The Peony Lantern (24 page)

‘A memento? But I'll see you —' And then, as a chill hand clutched at my insides, I understood. He was saying goodbye.

He must have seen the comprehension dawning on my face. ‘My family has been disgraced. I must share in that disgrace. I will follow my uncle's path.'

‘Isamu, no —'

‘The daimyo will expect it.'

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was as if I had no breath in my body.

He gripped my hand and I felt warmth travel through me. I was so cold.

‘I wish . . .' He stopped and shook his head. ‘But there's no sense wishing.' He swallowed hard, and there was a slight crack in his voice as he continued, ‘By tomorrow I'll be dead.' He looked at me intently. ‘You will remember me, won't you, Kasumi?'

Tears filled my eyes, but still I couldn't speak. I just gazed at him wordlessly, trying to convey with my look everything that I felt.

‘And you'll look after Misaki?'

I dropped his hand. ‘Of course.'

I walked slowly back to the reception room.

For a moment I had been sure he shared my feelings, but his last thought had been of Misaki. Yet he had given
me
his pictures. Me, not Misaki. Because I was a fellow artist? Or perhaps in the hope that I would show Misaki?

I kneeled by the
kotatsu
and spread Isamu's paintings across its top. A heron, rendered in such exquisite detail
I could see the light wind ruffling its feathers. Next, a landscape: a rough-barked pine in the foreground, a teahouse behind it, mountains receding into the distance. At the third picture I stopped. I recognised a red comb; Misaki's comb. A woman bent over flowers. But the face . . . the face was mine.

He had claimed not to remember when we had looked at the comb in Yabuhara, when I'd said,
I've never seen anything so lovely
.

And now, in this picture, I was wearing it.

I thought he had taken the comb out of love for Misaki — and now I saw the truth. Despite knowing it could never be, he had loved me. But I had dropped his hand. And I would never be able to let him know that I returned his feelings.

I rose and walked out into the garden. The sun was low in the sky and the air was frigid, but I welcomed the sharp lash of the cold on my skin, the chill that made each breath a gasp of pain. I kept walking until I reached the pond, just in time to see the sun's last rays hit the shimmering surface. In the sudden flash of light, I saw the flash of metal; the killing blade on pale skin. Isamu!

With a cry of horror, I dropped to my knees in the snow, my body heaving with sobs.

In the days that followed I returned to Isamu's painting of me again and again. I examined every inch of the portrait, from the elegant arrangement of irises (obviously he borrowed Misaki's arrangement as well as her comb; it certainly wasn't one of mine) to the stray wisp of hair that
brushed my cheek like a caress, and I tried to imagine what was in his heart as he painted it.

And then there were the words inscribed in the corner. Puzzle over them as I might, tracing the calligraphy with my finger, they would not give up their meaning.

I showed the portrait to Misaki, but she was no more able to read the words than I was. She saw the meaning of the picture straight away, though. ‘I knew he must be in love with you,' she said matter-of-factly. ‘Even though he would never be able to act on it. Oh, Kasumi — the way he looked at you, how he sought your company. You must have known.'

‘Honestly I had no idea.' I thought he loved you . . .

The knowledge now that it was me he loved could only be bittersweet.

We were silent for a time, Misaki leafing through Isamu's other paintings, sighing at the fine brushwork, both of us mourning a life lost.

Finally Misaki put the paintings down and looked at me. ‘What will you do now, Kasumi?'

‘I'll go . . . home.' I said the word without any conviction. My time in Edo had awoken a part of me I would otherwise have never known. For good or bad, I had a gift, and returning to the valley would mean the death of the gift and, I couldn't help but think, the death of the best part of me. ‘If I visit the mansion of the Owari domain, I'm sure they'll help me to arrange my journey back to Tsumago.'

‘I wish you could stay here in Edo,' Misaki said. ‘Perhaps you could come live with me in Nihonbashi?'

‘My father would never allow it.'

Before arranging my departure, I paid a visit to Daiki and Chika. I wanted to return the paintings they had lent me and thank them for everything they'd taught me.

They offered me tea in their reception room, but I asked if we could drink it in the studio instead.

‘We were sorry to hear about Lord Shimizu,' Daiki said as he eased himself down to sit at the low table. Of course, they didn't know the full story; no one did. They only knew that he had died unexpectedly. ‘Will you stay on with Misaki-san as her
churo
?'

There was another thing they didn't know: that Misaki was not a samurai lady but a commoner's daughter, in no need of an attendant.

‘No, she's planning to return to her father's house.'

‘Ah, that's right.' Daiki turned to his wife. ‘She's from Morioka.'

I made no comment, just said, ‘I'll be leaving Edo soon.'

‘You'll return to your valley?'

‘Yes.' Soon I would be walking in the forest I loved, visiting my grandparents' graves, praying at the shrine where I had first seen Isamu . . . Perhaps he would haunt me; he had seemed to be at one with the spirits at the shrine.

‘What about your painting? Will you continue?'

‘My father would forbid it.' Saying the words, it felt like a lantern inside me was snuffed out. ‘He's a man who values dumplings, not flowers. I suppose he'll find me a husband to marry and I'll work in an inn.'

‘Is that what you want?' Daiki asked.

‘No,' I confessed. ‘But it's the life I'll have.'

‘Perhaps there is another path.'

‘If there is, I can't see it.'

Daiki exchanged a glance with his wife. She nodded.

‘I never thought to find a true pupil,' he began. ‘Until now, I have never even accepted an apprentice. But when we heard about Lord Shimizu's death we began to talk about what it might mean for you, and we agreed that we would like to invite you to live with us.'

I was so stunned I could only stare open-mouthed.

‘We'd make you work hard at menial tasks, and occasionally teach you something that would make the drudgery worthwhile.'

Still I just stared.

‘You're very quiet, Kasumi. Are you so used to the fine life of Lord Shimizu's house that you turn up your nose at our humble dwelling?'

I knew he was only joking, but still my response burst out of me. ‘No!' I almost shouted. ‘I love it here.' I gestured to the brushes lined up on the low tables, to the paint-splattered
tatami
, to the paintings drying along the partition screens. ‘I would be at home here . . . as if it were my real home.' I put a hand to my heart. ‘Where I could be myself.'

‘Then it is decided,' said Daiki.

‘But . . .' I looked at him uncertainly. Could it really be decided just like that? What would my father say?

‘Patience, my husband,' his wife said softly. ‘It's different for us. We come from samurai families that
value art. We didn't have to defy our fathers. Kasumi has a lot to think about.'

And then I realised there was nothing to think about. This was it: my one chance. ‘I will defy my father,' I said quickly.

‘Perhaps we'll find a way to ensure that won't be necessary.' And Chika began to outline a plan that made it seem possible.

For the first time since Isamu's death, I felt something like hope for the future. Which reminded me . . . Swallowing my embarrassment, I put Isamu's portrait, still rolled up, on the table.

‘You have been clutching that scroll with the reverence of a sacred object. Is it one of yours?'

‘No, it's by . . . it's by a friend of mine.' I realised that if I was going to live with them as part of their family I would have to be truthful. ‘It's Isamu's,' I said.

‘Lord Shimizu's nephew?'

‘Yes. He — he died with his uncle . . .' I choked up, unable to explain further.

Chika was quick to understand, and placed a warm hand on my arm. ‘He was a good friend to you, wasn't he, Kasumi? He was kind enough to bring you here, I remember.'

‘He was . . . He might have been more than a friend.'

I untied the ribbon and showed them the picture.

‘It's you!' Daiki exclaimed.

‘But I can't read the words.'

Chika gave me a sympathetic look. ‘If you come to live with us, we'll teach you,' she promised.

Then she read:

‘
No decoration

can compare in loveliness:

a perfect flower
.'

‘Oh.' I was flooded with joy and pain in equal measure. With my face in my hands, I wept.

When I got home Misaki had risen from her bed and was in her dressing room, mixing powder for her face.

‘Let me do that,' I said.

‘Thank goodness you're back. I need you to do my hair. And a kimono — what kimono? Or — no, I shouldn't wear silk, not now that he knows the truth.'

I had never seen her so flustered. ‘What's going on?'

‘A messenger just arrived. Lord Kinoyoshi is coming.'

‘I know. Isamu . . .' It was hard to say his name without a pang. ‘Isamu told me he was nearly in Edo.'

‘No, I mean he is coming
here
, to this house.'

‘The daimyo? But why?'

‘I don't know. A messenger came about half an hour ago to tell me to prepare to receive him.'

I put her hair up, haste making me clumsy, and she put on a kimono of fine cotton.

‘We should receive him in the formal reception room,' she said over her shoulder as she left the dressing room.

I followed her out of our private quarters and across the courtyard, but hesitated at the front entrance to the house. I hadn't been in there since that awful day.

Misaki cast a look behind her. ‘What's wrong? Oh . . . The room has been cleaned, Kasumi. There are no signs of . . .' She faltered. ‘Of what happened here.'

I slipped off my sandals and stepped inside. Glancing around, I saw a scroll where the sword had once hung, a plum blossom branch in a vase. The
tatami
was so new it was still green and gave off a faint grassy scent.

Then we heard voices outside, and rushed back to the entrance just as an ornate palanquin, accompanied by at least a dozen guards and retainers, was carried through the gate.

Misaki and I dropped to our knees in the small entryway and remained there, our heads bowed, until a samurai retainer approached. Addressing Misaki, he said, ‘The daimyo would speak to you.'

The retainer moved away and I glanced up to see an imposing figure, broad rather than tall, with small features in a wide flat face.