promised." That was no lie. When she became pregnant at seventeen, she rented a house in an alley off Horie Third District, hired a nursemaid, and began living comfortably.

For over a year, the stipend was ample, and he bought me kimonos and hair ornaments, but gradually he began visiting less frequently and the payments dwindled until last autumn when I became pregnant with our second child—that was when he started saying things like “It’s not my child.” “He told me ‘I only come once a month or maybe once every two months.’” “‘I know exactly what you were up to during that time.’” “He clearly stated ‘That child’s parent is someone else.’”

“When I heard that, I felt like I was going to faint,” Otsuru said. “By then, life had already become so difficult that I’d let the nursemaid go. Maybe she made some baseless accusations—he spoke as if he had witnesses in his corner.” Oyone gave a quiet nod.

“After that he stopped coming altogether—not even the small stipend that used to arrive bit by bit came anymore.” Otsuru mechanically wiped her eyes. “Even before this I had to do piecework to get by, but now heavy with child and without a single coin of support, there was nothing else to do. I closed that house and moved to a back tenement in the same Second District.” From then until the birth, and from birth until today, she managed by selling the kimonos, obi sashes, and hair ornaments she’d been given, scraping by with piecework as supplement. But with no hope of Genjirō changing his mind—and fearing all three of us might starve if this continued—I resolved to return to my rural hometown in Hitachi.

“I still have both parents back home—they likely wouldn’t turn me away—” Otsuru continued, “but arriving with two little ones in tow, I couldn’t possibly return empty-handed before my brother’s wife. So I steeled myself and went to Maruume’s shop.”

The child who had finished eating soba came over to her mother and started fussing. The child insisted on eating more, so Oyone took out some small change and gave it to her, soothing her by saying that since it was already night, she should make do with this for now, and tomorrow she could buy whatever she liked to eat. "I knew it was hopeless." After expressing her thanks, Otsuru continued, "They said the master was out—then the mistress came and called me a dog-beast of a woman."

Of course, there was nothing to say—from the other party’s perspective, her husband had been stolen away. However much they might hate her—and hate her they did—it would never be enough; Otsuru returned without saying a word. It was then that she thought, just once, "Should I end it all?" “That thought only crossed my mind once at the time—I quickly came to my senses and thought, ‘What a wretched notion,’” Otsuru said. “There are countless women in this world who’ve lost their husbands after years of proper marriage, left to raise two or even three children on their own. Damn it all—why should I die like some pitiful fool?”

After that, she tried to catch Genjirō outside, seizing every opportunity to stake out the shop and watch for him to emerge. She had managed to catch him three times, but each time he had shoved her away with brute force; thus tonight she had resolved to confront him before witnesses and had followed him all the way to Bakurochō—or so she recounted. "That must have been so hard for you." Oyone sighed and said, "But you're absolutely right—if you cling to feelings for a man like that, he'll only ruin your entire life. A woman can certainly raise one or two children she's borne herself. Return to the countryside, raise them well, and show that good-for-nothing exactly what you're made of."

Then Oyone opened the fukusa wrapping cloth, combined twenty ryō in gold with two ryō in small coins, wrapped them in paper, and held them out. Otsuru stared in astonishment, but when it was held out before her, she shook her head and shrank back. “This isn’t enough, but it should suffice for a small souvenir,” Oyone said. “Take this and return home as soon as you can—there’s no need for any hesitation at all.”

“Why are you doing this?” Otsuru looked at Oyone suspiciously. “Why would you give such a large sum of money to a complete stranger like me?” “I’m a woman too. As women, I understand your struggles well—this money means nothing to me.” “You’re treating me as—” “No, don’t say anything.” Oyone shook her head while folding the wrapping cloth. “This isn’t the time for pride or appearances. This money is rightfully yours—take it properly for your children’s sake. You understand?”

Otsuru bowed her head and said, “I’m sorry,” then immediately raised her eyes. “But… who are you? Could you at least tell me your name?” “Just someone you crossed paths with on the roadside.” “But I can’t accept that.” “That’s enough,” Oyone said as she stood up. “If you ever feel inclined to remember me, consider today my memorial day and offer even half a stick of incense. That alone will be sufficient.”

“Oh, you mustn’t say such things!” Otsuru widened her eyes. “What are you saying!” “It was a joke—please forgive me.” Oyone said, touching the children’s faces, “You’ll go back to Grandpa and Grandma in the countryside. Be strong, good children, and take care of your mother.” And Oyone left the tatami room.

Four

On the night she returned from Bakurochō, Oshino seemed to have caught a cold; from midnight onward, she suddenly developed a high fever and remained bedridden for five full days. The current house was situated at the foot of Dōkanyama, in the retirement residence of a large plant nursery. It was Sakichi who had found it; Oshino had rented it under the pretext of being the daughter of a Kyōbashi draper’s shop recuperating after an illness, while Sakichi had been set up as the establishment’s regular clerk.

It was Oshino who had extracted Sakichi from Masuya. She bound him with a monthly stipend of one ryō, and he now resided in Negishi, visiting Oshino once every ten days under the pretext of "checking on her condition." He had become indispensable to Oshino. Sakichi was the man who had arranged her mother's affairs; his history and disposition made him perfectly suited both for finding her mother's partners and investigating necessary matters—and he himself carried a debt he needed to repay to Oshino.

While bedridden with a cold, Oshino thought about Genjirō of Maruume.

What a terrible person. He took advantage of a country girl barely fifteen, got her pregnant twice, and then cast her aside. Moreover, he picked a fight by claiming one of the children was "not his." He probably coerced the dismissed nursemaid into it—and to have even procured a witness made it utterly despicable. "Is such a thing even possible?" In her sickbed, Oshino asked herself, “No matter how wicked they may be—is such inhuman cruelty even possible for a human?”

If I were to believe only Otsuru’s account—wouldn’t that be a mistake? Oshino countered herself as if seeking calm. But at once she shook her head against the pillow and muttered, "No."

"That man is exactly that sort of person," Oshino whispered in hushed tones. "Both he and Mother are capable of such things. What Mother did to Father—who’s now dead—wasn’t something any human could do. They’re so alike—both utterly unfeeling, both perfectly capable of cruelty without batting an eye." And I am their child—in this very body flows the blood of those two.

“Ah!” Oshino screamed, “Ah!” When the chambermaid Masa rushed in, Oshino was clawing at her chest with both hands, groaning with a beast-like voice as she thrashed about within her futon. Masa sent the elderly maid Okichi running for a doctor and tried everything to calm Oshino down, but soon Oshino began coughing violently, and just when it seemed she might stop breathing, she coughed up blood. The blood gushed from her mouth twice, three times—splattering from the futon onto the tatami mats—and seeing this, Masa nearly lost consciousness.

I’ve contracted the same illness as Father.

Looking at the color of the blood she had coughed up, Oshino thought this as she desperately restrained herself from fainting. Father has come to take me—this is proof that Father is waiting for me to join him. The doctor did not tell the truth. The cold had worsened and formed a wound in her throat, which tore from coughing and caused the bleeding. He made such a strained excuse and repeatedly emphasized an excessively strict treatment regimen.

"Soon, Father," Oshino whispered in her half-dreaming state, "it'll be soon, so wait for me." Yet the phantoms of Mother and Genjirō refused to fade away. For two more days after that, Oshino cursed Mother, cursed Genjirō, cursed the blood coursing through her own veins, and continued writhing in agony. During this period, Sakichi came to visit, but Masa turned him away on the doctor's orders, and he departed without seeing Oshino. He had reportedly mentioned having urgent business to discuss, but rather than waiting the full ten-day interval, he came calling again and insisted, "I must see her without fail."

Oshino got up and met him. For those two or three days, she began to eat solid foods like thick rice porridge, eggs, and small portions of pounded chicken, and she felt no fear of her illness whatsoever. Once I deal with the remaining two, this body will be ready to die at any time. ——No, Oshino thought. No—that’s not it. I must surrender myself, face judgment, and state all the facts truthfully. Until then, I must stay alive.

Sakichi, who had entered, was frightened. At the very least, Oshino could sense that he was frightened and desperately trying to conceal it.

“This might be awkward if anyone asks,” Sakichi said as soon as he sat down, “but could you send Masa on an errand or something?” “That girl will be fine—you know that, don’t you?” Oshino replied. “Besides, she wouldn’t eavesdrop or anything.” “Then I’ll just say it.” Sakichi edged even closer on his knees and lowered his voice. “Do you know a yoriki named Aoki from Hatchōbori?” Oshino nodded.

“That man seems to have caught on.” “What do you mean he noticed?” “They apparently dug up the grave and examined the bones.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Masa brought tea and sweets and then left. Sakichi sipped his tea, but in his haste, he burned his tongue and grimaced.

“They seem to have suspicions about the New Year’s Fire.” Licking his lips, Sakichi said, “The master was a dying patient, and the maid Masa at the dormitory knew the mistress was drunk senseless. But you weren’t like that—even if you’d been keeping the mistress company, you shouldn’t have been too drunk to move when the fire started. They probably think you were killed first and then set ablaze—that’s what they’re saying.”

Oshino held her breath.

"So they went to Jonenji Temple in Asakusa with Dutch-style doctors and such, dug up the grave, and examined the bones—that’s what they’re saying."

“Hold on.” Oshino interrupted him, closed her eyes, and thought for a moment. “Fine,” she finally said. “You know the boat market on Kandagawa, don’t you?”

“The boat house, right? Yeah, I know it.” “Go there now and wait for me.” “What are you going to do?” “I’ll follow right after you,” said Oshino. “We’ll discuss the details once we’re there. There are matters we must settle.” “But won’t that be bad for your illness?” “It’s just a cold that got worse—nothing more.” Oshino took out a paper case from under her pillow, wrapped something in it, and gave it to Sakichi,

“There’s a boatman named Yata at that place, so have them prepare a roofed pleasure boat, and make sure to request sake and side dishes too.” Sakichi acknowledged and stood up.

Five

"I must hurry," Oshino muttered to herself. "I must—"

What could examining the bones reveal? Oshino had no idea. But she felt that something decisive would be exposed. Aoki apparently believed Oshino had been killed by someone—if he had traced things this far,the truth likely wouldn't remain hidden for long. But was that really true? Since everything had been burned down to bones,there should be nothing left that could serve as evidence. Certainly,there should be nothing left to emerge. But officials had their own eyes—wasn't it said that whatever the crime,nomatter how cleverly devised，if they investigate as they must，they will surely uncover it?

"He’s watching me right now," Oshino muttered. "If he finds anything suspicious, he’ll investigate Musashiya." The shop was safe. Neither Ishirō, the adopted head of the family, nor even Kasuke the clerk knew anything. Only Tokujirō knew I was alive. If Tokujirō were to be investigated—thinking this, Oshino shuddered. When he was interrogated, he likely wouldn’t have the resolve to insist until the end that he knew nothing. Even if he did have that resolve, I couldn’t possibly put him through such torment. It was time to put an end to this, Oshino resolved.

Oshino took out her writing box and sat down at the desk. There was still a little over two hundred and fifty ryō left. Oshino divided it into two portions, wrapped them in paper, labeled one “For Masa,” placed both packages into the desk drawer along with each other, and put the remaining money into the paper case. Then she stood up and surveyed her surroundings.

――There was nothing left to tidy up.

Since her body could give out at any moment, she had always kept her affairs in order. There was nothing that would be embarrassing if seen by others.

To be certain, Oshino once again carefully surveyed the room before calling Masa. “I’m going out.” When Masa arrived, she said, “Help me change.” “You’re going out?” Masa firmly tightened her expression. “Please don’t even joke about such things—in this cold, in your condition.” “Fine. Then I won’t ask you. Just go back now.” “I will withdraw, but I cannot allow you to go out.” Masa declared firmly, “The doctor has told you as well, and I can see for myself that you’re in no condition to go out. I won’t let you leave, even if I have to use force.”

“Good. That works out perfectly.” Oshino went to the desk, opened the drawer, took out the money package from earlier, pushed it in front of Masa, and said— “I’ll give you this, so please leave.”

Masa turned pale. “What is this?” “In addition to your wages, there’s a small token of gratitude included,” Oshino said coldly. “You’ve been defying me for quite some time now—looking down on me because you think I’m young, aren’t you? I’ve been meaning to dismiss you eventually, but now seems the perfect time to settle this. Here—take this, pack your things, and leave.”

Tears welled up in Masa’s eyes as she stared straight at Oshino, streamed down her cheeks, and pattered onto her lap. “Are you truly serious?” Masa asked in a choked voice. “Such a thing—what have I done wrong? When have I ever defied you?” “Right now—this very moment—” Oshino stammered, averting her eyes, and said, “Aren’t you defying what I’m saying right now?”

“Is this what you call defiance?”

“Please don’t use that voice.” Oshino said as harshly as possible, “I can’t stand women’s whimpering voices. Just take this and go over there.” Masa wiped her eyes with her hand. “Please forgive me. I will prepare your change of clothes.” “That’s enough. Don’t interfere.” “I’m a fool and so slow to notice things,” Masa said, standing up while pressing her face into her apron. “I only tried to stop you because I thought it would harm your health. I know full well you’re not truly angry right now—you’re putting on this act for my sake. I’ve been by your side for nearly a year now—no matter how foolish I am, do you think I wouldn’t understand even that much? But why… why must you do things this way?”

"That’s none of your concern."

“No, I know.” Masa sat down and, beginning to tremble, whispered in a hushed voice, “I don’t understand any of the reasons, but I knew everything that happened from autumn through winter in the places I accompanied you to.”

Oshino fell silent. Since falling ill, her face—which had always bloomed with a soft flush across the cheeks—had turned a pallid, parched gray, its expression vanishing as it hardened. "Even saying this, I'm not blaming you or thinking ill of you." Masa continued in an unwavering tone while tears spilled forth, "I believe I understand your true nature—how I've heard you weeping alone at night, moaning in pain and thrashing about in torment. Though I don't know why... what compels you to do these things... never once have I doubted that you must."

“Please stop. Just stop.” “All right, I’ll stop—but let me ask one thing.” “No, don’t. I can’t tell you.” “Is there truly no other way?” More tears spilled from Masa’s eyes. “Don’t you trust me at all?” “That’s not it. It’s not like that.” Oshino looked at Masa with exhausted eyes. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have kept you here this long. I brought you everywhere because I thought you could handle it. But—I can’t explain why.”

“Why?”

VI

Oshino steadied her breathing, remained silent for a time, then spoke while keeping her eyes lowered. “Because it would implicate you.” “—What do you mean?” Masa pressed again. “As you say—I do this because I must,” Oshino continued slowly in a subdued voice. “From the beginning, I’ve wagered my very life on this purpose. But...in society’s eyes, what I’ve done constitutes grave sin. They may brand me a monster—a venomous woman, a devil incarnate.”

Masa’s lips parted, revealing small, white, well-aligned teeth. “I intend to surrender myself soon,” Oshino continued. “If I do, you’ll likely be questioned too. That’s why I wanted you to leave me now—even if you stayed here, as long as you know nothing, you won’t be guilty. This is also why I couldn’t tell you anything.”

“Is there no other way?” Masa asked with a trembling voice. “Can’t you find some other solution?” Oshino shook her head quietly. “Even if you were me, Masa—I think you couldn’t stay still either—I only pray such things never happen again in this world.”

A sob welled up in Masa’s throat.

“Take this,” Oshino pushed the money pouch toward her. “Go home, marry a good man, and be happy for my sake too. Now let’s get changed.” When she had finished changing clothes, Masa went to summon the palanquin. “May I come with you?”

Oshino silently shook her head, put on her hood, and left the room. On an unseasonably warm evening for the 19th day of the Twelfth Month, windless skies held great clouds dyed orange, casting the city in an ominously vivid glow of sunset. Yet by the time the palanquin reached Funamachi, full darkness had fallen, and every house along the street was lit up. The boat inn stood on the banks of Sakumachō—not particularly large, but with a six-mat and an eight-mat room downstairs and two small tatami rooms upstairs where Sakichi waited in one of them.

He appeared to have drunk quite a bit with Yata, a middle-aged boatman—though only a single sake flask sat on the tray before them—as his face was flushed red up to his neck, and his speech carried an unusual tone compared to usual. “Welcome. It has been some time.” Yata straightened his posture and bowed. “Oh yes, I certainly remembered! That was on the harvest moon evening, wasn’t it? You were most generous to me then. Indeed, I’ve been awaiting your return all this time.”

Oshino looked at Sakichi. "The preparations are ready," Sakichi said. "It was getting too cold, so I had a little something. Will you come right away?" "Let's do that," Oshino said.

Yata stood up briskly. “I’ll prepare the kotatsu,” he said, then went downstairs. Sakichi took the cup on the tray. “Once we’re out on the river, it’ll be cold. How about one to ward off the chill?”

"I want to hear the rest of what you were saying earlier." “By boat, by boat.” Sakichi waved his hand, poured himself a drink, and gulped it down. “But that’s why we got the boat ready in the first place, yeah?” Oshino studied Sakichi’s condition. “I meant to send you to Maruume, but you’re too far gone like this.” “Ain’t drunk—not a drop,” Sakichi slurred, swaying slightly. “Let’s hash it out proper tonight. Maruume ain’t flyin’ away.”

Oshino nodded while looking at Sakichi’s face.

Even after boarding the boat, Sakichi did not let go of his sake cup. Inside the roofed boat enclosed by paper screens sat a portable kotatsu draped with a gaudy quilt, a small brazier holding a sake warmer, and drinking snacks laid out. Sakichi heated the sake himself, drank from his own pours, picked at the food while fidgeting, and kept up an endless stream of chatter. “Arriving.”

Yata’s voice called out, and the boat scraped against the embankment before halting. It didn’t appear to be a bridge. Since she had instructed them to dock at Hashiba when boarding, she opened the screen and found the boat moored beneath an earthen embankment. “Mukōjima,” Sakichi said. “It’s below Chōmeiji Temple. I thought this spot would be better.”

And he stood up, opened the screen at the stern, and whispered something to Yata. They had coordinated this in advance.

Before I arrived, they had coordinated this while drinking, Oshino thought. At the stern, Yata said, "Well then, please call me when you're done talking," and taking his sandals, climbed up the embankment. The shore at Mukōjima had shallows thick with reeds where boats couldn't dock directly, but at one spot below Chōmeiji Temple alone, the water ran deep enough to reach the bank, allowing them to moor immediately against the embankment. Oshino surveyed the terrain before closing the screen.

Sakichi staggered as he returned. "There's a Nara tea shop beyond the embankment," he said while settling into the kotatsu. "Told him to go have a drink—shooed him off until we finish talking."

“You’re quite resourceful,” Oshino smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “This sake isn’t too hot at all.” “That matter—that matter,” Sakichi pulled the sake flask from the warmer. “That matter and this matter finally coming together—it’s time at last, isn’t it?” “Let me hear it.” “Oh now don’t go rushin’ me.” He poured himself a drink, shook another flask to test its weight, then transferred its contents to a serving pitcher and poured it into the warmer. “What’s examinin’ bones gonna prove? That’s what I thought—amateur’s shallow wisdom. Leave it to the experts, eh? Them yoriki got eyes sharper’n mine.”

“Did they find something?” “The master and mistress.” Sakichi hiccuped. “No problems with their bones—the master and mistress’s. But when they checked what was supposed to be the young lady’s remains, that Dutch-style doctor started shaking his head, they say.” Oshino caught her breath.

“This ain’t a woman’s bones,” Sakichi said, taking two drinks. “The bones themselves ain’t different from a young person’s,” he continued, “but the hip bone’s male—they say even girls of sixteen or seventeen have different hip bones, right here.”

Sakichi knocked his own hip with one hand.

Seven

Oshino tightly closed her eyes. "They say this part can’t be faked, see," Sakichi continued, his words slightly slurred. "Women’s hips splay open like this—makes their pelvic bones widen and thighs get thicker. But these here? No doubt about it—they’re bones from a seventeen or eighteen-year-old male." "Miss Oshino, it’s over now," he pressed on. "Kikutarō’s folks filed a missing person report. Cross-check that and they’ll sniff out his affair with the mistress—then Tokuseki, Chōdayū, and Seiichi from Kaya’ll all come spilling out like yanking up a potato vine. Don’t you see?"

“I think so,” Oshino said. “And your name will come up too.” “Gah—was gonna say, but you were first to notice! Once they start pullin’ that thread, no way my name stays buried, eh?” Sakichi pulled the sake flask from the warmer and downed three cups in quick succession. “Miss Oshino—they paid me to help you. But I never touched nothin’ myself! Just did what you told me—nothin’ past helpin’. They’ll see that plain as day if they check. Hell, even if I swore I didn’t know you, it’d stick just fine.”

“Do you really think so?” “What’s this ‘Do I think so?’—you’re the one who knows damn well you did it all alone!” “That’s not what I meant,” Oshino said calmly. “You claimed you were just paid to help me—that you never got your hands dirty yourself.” “You sayin’ it ain’t so?” “I don’t think that’s the case.” Oshino looked at him with sunken eyes. “You didn’t just help me—you helped Mother too. Not just Mother, but widows, mistresses, wayward daughters… You’ve matched dozens with actors and performers over the years. Isn’t that right, Sakichi-san?”

“Hold on.” He shook his head and rapped a horizontal beam with his knuckles. “This talk’s twisted into some weird knots—what’re you gettin’ at?” “For your sake—dozens of women, their kin and families—they’ve been driven to ruin, households torn apart. How many might be weeping in misery right now? Though I don’t think my mother’s the best example, Sakichi-san.”

“That’s what they call resentment—nursing grudges over such things,” Sakichi shot back. “You stray from human decency for your pleasures, you get what’s coming—that’s nature’s way! Wanna blame someone? Blame every last soul involved! Look—I didn’t come here to chew the fat about this. Oshino, there’s serious business needs discussing—so listen good.”

“My words sting, don’t they?” “You think a few words like that’d sting me? Take me for some two-bit lightweight? This ain’t no joke—just shut your trap and listen!” Sakichi swayed the cup in his hand and hunched over the kotatsu. “Look here, Oshino—I’m fixin’ to share life ’n’ death with ya, see?” Oshino smiled faintly. “Live and die together, you say?”

“I’ve been sweet on you from the start,” Sakichi said, setting down his cup. “For your sake, I don’t need no wife or kids—livin’ or dyin’, I mean to stick with you through it all.” “What a silver tongue you’ve got.” “You can’t stay in Edo no longer—the flames are licking at your heels now. Got no choice but to sell the land,” Sakichi whispered, leaning forward until his breath fogged the kotatsu’s edge. “But you’re just eighteen, never stepped beyond your home turf. Alone you’ll founder for sure—need someone tough to help you wade through this mire. Here’s what we’ll do—”

“The rest goes without saying.” Oshino took the sake warmer. “Here—let me pour you a drink. What I wanted to discuss… is precisely that.” “No, that ain’t it—what I’m proposin’ is becomin’ husband an’ wife with you.” Sakichi drank the sake but spilled most of it. “You’ve got plenty of money, I hear, but if we’re slippin’ outta Edo, we’ll need travel permits—an’ a married couple’s safer’n a woman alone. ’Sides, I’ve been head over heels for ya from the start.”

“Didn’t I say there was no need to ask?” Oshino poured him another drink. “That wasn’t what I had in mind to discuss with you.” “Heh, heh.” Sakichi laughed with vulgar cunning. “That trick won’t work on me—you think I’d fall for a sugar-coated trick like that?” “What trick is that?” “Those fancy hand techniques taught at Sawadaya might fool greenhorns, but they ain’t workin’ on this Sakichi,” he said, rising unsteadily. Circling around the kotatsu, he staggered toward Oshino. “If you meant what you said just now, you wouldn’t be squirming like this.”

“You’re the type who never yields, aren’t you?”

Sakichi pinned Oshino’s arms behind her back. He pinned her arms from behind, breathing raggedly as he pressed his cheek against hers.

“No.” Oshino whispered sweetly, “Please put out the light.” “What, shy about the show?” “Won’t our shadows show on the shoji?” Oshino pressed her back coquettishly against Sakichi. “What if someone sees us from the embankment? Hey, put out the lamp.” Sakichi released his hold and, seeing Oshino begin to undo her obi, blew out the lantern. At that moment, two men walking along the embankment called out, “Hey there!” Likely drunk, they leaned on each other while slurring loudly, “Hey, let’s light ’er up!” Having apparently seen the houseboat’s light go out, they tangled together and feebly floundered about—one man shouted, “Quit showin’ off, damn you!”, while the other bellowed, “I’ll bash ya with a rock, bastard!”

“Let me go,” the man slurred through his thick tongue. “I’ll find a rock and bash ’em with it.”

“Alright!” The companion slurred thickly, “I’ll pitch in too! If it’s for the world’s sake, I’ll toss my life away—swear it! Anything for the world’s sake—no job’s too big!” “Fine words there!” The first man slumped against his companion’s shoulder. “That’s a man’s spirit! Let’s storm Zenkō’s place with that fire!” “Been waitin’ for this,” the companion slurred. “Let’s drag that bastard out and make ’im buy us rounds.”

And still shouting incoherent things, they vanished into the dusk.

Before long, the houseboat’s shoji slid open, and Oshino leaned halfway out to meticulously wash her hands in the river water. She closed the shoji, then after a moment appeared at the stern. By then she had already donned a hood and taken straw sandals from a cloth bundle in one hand to put them on. With unsteady movements, she leaped ashore. “Father,” Oshino whispered, gazing up at the sky, “just one more. Lend me your strength until then, won’t you?”

Oshino climbed the embankment and slowly headed off toward Terajima. The houseboat lay dark, quiet, and soundless, moored to the shore.

Part Six

I

Oshino was leaning against the window, watching the fire on the opposite bank of the river.

The house stood at Higashi-Ryōgoku's bridge approach along Aioi-chō's riverside, its rear overlooking the Sumida River. Genjirō of Maruume had designated this property, its facade serving as a dance and nagauta training hall. Two signboards hung at the entrance, where a comely proprietress of thirty-four or thirty-five and a coquettish woman of twenty-two or twenty-three held court, assisted by two maids and several laborers. The older woman was Otaki; the younger Okinu—both reportedly mistresses of a hatamoto named Fujino who commanded three thousand koku. This Fujino did not merely keep the women for his pleasure. Behind the practice hall's respectable front, he rented rooms for clandestine trysts and procured courtesans for samurai and wealthy merchants. Operating strictly through referrals with exorbitant fees, the establishment generated substantial income—all deftly managed by Fujino during his bimonthly visits, when he would collect every last coin of their earnings.

He was more cunning than any keeper of an unlicensed pleasure quarter. When that story was told, Genjirō had said as much while twisting his face in contempt. Fujino was not merely a hatamoto but seemed to have influence with town magistrates; even police spies dared not approach the house. Having heard this, Oshino had chosen this place. According to Sakichi's reports, Yoriki Aoki Chinosuke's pursuit proved unexpectedly relentless—his hands and eyes tracked her footsteps with unnerving precision. When she heard they had exhumed the grave to examine bones, Oshino felt such visceral terror it seemed Aoki Chinosuke might reach from behind to grasp her shoulder.

――One more and it ends. This last one was precisely the person I could least afford to let escape. Until I disposed of this final target, I absolutely must not be caught. For these reasons, Oshino had come for the first time to this house that the other party had designated. "It's burning so fiercely," came women's voices conversing downstairs. "That must be Lord Ogasawara's estate, don't you think?" "It's Lord Ōta Settsu's place," another woman interjected. "Can't you see the fire watchtower on the right? Lord Ogasawara's estate lies further to the right there."

“They call it a fire on the opposite bank, but since it’s someone’s house burning, it’s prettier and more interesting than fireworks.” “Who’s saying such things?” came a voice that sounded like the proprietress. “How could anyone find amusement in others’ misfortune? I won’t tolerate such foolish talk.” Oshino was also watching the fire.

From Ryōgoku Hirokōji downstream—perhaps seven or eight chō away—just as those downstairs had said, it appeared not to be a townhouse but a samurai residence; with its high roof ridge, the fire looked towering and immense. Carried over the river waves, the clanging of alarm bells—known as suriban—along with shouts from firefighters, voices of fleeing people, and even the clamor of spectators rushing to see the fire could be heard with striking clarity. “It was midnight on the sixth day of the New Year,” Oshino murmured, “behind the villa in Kameido—from where the hedge was—I had watched the flames rise.”

It had been about a year since then, Oshino thought—so many things had happened. In the span of a single year, she had experienced what would amount to five or even ten years for most people. It was an unpleasant experience. She wanted to wash her ears, wash her eyes, scrub her hands and her entire body until they were raw. This must have been because the five men she herself had chosen were particularly vile, repulsive, and unforgivable individuals—though Sakichi had reported over eight of her mother’s lovers, it was these five whom she could never bring herself to pardon. And now, having actually met each one of them and closely observed both the men themselves and the circumstances surrounding their lives, what she came to think—was a feeling of revulsion at how defiled and mud-soaked so many lives in this world truly were.

“What awful people, what awful lives they lead!” Oshino frowned. “I wonder... did they never once feel ashamed or regretful, living like that?” The individuals themselves were different—after all, they were already dead. But had they lived, she thought, they would have continued their evil deeds and sordid way of life. ――Kishizawa Chōdayū. Umino Tokuseki and his wife; Okane of the Kaiseki restaurant-teahouse he ran. Kōya Seiichi and the women surrounding him.

If a single wicked person exists, their "evil" spreads from one to the next, poisoning others. Once tainted by that poison, escaping its grasp becomes no easy task.

—Oturu, who had been a maid at Maruume, and her two young children.

Oturu would likely return to her hometown. But could she truly endure the weight of the mistakes she herself had committed, the bitterness of being deceived by "Maruume," and the responsibility for her two children? The people who had suffered under Toshimaya’s exploitative daily repayment loans must have escaped from Toshimaya’s grasp, but they would soon borrow money from another daily repayment lender. And because of the exorbitant interest on those meager loans, they would undoubtedly suffer the same hardships again.

“I too grew up happily until I was twelve or thirteen,” Oshino murmured. “The shop thrived, and of course Father—everyone cherished and doted on me, so I grew up without hardship or want. But that was only because I knew nothing. While I dressed prettily and went cheerfully to the theater and storytelling halls with Mother, enjoying spring and autumn excursions, Father was alone, tormented by sorrows he could confide to no one. Though he had wealth, a flourishing business, and was envied as the master of Musashiya—in truth, he was poorer than any pauper and more wretched than the most unfortunate soul.”

"Is this what the world is really like?" Oshino wondered. Even if people seemed happy and cheerful, appearing perfectly content, behind the facade they were miserable, impoverished, and burdened with sorrow too deep for tears. Perhaps this was truly what society was like—if that were the case, then people like Mother became all the more unforgivable. Those who concealed their desperate inner cries for salvation while earnestly navigating through life. To indulge in one's own desires and pleasures atop the sweat and tears of such people was a far more unforgivable evil than murder.

“Ah,” Oshino groaned.

II

When the maid came to replace the tea, Oshino was leaning her elbows on the window frame, her face buried in her arms in a posture as if asleep. “Oh, what’s wrong?” the maid called out while sitting down. “If you leave the shoji open and doze off like that, you’ll catch a cold.” “I was watching the fire,” said Oshino as she raised her face, “and then I suddenly felt unwell.”

“It was truly dreadful, wasn’t it?” The maid said while replacing the tea, “But it must have been extinguished by now—though it would be improper to say we’re fortunate it was a samurai residence—if townhouses had burned down at this year’s end, that truly would have been wretched.” “I suppose.” Oshino murmured absently, “If it’s a samurai residence, they have domains, so—” Of course the maid hadn’t been listening. After offering the tea, she said, “Your companion must be running late.” “The road might have been blocked by that fire,” Oshino answered in the same dazed tone.

“That might be the case.” After checking the fire in the *kotatsu*, the maid stood up while gazing at Oshino’s profile. “Shall I begin preparing now?”

“Please go ahead,” Oshino replied.

The fire had been extinguished. The embers did not spread; it appeared to have been contained to just that samurai residence. The embers of the burned-down building glowed faintly red, staining the residual smoke; the once clamorous noises and voices no longer reached here. Then, suddenly feeling the cold seeping in, Oshino closed the shoji and returned to the *kotatsu*.

The maid brought in the prepared sake. A warming pot on the brazier, a square cask and a sake decanter, and a tray bearing only cups. While she was transporting those items, Genjirō arrived. While hurriedly making excuses, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, opened an old calico handbag, took out a paulownia wood box, and placed it before Oshino. “I’ve been waiting for this to be finished,” he said, sitting down by the brazier instead of entering the *kotatsu*. “See if it pleases you—open it and take a look.”

“Later—” Turning around, Oshino said to the maid, “Please bring the tray.” “Are you angry?” Genjirō asked. “I’ve been thinking about so many things—thinking until I’m completely worn out.” “About us?” “Various things,” said Oshino, casting a sideways glance at him that seemed almost frightening. “For example—how you return to your home in Yorozuchō and cheerfully talk and laugh with your wife and children.”

“Now, now.” Genjirō raised a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous—bringing that up *now*?” “This isn’t the first time—ever since I started meeting you, this matter has lodged itself in my chest after we part. You can’t imagine how I’ve suffered alone in bed.” “But you knew this from the beginning.” “Of course I knew—that’s why I never spoke of it before. Even now I’m not blaming you—the fault is mine. It’s just... lately I suddenly feel so lonely, and can’t help pitying myself.”

“The maid is coming,” he whispered. The maid entered and placed a flat tray on the kotatsu futon. Two servings of soup, bowls, and dishes had been arranged, and Genjirō said, “That’s enough for now.” When the maid left, he busied himself transferring sake from the square cask into a flask, pouring it into a decanter, and placing it upright in the warming pot—all while growing frantic to divert Oshino’s mood. “I’m the one who wants to voice a grudge against Oyone,” he said, adjusting the charcoal fire beneath the warming pot as his tone shifted. “Even after meeting this long, you always cleverly evade me and leave me waiting—wasn’t it just the same during that incident at Iganosho?”

“It’s not my fault, you know.” “I had no idea you’d abandon me like that—I was drinking away merrily while waiting. How humiliating for the maid to see me drenched in sweat like that.” “That wasn’t my fault either,” said Oshino. “When I went out, there stood this woman called Ms. Oturu looking utterly dejected with two small children—in the corner of that wide earthen-floored area, clutching a five-year-old in one arm while rocking the baby on her back with her shoulder. Seeing her standing there so helplessly—I simply couldn’t leave things as they were.”

“You say you couldn’t leave things as they were.” Oshino nodded. “I heard Ms. Oturu’s story.” “What foolishness.” “Foolish? Not at all—it was good medicine for me,” Oshino said. “Hearing her story made me consider my own future for the first time. Ms. Oturu knew you had a wife and children yet still ended up in that state. To imagine that could bring happiness is wrong. Men may make any manner of promises with their tongues, but those promises mustn’t be trusted. Should a man with a family keep such vows to another woman about their future together, he’d only make his original wife and children wretched. To seek your own happiness by rendering others miserable isn’t merely wrong—I’d call such a person no better than a monster.”

“Wait—wait a moment,” said Genjirō as he took out the sake decanter. “Let’s not deliver such boorish lectures like teaching the Classic of Filial Piety at a temple school. Or—are you planning to dodge me with that trick tonight?” “No.” Oshino shook her head. “Tonight I will neither flee nor hide. I’ve come resolved.” “Don’t exaggerate,” he said, taking a cup and offering it to Oshino. “At least have one drink with me.”

Oshino set the poured cup down on the tray and served Genjirō a drink.

“I told Ms. Oturu to return to her hometown,” Oshino said, picking up the cup she had set down and gazing at it as she continued. “I gave her something to take with her—not much, but enough—so you need not worry about her anymore. By today, she may have already returned to her hometown somewhere in Hitachi.” “When you say ‘something to take with her,’ did you give her money?” Genjirō asked. “That has nothing to do with you,” Oshino replied, neatly draining the sake from her cup.

Three “You needn’t worry about Ms. Oturu anymore,” Oshino continued calmly. “She has two children to care for and will face hardships ahead. If they become too severe, she may take them both and end their lives together—but I believe she’ll never trouble you with it.”

"Let's stop this talk now." "Would you do me the honor?" Oshino presented her cup, and Genjirō poured. "I'll partake tonight," Oshino declared. "This subject stings, doesn't it? Beyond Ms. Oturu, you've had countless others you've pleasured yourself with. You take your fill then cast them aside like stray kittens—no farewells, just discarded." "When you phrase it like Oyone does, it paints men as sole villains—" Genjirō drank from his own cup while serving Oshino, adopting an appeasing tone as he countered, "Women aren't children—they should possess enough judgment to foresee consequences."

“Exactly as you say.” “Whether a man has a wife and children or not—these affairs blossom from momentary impulses. They’re not matters where one lays out an abacus to tally consequences from start to finish, or sorts right from wrong before acting. Men are human, women are human—doing foolish things, stumbling into unexpected troubles, weeping and suffering for it—isn’t that what makes us truly human? It’s not just men who take pleasure in affairs. Women relish them tenfold—that’s precisely why they cast aside caution and yield themselves to men.”

“Just as you say—exactly,” Oshino said, sipping sake from her cup. “I don’t know firsthand yet, but up to the point of pleasure, it seems true enough. But what comes after? Let’s make it clear with Ms. Oturu’s case. A man and woman—two humans—fall into such things through fleeting impulse. Suppose Ms. Oturu enjoyed it ten times more than you did. Even so, *you* were the one who seduced her. Even if your enjoyment was a fraction of hers, you still took your pleasure, didn’t you? Yet afterward, only the woman suffers—you don’t feel a twinge of pain in your fingernail’s tip. Ms. Oturu might endure a lifetime of anguish, while you live happily with your wife and children, even carrying on secret trysts with someone like me. Perhaps men and women were simply made this way—I’m sure that’s so. But does it truly mean nothing to you? Do you ever think, even occasionally, ‘Ah, that was wrong’?”

“You seem rather cross tonight.” Genjirō forced a bitter smile as he poured sake for Oshino. “Did something disagreeable occur?” “What I meant to say is that after tonight, we part ways.”

Genjirō looked at her with suspicious eyes. “Oyone-san, you’re drunk.” “I’ll start getting drunk now,” said Oshino as she removed the lid from the soup bowl. “Now, please pour.” “That’s delightful—keep it up.” He poured a drink and looked at Oshino. “But—you can’t possibly be serious about ending things here?” “I’m serious,” Oshino said. “I truly mean it. After much consideration, I’ve concluded this is where we part ways.”

"That's cruel—even if you say it's time to part ways, we haven't even slept together yet!" "That’s why I told you I came here tonight prepared for it, didn’t I?" “So you mean we’re finally beginning only to end it here? After waiting over half a year with bated breath, to have my hopes fulfilled at last and then part ways immediately—that’s criminal! It’s far too cruel!” Oshino laughed. “Your turn has come.”

“What do you mean, my turn?” “Until now it’s been women who suffered—how many, dozens perhaps, I wouldn’t know,” Oshino said with a laugh. “Now it’s your turn to suffer—you understand that, don’t you?” “You’re unfazed by this.” A confident smile rose to Genjirō’s face. “You’re saying that no matter what happens tonight, you’ll calmly part ways tomorrow and act like nothing’s changed?” “Please don’t make that face.” Oshino said in a timid voice, “Since I resolved this myself, please don’t make me waver—when you look like that, I feel all strength leaving my body. You’re truly terrifying.”

“Scary? Don’t be ridiculous! I’m a gentle soul.” He declared like a conqueror, “Now then, Oyone—if tonight’s our farewell, we can’t waste time on sake. Let’s go rest over there.” “The maid will come, you know.”

“She won’t come.” He stood up and reached out his hand. “I know this house well—if we don’t call, no one will check on us. Now come.” “Let me stand up properly.” “You’ve gone and gotten drunk now, haven’t you?”

Genjirō circled around the kotatsu and lifted Oshino up from behind. The girl's body—drunk-limp and drained of strength—seemed to ignite Genjirō's desires and drive his blood into frenzy. He held Oshino with one arm and slid open the sliding door with the other. In the next room lay bedding spread out, a silk-covered round lantern and bedside tray all arranged.

“There’s a bundle over there,” Oshino whispered. “Please bring it to me.” Genjirō brought the furoshiki-wrapped bundle.

“Turn the screen around,” Oshino said. “Don’t look until I’ve changed.”

“Let’s light the paper lantern,” Genjirō said. When he transferred the flame to the round paper lantern and closed the sliding door, Oshino handed out his sleepwear from behind the screen. Of course it belonged to this house. With distracted movements, he quickly changed clothes and called out, “Are you ready?” “I’m ready,” Oshino replied. As Genjirō moved around the screen, Oshino sat atop the bedding in her undergarment, about to fasten her sash.

“Wait,” he called out, “before you fasten that, let me see for a moment.” “Why?” “Come on, just for a moment.” Staring at Genjirō’s face—now positioned directly before her after moving around the screen—with a piercing gaze, Oshino quietly parted the collar of her underrobe to either side.

IV Her thin-skinned flesh was white to the point of translucency. They say those afflicted with this illness often develop particularly beautiful skin, but Oshino’s complexion had grown even paler than before. Her breasts—small enough to fit in one’s palm—were indeed translucent, with the faint birch-brown hue around her nipples standing out in an alluringly delicate manner. “Ah, you’re beautiful.” Genjirō groaned, his eyes glittering. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful chest before.” “I don’t want you looking at me like that.”

“A little longer,” he panted, “just like that, a little longer—ah, you’re like some kind of flower.” “More beautiful than Ms. Osono.” “But Ms. Osono...” “The medicine wholesaler in Honmoku-cho—Musashiya’s Ms. Osono,” Oshino said. “You remember her, don’t you?”

“Musashiya’s—Ms. Osono.” “Remember.” “There’s no way you could know such old matters,” Genjirō said. “You heard it from someone, didn’t you?”

“You remembered, didn’t you?” “It’s ancient history,” he said, reaching out his hand. “I’d completely forgotten. Now come on—enough of this. Take that off.” “Not yet—I have one more question to ask.” Oshino pushed his hand away. “You claim you got that woman pregnant with your daughter—is that true?” “Who on earth told you that?” “I want to know whether it’s a lie or the truth—that you’re the father of the daughter born to that woman called Osono. Is that really true?”

“I told you—it’s old news!” “So it’s not a lie?” Oshino pressed in a hushed voice. “That daughter truly is yours—that’s the truth?” “It’s true,” he nodded. “No harm in honesty now—Osono and the girl are both dead anyway.” “They burned to death at that villa in Kameido, I hear.” “You know even that?” “There are things you don’t know.” Oshino’s cheeks tensed in a mirthless smile. “Three sets of bones were found in the villa’s ashes—father Kihē’s, wife Osono’s, and a small one claimed to be their daughter Oshino’s. That’s how they reported it, yes?”

Genjirō stared fixedly at Oshino. “But recently,” Oshino continued slowly, “they say an inspector named Aoki Chinosuke from the town magistrate’s office investigated. Because something seemed suspicious, he had them dig up the grave to examine the three sets of remains and ordered Dutch-style physicians to analyze them. And then—while there was no mistake about the husband and wife’s bones, the daughter’s were different. Men and women can be distinguished by their pelvic bones, and those bones weren’t the daughter’s—they were undoubtedly those of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old male.”

“That—” Genjirō swallowed. “What on earth does this mean?” “It means your daughter is still alive.”

"That’s absurd—utterly absurd," he said, shaking his head. "But Musashiya actually held proper funerals for all three of them." Oshino laughed mockingly. “And first of all—” he pressed urgently, “if those bones are male’s, what became of the daughter? If she didn’t burn to death, she must be alive—and if alive, shouldn’t she have come forward under her true name?”

“I’ll come forward under my real name soon,” Oshino said. “What I must do will be over shortly.” “You—Ms. Oyonē.” “You’ve heard about it too, haven’t you? Since November, four men have been killed in restaurant teahouses, inns, pleasure boats—murdered by a woman of eighteen or nineteen, with a flat silver hairpin thrust beneath her left breast and a single red camellia petal always left by the pillow. That’s how it was, wasn’t it?”

Genjirō swallowed his saliva again.

“The four who were killed all had connections to Musashiya’s Osono,” Oshino said, staring into his eyes. “Osono was a shameless adulteress who never ceased her affairs with men. Though her husband had been adopted into the family and was gentle by nature, he never carried himself as master even after marriage. He knew his only daughter was another man’s child yet cherished her more dearly than any blood offspring, laboring tirelessly for the shop until he fell ill—collapsing while vomiting blood. The accumulated strain on both mind and body over years had at last given him consumption.”

“No—just a moment longer.” Oshino cut off Genjirō as he tried to speak and continued, “Please listen a little longer—the daughter called Oshino thought to call her mother to nurse him. The doctor said it was critical, and he kept vomiting blood repeatedly—she wanted them to experience even once in their lives what marital affection felt like. But at that time, Osono had gone on a trip with a child actor and returned only after her husband had already passed away. When he breathed his last, only the daughter called Oshino was present. But before dying, her husband told her: ‘I wanted to see Osono one last time—to meet her once and say one thing I needed to say. Just one thing—there was one thing I wanted to tell her…’”

Oshino lowered her head, but before Genjirō could interject, she raised her face and continued quietly, "The daughter couldn't have known."

“At that time, the daughter merely thought he wanted to voice his resentment at being treated coldly all along. But while searching for her mother, she learned of her mother’s obsession with men—and when she confronted her mother after her return from that distant pleasure trip, she was told the truth: that she herself was a child born of infidelity.” “At that time, Osono was with a child actor named Nakamura Kikutarō. Despite her husband’s corpse lying in the adjacent tatami room, she drank sake with Kikutarō as if nothing were wrong. In her cheerful drunkenness, she spoke ill of the deceased without hesitation and confessed: ‘Your real father isn’t this man—it’s Genjirō, the owner of Maruume in Nihonbashi Yorozuchō.’”

“How does Ms. Oyonē know such detailed things?” Genjirō coughed and demanded. “Did you hear it from Oshino?” “That daughter loved her dead father,” Oshino replied calmly, “more than any girl in this world ever could. She’d always resented her mother’s cruelty. When she learned she was a child born of infidelity, she finally understood what her father had wanted to say at his deathbed—and knew she could never forgive her mother or the men who’d tormented him alongside her.”

“I understand,” Genjirō said. “You heard it from Oshino after all—isn’t that right, Ms. Oyonē?”

Oshino silently stared into his eyes.

Five

“So it’s true Oshino lives.” Genjirō asked with suddenly chilled expression, “You know her—you heard this from Oshino herself. Where is she now?” “But aren’t you curious about the four dead men?” “Why should I be?” “I told you they all had ties to Osono—each killed identically, with camellia petals left by their pillows—” Oshino said suggestively. “Camellias were Father’s sole delight—the one pleasure in his joyless life. Those petals were offerings to his memory.”

“So you mean the one who killed the four people is—” He started to say but vehemently shook his head. “No—that’s absurd! There’s no way...” “That’s right—Oshino killed all four of them.” Having said that, Oshino searched the left sleeve of her underrobe, produced a flat silver hairpin and a neatly folded paper package, opened it, and revealed inside a single red camellia petal. Genjirō arched backward, supporting his upper body with both hands. His face stiffened to the color of wall plaster; his wide-open eyes looked ready to burst from their sockets.

Oshino once again opened the collar of her underrobe to both sides and bared her chest to him. “Go ahead,” Oshino said. “Touch me. I’m Oshino—your daughter. You’ll hold me and sleep with me now, won’t you?”

Genjirō opened his mouth. He seemed about to say something, but his tongue stiffened, rendering him speechless, and his entire body began to quiver in small spasms. Oshino stared fixedly at him without moving her eyes. After a moment, she hid her chest, pulled the kimono lying beside the bedding toward herself, and stood up while draping it over her shoulders. Genjirō shifted his body and tried to rise to change clothes as well, but Oshino looked at him sideways and said, “You mustn’t.”

“You’re staying here tonight.” Genjirō lowered the knee he had started to rise, set his back against the folding screen, and sat down as though utterly at a loss. Oshino quickly finished changing clothes, placed the bedding between them, and sat facing Genjirō.

“I was going to kill you too.” “Why?” he stammered, his words tangling on his tongue, “Why did you have to kill four people?” “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you,” Oshino whispered in a voice meant to pierce through his heart. “If you were the sort who could understand, you’d be too ashamed to keep living—you tried to bed your own flesh-and-blood daughter tonight after sweet-talking her with all those lies.”

“Th-that’s—” he stammered violently, “I didn’t know it was you.” “I thought I’d turn you into a beast,” Oshino continued relentlessly. “After making you a beast, I intended to kill you. But I reconsidered—I’ll let you live, because it’s too merciful to kill you. I’ll turn myself in now and confess everything—how I set fire to the dormitory and burned Mother and Kikutarō to death.”

Genjirō exclaimed, “Ah! What are you saying—Ms. Osono and that actor?” “I burned them to death while they were passed out drunk.” “So you’re trying to threaten me, huh?” “The judgment will reveal it all—how your flesh-and-blood daughter doused the house in oil and set it ablaze,” said Oshino with a soft smile. “After burning her real mother alive and killing four men one after another, turning myself in will make this known throughout society. And that my father is Genjirō, owner of Maruume.”

“You mean to threaten me,” he said. “You’ll suffer,” Oshino said in a soothing tone, “The agony of dying lasts but a moment—over before you know it. But I won’t let you have that. You’ll suffer as long as you live. Kill a parent, and you’ll face crucifixion or burning at the stake. You’ll spend your days knowing everyone in this world understands two truths: that you committed adultery, and that the daughter born from that sin was executed by crucifixion or flames. You’ll writhe in that knowledge until your dying breath.”

“That’s a lie! There’s no way that’s possible!” “You’ll understand once you see it,” said Oshino, standing up with the cloth bundle. “The trial won’t take long. Within ten days, it should be the talk of all Edo.” “I won’t allow it!” Genjirō also stood up—the front of his nightclothes hanging sloppily open, his thickly-haired shins fully exposed—and declared: “If you’re truly Oshino, I won’t let you die like that! My sins may be my own, but I can’t permit you to perish. Sit down again—we must discuss this!”

“What discussion could there possibly be?” “Living,” he said with desperate eyes. “You’re young and beautiful—if you don’t turn yourself in, everything can stay hidden. I’ll do anything to atone for your sins—please, listen to me.” “That’s where the suffering begins.” Oshino gave a low laugh. “Even without punishment, I won’t live long. This body has Father’s illness—I’ve already coughed up blood twice.”

“I—I’ll stop you by force!” “Try it. If you shout just once, the maids will come. Since I’ll be surrendering anyway, I’ll have them summon the town magistrates and be tied with the arrest rope right before your eyes.” Genjirō let both hands drop limply.

“Aren’t you going to stop me by force?” said Oshino, then pointed to the hairpin at the bedding’s pillowside and the petal resting on paper. “—This is my memento to you. Do not forget to take it home.” And then she quietly exited to the adjacent tatami room. “Oshino, you mustn’t do that,” Genjirō rasped out hoarsely. “You can’t do this, Oshino.” But his voice was low and hoarse, so Oshino likely did not hear it. Genjirō stared with eyes that were the very embodiment of terror at the silver hairpin and the blood-red mountain camellia petal.

Six

The afternoon of December 27th.

Aoki Chinosuke was at his official quarters in Hatchōbori, organizing accumulated documents. The rain that had been falling since morning seemed like it might turn to snow, but there was no sign of that happening despite the bitter cold; instead, the sound of raindrops striking the stones below the eaves could be heard murmuring in a low, slow, and depressingly gloomy tone.

Because his hands had grown numb with cold, he set down his brush and was warming his fingers at the brazier when his colleague Okada Sakuemon called out and entered. "You're working hard. Isn't it already dark?" "Because I want to rest during New Year's," answered Chinosuke, "—have you finished already?" "Yeah, I just can't settle down." Okada narrowed his eyes. "It's embarrassing to admit, but once it gets to this hour—no matter how I try to calm myself—I get restless and can't focus on anything."

“It’s not my fault—I’m begging you, don’t interfere. Today’s the 27th day of the Twelfth Month.” “You could at least hear me out—there’s something I need to discuss.” Chinosuke raised his hand to cut him off. “Ah-ah, none of that. Don’t start about that woman—my only advice remains ‘break it off.’” “What a heartless friend.” “Ah yes—when it comes to this matter, I haven’t a speck of friendship in me.” Chinosuke turned back to his desk and took up his brush. “If you’ve no other business, I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Aoki’s misunderstanding that woman,” said Okada as he stood up. “If you’d just meet her once and talk properly, you’d see she has real worth as my wife.” “I’ve heard that line countless times,” said Chinosuke while shuffling documents. “Every woman you fall for has ‘the makings of a worthy wife’—and before fifty days pass, they all turn into some Okame dragging their hems. Hell, even a child wouldn’t keep falling into the same pit.”

“If I say this O-Matsu is different—” “That’s another one of your stock lines.” Chinosuke kept his back turned as he waved the hand holding the brush. “Go on, get out. I have to finish this.” Okada Sakuemon let out a sigh and left while shaking his head, but he immediately slid open the closed shoji door and returned. “I almost forgot,” he said, holding out a thick letter.

“This got mixed into my document box,” said Okada. “It’s addressed to a woman named Oshino—isn’t this a summons?”

“Oshino.”

Chinosuke took it and examined the signature. “A name I don’t recall… What could this be?”

“Isn’t this the same line my O-Matsu uses?” said Okada, backing away. “Don’t make that face—it’s just a joke!” And this time, he left in a hurry.

Chinosuke stared at the signature reading “Oshino” for a while, then cut open the seal and unfolded the thick, swollen letter. On scroll paper about an inch thick lay a single sheet folded into a long, narrow strip; he began by reading that first. I am Oshino—daughter of Musashiya—a medicine wholesaler in Nihonbashi Honchō Sanchōme. It began with these words: I wish to surrender myself for the crime of murder, but since I once deceived you at Kanebon and have heard you are investigating me, I earnestly request that you personally bind me with rope. I will wait here without moving until you arrive, but I would like you to read the enclosed letter before you come. Given that this matter involves complicated circumstances which I might not be able to adequately convey verbally, I have recorded the sequence of events leading up to and following it. The writing is awkward and the characters are likely difficult to read, but I ask that you please look through it all the same. Such was what was written.

“Near Honjo Makuhibashi, next to Lord Matsudaira of Echizen’s residence—Murata’s... a teahouse, it must be.” After reading the address, Chinosuke bit his lower lip and muttered, “So it was the girl named Oshino after all.”

He cleared his desk and began reading the letter. The confession contained within was so extraordinary that one could scarcely imagine an eighteen-year-old girl capable of such acts, yet simultaneously seemed inconceivable without the unyielding moral purity unique to that very age. She had conveyed with raw intensity her profound devotion to her father, meticulously detailing how deeply his reminiscences about the mountain camellia had moved her. The prose showed no rhetorical flourishes, appearing to transcribe facts directly—though riddled with clumsy phrasing, it seemed to lay bare authentic emotions.

I could not forgive my mother.

Regarding her mother's infidelity and misconduct, she had expressed her anger without concealment. (These are matters the reader has already encountered.) And when I was told that I was a child of adultery—moreover, hearing my own mother speak of it so composedly—I became resolved to kill her. The bond between mother and child had vanished—I felt that as a human being, I could not forgive her, that she was defiling all women.

For people to live, there are rules we must mutually uphold. Should those rules be disregarded, society could not sustain itself, and humans would lose their very humanity. Above all, the relationship between men and women is fundamentally rooted in mutual sincerity and trust. Though I remain ignorant of romantic entanglements myself—unable to comprehend how they might lead people astray into error—I have heard that acts of adultery are far from uncommon in this world.

――But Mother’s case was different. Had it been simply that Mother had been promiscuous and given birth to a child of adultery, I likely would never have come to feel such murderous intent. To Mother, it was neither a “mistake” nor did she feel any sense of wrongdoing. From how Father seemed to know, I think she did not even try to conceal that I was a child of adultery. ――Just one thing before he died― "There's just one thing I want to say," Father said. For nearly twenty years, he had likely wanted to hurl his suppressed and suppressed feelings at Mother just once. However, even if he had been able to do so, Mother would surely have remained unfazed.

When Mother saw Father’s corpse, she did not show even a hint of sorrow. Declaring, "This is your fault," she fled—only to drink and carouse in the very same house where her husband’s body lay, alongside the child actor Kikutarō. ――How could this be forgiven? What Mother has done is not merely misconduct or indecency. It is as though she has defiled the world’s laws and the trust between people, dragged them through the mud, and then mocked them.

—And that mother’s blood courses through this very body of mine.

I resolved to die. As an apology to my father—who loved me so dearly despite knowing I was a child of adultery— Of course Mother had to die, and I resolved that the men who had tormented Father alongside her must also atone for their crimes—this was my decision. From the matter of Kameido’s dormitory to that of Sakichi of the houseboat—you must have already investigated these by now. With the over eight hundred ryō my father left me, I rented a house, hired a young maidservant, and lived while investigating the men connected to my mother. The one who knew their whereabouts was Sakichi. There were over eight men, but from among them, I selected only five—those whom I absolutely had to make atone for their crimes.

—In this world, there exist crimes that cannot be punished by the established law. I believe you have already read what I once wrote about this. When I wrote that, I truly believed it—that killing my birth mother, killing my birth father, and murdering five strangers were crimes that could not be punished under the established law—and yet were unforgivable by human standards—and that I had to believe this to carry out my actions.

The confession text broke off here; the remainder continued in fresh ink, scrawled as follows.

―I did not kill my birth father. It was not that I could not kill, but that I "chose not to kill." I clearly told him that I am his real daughter; that I have killed six people, including my mother; and that when I surrender myself, I intend to state in detail the reasons why—along with the fact that I am a child of adultery, and that my true father is Genjirō, proprietor of the Maruume establishment in Nihonbashi Yorozumachi.

――Because I wanted that person to suffer for life―to bear an unbearable burden until death. I am now writing this in Murata's annex, but unlike the tense resolve I felt when first setting fire to the dormitory, I find myself tormented by shame and the realization that I had overstepped my bounds. ―Crimes that cannot be punished by the established law. When I wrote those words then, I believed them without doubt―but the notion of replacing established law with "my own judgment," of myself punishing and judging crimes, proved mistaken. It was when resolving to "spare" the biological father I hated most that I realized―killing someone constitutes neither punishment nor compels atonement. If that person's crimes could not be punished by established law, I came to understand they must atone for them themselves.

――But Mother alone had to die. I, in whom my mother’s blood flows, must also die. I had been prepared for this from the beginning―whether crucifixion or burning at the stake mattered not. I wished only to swiftly receive judgment, be executed, and go to my father in the afterlife. That alone was my desire now.

The letter ended there.

Chinosuke rolled up the letter, placed it in the desk drawer, and prepared to go out.

Final Chapter

Turning right just before Makurabashi Bridge and proceeding about a block from the Matsudaira Echizen residence, there was a restaurant teahouse called "Murata" with an eave lantern hanging at its entrance.

When he had the palanquin brought inside the gate, the maid must have noticed, for she came out to greet him with an umbrella. Chinosuke had the palanquin wait, "Is there a female guest named Oshino in the annex?" he asked, then stated his name and position. Upon hearing he was a town magistrate, the maid seemed momentarily startled, but having presumably been informed of the name Aoki, she said, "We have been expecting you," and stepped forward to guide him.

The annex stood as a separate building from the main house with its own roof structure, but since a roof had been built over the stepping stones, there was no need for umbrellas, and the stones led straight to the annex's veranda. At the veranda, the maid called out, "The guest you're expecting has arrived," and Chinosuke made a dismissive hand gesture to her.

“Would you like me to prepare anything?” asked the maid. “Later,” answered Chinosuke.

After waiting for the maid to leave, Chinosuke took his sword in his right hand, stepped up onto the veranda, and announced his name. However, there was no reply; the tatami room was deathly still, with no sign of anyone present. ――Had she escaped? Realizing his mistake, he roughly slid open the shoji.

In the twilight of a rainy day, the tatami room was already dark, the scent of burning incense hanging thick enough to choke. “Oshino,” he said, coughing. “Oshino—are you here?”

Chinosuke threw the shoji wide open.

On the small desk, an incense burner sent up smoke, and beside the brazier, the girl lay face down. Chinosuke stood rooted to the spot, staring down at her from above, but with his long experience, he recognized in an instant that it was already a corpse.

“I was too late,” he muttered. “Couldn’t you wait?” While realizing somewhere in his mind that he had intended to save Oshino, he crouched down and gently turned the corpse onto its back. The girl’s hands were gripping the hilt of the dagger thrust into her chest; both legs were tightly bound with a bandage over her kimono at the knees. Chinosuke, after properly laying the girl on her back to make her body more comfortable, stepped out to the stepping stones and clapped his hands.

He had the maid light the paper lantern and ordered that a messenger be sent to Hatchōbori. Since he had not allowed her into the tatami room, the maid had likely noticed nothing. As Chinosuke, he did not want anyone to see Oshino’s corpse, but as part of his official duties, he had no choice but to summon the constables. As he surveyed the tatami room by the light of the paper lantern, he found a letter beside the incense burner on the small desk. He moved the small desk next to the brazier, then opened and read the letter addressed to "Inspector Aoki."

――I have no excuse for breaking our promise. The letter was hastily written, beginning with an apology—I had intended to surrender myself, but grew terrified when considering the punishment. When faced with the moment, I feared I might act cowardly. For this I apologize to you, but I will take my own life. Please dispose of my corpse according to the law. ――At the foot of Dōkanyama there is a gardener called Uemori. In their retirement house lives a servant named Omasa—a mere hired hand who knows nothing. Please handle matters without involving them should they still be there. In that room’s desk lies a packet of money—the remainder of what my father left me, funds entirely above reproach. If you find it acceptable, I humbly ask that you use this to supplement rice distributions for the poor.

I have caused you considerable trouble. Though I ought to have met you once to offer my apologies, I beg your forgiveness for choosing to die in this manner. There remains one final request. Though I know not what disposition my corpse may face, I implore you to have an autopsy performed before its disposal. ――For I wish you to know that my body remains undefiled, and that I die still a daughter.

The letter was thus concluded.

Chinosuke left the letter spread open on the small desk and turned his gaze toward Oshino. The rain continued beating against the eaves without respite; perhaps the wind had risen, for from the side came the restless rustling of bamboo leaves.

Oshino’s face was peaceful. On her wax-pale cheeks, her elegantly arched eyebrows, her lips drained of redness—there was not a trace of anguish. Her countenance remained composed and tranquil, as though she were smiling in her sleep. “Oshino... I can’t say anything,” he whispered to her lifeless face. “I don’t know whether what you did was right or wrong. But that you wanted to do it—that you couldn’t help doing it—that much is truth. If it was truly something you couldn’t help... then you needn’t regret having done it.”

He closed his eyes and continued, “I’ve taken responsibility for Genjirō of Maruume. I’ll make sure he fully tastes the bitterness of his crimes—you must be by your father’s side now. No need to torment your heart or fear others’ eyes. Rest quietly there with him. No one will disturb you anymore.”

Chinosuke took out a folded hand towel from his kimono sleeve, edged closer to Oshino, and draped it over her face. The incense burner’s smoke had already ceased.