Preoccupied with the ground, he did not see the wall or the pale figure leaning against it. One moment his eyes were fixed on the earth, the next there was a flash of movement, and he felt a blinding pain on the back of his skull. Sagging to his knees, he plunged into darkness.

Tora was the last person Akitada had expected to see emerging from the bamboo thicket. Thinking only of Noami, he put the last shred of his remaining strength into raising and bringing down the rock at the precise moment when the leaves parted. It seemed an eternity passed, and when the moment finally came, Akitada’s arms acted independently. He could do no more than slow the violent descent of the rock at the last moment. Too weak to control the downward stroke, he watched in horror as Tora crumpled before him. Letting the stone drop from his lifeless hands, he began to shake again. He had killed his friend who had come to his rescue.

He fell to his knees beside Tora. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he sobbed, hot tears stinging his cheeks as he rocked back and forth. He stroked Tora’s head and his swollen hands were covered with warm blood. With an inarticulate cry, he collapsed across Tora’s broad back.

“Sir? Sir? Is that you, sir?”

When the words penetrated the fog of weakness and misery, Akitada struggled up. “Are you alive, Tora?” he asked feebly. “I thought you were Noami, come back to finish me off.”

Tora sat up, too, holding his head. He chuckled weakly. “And I thought you were the slasher’s accomplice. That’s the third knock my head caught tonight.”

The sky above had turned a silvery gray, and birds chirped all around them.

“I’m sorry,” Akitada said again. He was still shaking, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably, but he looked at Tora with joy. “I’m so glad you came. Yori got home, then?”

“Yori?” Tora lowered his hands and stared at his master. “Holy heaven!” he exclaimed. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Akitada smiled bitterly through chattering teeth. “An experiment in artistic realism. The effect of freezing on the human body. For the hell screen,” he said with some difficulty, and struggled to his feet. “Never mind that. What about Yori?”

Tora stood up. “I don’t know about Yori. I haven’t been home since yesterday morning.”

Akitada suddenly felt faint. “Dear heaven! Then the child is still lost. Come. We must find Yori.” He grasped Tora’s shoulder for support. “Before Noami catches us.”

“If he’s an ugly little runt with spiky hair, I’ve caught him.” Tora slipped off his ragged coat and shirt. These he wrapped around his master and then put his arm about him to support him. “Your hands, sir,” he muttered. “They look terrible.” Akitada hid them inside Tora’s quilted jacket.

Together they staggered back to the clearing. Noami was conscious and moaning. He glared balefully when he saw them. “Untie me this instant!” he shrieked. “You’ve broken my shoulder. I may never be able to paint again!”

“Good!” remarked Akitada, sinking weakly on the upturned basket. “Make sure, Tora, that he cannot escape before the police get here.”

Tora glanced at the rope dangling from the tree, grinned, and jerked Noami to his feet. The painter screamed. Tora carried him to the tree, attached the rope to his bound wrists, and pulled it taut. The painter screamed again and fainted. His weight caused him to flop forward.

“I wrenched his shoulder out of the socket earlier,” Tora explained with great satisfaction. “When he comes to, he won’t try to move if he can help it.”

Akitada grimaced. “Let him down enough so his feet support his weight,” he said.

Tora obliged, but the unconscious man still drooped forward. Akitada got up from his basket. “Here, set him on this and then let’s go.” As Tora adjusted the unconscious Noami, Akitada flexed his arms and legs experimentally to get some circulation and warmth back into his muscles. But he was too weak and in too much pain and would have fallen if Tora had not caught him in his arms.

Subsequent events were a haze in Akitada’s mind. When they emerged from Noami’s gate, they encountered the giant warden and Genba. Reassured by them that Yori was home safe, Akitada felt his knees buckle under him. He was placed on a litter and whisked home.

His trials, however, were far from over. Fussed over by a white-faced Tamako, he was stripped and immersed in lukewarm water by Genba and Seimei, an experience which turned out to be excruciatingly painful to his nearly frozen flesh. Later Seimei treated his lacerated wrists by applying ointments and herbal packs, which he changed every few hours. Akitada’s hands began to swell and burn. The skin cracked in places and oozed blood.

In spite of this, the satisfaction of knowing Yori was safe was enough in itself, and after drinking a sleeping draught, Akitada asked no questions and slept.

But the exposure during the freezing night had undermined his strong constitution, and his sleep turned into a virulent fever filled with hallucinatory images from the hell screen.

He tossed between nightmare and waking for six days and nights. Finally, on the seventh day, exactly a week after his escape, he woke up clearheaded and hungry. His eyes fell on his sister. Yoshiko sat by his bedside, quietly sewing some child’s garment, no doubt Yori’s. Memory returned abruptly, and he was filled with an immense gratitude that both he and his son were alive, that he might see him grow up after all, play games with him, and laugh at his childish antics together with Tamako.

He longed for Tamako, but perhaps she had gone to rest. He had given them all too much trouble. Yoshiko looked drawn and tired, quite as pale and worn as she had been when he had first seen her on his return from the north. He lay comfortably warm in his silken bedding—how different from that hellish night in Noami’s garden—and wondered if he had done the right thing, forbidding his sister her last chance for happiness. It struck him now that he owed his own happy family to her, for it was Yoshiko who had brought him Tamako.

If only that fellow Kojiro could be cleared of the murder charge. He was innocent, and a much better—and wealthier— man than Akitada had expected. Well, he must see what he could do for him as soon as he was up and about again. He cleared his throat.

Yoshiko’s head shot up. “Akitada?” She looked at him anxiously. “You are awake?”

Silly question. Akitada meant to say yes, but managed only a croak.

“Don’t try to talk,” she cried, and put her sewing by to reach for a teapot on the brazier at her side. She poured a cup and supported his head as he drank.

He was very thirsty and emptied the cup.

“More?”

He nodded and she gave him another cup.

“Thank you,” he managed to say after that. “Where is Tamako?”

“Playing with Yori in his room. Shall I fetch them?”

He felt a little hurt that Tamako had left him, but shook his head. “Later.”

“How are you feeling, Elder Brother?”

He managed a lopsided grin. “Hungry. How’s Tora’s head?”

She got up. “Fine. You know Tora. He recovers quickly. He and Genba have been spending most of their time with Miss Plumblossom and the young actress. If you think you will be all right by yourself for a few minutes, I will go heat some rice gruel in the kitchen.”

Akitada nodded and she left. Just as well, for he did not relish the idea of having her company for a trip to the privy. Testing his limbs, he found them pain-free but strangely languid. He pushed the covers back and saw the white silk bandages about his wrists. His hands were no longer swollen, but stiff and covered with scabs. Getting to his feet was easier than he thought, but he had to catch hold of a screen when he took his first step. Fortunately, his head cleared and he negotiated the hallway and gallery to the privy without incident.