Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

In the second month of spring, Meiwa 5.
At Kōenji Temple, located on the western outskirts of Okazaki Castle Town in Mikawa Province, a troupe called "Iwamoto Shinnosuke's Company" performed in a temporary theater.
Kouda Wajirou was invited by his friend Taniguchi Shuuri and went to see it one day.
The Kouda family held a hereditary position yielding 650 koku, their lineage being that of a rotating second senior councilor in their home province. However, two years prior, the suicide of Wajirou’s elder sister had cast a shadow—prompting his father Hiraemon to resign his post and retire. Though Wajirou had inherited the family headship at eighteen, he remained without official appointment.
Taniguchi Shuuri was the son of a middle-ranking samurai official with a stipend of 300 koku, two years older than Wajirou, and a maternal cousin to him.

The temporary theater for performances was a structure built with logs and enclosed with straw mats and curtains. The backstage and stage had raised flooring, and while half of the audience seating was arranged as box seats, the majority were left standing for viewing.
The program consisted of several dances, songs, dog and monkey acts, magic tricks, acrobatics, and more; among the twelve troupe members, there were more young women than men.
After watching nearly every act in the packed house—from troupe leader Iwamoto Shinnosuke’s spear dance to the dog and monkey tricks, and even the magic show by a girl named Iwamoto Misao Dayū—Wajirou grew bored and said, “Let’s leave.”

“Wait,” Shuuri stopped him, “I want you to see this ‘Miwaka Dayū’ written there. It’s only about the second item—just bear with it a little longer.”

Wajirou reluctantly agreed.

Soon, Miwaka Dayū’s “Water Wheel Blossom Return Technique” performance began.
Miwaka Dayū was a girl of fifteen or sixteen. Her body—standing approximately five shaku and two sun—was tautly proportioned, her chest having developed womanly curves, yet her round-cheeked face retained a childlike innocence. Wide eyes that seemed perpetually startled and a small, upturned mouth gave her an air that still carried the milky softness of infancy.
She wore flashy patterned warrior’s hakama trousers over a pale yellow-green kosode robe, with a tasuki sash and headband, and held a red oak practice naginata.
When the prologue concluded, three men appeared on one side of the stage, took red and white balls, and threw them to Miwaka Dayū.
Miwaka Dayū wielded her naginata with mastery, striking back each ball flawlessly; yet her technique of returning every one of the three men’s rapid successive throws without missing a single one was truly exceptional.

“—Winds stir hillside treetops; cherry blossoms whirl through rapids—strike and return, water wheel—”

When the narration wove in these chant-like verses, the makeshift theater shook with thunderous applause and cheers.

“Well?—” Shuuri pressed, “The resemblance is striking, isn’t it?”

“Skillful.”
Wajirou gave a curt nod. “Not mere street performance—they’ve undergone disciplined training.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s well-honed skill—a waste on a traveling performer.”

“That’s not it,” Shuuri said. “What I’m saying is that she resembles Fukae-san.”

Wajirou turned around and looked at Shuuri.
He wore an expression as though someone had prodded a fresh wound, but Shuuri appeared oblivious.
Wajirou immediately returned his gaze to the stage and shook his head while frowning.

“No, I don’t think so,” Wajirou said. “My sister was thinner—more subdued, with a sorrowful face.”

And he frowned even more deeply.

2

When Wakao descended from the stage, Old Man Kusuke, the baggage keeper, beckoned to her.
Wakao removed her headband and sash, wiped the sweat from her forehead, placed her naginata on the sword rack, and headed that way.

“Wakabō, you’ve got a visitor,” said Kusuke, jerking his chin toward the backstage. “Seems to be a samurai from the local clan’s household. He’s been talking with the troupe leader for a while now—looks like some good fortune might be coming your way.”

“Another unsavory proposition, isn’t it?”
Wakao wrinkled the bridge of her nose. “Lately, wherever I go, it’s nothing but unsavory propositions. Even the great Miwaka Dayū is getting fed up.”

“Good luck seems to be heading your way,” said Kusuke. “I just caught wind of it myself—from what I heard, they want to take Wakabō in as an adopted daughter.”

“They say that, but it’s really about making me a mistress—it’s obvious.”

“Wakabō—” Kusuke blinked rapidly, “You’ve come to understand such things too, eh?”

“I’m already fourteen years old.”

Wakao did not head toward the greenroom; instead, she lifted the straw mat from a spot one level below and climbed down the ladder to exit outside.

“Where are you going?”
The old man said, “You’ll be called by the troupe leader soon.”

“Just tell them I’m not here—I want no part of that talk!” Wakao replied.
“I’m going to check on Shou Dayū, but don’t tell anyone, okay?”

Immediately behind the ladder stood another hut enclosed with straw mats.
It served as storage for several carts, horses, and tools. When Wakao lifted the hanging straw mat and entered, she found in the dimly lit corner a woman called Kogiku Dayū crouching over some task.

“How’s it going? Has Miss Shou given birth yet?”

Wakao said this as she softly approached and peered.

“Not yet,” Kogiku Dayū answered. “It’s her first time giving birth, so it seems to be a struggle.”

A dog lay in a straw-lined box.
A two-year-old female dog named Shou Dayū, she was one of the performing dogs used by Kogiku Dayū.
While having her belly stroked by Kogiku Dayū, Shou Dayū hung her tongue out in apparent pain, looked up at Wakao while panting heavily, and let out a series of mournful whimpers.

“Hang in there, Shou-chan,” Wakao said. “You’re having puppies—this isn’t the time for whimpering! Push harder, push!”

From the hut came an exceptionally loud and rapid rhythm of festive music, and the audience’s cheers roared up.

“That’s Miss Tokiwa’s acrobatics, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Wakao said, “it’s your turn next, isn’t it? I’ll watch over Shou-chan.”

“I’m counting on you—I’ll come straight back when I finish.”

Kogiku Dayū stood up and took Wakao’s place.
Wakao crouched, inserted her left hand beneath the dog’s neck, and with her right hand gently stroked its belly.
Kogiku Dayū watched her hands for a while, then said as she left,

“Don’t press too hard, Wakabō—your hakama hem’s dragging.”

Wakao briskly tucked up the hem of her hakama and continued tending to the dog with a fiercely determined expression.

“They say you should push hard enough to split a green bamboo during childbirth, Shou-chan,” Wakao chattered without pause. “That’s still not enough—when the time comes, they say you won’t even see the shoji lattice anymore! There’s no shoji here, but focusing on the straw mat’s weave works the same way. Keep your eyes fixed on the weave! Come on, push harder!”

However, soon a young man named Gonnosuke arrived.
He was a short twenty-year-old man who made tightrope walking his art.
His demeanor was unremarkable; he had a severe stutter and couldn’t speak without gestures and pantomime.

“Don’t come here!” Wakao turned around and said. “It’s not something men should be watching!”

“The troupe leader’s calling you.”
Gonnosuke stuttered, “A guest’s here—in the greenroom. Says to hand over Wakabō. It’s a samurai, no less.”

“That’s enough—just tell them I’m not here!”

“He says to come right away.”
Gonnosuke’s face reddened, lips pursed into a tube as he stammered, “Th-the samurai left—he came to watch Wakabō’s performances three days in a row! Three whole days! Then he came asking to take you in as his adopted daughter. You gonna go, huh?”

“Why should I care about that?”

“Don’t go.”
Gonnosuke waved his hands, spittle flying as he said, “If Wakabō leaves, we’ll be lonely—it’s the truth! You’re everyone’s precious Wakabō, so I’m beggin’ ya—don’t go anywhere!”

“Quiet, you idiot! Can’t you see Shou-chan’s too distracted to give birth now?”
Wakao crouched further forward. “Come on—just one more push! The puppies are moving inside you, right? It’ll be over soon, so hang in there.”

“The troupe leader’s calling for you,” Gonnosuke said. “If you don’t go, you’ll get scolded.”

Wakao turned around.
How annoying! She was about to yell just that when Sou Dayū the magician entered.
He was still in his stage costume, sucking on a candy.

“Wakabō, the troupe leader’s calling you,” said Sou Dayū as he approached. “Just leave that be and hurry over—you’ll get scolded.”

“But she’s about to give birth any moment now!”

“Just go already, I’m telling you! Dogs give birth on their own without all that fuss.”

“But I promised Miss Kogiu—”

As she was about to say that, two more people—Senzō of the Tanzaimai Dance and Nuinosuke, Sō Dayū’s assistant—came rushing in.

“Is it true, Wakabō?” Senzō blurted out as he rushed in. “You’re really being taken into a samurai household—is that the real story?”

“The troupe leader gave that reply,” Nuinosuke said in a sluggish tone. “He promised properly—said he’d bring her along right after, since it’s for her own advancement.”

Wakao stood up.
She stood up, turned around, and looked in turn at the faces of the four people there.

“It’s true,” Nuinosuke said.

“That’s nonsense!” Wakao declared in a resolute voice. “You all know it too—they’ve only ever come here with disgusting demands, like making me serve drinks or become their mistress! I know all about it already.”

“If that were true, the troupe leader would’ve refused,” Senzō said. “The fact he agreed means it’s not some shady deal.”

“That’s right.”
Nuinosuke nodded emphatically, “It’s for her own advancement—the troupe leader said so properly.”

“Don’t go, Wakabō.”
Gonnosuke stuttered out, “It’s hard for the troupe leader to let you go too—he’s loved you like his own daughter! And we all—*all* of us—think of you as our real little sister!”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Wakao puffed out her chest and declared.

“Don’t worry—I ain’t goin’ anywhere! I’m Miwaka Dayū of the Iwamoto Troupe! Even if that story *were* true, d’ya think I’d go? Who the hell would?!”

At that moment, the entrance curtain was lifted, and Iwamoto Shinnosuke, the troupe leader, entered.
He was a white-haired man around sixty years old, his stout and sturdy frame layered in a padded kimono and underrobe. With one hand tucked into his clothing, he stood there, his calm, narrow eyes fixed intently on Wakao.
The other four held their breath and stepped aside; the troupe leader spoke in a slightly hoarse, low voice.

“Come along, Wakao. We’re leaving.”

The four looked at Wakao.
Wakao silently turned her gaze toward Shou Dayū in the box.
The dog looked up at her and let out a sad, sniffling whine.

III

Wakao was taken into the Kouda family as an adopted daughter.

The Kouda residence was located in an area called Kuromon-gai, facing the castle’s outer moat.
Standing on the moatside path outside the gate, one could see Sugao Kuruwa to the left, Bizen Kuruwa to the right, and beyond Sugao Kuruwa, Honmaru’s keep tower.
The keep tower could be seen from the residence’s garden, and it could also be viewed from Wakao’s room.
For about five days after being taken in, Wakao did nothing but gaze at the keep tower from the room she had been given and cry alone.

On the day Wakao was brought to the Kouda family, in the presence of Hiraemon and his wife, the troupe leader for the first time recounted her background.

“Wakao is the child of a samurai,” the troupe leader said.
“Exactly twelve years ago, while on the Tōkaidō in Shimizu, the troupe was caught in a prolonged rain and took shelter at a cheap inn.”
“At that time, a ronin carrying an infant was lodging there as well, but he had been ill for over three months and no longer had any hope of recovery.”
“The ronin was named Kawachi Jūrō and, for some reason, seemed to place immense trust in Magouemon, asking him to take in and raise this infant.”
At that time, Magouemon’s wife was still alive, and since the ronin’s trusting demeanor was earnest, he firmly agreed to take on the responsibility, accepted the infant along with the umbilical cord document and genealogy, and departed the inn as soon as the rain stopped.
The troupe was on their way east at that time, but while performing in Odawara Castle Town, a letter arrived from the inn they had requested, informing them of Kawachi Jūrō’s death.

“That infant was Wakao,” the troupe leader said.
The reason he hadn’t provided full details until now was that he had thought it best not to inform her she was a samurai’s child if she were to remain a traveling performer her whole life. However，since she had fortunately been taken into the Kouda family，he was now telling them.
“From now on，she must live as if reborn and become a splendid daughter who does not bring shame to the Kouda family name.”

The umbilical cord document and genealogy were entrusted to the Kouda family.
"Consider yourself severed from the Iwamoto Troupe," Magouemon declared as he departed with those final words.

At least let me say goodbye to everyone once.

Wakao pleaded like that—even said she wanted to wait until after Shou Dayū gave birth—but Magouemon glared at her with fierce eyes and scolded her: "How can a samurai’s child fuss over such disgraceful matters?" He left without so much as a backward glance.

After that Wakao remained secluded in her room almost constantly—barely eating proper meals—doing nothing but cry alone until dawn on the seventh day when Yutaka came and suggested they have breakfast together.

“You’ve cried enough, haven’t you?” Yutaka said. “Over there, you were so good at telling jokes—you made everyone laugh all the time. Come now, cheer up and let’s go together.”

Yutaka was forty-one, with a slim, petite build, her complexion poor, her eyes lacking vitality—she appeared thoroughly frail.

――What a frail-looking person.

Wakao felt as though she had just discovered something for the first time, and with that thought, she began to offer a half-smile.

――I feel bad for troubling you with my care.

And she nodded energetically and stood up.

“Yes, I’m sorry for causing you concern. I won’t cry anymore, so please forgive me.”

“That’s perfectly fine. Now, let’s be on our way.”

Yutaka narrowed her eyes and nodded gently several times.
Wakao smiled with eyes that crinkled slightly downward and, drawing closer to Yutaka, said.

“Madam, shall I carry you there?”

“Wh—”
Yutaka widened her eyes.

“I’m strong, you know,” Wakao declared proudly. “Old Man Hisasuke, the chest keeper, has bad legs, right? So I carry him when he needs to go to the privy. Madam, you look lighter than Old Man Hisasuke, so carrying you would be easy!”

“Oh, don’t be silly!”
Yutaka burst into laughter. “—But thank you. I’ll be fine.”
Then she looked at Wakao gently and said, “And don’t call me ‘Madam.’ You’ve become a daughter of the Kouda family now, so you may call the master ‘Father’ and me ‘Mother.’”

“Yes, M-M-Mother…”

The moment Wakao began to say this, she kept her eyes fixed on Yutaka, her face suddenly crumpling as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
Yutaka, surprised, peered into Wakao’s face.

“What’s wrong, Wakao-san?”

“It’s nothing.”
While tears spilled down her cheeks, Wakao shook her head. “It’s nothing, I’m sorry. It’s just—calling someone ‘Mother’... I’ve never done that since I was born, so it doesn’t come out smoothly.”

“It’s all right.”
Yutaka said while averting her eyes, “You’ll get used to it soon enough. Now, let’s go.”

Yutaka gently took Wakao’s hand.

Wakao regained her spirits and gradually grew accustomed to the family.
As her kimono and obi were completed and her hair styled in samurai fashion, she began striving on her own to refine her speech and learn proper etiquette.
Of course, long-ingrained habits could not be broken so easily; whenever she grew careless, she would run down corridors, speak brusquely, or climb trees in the garden.
Hiraemon and Yutaka offered little reproach.
Wajirou too appeared pleased with this Wakao, always watching her with a smile.

The Kouda household had Watanabe Gorobei as their steward, seven other samurai retainers, five male and female servants, and kept three horses.
Wakao was told not to approach the samurai quarters and never went beyond the inner garden partition to that side.
It seemed she did not want anyone to know she had been part of the Iwamoto Troupe, and if asked by anyone, she had been told to answer, "I am a relative from Edo."

On a certain day in late February.

When Wajirou returned from training at Seimeikan, Wakao came chasing after him to his room, her eyes shining.

“I have been told,” Wakao exclaimed in an excited voice. “I’ve heard everything from Mother! Wakao knows all about it now!”

“You’re really overdoing it,” Wajirou said. “What did you even hear?”

“It’s about who found me—I hear it was you, Elder Brother.” Wakao looked at Wajirou with sparkling eyes. “—Elder Brother came to see me, then brought Father along, and I hear you earnestly pleaded to have me adopted into the family.”

“So you’re saying you resent me?”

“Resent you? Would *Wakao* do such a thing?”

“But you hated it so much that you kept crying like that, didn’t you?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Wakao stomped her foot, then quickly caught herself and rephrased, “How absurd! *I* don’t go around crying or anything of the sort. And if I did cry—which I’m not saying I did—it wouldn’t be because I resented it. It would just be... crying.”

“Hmm. ‘Just crying,’ you say?”

“Hey, Elder Brother, tell me—”

Wakao slightly lowered her voice.

Four

“Mother says Wakao resembles her deceased Elder Sister.”
Having said this, she looked into Wajirou’s eyes. “—That there was an Elder Sister at all, that she passed away two years ago—I only learned these things today for the first time. But is it true? That you adopted me because Wakao resembles her?”

Wajirou deeply furrowed his brows.

“Did Mother tell you that herself?”

“Yes—” Wakao nodded. “When I asked why you took me in, that’s what she told me.”

“Let me make this clear,” Wajirou said. “From now on, you must never speak of my sister again. Mother may seem terribly fragile now—she wasn’t like that before. My sister’s death struck her too deeply. In this household, we don’t discuss that matter.”

“Yes—I understand.”

“Then,” Wajirou continued, “Wakao doesn’t resemble my sister. A friend of mine named Taniguchi Shuuri insists you do, and Father also said you bear a strong likeness. That’s why we decided adopting you would suit Mother as well—but I had other considerations.”

Wakao stared fixedly at Wajirou’s lips, her expression tense as she gulped audibly.

“Well,” Wajirou said, “it’s because I saw potential in Wakao’s naginata skills.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!”

“It’s true—of course, it was a performance meant to entertain audiences, so we couldn’t leave it as it was—but there was an innate talent, or perhaps a genuine substance to Wakao’s naginata skills. Later, when I heard she had samurai lineage, I thought rigorous training could make her truly formidable.”

“Elder Brother, do you also practice the naginata?”

“I don’t practice it, but my sister was skilled.”
Wajirou’s brows furrowed again.
But this time, it wasn’t so severe. “There’s a master named Isono Man in this household—a practitioner of Masaki-ryu naginata renowned even in Edo. My sister also received her instruction. Soon, we’ll enroll *you* in her school. If you obtain a license, it’ll restore the Kawachi family’s honor.”

“I won’t say such things.”
Wakao tightened her lips as though steeling herself. “I will not say things like ‘I might be able to do it.’ I will declare ‘I *will* accomplish it.’ Without fail.”

“There’s no need to get so worked up now. Enrollment comes much later. First you need to properly learn etiquette and manners.”

Wakao kept her lips tightly pressed together, staying silent as she gave one deep, emphatic nod.

Wakao gradually adapted to life in the Kouda household.
Her excessively energetic and cheerful disposition seemed to lift Mother’s spirits—laughter frequently carried from that room, and Mother’s complexion showed visible improvement.
This development appeared rather unexpected to Hiraemon, who one day remarked to Wajirou.

“You were right. I thought that since she resembles Fukae again, it might make Mother grieve instead, but...”

“It’s said that mothers desire daughters after all.”

“That girl has good temperament,” Hiraemon said. “She might turn out to be quite a gain.”

Wajirou had tried to ask his father then—the words had reached the verge of being spoken—but ultimately lacked the courage to voice them.

Why did Sister commit suicide?

He had wanted to ask that.

The reason for Sister’s suicide was unclear.
By nature, she had been quiet, taciturn, and reserved.
Contrary to such a disposition, she was inept at the arts but liked scholarly pursuits and martial arts.
In particular, within the Isono school’s naginata tradition, she was counted among its three foremost practitioners.
Two years ago in May, at nineteen years old, she took her own life without leaving a note—this coming just after there had been a marriage proposal.
The suitor was a mid-ranking elder named Iharano Yōnosuke, who had made his approach through senior councilor Matsudaira Shuzennosuke as intermediary.
Fukae had already turned nineteen, and though her parents considered it an advantageous match and were keenly interested, they never meant to impose an unwanted union.

“Please decline Lord Ihara.”

The day before she committed suicide, Fukae had said this to Mother.
If that were true, then it likely wasn’t about the marriage proposal—but (at least for Wajirou) there was nothing else he could think of.
From what he had secretly observed, Mother seemed to know something.
Not only had her conduct after Sister’s death been far from ordinary, but when she discovered the corpse, she had nearly descended into madness—

“Why didn’t you consult Mother?”

She had pleaded like this repeatedly.

That outburst ended there; afterward, she became so distraught it nearly made her ill—to the point where merely hearing Fukae’s name would drain the color from her face.
He felt certain his mother knew something, and if she did, he imagined his father must know too.
He had wanted to ask them at least once—but whenever the moment came, his courage failed him.
Even if he learned the reason, it wouldn’t bring the dead back to life—nor would prying open old scars serve any purpose—so he told himself.

In the eighth month of autumn, Wakao enrolled in Isono’s dojo.

What the Kouda family was most anxious about was that Wakao had been part of the Iwamoto Troupe.
To the world, they claimed to have taken her in as an adopted daughter from relatives in Edo and had reported as such to the domain.
The only ones who knew the truth were the three members of the Kouda family and Watanabe Goroubei, the family steward who had handled the negotiations.
There was one other person—Taniguchi Shuuri, who had discovered her onstage and invited Wajirou to watch—who would surely recognize Wakao if he saw her now. Fortunately, however, he had been assigned to Edo and left Okazaki.
Shortly after Wakao was taken into the Kouda household, he came to bid farewell to the family as well, but of course, they did not let him meet Wakao.
Since his term was three years, Wakao’s demeanor would likely change in that time, and by the time he returned to the domain, he would surely no longer recognize her as Miwaka Dayū.
Unless something highly coincidental occurred, it could be said that her former identity would remain undiscovered.

Wakao attended the dojo with vigor.

“I was scolded today.”
After about half a month since she began attending, Wakao came to Wajirou’s room and said, “Master may be an old woman, but she has such a thunderous voice! My ears were practically buzzing.”

“You must’ve done some mischief, didn’t you?”

“Goodness gracious—oh goodness no! I’m certainly not a child anymore—I wouldn’t dream of doing something like mischief!”

“Then why were you scolded?”

“The training was so tedious,” Wakao said. “Even though half a month had passed, she kept fussing endlessly about how to grip the naginata and only taught forms beyond that. I grew thoroughly fed up, so I told her, ‘Please start the proper training already.’”

“To Thunder Granny?” Wajirou burst out laughing. “That’s surprising—that’s some real nerve!”

Five

“Then suddenly—‘Bark bark bark!’—she starts yelling with these wild eyes: ‘Nothing matters more than fundamentals in the martial path! Fundamentals fortify the spirit! Someone like you’ll take three years just mastering forms—bark bark bark!’ I thought my ears were gonna split clean open!”

“Fundamentals are important,” Wajirou said, stopping his laughter. “Especially since you’ve learned techniques with bad habits. You must completely break those down and start fresh. Approach the basics thoroughly—with true intent to devote three years to them.”

Wakao thought for a moment, then nodded firmly.

“Yes, I understand. I’ll completely eradicate my bad habits. I’ll definitely do it—I will!”

And then, she bobbed a bow.

At year’s end when Wajirou visited Isono (bearing a tuition gift) to pay his respects, Ms. Man gladly welcomed him into the parlor and—contrary to their apprehensions—praised Wakao at length. She explained she had remained silent until now to avoid appearing biased toward other disciples, but in truth, having gained such an exceptional pupil, she had even wanted to visit the Kouda household to formally express her gratitude.

“That girl will go far,” said Ms. Man with a meaningful look. “I’ve trained many disciples over the years, but none have had such innate talent. If it were possible, I’d take her as my own adopted daughter—but”—her eyes narrowed slyly—“you intend to make her your bride, don’t you?”

Wajirou was flustered.
Caught off guard by the unforeseen ambush, he stumbled over his composure and even turned slightly red.

“Me? No—that’s preposterous.”

“Very well, very well.”
Ms. Isono waved her hand with a knowing look. “When she comes to the dojo, she chatters endlessly about you. She’ll grab anyone within earshot to brag—even me! That’s what we call lovesickness.”

This time, Wajirou flushed crimson.
Ms. Isono gave a mannish chuckle and continued:

“But you must rein her in properly—youthful spirit aside, she’s a terror of a mischief-maker. One wonders what household raised her! Truly,”—her eyes sharpened—“all autumn she made it her mission to pilfer persimmons from the neighboring estate for her fellow disciples. Scaling high fences, leaping onto trees—and now that winter’s stripped the branches bare? She’s taken to chasing sparrows across rooftops! Honestly—you’d swear she was a monkey or cat reborn!”

“I must sincerely apologize for this.”
Wajirou was both startled and chagrined. “I hadn’t realized she was causing such mischief. I’ll make certain to instruct her properly from now on.”

“Do see that you do—I shall discipline her thoroughly,” Ms. Isono nodded, then abruptly lowered her voice. “—The true trouble lies in this: those persimmons from the neighboring estate are *absurdly* delicious.”

When Wajirou returned to the house beyond the Black Gate, Wakao deftly concealed herself to evade his approach.
She seemed to have surmised he’d heard something at Isono’s and would reprimand her.
Wajirou maintained a wry smile and pretended unawareness.
Just as expected, when night arrived, Wakao came to his room from her own accord.

“Master told you something, didn’t she?”

She looked at him searchingly and whispered this question.
Wajirou nodded with a sullen expression.

“She said it—I heard everything.”

“It’s a lie! An exaggeration!” Wakao said hastily. “Master blows the tiniest things out of proportion—truly she does, Elder Brother!”

“I heard everything,” said Wajirou. “I won’t say what exactly, but I was so embarrassed my face turned red.”

Wakao stared fixedly at Wajirou.
As if to ascertain whether he was serious—Wajirou remained silent with a stern expression; he seemed serious.
Then, from Wakao’s (wide-open) eyes, large teardrops began to spill one after another.

“I’m sorry, Elder Brother,” Wakao said, her tear-filled eyes fixed unwaveringly on Wajirou. “It was my fault. I won’t cause any more mischief from now on. Please forgive me.”

Tears streamed down from her wide-open eyes as she stared straight at Wajirou, not shifting her gaze in the slightest.
Her posture remained perfectly straight, hands placed on her knees, upper body kept erect all the while.
Her demeanor was undeniably clear and unapologetic, and because she stared at him so directly, Wajirou found himself unable to look away.

“That’s fine,” he nodded. “—It’s all right to play pranks, but don’t go overboard.”

“Yes, Elder Brother.”

“And don’t go talking too much about me or anything like that.”

Wakao looked back at Wajirou with suspicion, but immediately flushed crimson. This time, she abruptly covered her face with her sleeve, stood up with remarkable speed, and fled toward her room while bumping into shoji screens and sliding doors.

That was what they called lovesickness.

Wajirou said quietly.
As he watched Wakao flee, Ms. Isono’s words vividly echoed in his ears.
That was what you called lovesickness.
And another phrase came back to him.

“You intend to make her your bride, don’t you?”

Wajirou quickly looked around.
The words seemed to ring out as vividly as reality itself—he felt certain someone might have overheard.

“What a foolish thing to say.”
He muttered with a wry smile, “What could she mean by that?”

And Wajirou pursed his lips into a frown.

The year began, the year ended, and Meiwa 7 came.
Wakao, who had turned sixteen that spring, rose to become Ms. Isono's prized fifth-ranked disciple and began teaching fundamentals to new initiates.
Her height had scarcely increased, and rigorous training kept her lean, yet her body now carried a soft roundedness—her figure taking on distinctly girlish contours.—At the dojo however, she remained unchanged: bouncing about with undiminished vigor, executing pranks so outrageous they left disciples both gasping and laughing.
She was beloved by all members—even seniors came to depend on her.
Only Ogata Sei proved an exception—daughter of a middle-ranked retainer and acting chief instructor—who seemed resentful of Wakao's popularity and for a time tormented her viciously.
Wakao endured—endured utterly—maintaining an air of obliviousness as she deflected each provocation.
In the end, it was Ogata herself who could bear it no longer, soon departing the Isono school of her own accord.

Such was her demeanor at the dojo, but within the Kouda household, she changed considerably. Her bright expression and lively demeanor remained unchanged, but she became attentive to her appearance, spoke less, and grew particularly timid around Wajirou. She used to frequently come to his room and proactively start conversations, but at some point such things ceased, and on the rare occasions when Wajirou initiated conversation, she would blush, shrink into herself, and appear unable to even raise her eyes.

――She’s a strange one.
While thinking this, however, Wajirou found himself overcome by something like a dazzling emotion.

Six

In May of that year (Meiwa 7 [1770]), Matsudaira Suo-no-kami Yasutomi, the domain lord, was transferred and relocated to Hamada in Iwami Province.
Ishū (Iwami Province) had originally been the ancestral land of the Matsudaira family, for Yasuharu Suō-no-kami—Yasutomi’s great-grandfather—had been lord of Hamada with a fief of over 50,000 *koku* (approximately 900,000 bushels), and thereafter, alternating with the Kamei clan of Tsuwano, they had governed that territory for many years.
And this relocation, too, was something Suō-no-kami himself had long desired and was now granted.

Almost simultaneously with the public announcement of the relocation, Wakao was summoned to the Edo residence.
This was due to Ms. Isono’s recommendation; she had been selected as the princess’s naginata instructor.
At first, Wakao stubbornly refused—claiming illness, she shut herself in her room and even fasted for about three days—but after Wajirou thoroughly reasoned with her, he finally persuaded her to consent.

“This isn’t just for your sake, Wakao,” said Wajirou. “—It’s also for your late father’s sake and the honor of the Kawachi name. If we can carry out this duty without incident… the Kawachi house might even be restored.”
Then he added, “This is an opportunity we can’t afford to miss—not just for me, but for Father and Mother too.”

Wakao accepted.
Her acceptance—clearly driven by not wanting to disappoint the Kouda household—was a resignation that permitted no ambiguity.

“Is Hamada far away?”

After consenting, Wakao looked up at Wajirou’s face and asked.

“Ah, it’s far,” Wajirou nodded. “Okazaki here is seventy-seven ri from Edo, and Hamada in Ishū is about two hundred fifty ri.”

“Two hundred fifty ri…”
From Wakao’s wide-open eyes, tears spilled down one after another.
With tears still spilling from her eyes and her gaze fixed intently on Wajirou, Wakao said, “—If Wakao were to fall critically ill and near death in such a distant place… Elder Brother couldn’t come to me… could you?”

“Wakao falling critically ill… Ah,”
Wajirou shook his head, “Don’t be absurd—why bring up such nonsense?”

“Even if Elder Brother were to fall critically ill… Wakao couldn’t come to your side… could she?”
Wakao quickly wiped both eyes with her fingers. “Elder Brother… if such a thing were to happen… what should we do?”

Wajirou smiled—as if to demonstrate how groundless Wakao’s anxieties were. But in that moment, he too felt the crushing weight of two hundred fifty ri between them surge through his chest. Then came the understanding that her fears held terrible truth: should either succumb to such misfortune, they would never meet again in life. This realization seized him with sudden violence, like the convulsive grip of illness.

“You’re right,” said Wajirou, masking his feelings with a composed tone. “But this line of thinking has no end. By an illness’s nature, even sharing the same soil offers no guarantee of final meeting—is this not so? Rather than imagining sudden maladies, guarding against sickness altogether becomes essential.”

Wakao gave a dutiful nod while tears kept welling up in her eyes without cease.

“Don’t worry—we will definitely meet again.”
He calmly changed tack with his words: “When you go to Edo—be careful not to let anyone realize you were ever part of the Iwamoto Troupe. We have been fortunate enough to keep it hidden until now—and no one else knows—but given your nature—you might blurt it out yourself at any moment—you understand?”

“Even Wakao isn’t a child anymore—Wakao would never say such things!”

“Please don’t forget that.”

Wajirou still seemed to want to say something more.
There was something important that needed voicing, yet he found himself unable to give it words.
Wakao understood this perfectly.
She too had words that ought to be spoken—a single question she longed to ask to confirm Wajirou’s true feelings—but she likewise could not bring herself to voice them.

Wakao arrived in Edo on May 27th.

She first entered the upper residence on Daimyō Avenue and soon moved to the middle residence in Kobiki-chō Fifth District.
It was a corner lot at the foot of Nibashi Bridge, with a wide moat on one side and a pond in the garden that drew water from that moat.
The estate grounds were not particularly spacious, but directly behind them lay Kanō Bitchū-no-kami’s main residence. Both properties had many trees along their garden borders, creating a tranquility unimaginable for the city center.
Wakao’s residence was newly built and, though small, included a dojo.
While she would go to the palace to refine the princess’s technique, she also conducted training for the household’s daughters in that dojo.
And for Wakao’s sake, an elderly servant couple named Yahyōe and a maid called Takino were assigned.

Wakao ascended to the upper residence once every three days.
The one receiving refinement was Suō-no-kami’s fourth daughter, Princess Kikuhime, who was fifteen years old.

Suō-no-kami had no sons and only four princesses.
The eldest daughter had taken a son-in-law (Sakyō-no-suke Yasusada) from the Maeda family, the second daughter had married Tanuma Yamato-no-kami, and the third daughter had married Matsudaira Kawachi-no-kami Nobuyasu.
Princess Kikuhime had already been engaged to the Ishikawa family, but due to her fiancé Ginjirou Soujun (the eldest son of Shimotsuke-no-kami Souei) being in poor health, it was said that the marriage would be postponed for the time being.

Instruction for the princess had been fixed at half a koku per session.
She had been sternly cautioned by Ms. Isono that she must teach only the forms—and even those with extreme restraint.
At the site, seven or eight inner chamberlains and elderly women always kept imposing watch; if they detected even a hint of strictness in her instruction methods, they would later raise an uproar with their complaints.

“Her Highness has been delicate since birth.”

“Her Highness possesses a gentle disposition—rough instruction would never suit.”

Her Highness suffered from insomnia last night.

Her Highness is fatigued today.

In that manner, there were many complaints and excuses.
Therefore, going up to the palace was unpleasant, but at the middle residence she could properly assert herself.

At the dojo of the middle residence, seventeen disciples came to train.
Their ages ranged mostly from twelve to eighteen, with two among them being twenty and twenty-two years old.
They were all daughters from families of middling status or higher, haughty in spirit, who looked down on Wakao as a country bumpkin.
Each of them at least knew how to handle a naginata, and given that Wakao was country-bred and so young, their contempt showed quite openly.
At first, Wakao wavered over how to handle them.
She couldn’t decide whether to thoroughly feign ignorance and deflect them as she’d once done with Ogata Sei, or to force their submission through sheer skill.
In time she settled on taking the second approach and carried it out without reserve.
In truth, it seemed more a result of Wakao’s character than her method, but the disciples gradually abandoned their scornful attitudes and grew quietly obedient.
And before winter arrived that year, Wakao had firmly secured her position.

Seven

Letters from Wajirou arrived in June, August, and October.
The June letter mentioned his arrival in Hamada and the establishment of a residence in a place called Tonmachi; the August one reported that Father Hiraemon had fallen ill; the October letter stated that Father had been granted a convalescent home by the seaside in Matsubara—a house from whose tatami rooms one could view the beautiful sea of Matsubara Bay—among other things.

Wakao, of course, also sent letters.
She knew only kana characters and had no skill in expressing her thoughts eloquently, but even so, she wrote as honestly and thoroughly as she could about her daily life, the happenings around her, and what occupied her mind at the time.
In some of those letters, carried away by her resolve to "be honest," Wakao’s brush raced ahead—it seems she ended up writing something extraordinarily bold without even realizing it herself.
When the new year arrived and it became February of Meiwa 8 [1771], the fourth letter that came from Wajirou contained an admonishment regarding that matter.

“As you say, Wakao—if a child is born to you, they should inherit the Kawachi family name. That much holds true. But there’s no need to dwell on such matters now, nor is it yours to ponder. When ‘that time’ arrives, I shall manage things properly. You need only apply yourself wholeheartedly to your duties.”

The letter conveyed this meaning, but appended with—“I never foresaw Wakao broaching such matters; I find myself thoroughly taken aback”—and Wakao’s entire body burned as though aflame from the intensity of her shame.

“Did I really write that letter?”
She told herself—Yes, I must have written it. I surely did write it. Whenever I write, I get so absorbed that what’s in my heart spills onto the brush. What should I do?

She had no conscious awareness of having written it.
Of course she had thought about it.
The Kouda people were worried about restoring the Kawachi family name.
Because Wajirou was the only son, if she were to marry him, the matter of the Kawachi family’s succession would inevitably become an issue.
That had always lingered in Wakao’s mind.
Strangely enough, she had never once doubted whether she could marry Wajirou.
Within Wakao, that had already become an established fact.

"But if I *had* written it... perhaps that was actually better."
Wakao muttered with resolve, "Such matters are best settled quickly. Yes, exactly."

Wakao immediately took up her brush—she had fully understood the letter’s intent.
"As you say, I shall entrust everything to you and devote myself diligently to my duties with peace of mind."
She wrote such a reply and sent it to Wajirou.
After sending that reply, Wakao reflected on her approach and muttered while shaking her head.

“I suppose I’m rather cunning, aren’t I?”

But soon after that, Wakao formed an undesirable connection with an unexpected person.

It was early in March when, after going up to the upper residence to finish correcting the princess’s form, partaking in lunch (which had been the routine from the start), and leaving the palace, she was stopped by a samurai at the middle gate. He was around twenty-four or twenty-five—a tall, pale man with an unusually gentle voice and effeminate demeanor. It was exactly lunchtime, with no one nearby, yet he spoke rapidly while darting his eyes about nervously.

“You must be Miss Kawachi Wakao, the one attending to correct Her Highness’s form.”

Wakao silently nodded.

“You came from the Kouda household, didn’t you?”
He said with a smirk, “I know who you are.”

Wakao looked at the man suspiciously.

“I know you,” he said in a familiar tone. “Even before Kouda did. I’m the one who brought Kouda to you in the first place. I couldn’t believe it when I heard you’d come from him and were teaching naginata, so I’ve been keeping an eye out. Quite the rise in status—Kouda must be thrilled.”

Wakao looked at him with vigilant eyes.

“I don’t quite understand what you’re saying,” Wakao said, “but who exactly are you?”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry—I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Who would I even tell?” he insisted, his tone hardening. “If you’re concerned, write to Kouda yourself. I’m Taniguchi Shuuri, his old friend. For Kouda’s sake—and yours—I’d gladly be of service. Truly, go ahead and inquire. Then you’ll understand exactly who I am.”
Before parting, he repeatedly told her to consult him if she encountered any troubles.

For several days, Wakao felt weighed down.
Taniguchi Shuuri had not said it aloud, but he seemed aware that Wakao had belonged to the Iwamoto Troupe.
He had brought Kouda along—meaning, she presumed, to show him Wakao’s stage performances.
Why hadn’t Wajirou cautioned her about this? Had he forgotten Taniguchi Shuuri was in Edo—that this man had once witnessed Wakao’s theatrical acts?

“I’ll try asking through a letter,” Wakao told herself. “Perhaps I should ask someone how I ought to respond.”

However, she did not send the letter. Even though they were separated by two hundred and fifty *ri*, she thought there was no need to worry Wajirou. After all, Taniguchi Shuuri had claimed to be Wajirou’s old friend, and though he smirked oddly, he didn’t seem like a particularly bad person. In any case, I’ll stay cautious and see how things unfold before acting. Wakao thought so.

About ten days later, a summons letter arrived from Shuuri.
Wakao went out.
A mere stone’s throw from the middle residence, on the riverside in Kobikichō Fifth Block, stood the Morita Theater.
Shuuri was waiting at that teahouse.
Wakao had him summoned to the crowded front of the theater teahouse.

“You’ve come after all.”
Shuuri gave a feminine, ingratiating smile. “I sent a messenger, but wasn’t certain you’d appear. I wished to speak at length—now do come inside.”

“Do you have some business with me?”
Wakao said, “I have practice to attend to, so once I’ve heard your business, I must return.”

“Ah, I see—you’re in charge of the dojo at the middle residence, aren’t you?”
Shuuri feigned embarrassment, poking his own forehead. “I had heard as much, yet I went and forgot! But come now—surely you can spare time for one act?”

“No, I have no such time to spare. Please state your business.”

“Then let us arrange another meeting. I don’t have any particular business—if you’d allow it, I’d like to show you around the city as well, and from time to time meet to keep Kouda informed of your circumstances.” With these words, Shuuri smiled again. “—Since I am Kouda’s close friend, I believe it’s my duty to do at least that much.”

Eight

Shuuri’s tone brimmed with such confidence that Wakao found herself unable to refuse his proposal.
After informing him that days containing “seven” in the month were days off from practice, she left the theater teahouse.

Though he claimed to want immediate meetings, nearly a month passed without word from him.
Then, just as she began forgetting the matter, on April 27th, another messenger arrived from the Morita Theater’s teahouse.
Wakao went out, watched a single act of the play with him, accepted his meal invitation, and returned home.
Next came May 17th and 27th, then June 17th once—through these meetings, Wakao completely let down her guard against Shuuri.

“He’s just a conceited fool. How dull.”

And then, she went on to refuse Shuuri’s summons about twice in a row.

Probably Shuuri had written it for him, for in September, a letter arrived from Wajirou.
It stated that while Shuuri was a friend and not a bad man, even in bustling Edo there was still public scrutiny to consider, and since Shuuri remained unmarried, it would not be advisable for you to meet him too frequently.

Wakao promptly sent a reply agreeing and thereafter made efforts to avoid meeting Shuuri as much as possible.

Then, in February of the following year (Meiwa 9 [1772]), a great fire broke out.
Fires that erupted at two locations—Meguro’s Gyōninzaka and Hongō Maruyama—were whipped by violent southwestern gales, spreading to consume six *ri* (~14.6 miles) in length and one *ri* (~2.4 miles) in width of Edo’s urban districts.
Edo Castle’s gates—beginning with Toranomon, then Hibiya, Babasaki, Sakurada, Wadakura, Tokiwabashi, and Kandabashi—all burned away, reducing every daimyo residence within their respective gate compounds to ash.

The Matsudaira family’s middle residence in Kobikichō alone remained standing—its survival owed to an upwind moat—where occupants spent the entire night hauling water from that moat to beat back the raining embers.
With both the main residence on Daimyō Avenue and the lower residence in Hamachō reduced to cinders, the domain lord’s family and their inner circle relocated to this middle compound.
Naturally, Wakao’s dojo too was commandeered as quarters for these displaced nobles; training halted entirely as she herself raced about managing sundry tasks for disaster recovery.
Amid this chaos came a day—she crossed paths with Taniguchi Shuuri beside the samurai tenements.
Half his face and scalp lay swathed in bleached cotton cloth, his right hand likewise bandaged and slung from his neck by the same material.

“I wanted to see you—I was terribly worried,” said Shuuri. “I heard you were safe when I came here, but I couldn’t rest easy until seeing it with my own eyes. You didn’t get injured at all, did you?”

“Yes, I only singed my hair a bit with sparks.”
Wakao looked directly at Shuuri. “What happened to you? Was it a burn?”

“It’s nothing serious—more importantly,” he said, quickly glancing around, “there’s something I must discuss with you.”
“It would be best to act quickly—would you come to the back of that artificial hill?”

“Well... I’m afraid I won’t have time unless night falls.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be waiting in the woods behind that artificial hill.”

“But—what is your business?”

“I’ll explain then.”
Shuuri had already started walking. “I’ll be waiting. If not tonight, then tomorrow evening—I’ll be waiting from around eight o’clock.”

And he left toward the samurai row houses.

Wakao hesitated for a moment, but thinking it best to settle everything once and for all, she headed out that night.

The artificial hill called Tsukiyama lay deep within a spring-fed pond channeled from the moat, its rear connecting to a grove that stretched toward the neighboring Kanou family's estate.
The adjacent residence too had trees densely planted along its garden border—so thickly that even at noon darkness lingered there.—Though she believed she had arrived somewhat early for their meeting, Shuuri was already present and waiting.
As she rounded Tsukiyama, at the entrance to the ink-black grove, his cotton-wrapped bandages appeared as a pale floating blur—and when Wakao drew closer, this whiteness quietly withdrew deeper into the woods.
Wakao quickly closed the distance.
The heavily overcast night held warmth, and within the grove hung an intense earthy fragrance.

“It looks like rain.”
Shuuri said this and turned around. “If it rains, those burned out of their homes will be in trouble.”
Then he suddenly drew a ragged breath. “I’ll be direct—since you must have already guessed, I’ll speak plainly. Miss Wakao, please marry me.”

Wakao stepped back half a step.

So that's what this was about after all.

That was what she thought.
Every time they had met until now, despite him never having said anything, she had always harbored a premonition that this matter would eventually come up.
Moreover—he hadn't brought it up himself but seemed to be waiting for Wakao to broach the subject instead—what an insufferably conceited man he was.
Thinking this, Wakao felt not fear but rather a measure of contempt.

This man had lost patience.

Since Wakao’s feelings showed no sign of changing, he must have finally lost patience; moreover, he now bore burns wrapped in bleached cotton cloth.
It seemed he considered these circumstances ideal for making such a proposal.

“You may be angry at my abruptness for suddenly bringing this up—”

“No,” Wakao shook her head. “I find it more reassuring when you speak plainly like this.”

“Thank you. Then may I hear your answer?”

“I too shall speak plainly—though it pains me to decline your kind offer, I cannot accept.”

“Please wait—do not say that.” Shuuri waved his uninjured hand. “Do not dismiss me so abruptly—I have longed for you all this time. You may not have noticed, of course. And perhaps I should not speak of marriage now that burns have left me this disfigured form—but I could no longer endure remaining silent. The silence had become too agonizing to bear.”

“The burns are nothing at all.”
Wakao said defiantly.
Shuuri’s manner of speaking struck at the vulnerable core of a woman’s emotions.
Wakao thought his approach cowardly. “Even were a man disabled,” she declared, “a woman would gladly devote her life to him if he remains honorable as a husband. Therefore, I must state clearly—I already have someone to whom I am promised.”

“To you—”
Shuuri countered in a shaken voice, “You’re promised to someone?”

“Yes—and that too was settled long ago.”

“Please wait.”
He blurted out, though his tone carried an artificially strained quality, “I’ll ask without reserve—it can’t be... it can’t be... Kouda, could it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“But he—no, that won’t do.”

Shuuri shook his head violently.

IX

“You must already know this,” Shuuri continued, “but the Kouda family holds the position of rotating chief retainer. He is expected to assume the role of chief retainer himself soon—no, not soon; rumors say it will happen imminently. Yet if you marry him, you’ll drag Kouda into another scandal.”

“Are you referring to my background?”

“No one may know now,”
Shuuri said, “but the Kouda family knows, and you yourself know—I am different. I am not the sort to divulge it no matter what happens, but since the Kouda family knows and you yourself are aware, I think it’s impossible to keep it completely hidden. If that were all, it would be fine—if it were only your problem, it might still be manageable. But the Kouda family has had a past stumble.”

Wakao stiffened her face tightly.

“I believe you’ve already heard this, but Kouda had a sister named Fukae who committed suicide six or seven years ago. You must have heard about it.”

Wakao held her breath in the darkness.

“This is something I tell you because it’s you—she had become pregnant, of all things,” he said, “and in shame over her three-month condition, took her own life.”

“Pregnant—?”

“Three months along.”
Shuuri continued with feigned compassion, “Mr. Kouda resigned his post at once, but unlike other scandals, this isn’t easily forgotten—why, he was barred from the deputy chief retainer’s position for nearly two full terms.”

“That is true,” Wakao trembled as she spoke, “that his elder sister was with child.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said it—but you understand why I did.”

Wakao bit her lower lip tightly.
In the Kouda household, talk of the person called Fukae seemed to be forbidden.
Even Wajirou had strictly avoided touching on the subject.

—Had there been such a fact?

Wakao closed her eyes.
The pensive, somber face of Wajirou appeared before her.
The gloomy, hushed interior of the house from when she had been taken in—the desolate, weary figures of Hiraemon and his wife—rose in her memory with vivid clarity.

“What if this were discovered?” Shuuri said. “—After that previous incident, if it came to light that one’s wife had formerly been a female troupe leader from an acrobatic company—”

Wakao shuddered violently.

“Please consider that point carefully,” Shuuri continued. “If this were my situation, it wouldn’t be a problem. For someone of my standing, people wouldn’t take an interest in such matters. But for a deputy chief retainer, it’s different—especially with Fukae’s circumstances. The scrutiny from those around you would grow even harsher. Wakao-san—do you think what I say is mistaken?”

“I do not know. I shall consider it,” Wakao said tremulously. “Your words may be correct—but I shall consider it carefully.”

Shuuri, his voice choked, began to say something as he abruptly moved to place his hand on Wakao’s shoulder.
It was an entirely natural, unforced motion, but Wakao flinched as though her wound had been touched and twisted sideways with swift precision to evade his hand.

“I shall return,” Wakao said. “—I must take my leave.”

Shuuri called out to stop her.
But Wakao had already started running and, stumbling several times in the darkness, ran off toward her residence.

The rain that had begun around midnight continued to fall throughout the entire next day.
It fell in a mist-like fine drizzle—quietly, with warm air—so unmistakably spring rain.
Wakao was walking through that rain.
Early in the morning, she had left the central mansion unsteadily and had been walking ever since.
—She had hardly slept the night before.
She had told Shuuri she would “consider it carefully,” but there had been no room for consideration.
It seemed there was no room left for consideration at all.

He'll tell everyone—he's certain to spread it around.

That voice sounded incessantly in her head.
It was not her own voice, but as if someone were there, softly calling out to her.
That much was certain.
Taniguchi Shuuri would undoubtedly speak of Wakao’s origins—the very words “I am not that sort of person” served as proof of it.
Shuuri would babble without fail—certainly.

I have to leave—if I stay here, that person will be unhappy. I can’t remain in the residence. I have to leave—go somewhere no one’s eyes can reach.

Rain splashed against her face.
Wakao stopped and tilted the umbrella.
She thought the wind had picked up, but someone she had just passed by called out to stop her.
It was a pair accompanied by two young men—wearing matching striped lined kimonos with stiff obi sashes and holding bullseye-patterned umbrellas—who came to a halt where they had crossed paths and turned back toward Wakao.

“Ah—”
Wakao widened her eyes. “Aren’t you—aren’t you Brother Senjou?”

“Wakao—so it really was you after all.”

“You’re Gonnojou’s older brother, aren’t you?”

Wakao nearly shouted.
They were Gonnojou from the Iwamoto Troupe, who performed tightrope walking, and Senjou, who performed the hat dance.
The two gazed at Wakao’s figure with apparent nostalgia, smiling, but made no move to approach.

“Seems like you’re doing alright,” Gonnojou said. “Are you happy?”

“Ah, good—you came to Edo and are performing here.”
Wakao approached the two as she said, “Where are you performing—Ryōgoku Hirokōji or Asakusa Okuyama? Come on, let’s go together—please take me with you!”

“Nah, can’t do that. That’s no good.”

“That’s not gonna work, Wakao,” Senjou said. “If you do that, the boss’ll chew us out.”
“We’ve been told we can’t even say a word if we spot you along the way.”

“It’s because I left so heartlessly.”

“It’s for your own good, Wakao,” Gonnojou said. “You didn’t leave outta heartlessness. We all know how you bawled your eyes out.”

“Then take me with you!”
“I’ve left the mansion,” Wakao said. “I have nowhere to go and can’t return there.”

“This ain’t no joke—what’re you saying all of a sudden?”

“It’s true—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I really am an Iwamoto Troupe person through and through. For the details, you’ll have to talk to the boss when we meet him. Come on, take me with you!”
Wakao laughed with eyes brimming with tears. “I was about to become homeless.”

**Ten**

The Iwamoto Troupe was performing at Ryōgoku Hirokōji.
Wakao stayed with the troupe for five days and was brought back for Kouda Wajirou’s sake.

There had been almost no changes in the troupe.
The female dog Shou Dayuu had died, and the puppy she had given birth to at that time had inherited its mother’s name, been trained in performance arts, and was now under Kogiku Dayuu’s care.
Sou Dayuu the magician had departed, and in his place had joined a young performer named Mitsu Dayuu.
The troupe members welcomed Wakao with cheers.
They rejoiced as if their own beloved sister had returned home, but the troupe leader was furious and refused to even look at her until she had explained everything thoroughly.
And when he finally learned that she had confessed everything—even about Fukae—and could no longer remain at the residence for Wajirou’s sake, he at last said, “Then stay here.”
Without looking at Wakao, he stared at his lit pipe as he spoke and seemed lost in thought for a long while.

“I’ll go back on stage again,” Wakao declared energetically.“Since my naginata skills have improved,I've devised new Water Wheel techniques! I've spent nearly five years training for this—just wait till I show you moves that'll leave everyone speechless!”

But on the fifth day, Wajirou came to pick her up.

It was later discovered that he had arrived in Edo on the very day Wakao ran away.
Following the urgent disaster report came the summons to Edo, and he traveled by relay horses.
The order had not been sudden; there was an unofficial notice in mid-January, and it was said that a summons to Edo would likely arrive by March.
Therefore, while making those preparations, he informed Taniguchi Shuuri of the matter.
(In that notice, Wajirou had written of his plans to soon marry Wakao.) It was likely this that led Shuuri to resolve to coax her away before Wajirou’s departure for Edo.
It was Shuuri who informed Wajirou, upon his arrival at the Edo residence, that Wakao had run away.

If someone like me were to become Wajirou’s wife, it would do no good for his future.

It was said she had absconded after making that declaration.
Wajirou had asked someone to search for the Iwamoto Troupe—there ought to have been nowhere else she could seek shelter.
He wondered whether the troupe might be performing somewhere—that was what he had thought.

Wakao did not know he had come. At that time, she was behind the hut, holding a practice naginata and devising new techniques. In the meantime, Wajirou met with the troupe leader and heard the full details from him; however, they did not inform Wakao until everything was settled. Once concluded, he and the troupe leader came to the back of the hut together.

When she saw his figure, Wakao—still holding the red oak naginata raised overhead—gasped and froze in place. Her body turned rigid as stone, her expression vanished, and her face paled from the forehead downward.

“I’ve come to pick you up,” Wajirou said. “Come—we’re going home together.”

Wakao’s hand—which had been raising the naginata—slowly lowered, and her eyes, as if pleading something, looked toward the troupe leader.

“Welcome back,” said the troupe leader. “I’ve told Master Kouda everything—heard his side too. Wakao is the daughter of Kawachi Juuro, a samurai—she’s got a proper family lineage to prove it. Circumstances landed her in this troupe, but that doesn’t erase her true status as a samurai’s daughter. She’s got nothing to be ashamed of—and no one—*no one*—gets to disgrace her.”

“I’ll add this,” Wajirou said. “I hear you meant to sacrifice yourself for my sake—but what if it were reversed? If I did the same for you, would that bring you joy? Could you happily accept *my* sacrifice?”

Wakao lowered her head.

Wajirou continued.

“Moreover, I am a man. Even if my wife’s background were to become an issue, I have the power to handle such matters. Don’t you think so, Wakao?”

“I was wrong,” Wakao said, still hanging her head. “I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

And she placed the naginata there and lowered the hem of her kimono that she had tucked up.
With movements drained of strength, as she removed her headband and tasuki cord, Wakao’s tears streamed down.

“Then let’s go,” Wajirou said. “I’ve had the palanquin wait. If you must cry, do so inside it.”

Wakao wiped her tears and looked at the troupe leader.

“Come along as you are,” the troupe leader replied to her gaze. “There’s no need to meet everyone—they all know.” Then he shook his head and said, “Don’t ever do anything reckless again.”

Wakao nodded while bursting into tears.
Wajirou approached, put his arm around her shoulder, and supporting her, led her out toward the front of the hut.
Inside the hut, lively music from instruments and the clamor of applauding guests could be heard, while at the entrance, the barker was raising a spirited call.

Wakao was crying inside the palanquin.

"He says such awful things," she muttered through her tears. "—I never once thought of sacrificing myself—wouldn't dare consider such a presumptuous thing as becoming a sacrifice. I only did it because I couldn't help myself. I'll tell him that someday—and that'll be enough."

But saying such things might be pointless.
But saying such things might be pointless, thought Wakao.
Men might not understand this kind of woman’s feelings.
Men just can’t understand a woman’s delicate emotions.
Wakao tried to convince herself that she was angry.
But in reality, none of that mattered.
She was enveloped in joy and happiness.
In this vast sense of relief—that he cared for her so deeply, and that as long as she was with him, there was nothing left to fear—
Wakao wiped her tears and, pouting all by herself, muttered once more under her breath.

“Why did I ever fear someone like Taniguchi? That repulsive narcissist...”
Then suddenly furrowing her brows, she admonished herself with stiff formality: “But I must be careful—people like him grow most cunning when cornered. They’ll hatch any vile plot.”
“That’s right—not a moment’s carelessness allowed.”

Eleven

A little before ten o’clock that night—at Taniguchi Shuuri’s residence in the middle estate’s samurai row house—Shuuri and Wajirou sat facing each other.
It was a lodging for people displaced by the fire, and though there were two other residents, they had been asked to leave to allow for conversation.

Shuuri had lowered his face—half wrapped in bleached cotton—and gripped his knee with one hand.
The arm hanging from his shoulder and the cotton’s whiteness wrapped around half his face absorbed the lantern’s light, appearing utterly pitiable.
Wajirou furrowed his brows and glared at Shuuri’s bowed forehead—pale and dry—his expression stiffened more by profound sorrow than anger.

“Of course there’s no need to hold back—chatter all you want about Wakao’s background.”
“But careless blabbering brings consequences,” Wajirou continued. “Taniguchi—I hear you told Wakao about my sister too. That she was with child and took her life out of shame.”

“I—” Shuuri hastily said, “it was out of concern for Kouda’s future.”

“I know. I already know that,” Wajirou said. “—The issue is my sister. How do *you* know she was pregnant—that she was three months along?”

“But... but that’s—”
Shuuri raised his eyes anxiously, “Because... I thought that’s how I heard it.”

“Who told you? Who was it?”

“As for who... that’s not a name I can divulge.”

“Of course you can’t,” Wajirou said slowly. “There was only one person who knew why my sister took her own life: Mother. She didn’t even tell Father. It wasn’t until this seventh-year memorial that she finally opened up to us—until then, neither Father nor I knew, nor did any relatives or my sister’s friends. And even then, Sister had said nothing to Mother.”
“Mother had noticed the changes in my sister’s body and was worrying about what to do when my sister died in silence… Taniguchi, you knew about this—no one but Mother and you knew. Why? How did you know? Taniguchi, shall I explain it for you?”

Shuuri bowed his head so low it might break, remaining silent as his shoulders heaved with each breath.
His frozen posture and ragged, gasping breaths seemed to perfectly embody the desperation of a cornered man with no escape.
Wajirou’s breathing was equally ragged.
The fist resting on his lap trembled.

“I meant to cut you down,” Wajirou said. “But—I reconsidered. You’re despicable, yet my sister once loved you. I don’t know what passed between you. Perhaps she died realizing that love was a mistake. Still—she loved you once. For that alone, I sheathed my blade. Do you grasp this, Taniguchi?”

The edge of his words was sharp, as though piercing. Shuuri flinched and shrank back, sliding the hand that had been gripping his knee onto the tatami mat. Averting his eyes from Shuuri’s unnaturally tilted and wretched form, Wajirou took up his sword and rose.

“Atone for your own sins yourself. If you’re a samurai, you should be capable of such atonement, Taniguchi Shuuri—I’m watching.”

And then he left there.

When he stepped outside, rain was falling.
A warm, quiet darkness filled the night as the rain came down nearly soundless—a mist-like haze clinging to the air.
With the rain pleasantly striking his flushed cheeks while he passed through the samurai row house, someone came chasing from behind.
When Wajirou turned around, there stood Wakao.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was worried,” said Wakao, hiding something behind her back as she caught up. “—Someone like Mr. Taniguchi… I thought he might do something unpredictable, so I came to check on things.”

“You even brought your naginata, huh?”

Wajirou gave a wry smile.
Wakao panicked and turned red while trying to hide the naginata she had concealed behind her back even further.

“No, this—this was just... I thought I’d do a bit of practice now, so...”

“Practicing a new technique?” Wajirou said with a laugh. “Weren’t you supposed to be enthusiastically devising some new Water Wheel move?”

“Master told you even that?”

“I think it’s just as well you didn’t devise it,” said Wajirou. “You might even end up teaching it to the Princess.”

“Oh, come now! Even I—well, I would never dream of such a thing!”

Wakao defiantly shouldered the naginata.
Wajirou turned to look at her and quietly laughed.
The two of them walked side by side and left through the rain toward their residence.