Sentries at the Edo Castle main gate swung open the massive, ironclad portals. Out came a procession of mounted samurai, escorting a palanquin carried by husky bearers. Inside the palanquin, visible through its window, rode Lady Reiko, wife of Chamberlain Sano. Her delicate, beautiful young lace shone with eager anticipation.

A message she’d received this morning from her father had read, “Please come to the Court of Justice at the hour of the sheep today. There is a trial that I would like you to see.”

Reiko was glad of the prospect of something to enliven her existence. Since Sano had become chamberlain, she’d had little to do except take care of their son Masahiro. Before, when Sano had been sōsakan-sama, she’d helped him solve his cases, hunting clues in places he couldn’t go, using her contacts in the world of women. But she couldn’t help him run the government, and he was so busy she seldom saw him except when he came home exhausted at night. Reiko missed the old days, even though she was proud of her husband’s important position. Facing danger and death seemed preferable to whiling away her life as did other women of her class. It didn’t help that the danger of the times had kept her cooped up inside Edo Castle for most of the past six months.

Her procession moved through the Hibiya administrative district, where the regime’s high officials lived and worked in stately mansions enclosed by high walls. In the streets, more soldiers than usual patrolled, on the lookout for fugitive outlaws from the Yanagisawa faction. Reiko glimpsed an estate that had burned down; only a heap of rubble remained. Arson was a favorite weapon of the outlaws.

A news-seller, hawking broadsheets, strolled amid the officials, clerks, and servants who thronged the district. “Outlaws robbed a wealthy merchant and his family who were traveling on the Eastern Sea Road yesterday!” he cried. “They killed him and violated his wife!”

The fugitives were desperate for money to support themselves and their cause, and they often brutalized citizens who had the bad luck to encounter them. Reiko wore a dagger under her sleeve, ready to defend herself if necessary.

The procession halted outside Magistrate Ueda’s mansion, which housed the Court of Justice. Guards at the gate confronted Reiko’s entourage. “State your names,” they ordered. “Show your identification documents.”

As her escorts complied, other guards peered suspiciously into her palanquin. Recently an outlaw had disguised himself as a porter, sneaked into an estate, pulled a dagger from the crate he carried, and slain five people before he was captured. Security had tightened everywhere. Now the guard recognized Reiko and let her procession through the gate. In the courtyard she climbed out of her palanquin. More police than usual stood guard over more than the usual number of prisoners awaiting trial. The prisoners were mostly samurai who appeared to be troops from Yanagisawa’s army. Shackled by heavy chains, they were disheveled and bloody, as if they’d fought savagely while resisting capture. No matter that Yanagisawa had been an evil, harsh master, Bushido-the samurai code of honor-demanded their unwavering loyalty to him. Reiko’s bodyguards led her past them and other prisoners, tough-looking commoners. Crime was rampant among the townspeople; many had taken advantage of the general disorder and an overworked police force.

Inside the low, half-timbered mansion, Reiko entered the Court of Justice and found the trial ready to begin. On the dais at the end of the long hall sat her father, Magistrate Ueda, portly and dignified in his black ceremonial robes, one of two magistrates who maintained law and order and settled disputes in Edo. A secretary, equipped with a desk and writing implements, sat on either side of him. Except for the courtroom guards, only two other people were present. One was a doshin-a police patrol officer. Clad in a short kimono and cotton leggings, he knelt near the dais. At his waist he wore a single short sword and a jitte-a steel wand with two curved prongs above the hilt, used for parrying and catching the blade of an attacker’s sword. The other was the defendant, a woman dressed in a hemp robe. She knelt before the magistrate on a straw mat on the shirasu, an area of floor covered by white sand, symbol of the truth. Her hands were chained behind her; her long black hair straggled down her back.

Magistrate Ueda acknowledged Reiko’s presence with a slight nod. He signaled one of his secretaries, who announced, “The defendant is Yugao from Kanda district.”

Reiko knelt at the side of the room, where she had a view of the woman’s face. It was sternly beautiful, with a high forehead and cheekbones, a thin, elegant nose, and carved lips. Yugao seemed a few years younger than Reiko’s own age of twenty-five. She sat with her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the white sand. Her slender body was rigid under the baggy robe.

“Yuago is charged with the murders of her father, her mother, and her sister,” the secretary said.

Shock jarred Reiko. Murdering one’s family was a heinous crime that repudiated the morals of society. Could this young woman have really done it? Reiko wondered why her father had wanted her to see this trial.

“I will hear the evidence against Yugao,” said Magistrate Ueda.

The doshin came forward. He was a short man in his thirties, with blunt, weathered features. “The victims were found lying dead in their house,” he said. “Each had been stabbed many times. Yugao was found sitting near the bodies, holding the knife. There was blood all over her.”

That a daughter could commit such an atrocity against her parents, to whom she owed the utmost respect and affection! For one sister to slay another! Reiko had seen and heard of many terrible things, but this exceeded them all. Yugao neither moved nor changed expression; she gave no sign of innocence or guilt. She appeared not to care that she was accused of a crime for which the penalty was death and that most trials ended in convictions.

“Did Yugao say anything when she was arrested?” said Magistrate Ueda.

“She said, ‘I did it,’ ” the doshin replied.

“Is there any evidence to the contrary?” Magistrate Ueda said.

“None that I saw.”

“Have you any witnesses who can prove that Yugao did indeed commit the crime?”

“No, Honorable Magistrate.”

“Have you looked for or identified any other suspects?”

“No, Honorable Magistrate.”

Reiko began to have a strange feeling about this trial: Something wasn’t right.

“The law allows accused persons to speak in their own defense,” Magistrate Ueda told Yugao. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Yugao spoke in a flat, barely audible voice: “I killed them.”

“Is there anything else?” Magistrate Ueda asked.

She shook her head, apparently indifferent to the fact that this was her last chance to save her life. The doshin looked bored, waiting for Magistrate Ueda to pronounce Yugao guilty and send her to the execution ground.

A frown darkened Magistrate Ueda’s face. He contemplated Yugao for a moment, then said, “I will postpone my verdict. Guards, take Yugao to an audience chamber.” He turned to his secretaries. “There will be a recess before the next trial. Court is adjourned.”

Now Reiko knew something unusual was going on. Her father was a decisive man, and as quick to serve justice as the law demanded. She’d watched many of his trials and never before seen him delay a verdict. Nor, it seemed, had the secretaries and the doshin, who gazed at him in surprise. Yugao’s head jerked up. For the first time Reiko got a full view of her eyes. They were flinty black, inside curved slits beneath smooth lids. They blinked in confusion. As the guards led her from the courtroom, she went meekly. The secretaries departed; Magistrate Ueda stepped off his dais. Reiko rose, brimming with curiosity, and hurried over to join him.