Their street was, like the rest, covered with decaying leaves. Mournful sights and sounds greeted him. The gate to the Sugawara mansion was closed, and solemn chanting could be heard all the way down the street.

Akitada pounded on the gate. It was opened slowly by a bent old man. Akitada recognized Saburo, his wife’s old servant, whom he had left in charge all those years ago. The old man stood in the opening, peering up at him in surprise. Akitada rode past him into the courtyard and slid stiffly from the saddle. A group of saffron-robed monks sat on the veranda of the main building, chanting away, undisturbed by his arrival.

“Master!” cried Saburo, slamming the gate shut and hobbling his way. “You’re back! Welcome home!”

Akitada stretched his sore limbs. “Thank you, Saburo. How is my mother?”

The old man’s smile faded. He shook his head. “Not well, my lord. Not at all well, I’m afraid.” He cast a glance over his shoulder toward the gate. “Her ladyship? She’s not with you?”

“No. They are two weeks behind me.” Seeing the old man’s disappointment, Akitada added with a smile, “But she is very well, and so is our son. She has missed you.”

Saburo laughed out loud, baring toothless gums. “Missed me, has she? Ho, ho. And she’s bringing the young master. Ho, ho, ha! What a time we’ll have!” He clapped his hands, a tear of joy spilling over, and said again, “What a time we’ll have, yes. It’s been sadly quiet here all these years.”

Akitada patted his shoulder and went to the house. As Saburo helped him off with his boots, Akitada asked, “Are my sisters here?”

“Only Miss Yoshiko. Lady Toshikage resides in her husband’s home.”

The elder of Akitada’s sisters had married in his absence, a match arranged by his mother. Toshikage was in his early fifties, and Akitada had wondered how the headstrong Akiko had fared. He had hoped for a younger man for her, but she had been in her twenty-fifth year by then, well past her first youth or a time when she could expect many offers. And it had been his mother’s wish. Toshikage was, by all accounts, a respectable civil servant, holding a senior secretaryship in the Bureau of Palace Storehouses. His first wife had died, and Akiko had taken her place, apparently content.

Yoshiko, two years younger than her sister and ten years Akitada’s junior, had been left to take care of their bitter and sharp-tongued mother.

Akitada walked through dark hallways and rooms. All the shutters were closed because of his mother’s illness. Yoshiko must have heard his step, for she suddenly appeared in the doorway to his mother’s room, looking wan and worried. When she recognized Akitada, her face lit up with joy. She gave a little cry and ran to throw her arms around him.

“You came.” She laughed and cried, hugging him. “And how well you look. But you must be tired. Have you eaten? Oh, Akitada, how I have wished for you!”

“I know,” he said, holding her away a little. “You have had a hard time of it, Little Sister. Are you well?”

She brushed tears and a strand of hair away and nodded, smiling. “I am well. You know how healthy I am.”

“And Mother?”

She shook her head. “She has been ill for three weeks now. It started with an ache in her belly. We have tried everything: gruels made from herbs, powdered thistle, parsley, red clover, and teas of barberry bark and catmint. The pharmacist walks in and out of our house as if it were his own.”

Akitada glanced toward the closed shutters which could not shut out the chanting of the monks. “So you finally resorted to spiritual remedies?” he asked, raising his brows.

“Not for that reason,” Yoshiko said, shaking her head impatiently. “I know how you feel about it, but how would it look if we did not? Besides, it was Mother herself who made the arrangements. I don’t think she believes in the chanting, but she likes people to think that we do things properly. Oh, Akitada, she has changed so much, you will be shocked. She cannot keep her food down and is too weak to stand up. I do not know how she has lived this long, except to wait for you and her grandson to come home. You did bring Tamako and the boy?”

“When I got your letter, I rushed ahead. The others won’t be here for a while. I did not want to risk their health.”

Yoshiko’s face fell. “She will be disappointed. But never mind. Come in!”

She led the way into the gloom of his mother’s room. A large, rawboned maidservant quietly rose from her cushion beside the sick woman and moved aside. The elder Lady Sugawara lay on her bedding on the floor, her head propped on a porcelain headrest, her pitifully thin body covered by a silk quilt. The room was dimly lit by a single candle on a stand, and the air was thick with incense, which did little to disguise the smells of sickness and decay.

Akitada almost did not recognize his mother. The long beautiful hair, her special pride, was gone, cut off short just below the ears. What was left was thin and snow-white. The strong handsome face had shrunk and her skin was bluish gray, the pale lips restlessly pursing and unpursing, the eyes closed, receding into dark sockets. Of the rest of her, only the hands could be seen, lying on top of the cover, gnarled, spotted, and feebly plucking at the fabric.

“Mother?” said Akitada softly, frightened by her appearance.

She opened her eyes. They were still black and as sharp as ever. “You took your time!” she said. Her voice was strong, and its tone the familiar reprimand. It was almost reassuring. Akitada knelt down next to her.

“I came as soon as I heard. Yesterday’s rain slowed me down. I had to spend the night in the mountains,”

“Where is my grandson?”

“He follows with Tamako and the servants. They will be here soon.”

The eyes closed. “Not soon enough,” she murmured.

“Only a week or so. You must get better quickly now so that you can hold your grandson and play with him. He is nearly three years old, active and big for his age.”

“He is like his father, then,” she sighed.

Akitada was deeply moved. He did not know what to say. Sudden tears rose to his eyes and he swallowed hard. “Oh, Mother!” he whispered, taking her hands in his.

His mother opened her eyes to glare at him and pulled her hands from his pettishly. “Well, what are you waiting for? I expected you to bring me my grandson. Go away now. I am tired.”

Akitada left the room, followed out by Yoshiko, who closed the door and murmured, “You must not mind her. She is in pain all the time.”

He leaned against the wall and sighed. “No. She was always the same. I should not have expected any softening. It grieves me that you have had to be at the mercy of her moods all these years.”

Yoshiko hung her head. “She cannot help it. It is her nature. Besides, there is no one else.”

“Akiko?”

“She has her own home and cannot come often. Never mind. It will be better now that you are here. But come, let’s have some tea or wine!”

Akitada thought of the sickroom and shuddered. “Wine, I think. And something to eat. I left the monastery before the morning rice and have had nothing since last night.”

Yoshiko cried out at that and made a fuss over him. She got him settled in his own room, which was spotlessly clean and adorned with a pot of fresh chrysanthemums. A maid brought warm wine and a plate of pickles. Soon after, bowls of rice, vegetables, and an excellent fish stew followed.

Akitada ate, while Yoshiko filled him in on recent events in the household.

“We have new servants,” she said. “Saburo, of course, you remember. He has been most kind and helpful, but the work is getting too much for him, so I employed a boy to help him with the outside chores. Mother’s old nurse died, as we wrote you, and her new maid has had to take much abuse. But she is a simple country girl, very strong and forgiving of Mother’s ill temper. I apologized to her one day, when Mother called her an idiot fit only to clean out stables, and she said, ‘Never mind, miss, she’s hurting and it takes away a bit of the pain.’ The cook is her cousin. I am afraid she knows nothing of elegant dishes, but we have had no occasion to entertain since you left. Is the food to your taste?”