Reiko nodded unhappily; she knew he spoke the truth.

“The best thing to do is solve the crime,” Sano said. “Maybe then Lord Matsumae will come to his senses-or the spirit of Tekare will leave him, whatever the case may be-and he’ll set us all free, including Masahiro. Then we can all go home.”

Reiko didn’t ask when that might be; nor did she protest. She sat perfectly still, her knuckles pressed against her mouth, her eyes unfocused. Sano could feel her desperation and her struggle to contain it so that it wouldn’t burden him. Embarrassed in the presence of her grief, the other men slipped out of the room, leaving Sano and Reiko alone. He could see how close she was to breaking. He had to give her some hope, and something else to concentrate on besides the thought their son a prisoner, unreachable, and in who knew what condition. “Reiko-san, listen,” he said.

Dropping her hands, she turned on him a gaze so brimful of pain that he could barely stand to meet it.

“The faster I solve the crime, the sooner everything will be all right,” Sano said. “I need your help.”

“Help?” Reiko’s one word conveyed that she had none to give, and bewilderment that Sano should expect her to care about the investigation at a time like this.

“Yes,” Sano said. “You’ve always helped me with investigations. Do you remember when we were first married? And our wedding was disrupted by the murder of the shogun’s favorite concubine?”

Reiko stared as if she’d forgotten because her present-day woes had blotted out happy memories from the past.

“You wanted to help me find out who the killer was. I said no, because I didn’t think it was a woman’s place to investigate murders and you wouldn’t be any use.” Sano smiled, his heart warmed by the thought of a younger, willful, passionate Reiko. “Well, little did I know. You proved I was wrong.”

Did a ghost of a smile alter Reiko’s tragic expression? Encouraged by this real or imagined sign that he was reaching her, he said, “Without you, I wouldn’t have solved that case, or the others that followed. No matter the trouble or the danger, you were always brave, always ready to go anywhere and do anything. I could always count on you.”

Sano took her hands in his. They were clenched into fists, all hard, cold bone. “Can I count on you now?”

Reiko averted her gaze. Sano could feel in her exactly what he’d felt when he’d thought Lord Matsumae had killed his son-the temptation to give up, the lack of the strength to cope anymore. But he also felt the stubborn spirit in Reiko that refused to be beaten down. After a long moment passed, she said, “What do you want me to do?”

Relief broke through Sano. “Before you came in, Hirata and I were discussing what we’ve learned about the murder so far.” He summarized it for Reiko. “It appears that Tekare had many enemies. Some could be right here inside the castle. And there’s a group of possibilities that you should have better luck investigating than I would.”

Reiko lifted her eyes to him. He was gratified to see a glimmer of interest in them. “The women?”

“Yes,” Sano said. “They would have known Tekare, and they’ll probably be more willing to talk to you than to me.”

This was Reiko’s strength as a detective: the ability to get close to the women associated with crimes and elicit the most private facts from them. She said, “I already know that the Japanese ladies hate Ezo concubines. And maybe the Ezo concubines didn’t get along with one another.” Her natural curiosity revived. “If one of those women killed Tekare, I’m going to find out.”

“Good,” Sano said, knowing what a monumental effort she was making for his sake and their son’s.

“But how will I talk to them if I’m locked in here?” That seemed a minor obstacle compared to others they’d already surmounted. Sano said, “I’ll find you a way tomorrow.”

Morning dawned gray and quiet. The air was warmer, its sharp edge blunted by the clouds massed over Fukuyama City. As Sano, Hirata, the detectives, and Gizaemon headed across the castle grounds, smoke from the chimneys dissolved into heavens the same color. The muted light rendered trees and buildings in stark monotones. The snow looked dull and soft, without brilliance or shadow. Sano could smell more coming, its scent like dust, ready to chill, oppress, and conceal.

“How’s the arm?” Gizaemon asked Sano.

“Better,” Sano said, although it ached and the stitches burned. “How is Lord Matsumae?”

“Worse.” Gizaemon’s rough features were etched with concern. “Bad idea to bother him now. Advise you to wait.”

“That’s not possible.” The investigation must continue. Everything depended on it. Every step of it required approval from Lord Matsumae, and Sano wasn’t going to tolerate obstruction from Gizaemon, a suspect.

Gizaemon shrugged. “Your funeral.”

Opening a gate, he ushered them into a forest preserve. Through the evergreen foliage and bare branches Sano saw a tall, square, half-timbered building. Piercing shrieks came from it.

“Lord Matsumae is inspecting his hawks. This is where he keeps them,” Gizaemon said.

He led Sano and Hirata inside the building. The shrieks blared at Sano. He saw some thirty birds of prey tethered to perches, enormous eagles and smaller hawks and falcons. Some screamed incessantly, their curved beaks opening and closing, their wild eyes glaring. Others wore leather hoods over their heads; they sat still and quiet. Huge wings flapped, stirring air laden with the pungent chicken-coop smell of bird dung and the stench of decayed meat.

Lord Matsumae stood in the center of the room, berating three samurai. “These mews are filthy. You’ve been neglecting my precious hawks.”

The men mumbled apologies. Gizaemon said close to Sano’s ear, “The keepers have been busy guarding the ports, as he ordered them to do. This is the first attention he’s paid his hawks since that woman was murdered.”

“You two clean this place up at once,” Lord Matsumae said, pointing at the men. He was as untidy as the mews, his whiskers growing into a straggly beard, his hair long and uncombed; he wore a tattered fur coat and muddy, scuffed leather boots. “And you help me inspect the hawks.”

The two samurai began sweeping up dung, feathers, and castings. The other trailed Lord Matsumae, who headed toward Sano. “What do you want?” Lord Matsumae asked.

Sano was disturbed to see two pinpoints of light in each of his eyes, one from his own soul, the other from the spirit that possessed him. “To tell you my plans for today.”

“Very well,” Lord Matsumae said with an agreeability that Sano didn’t trust. “We can talk while I inspect my hawks.”

The keeper flung a heavy cloth over a sleek gray falcon and lifted her off her perch. She snapped at Lord Matsumae as he examined her talons, beak, eyes, and plumage.

“Clean these talons,” he said. “Fix these broken feathers. She’s my gift to the shogun. She has to be perfect.”

He seemed to have forgotten that he was in trouble for neglecting to send the shogun any gifts. Sano could feel Tekare’s watchful, menacing presence in him. The keeper put the falcon back on her perch. Lord Matsumae tossed the bird a mouse from a bucket full of dead rodents. She gulped it down.

“I’d like Hirata-san to interview the Ezo again,” Sano said. “We ask your permission for him to go to their camp this morning.”

Gizaemon said, under his breath, “Finally someone’s looking for the killer in the right place.”

“Permission granted,” Lord Matsumae said as he and the keeper grappled with another hawk that struggled under the cloth and screamed. But he immediately spoke again, in Tekare’s accented voice, sharp with suspicion: “Why would you let him go after my people?”

He replied in his own voice, “They might have killed you.”