As Sano rode past a shop redolent of fermenting miso, light rain fell from the gray sky; umbrellas sprouted in the crowds around him. Trepidation weighed upon his spirit. He’d promised Reiko that he would personally investigate the Black Lotus, and sending detectives instead seemed a betrayal of her trust. And he hadn’t told her that he was going to check Haru’s background. Although he deemed this necessary for assessing the girl’s character, he didn’t want Reiko to think he lacked faith in her judgment or was persecuting Haru.

Still, he must determine to his own satisfaction whether Haru was guilty, so he could either arrest her and satisfy the shogun and the public, or develop other leads if she was innocent. Perhaps what he learned at her birthplace would put him and Reiko on the same side of the case.

The road led Sano to Kojimachi’s most famous landmark: the hunters’ market. Stalls sold the meat of wild boar, deer, monkey, bear, and fowl from the mountains outside Edo. Customers and vendors haggled; flies buzzed around carcasses hung on hooks or spread on pallets; the air reeked of blood and decay. Buddhist religion prohibited the eating of meat, with one exception: for medicinal purposes. Some diseases could be cured only by consuming stews or elixirs made from animals. Farther down the road stood the popular restaurant named Yamasakana- “Mountain Fish”-which served these remedies.

In a row of low, attached buildings near Yamasakana, Sano saw a noodle restaurant. This must be the establishment once owned by Haru’s family. Short indigo curtains hanging from the eaves sheltered a raised wooden floor where diners could sit. At this hour-midway between the morning and noon meals-the restaurant was empty, but the sliding wooden doors stood open. As Sano dismounted and tied his horse to a pillar, he heard pans rattling in the kitchen at the rear; charcoal smoke wafted out. The moneylenders who had seized the restaurant as payment for Haru’s father’s debts had apparently sold it to someone else.

When Sano entered, a middle-aged proprietor wearing a blue cotton kimono and white head kerchief came to greet him. Sano introduced himself, then said, “I need information on the family who owned this restaurant before you. Did you know them?”

The proprietor’s round, honest face looked perplexed. “Yes, master. They were my parents. They died eleven years ago. My wife and I have been running the business ever since.” He gestured toward the kitchen, where a woman stirred steaming pots on a hearth amid chopping blocks heaped with sliced vegetables.

“I must have the wrong place,” Sano said. “The people I’m interested in died just two years ago. They had a daughter named Haru.”

He was about to ask whether the proprietor knew the family, when the man went deathly pale, dropped to his knees, and uttered an anguished moan: “Haru-chan…”

The woman ran out from the kitchen. Small and slender, with graying hair piled atop her head, she scolded her husband, “We agreed never to speak of her again!” Then she took a second look at the man, and her rage faded into concern. “What’s wrong?” She turned wary eyes on Sano. “Who are you?”

“He’s the shogun’s sōsakan-sama,” the proprietor said in a choked voice. “He asked about her.”

“Then you know Haru?” Sano said, baffled by the couple’s reaction.

“No.” The woman shot her husband a warning glance.

He lifted bleak eyes to Sano. “She was our daughter.”

“Your daughter? But I understood that Haru was an orphan whose parents died of a fever.”

Misery slumped the proprietor’s shoulders. “Whoever told you that was wrong. We are alive. It is Haru who is dead.”

Trying to make sense of the conversation, Sano shook his head. “Haru is at the Zōjō Temple convent.” He explained about the fire and murders, and Haru’s situation. The couple listened in blank silence: Apparently they hadn’t heard the news. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Sano said. “We can’t be talking about the same-”

Grunting noises came from the man, and Sano realized that he was weeping, although his eyes were tearless. The woman pressed her hands against ashen cheeks. She murmured, “Oh, no.”

In the kitchen a pot boiled over; moisture sizzled on hot coals, and clouds of steam rose. The woman rushed to the stove and removed the pot. The man stood, his movements shaky. “There’s no misunderstanding,” he said sadly. “The Haru you speak of is our daughter. She is dead to us, but we’ve known all along that she was out in the world somewhere.”

So Haru had lied about being an orphan. Disturbed, but not really surprised, Sano wondered whether she’d told the truth about anything. “Did she run away?” Then another possibility occurred to him. “You disowned her.”

“After what she did?” The woman returned, wiping her hands on a cloth. Indignation distorted her face. Now Sano saw a resemblance to Haru in her small build, wide brow, and delicate features. “We had no choice!”

“What did Haru do?” Sano asked.

“For you to understand, I must begin the story at the beginning,” said the proprietor. “Two years ago, we had a regular customer-a wealthy Shinjuku rice broker named Yoichi. He came to Kojimachi every few days to shop at the hunters’ market, and he often ate at our restaurant.”

“Haru was growing up into a pretty young woman,” the wife said. “Yoichi-san was a widower, and he took a liking to her. He asked for her hand in marriage.”

“It was a good match,” said the proprietor. “As a rich man’s wife, she would live in a fine house and be secure. She could care for us in our old age. Her children would have everything, and inherit a fortune.” Financial gain was always an important factor when arranging a daughter’s marriage. “So we accepted Yoichi-san’s proposal.”

“But Haru didn’t want to marry him because he was old and ugly. Such a disobedient, ungrateful girl!” Disgust tightened the wife’s mouth. “But it was her duty to marry the man we chose for her.”

“A month after the wedding, in the middle of the night, Yoichi-san’s house burned down. The fire brigade found him and the servants dead in the ruins. But Haru turned up at our door the next morning. She was covered with soot. There were burns on her hands and clothes.” Spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, the proprietor said, “Of course we took her in.”

A chill spread through Sano. Fires were common, yet Haru had been involved in one that bore a sinister resemblance to the one at the Black Lotus Temple. Was it mere coincidence, or more reason to justify his suspicion of Haru?

“We knew right away that something was wrong,” the wife said. “Haru was so happy to be home. She didn’t seem sorry about the fire. When we asked how she’d managed to get out alive, she said she woke up and found her bedchamber filled with smoke. She said she ran through the flames, screaming for her husband, but he didn’t answer, and she couldn’t find him.

“She jumped off the rear balcony, and the next thing she knew, she was lying in the street, with people trying to revive her and the fire brigade throwing water on the house. But Haru couldn’t explain why she woke up while the others didn’t. We asked why she hadn’t gotten hurt when she jumped off the balcony, and she said she’d tied a quilt to the rail and climbed down it. But if that was so, then why did she say she’d jumped? How did she get knocked unconscious? She looked nervous and guilty and said she must have fainted.”

“Later we heard that the fire had started in Yoichi-san’s bedchamber,” said the proprietor. “A neighbor saw a woman run out the gate before the fire brigade came. We asked Haru again and again what happened, and every time, she told a different story, and finally said she couldn’t remember.”

Despair filled the proprietor’s eyes. He and his wife stood apart, but united in shame, their heads bowed. “We began to believe that Haru had set the fire.”