“This,” said Kita, holding up the bowl, “is mine.”
Sir Ernest moved only his mouth as he spoke. “It was a gift,” he explained steadily.
“It did not belong to the giver to give,” said Kita. She pushed on the sword ever so gently, making her point. “Do not follow me.”
Backing away, Kita dropped the sword to the floor and sped from the room. With the bowl tucked safely in her arms, she raced down the stairs and through the house. This time, she unlocked the great doors before fleeing, no longer soundless as she held the earthly item. Still a ghost, the holy bowl bound her to the world of men. Outside, she cursed the moonlight as it lit her black garb, speeding toward the trees and their protective darkness.
Up in his chamber, Sir Ernest sat stupefied by what had happened. Then, when at last he had collected himself, he ran to Charlie’s room to check on his son.
Lady Kita returned to Japan in January, following a tumultuous return voyage aboard a modern steamship. Just as she had during her voyage aboard the Cairngorm, she kept to herself and spoke to almost no one. This time, she did not befriend anyone, for there was no one she needed to befriend to lead her to her goal. She had not expected to like Charlie as much as she had, and she was surprised that even now she remembered him so fondly. But she had accomplished what she had set out to do, and when she arrived in Japan, she did not return at once to the court of her master at Iga Castle, but instead went to the mountains in the south, and returned the clay bowl to her clan. Lady Kita’s people were no longer practitioners of the unseen arts. They had seen the changes coming and became blacksmiths and farmers instead, and this saddened Kita because she was stuck in a world that no longer existed. Then, when she was done, Lady Kita went to Iga Castle to face her master, Okaga.
Word spread quickly of Kita’s return. She knew her master would be displeased, but there was very little he could do to her. She was already his servant. She had been so for decades. She was too beautiful for him to ever release. Her beauty was a curse. It had made Lord Okaga love her.
Like all of the daimyos, Okaga’s castle-a modern hirayamajiro-was remarkable, rising up from the side of a small mountain so that he could oversee the land of Iga-the land of Kita’s people. Upon her return, Okaga summoned Lady Kita to the donjon, the tower of his castle, where vassals attended him, kneeling upon the big wooden floor. Okaga himself sat upon a bamboo chair, his youngest children playing at his feet. Lady Kita did not dare meet his eyes. She knelt before him, her gaze downcast. There was no need to explain what she had done. Lord Okaga had already figured that out months ago.
“The bowl,” said Okaga. “You have returned it to your people?”
Kita nodded. “Yes.”
Lord Okaga already knew this as well, and yet still seemed disappointed. “Are they not my people, too? I am the Lord of Iga.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“So the bowl is mine, too.”
Kita hesitated. “No, my lord. The bowl is holy to my clan.”
Okaga’s attendants stayed very still, shocked by her disagreement. It was Kita’s clan who had made the bowl, and all of them knew it. But like sheep, they were afraid. Kita, though, was not afraid. She could only die once.
Lord Okaga rose from his chair to stand before her. “You have offended my friend, Sir Ernest, and you have disgraced me, Kita.”
“I am lower than dust, master,” said Kita. “I am unfit to serve your house.”
“True,” said Okaga. “I should send you away, yes? Release you?”
“Yes, master.”
Even as she said it, she knew her master would laugh. And laugh he did.
“No, Kita, my beautiful one. There will be no hundredth kill for you. For what you have done, I will never release you. I will pass you on to my sons and they will pass you on to their sons, and you will be our servant for all of time.”
His verdict did not shock her. “Yes, master,” she replied.
“Go. Walk the nights as a ghost and return to me in the daylight so that I can look at you in pleasure.”
Lady Kita rose and, head bowed, began backing out of the room. There would be no hundredth kill for her, not ever. She could kill a thousand men, but without her lord’s sanction those deaths would mean nothing. She would never join her ancestors in heaven or meet the gods who had made the holy clay. Instead she would steal for Okaga and spy on his enemies, never to kill in his name again. She was more than his servant. She was his slave.
“Kita,” said Okaga before she left the room. “Was this worth it?”
Kita did not need to think before giving her answer. The bowl belonged to her people. It was never truly Okaga’s, and never his to give.
“Yes, master,” she replied, and left the donjon.
The world would continue to change. Lady Kita took comfort in this. It was just like she had explained to Charlie all those months ago. Someday, there would be no more clipper ships. The samurai would fade away. And all the daimyos and all their castles would one day fall to dust. And then, perhaps, she would be free.
