Akitada’s first sense of himself was one of lightness, of floating almost. Intensely aware of the pleasurable warmth of the bedding and of the sun on his chest, he sighed. He had woken from a dream, one of many, he thought, but in this one he had been walking with Ayako, first in a mountain meadow, then through the grounds of a temple. Their hands had touched, and she had smiled at him.

The sun! It must be midday already, and he had missed their regular meeting.

Akitada sat up too suddenly, and the sunlit room turned black. Falling back with a groan, he remembered his illness the night before. He clearly was still in no condition to go to Ayako. Tora would have to take a message later.

He lay wondering idly where Tora and Seimei were and looked around the room. It had been cleaned, for he recalled vomiting before he had fallen asleep. Perhaps Tora had already gone to Higekuro’s and told them of his illness.

She would worry about him. The thought pleased him, and he smiled, wondering if what he felt was love. Their lovemaking had become more passionate each time they met, and they had fallen into an easy, affectionate familiarity with each other. The thought of parting from Ayako terrified him. For a foolish, dizzy moment, he imagined himself settling down here, as a judge perhaps, and raising a family with Ayako.

But he knew he had a duty to his mother and sisters and could not choose this happy exile, for exile it would be when neither Ayako nor their children could ever return to the capital. He closed his eyes and remembered their last meeting. She had leaned over him, both of them naked, their skin moist from steam and their passion. Her eyes had been dreamy, half-closed, and she had bent down till her lips had touched his face. She had placed kisses, light as the touch of a petal, on his closed eyes, his nose, his mouth. Then with the tip of her tongue she had traced the lines of perspiration to his eyebrows, hairline, ears, and when she reached his lips, she had teased them open to plunge her tongue deeply into his mouth in passionate imitation of his own act of love earlier. Akitada had never been loved by a woman before.

The door slid open with a soft swish, and Seimei tiptoed in, carrying a teakettle.

“Where is everybody?” Akitada asked, his voice thin and hoarse to his ears.

Seimei almost dropped the kettle. His lined face broke into a wide smile. “You are awake,” he crowed. “We have been so worried. Oh, you must be hungry. Just let me start this tea and I’ll run and make you some good rice gruel. The governor will be so pleased, and Tora, too. Tora’s beside himself, what with your illness and Hidesato’s trouble, and the governor has done nothing but wring his hands. A very good-hearted person in spite of what you thought of him...”

“Seimei, calm down, please!”

Seimei put the kettle on the brazier. Next to it rested a curiously shaped incense burner, the likely source of the faint fragrance in the room. It was a bronze orb with a pierced design of interlocking circles, leaf shapes, and flower petals.

“Where did that come from?” Akitada asked.

Seimei followed Akitada’s glance. “The incense burner? The governor brought it from his own library when he saw that you had none. The air was so bad from your illness.”

“That was kind. What is this about Tora and Hidesato?”

Seimei sat down. “Ah! That was the worst day of my life,” he said with feeling. “First that bucktoothed female at the inn made the most embarrassing scene, then we found your nasty peddler and his wife living in a hut of rags and filth, then the murder—oh, that was frightful!—and we had to rush to hide Hidesato at Higekuro’s. And as if that weren’t enough, we were kept waiting in the prefecture until all hours. When we finally got back, we found you lying on the floor at death’s door.”

“Slowly, Seimei. One thing at a time. There was a murder?” Akitada listened, astonished and appalled, to Seimei’s highly colored account of Jasmin’s murder and the lesser events of that fateful day. He frowned. “I don’t understand. All this happened yesterday?”

“Yesterday? Oh, no. It happened four days ago. You have been very ill.”

Akitada rubbed his head. “Four days?” Dismayed, he thought of Ayako. How she must have worried! He felt a surge of tenderness and gratitude for her. “I’m glad Hidesato is there. He will protect them from those monks.” He hesitated, then smiled. “Let’s hope it won’t cause trouble for Tora. Otomi is a very pretty girl.”

“Oh, Hidesato cares nothing for Otomi,” said Seimei, and closed his mouth abruptly, busying himself with the teapot and some cups.

Sitting up gingerly, Akitada accepted a steaming cup of tea and sipped and thought about poor Jasmin. “About that murder,” he said, cradling the warm cup in his hands. “Was there really so very much blood about?”

“I saw the curtain myself. It was as big as that door over there, and it was soaked. Tora said the killer must have taken it down to sop up the blood and then hung it back up. Imagine!”

Akitada nodded. “Yes, very strange. Where is Tora?”

“He went to check on Hidesato but should be back soon. Shall I go get you some rice gruel now?”

Akitada nodded and Seimei bustled out. Feeling a little light-headed, Akitada lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. He considered the possibility that the blue flower fragment was somehow connected to Jasmin’s death but could not imagine any connection between a cheap Kazusa prostitute and that delicate piece of jewelry.

Feeling thirsty again, he got to his feet and took a few wobbly steps to fill his cup. He was amazingly weak and rested for a moment near the desk. The incense burner had no stand. When he touched it with his finger, it rolled about, though a hinged center tray for the incense remained horizontal. Clever craftsmanship! Taking a sip of his tea, he played with the orb. The pattern seemed strangely familiar. He sat down and took the burner into both hands, turning it this way and that. Bronze circles, flowers, and leaves shaped the orb. The cutout spaces of the pattern allowed the incense to escape into the air. As he looked at the openings, another pattern stood out, one that he had seen in the temple storehouse, a fish shape jumping for a ball. His heart began to beat faster.

“Heavens! What are you doing out of bed?” cried Motosuke, bustling in. “Quick, quick! Lie back down before Seimei catches you.”

Akitada chuckled, put down the orb, and went to sit under his quilts. “I am glad to see you,” he said.

Motosuke hitched up his gown and knelt next to him. His round face puckered with sympathy. “Thank heaven you are recovered. You can have no idea how worried we all have been.” Then he threw his arms around Akitada.

Touched, Akitada returned the embrace warmly. “Thank you for your care, brother,” he said. “I trust your preparations for the temple festival are progressing satisfactorily?”