“I can’t leave Kikuko-chan,” she said.
“You coddle that child too much,” Lady Keisho-in said. “She must eventually learn to get along without her mama, and the sooner the better.”
Lady Yanagisawa’s hands gripped the veranda railing. “My husband… ”
As Reiko guessed how much Lady Yanagisawa would miss spying on the chamberlain, Keisho-in spoke with tactless disregard for her feelings: “Your husband won’t miss you.”
“But we will encounter strange people and places during the trip.” Lady Yanagisawa’s voice trembled with fear born of her extreme shyness.
Keisho-in made an impatient, scornful sound. “The whole point of travel is to see things you can’t see at home.”
Midori and Lady Yanagisawa turned to Reiko, their expressions begging her to save them. Reiko didn’t want to leave Masahiro; nor did she want to leave Sano and their detective work. She dreaded ten days of Lady Yanagisawa sticking to her like a leech, and the possibility that the woman would attack her. And Lady Keisho-in posed another threat. The shogun’s mother had a greedy sexual appetite that she indulged with women as well as men. Once, Keisho-in had made amorous advances toward Reiko, who had barely managed to deflect them without bringing the shogun’s wrath down upon herself and Sano, and lived in fear of another such experience.
Yet Reiko dared voice none of these selfish objections. Her only hope of thwarting the trip to was to appeal to Keisho-in’s interests.
“I would love to accompany you,” Reiko said, “but His Excellency the Shogun may need me to help my husband conduct an investigation.”
Keisho-in pondered, aware that Reiko’s detective skill had won the shogun’s favor. “I’ll tell my son to delay all important inquiries until we return,” she said.
“But he may not want you to go,” Reiko said, her anxiety rising. “How will he manage without your advice?”
Indecision pursed Keisho-in’s mouth. Lady Yanagisawa and Midori watched in hopeful suspense.
“Won’t you miss him?” Reiko said. “Won’t you miss Priest Ryuko?” The priest was Keisho-in’s spiritual advisor and lover.
A long moment passed while Keisho-in frowned and vacillated. At last she declared, "Yes, I’ll miss my darling Ryuko-san, but parting will increase our fondness. And tonight I’ll give my son enough advice to last awhile.”
“The journey will be difficult and uncomfortable,” Reiko said in desperation.
“The weather on the road will be even hotter than it is here,” Midori added eagerly.
“We’ll have to stay at inns full of crude, noisy people.” Lady Yanagisawa shivered.
“Highway bandits may attack us,” Reiko said.
Keisho-in’s hand fluttered, negating the dire predictions. “We’ll take plenty of guards. I appreciate your concern for me, but a religious pilgrimage to Fuji-san is worth the hardship.”
She addressed her maids: “Go tell the palace officials to get travel passes for everyone and ready an entourage, horses, palanquins, and provisions for the journey. Hurry, because I want to leave tomorrow morning.” Then she turned to Reiko, Midori, and Lady Yanagisawa. “Don’t just stand there like idle fools. Come inside and help me pick out clothes to bring.”
The women exchanged appalled glances at this foretaste of traveling with Lady Keisho-in. Then they breathed a silent, collective sigh of resignation.
In the cool of dawn the next morning, servants carried chests out of Sano’s mansion and placed them in the courtyard. Two palanquins stood ready for Reiko and Midori, while bearers waited to carry the women in their enclosed black wooden sedan chairs to Mount Fuji. Sano and Masahiro stood with Reiko beside her palanquin.
“I wish I could call off this trip,” Sano said. He hated for Reiko to go, yet his duty to the shogun extended to the entire Tokugawa clan and forbade him to thwart Lady Keisho-in’s desire.
Reiko’s delicate, beautiful face was strained, but she managed a smile. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as we think.”
Admiring her valiant attempt to make the best of a bad situation, Sano already missed his wife. They were more than just partners in investigating crimes or spouses in a marriage arranged for social, economic, and political reasons. Their work, their child, and their passionate love bound them in a spiritual union. And this trip would be their longest separation in their four years together.
Reiko crouched, put her hands on Masahiro’s shoulders, and looked into his solemn face. “Do you promise to be good while I’m gone?” she said.
“Yes, Mama.” Though the little boy’s chin trembled, he spoke bravely, imitating the stoic samurai attitude.
Beside the other palanquin, Midori and Hirata embraced. “I’m so afraid something bad will happen and we’ll never see each other again,” Midori fretted.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” Hirata said, but his wide, youthful face was troubled because he didn’t want his pregnant wife to leave.
From the barracks surrounding the mansion came two samurai detectives, leading horses laden with bulky saddlebags. Sano had ordered the men, both loyal retainers and expert fighters, to accompany and protect Reiko and Midori. He wished he and Hirata could go, but the shogun required their presence in Edo.
“Take good care of them,” Sano told the detectives.
“We will, Sōsakan-sama.” The men bowed.
Reiko said, “Lady Keisho-in, Lady Yanagisawa, and our entourage will be waiting for us outside the main castle gate. We’d better go.”
Sano lifted Masahiro; they and Reiko embraced. Final farewells ensued. Then Reiko and Midori reluctantly climbed into their palanquins. The bearers shouldered the poles; servants lifted the chests. Sano hugged Masahiro close against his sore heart. As the procession moved through the gate, Reiko put her head out the window of her palanquin, looked backward, and fixed a wistful gaze on Sano and Masahiro. They waved; Sano smiled.
“Mama, be safe,” Masahiro called. “Come home soon.”
2
The Tōkaidō, the great Eastern Sea Road, extended west from Edo toward the imperial capital at Miyako. Fifty-three post stations-villages where travelers lodged and the Tokugawa regime maintained security checkpoints-dotted the highway. West of the tenth post station of Odawara, the highway cut across the Izu Peninsula. The terrain ascended into the mountainous district over which reigned the massive volcano Mount Fuji. Here the Tōkaidō carved a crooked path upward through forests of oak, maple, cedar, birch, cypress, and pine.
Along this stretch of road moved a procession comprised of some hundred people. Two samurai scouts rode on horseback ahead of foot soldiers and mounted troops. Banner bearers held a flag emblazoned with the Tokugawa triple-hollyhock-leaf crest, leading ten palanquins followed by servants. Porters carrying baggage preceded a rear guard of more mounted troops and marching soldiers. Syncopated footsteps and the clatter of the horses’ hooves echoed to distant peaks obscured by dense gray clouds.
Inside the first palanquin, Reiko and Lady Keisho-in rode, seated opposite each other. They watched through the windows as occasional squadrons of samurai overtook them or commoners passed from the other direction. Moisture condensed in the cool afternoon; streams and waterfalls rippled; birdsong animated the forest.
“Four days we’ve been traveling, and we’re still not even near Fuji-san,” Keisho-in said in a grumpy tone.
Reiko forbore to point out that their slow pace was Keisho-in’s own fault. Keisho-in had spent hours buying souvenirs and sampling local foods at every post station. She’d often ordered the procession to halt while she greeted the public. Furthermore, she disliked riding fast. The women had now gone a distance that should have taken them half the time and a fast horseman could cover in a day. And the trip had already taxed Reiko’s endurance.