Seized by a sudden rage, Akitada bounded up. “No!” he shouted. “I do not want another wife or more children. I want order in my household.” And he stormed from the room.

All the way to the Greater Palace, he muttered under his breath.

Women! The very idea of having to deal with more than one. The Great Sage had warned men against over-familiarity because it made females dictatorial. Tamako was punishing him for his just reproof of her behavior by threatening to withdraw her affections. For that was what the suggestion of taking another wife amounted to. Go ahead and see if I care, was what she had implied. He stalked along, rehearsing in his mind what he would tell her that night, and became more and more miserable in the process. He could not recall a time in their years of marriage when they had had such a quarrel.

Tamako had changed. She no longer cared for his company as she had in the days before Yori had begun to capture all her attention. Perhaps he had been more abrupt lately than usual, but there had been many serious matters on his mind. A wife should make allowance for a husband’s greater responsibility. He felt alone and hurt by her words, and that angered him some more.

Sakae awaited him at the ministry. “Have you heard, sir?” he cried. “The emperor is sick. He may die.” He was practically hopping about in his excitement.

Akitada stopped. “What do you mean?” he demanded. The emperor was barely thirteen years old, and a healthy young man. The possibility of his dying seemed completely remote.

“He has smallpox.”

Akitada sucked in his breath. Could it be true? Could the disease really have entered the sacred inner palace itself and infected the emperor? He glared at Sakae. “How do you know this?”

“Someone working in the chamberlain’s dormitory told someone in the headquarters of the inner palace guards. The page who carries messages between bureaus stopped by this morning and told us. It was still quite early.” This last Sakae added to show that they had been at work long before Akitada arrived.

“You are a clerk in the Ministry of Justice,” Akitada said sharply. “I would have thought that you might have learned about the unreliability of hearsay evidence. Until we receive official word about His Majesty’s condition, I will not permit you to bandy about such dangerous gossip. Do you understand?”

He brushed by the gaping Sakae and went into his office. Nakatoshi was bent over the usual pile of correspondence. He rose and bowed. “Good morning, sir.” He added with a smile, “You look more yourself today, sir.”

Akitada touched his eye. It felt normal. He had almost forgotten about it. It seemed a long time since he had tangled with the three thugs. The thought gave way to the vivid image of Lady Yasugi lying on the ground, her clothing tangled about her legs. At the time he had been preoccupied with the villain who had meant to rape her. Now the image suddenly became powerfully erotic. He curbed his imagination firmly, smiled at Nakatoshi and said, “Good morning, and thank you.”

“Has Sakae told you the news about the emperor?”

Akitada felt the smile fade on his face. “Surely there is no truth to that?”

“His informant wasn’t the only one, sir. I was told the same story by the senior clerk of the crown prince’s office. I’m afraid he’s a very reliable source. It’s disturbing news, not only because of His Majesty’s life being in danger, but also because there are apparently already plans for change in case the worst happens.”

Though Nakatoshi’s words referred to matters of national importance—how the next emperor would deal with matters of government and who would take the most cherished positions upon his accession—Akitada’s first thought was that he had once again put himself in the wrong with Tamako. And to be fair, if even the sacred person of the emperor was not safe from this terrible contagion, Tamako could be forgiven her fears. “Dear heaven,” he muttered and sat down, staring blankly at the pile of paperwork awaiting his attention.

“I mentioned it, sir, because Minister Soga would have called at the palace to present his wishes for His Majesty’s recovery and to offer prayers on his behalf at the temple.”

Of course, and Soga would have been thrilled at the opportunity. Or would he? With smallpox in the imperial household, Soga would surely have made his excuses. Akitada was struck by an unpleasant suspicion. “Surely I’m not expected to fill in for him?” Access to the imperial residence was restricted to nobles of the fifth rank and above, and he did not qualify.

“I’m afraid so, sir. I’ve taken the liberty to send a message that His Excellency is away and that you’re taking his place. I expect that you’ll be given special permission.”

“Dear heaven,” said Akitada again and glanced down at himself. “But I cannot go like this.” When Nakatoshi did not reply, he got to his feet. “I suppose I’d better go home and change into my court robe.”

“I shall take care of business here, sir.” Nakatoshi gave him an encouraging nod, perhaps because Akitada’s lack of enthusiasm was so manifest.

Akitada reentered his home less than an hour after he left it. The first person he encountered was Tamako. She looked pale and drawn and—shockingly—very sad. Bowing, she asked, “Is anything wrong?”

He tried to gauge her mood. Had she been crying? “It appears the emperor is really ill. I must change into my court robe and call at the palace.”

“How terrible,” she murmured. “I hope he will recover. Allow me to be of assistance.”

Feeling guilty, he protested, “That’s not necessary. Seimei . . .” But Seimei was ill. There was no way to avoid her company. The court robe was a very awkward costume to get into and out of.

She said, “Seimei is resting. I believe he is better, but not well enough to get up. I am sorry that I can offer only my own clumsy services.”

Tamako was not clumsy about anything she did. Such phrases were common in polite exchanges between married people who merely tolerated each other. He felt his stomach twist with misery. “Thank you.”

In his room, he undressed silently while she lit incense in a long-handled burner. The room filled with the heavy aromatic scent of expensive male perfume. Akitada wrinkled his nose at it. She lifted the court robe, the train, and the full white silk trousers from their trunk and spread them over a wooden stand.

“I tore the trousers and the robe,” he said. “Did someone mend them?”

“Yes.” She took the incense burner by its handle and passed it back and forth under the stand, letting the faint spiral of scented smoke rise into the folds of the clothing. “It was not too bad. The robe only needed re-stitching, and the tears are hardly noticeable in the fullness of fabric.”

“Thank you.” He stood there, feeling helpless and uncomfortable in his underrobe and stockinged feet. Belatedly he remembered his cap. Risking a glance at the mirror, he winced, took off the cap, and studied his eye. The bruises, though they had faded, were still there and made him look like a hooligan.

“I have some cosmetics,” she said. “They should hide those bruises.”

“I’m not wearing powder and paint,” he said, shocked by the notion.

She bowed her head. “I am sorry. I should not have suggested it.”

They fell silent again as he waited for her to finish perfuming his clothes.

After a long while, he said, “I should not have spoken so harshly to you earlier. Especially when it turns out that you were quite right about the emperor.”

“It does not matter,” she said listlessly.

She held out the silk trousers, and he put his hands on her shoulders as he stepped into them. Their physical closeness was an irritant, and he stepped away from her as soon as he could. Feeling guilty, he searched for something else conciliatory to say. “Let Yori practice his reading until we can buy more paper and brushes.”