flogging and chains.”

She was right, of course, and he could not afford to make a

scene in any case. When he muttered an apology, she reached up

to touch his face. “Thank you, Taketsuna. It was kind of you to

want to protect me.” She was looking up at him with a little smile, her eyes suddenly moist. “I would put up with a great deal more

than a few silly words to spare you pain,” she said softly. When he said nothing, she asked, “Are you really leaving so soon?”

He saw the tears in her eyes, and his heart started beating

faster. Feeling like a brute, he said, “Yes. I’m to travel inland with one of the governor’s inspectors.”

“Oh, Taketsuna. So little time.” She looked dejected, then

brightened. “But you’ll come back soon?”

He said nothing and they walked back to the kitchen court-

yard. At the well he helped her wash the bowls. She was deep in

thought and said little. He was relieved. Her words and expres-

sion had touched him deeply. He wondered what the relation-

ship was between her and Mutobe’s son and knew he did not

like it. Ashamed of his jealousy, he forced his mind to more

important matters.

Regardless of Mutobe’s assertion that his son had been

framed by his own political enemies, Akitada was by no means

convinced of the son’s innocence. Toshito had attended the uni-

versity in the capital and might have come in contact with

Prince Okisada’s enemies. He might, in fact, have been their tool

to eliminate a troublesome claimant to the throne.

Back in the kitchen, Akitada took up the broom and began

to sweep while Masako busied herself about the stove, laying the

fire for the morning meal and gathering the remnants of bean

soup for their own supper. The Yamadas’ provisions seemed

scarce and of the plainest sort, but Masako had managed to

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prepare decent meals with what she had. Such extreme poverty

was still a great puzzle to Akitada.

“You seem to be on very familiar terms with young Mu-

tobe,” he began after a while.

She stopped, a bamboo dipper with bean soup in her hand,

and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked, color rising

to her cheeks.

“That was badly put.” He leaned on the broom and smiled at

her. “Nothing insulting, I assure you. You speak to each other

like brother and sister.”

She finished emptying the soup kettle. “We are friends, be-

cause we grew up together.”

“You must know him very well, then. Well enough to share

secrets, as children do. Would you tell each other things you

might not mention to your fathers?” He tried to make it sound

like gentle teasing.

But she was too sharp for that. “Why do you want to know?”

she demanded suspiciously.

He retreated. “No reason. Or rather, there are so many

mysteries about you that I . . . Never mind! It was just idle

conversation.”

She came then and looked up at him searchingly. “Was it,

Taketsuna?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky. Akitada

started to back away, but she put her hand on his arm to stop

him. “Who are you really?”

This startled him. “You know who I am. Yoshimine

Taketsuna.”

“No. I mean, who are you inside? You ask about me, but

what are your thoughts? What is your family like? What did you

wish for before you came here? What sort of life will you make

in the future?”

He moved away from her and started sweeping again. “What

I was does not matter here,” he said, “and I have no future.”

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She followed him. “Your past matters to me, and so does

your future. Many exiles have settled to a comfortable life here.

They have taken wives and raised families.”

Appalled by where this conversation seemed to be leading,

he kept his back to her. “I will never rest until I return to my

home and family,” he said firmly.

“Tell me about your family.”

He turned then. “I have a wife and a young son.”

She flinched a little at his fierceness. “Oh,” she murmured. “I

should have thought of that. I’m sorry. You must love them very

much.” Tears rose to her eyes, making him sorry for his cruel

frankness. “Taketsuna,” she whispered, “you may not see them

again for many, many years, or perhaps never. What will you do

meanwhile?”

“Nothing. Hope. What else can a man do?”

Her eyes pleaded. “He can make another life.”

He put away the broom then. “I have no life,” he said in a

tone of finality. “And now, if you have no other chores for me, I

think I’ll go clean up before the evening meal.”

Outside, at the well, he started to strip off his gown, but a

strong sense of being watched made him stop and look over his

shoulder. Masako stood in the kitchen doorway, a small, secre-

tive smile on her pretty face. When their eyes met, she turned

abruptly, took up the container of bean soup, and walked away

humming a song.

They took their evening meal—the leftover bean soup

with some pickled radish—as always on the veranda in front of

Yamada’s study. For Akitada it was a difficult meal. Masako had

appeared a little late. She was again in her faded blue silk gown,

but she had put a new ribbon in her shining hair.

Her father was in his usual abstracted mood, and she

attempted to make conversation with Akitada, making sure

he had enough soup, that it was to his liking, that the setting

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93

sun was not in his eyes. All of these overtures Akitada met

with a monosyllabic “Yes” or “No,” and she finally turned to her

father.

“When will you get paid again, Father?” she asked, startling

Yamada, who cast an embarrassed glance toward Akitada.

“Not for another five days, child,” he said. “I am very sorry.

It must be difficult for you.”

“Not at all,” she said lightly. “I’m a very good manager. But

the guards were demanding fish today, and it has been days

since we’ve had any. I expect you would like some, too.”

“Fish?” He seemed surprised. “You have no money left? I am

very sorry, my dear. You shall have some tomorrow. The truth is

I had not noticed the absence of fish.” He added with a smile to

Akitada, “Masako makes even the plainest dish taste like some-

thing fit for the emperor. Isn’t that so?”

The meals had been adequate but hardly fit for an emperor,

or even one of their own class. A farmer or a monk might have

approved, though, of the vegetarian dishes. Millet and beans

were their main staples. The flavor was due to herbs, fruit, or

vegetables, all things which were raised in their garden or gath-

ered in the woods. However, Akitada agreed politely, then

changed the subject.

“I noticed a document in the archives today which refers to

a rather peculiar institution of which you seem to be the over-

seer, sir. It’s called a Valuables Office. Apparently it pays out rice against securities like silver? I thought such operations are usually carried out by temples.”

Masako dropped her bowl with a crash and stared at him

wide-eyed. Her father turned rather pale. His hands shook as he

put down his own bowl. After a moment, he took a deep breath

and said, “Clean that up, child.” He waited until Masako had

scooped up the shards and food bits and left the room. Then he

asked, “What is your interest in this matter, young man?”

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Akitada knew now that he was on the right track but said

only, “Curiosity, mainly. Sadoshima is a strange place to me.