His eye fell on an unfamiliar oblong brocade-wrapped package on his desk. Curious, he took it up, untied the silk cord, and unrolled the fabric. It contained his broken flute, now miraculously restored. He turned it slowly in his hands, looking for the seam between the broken halves. He could not find it. Bemused, he raised the flute to his lips and blew. The sound was pure and clear, hanging in the air for a moment like a silken ribbon before he let it dissolve into a shower of trills as joyous as the song of a nightingale outside his veranda door.
He played remembered tunes, “Mist and Rain over a Mountain Lake” and “Bells on a Snowy Night,” surprised that he recalled them, immersed in the music, totally happy for a time. When he finally lowered the instrument, a soft sound of applause came from the door to the corridor. It had been pushed ajar a little, and in the opening appeared the smiling face of Yoshiko.
“Oh, that was lovely, Elder Brother,” she cried. “The flute maker promised it would play as well as ever. Do you like it?”
“Please come in, Little Sister.” Akitada smiled. “It sounds better than before, I think. A miracle. Was it you who had it mended?”
She blushed and bowed. “It gave me great pleasure.”
Yoshiko was no longer the laughing young girl Akitada remembered. She was a grown woman, Tamako’s age almost, though she looked older, more worn, quietly composed instead of bubbling with energy as she used to be. He was partially to blame for that. What her mother had started by denying Yoshiko a life of her own, he had finished by extorting a cruel promise. He had taken her last hope of happiness with the man she loved.
“Yoshiko,” he said humbly, “I find I must beg your pardon. I have given you much pain when I had meant to make you happy. And in spite of this, you have gone to have my flute mended. It was too kind and I don’t deserve it.”
She gave a little gasp. “Oh, no, Akitada. The flute was nothing. And… you meant well,” she said softly.
“Do you truly love Kojiro?”
“Yes,” she said without qualification, her voice matter-of-fact.
“He has been released.”
A slight flush rose to her cheeks. “I am glad. Poor man, he has suffered so much. I hope his future will be blessed.”
“And you? Do you still wish to be a part of his future?”
For a moment the color receded from her face and he thought she would faint. But the blush returned as abruptly. She looked at him in wonder. “Akitada,” she breathed, “have you changed your mind? For me nothing has changed. I shall always love him. He may only be a farmer and a merchant’s brother, but I am a part of him. But what about you, and the family? If you allow this marriage, must we part forever?”
“No. I was wrong to forbid the marriage and I was wrong about Kojiro’s character. He is a much better man than most people of rank. However, that does not mean that things will be easy for you. You must be prepared for rejection by people of our rank, perhaps even by your own sister.”
She smiled. “As long as you and Tamako will not disown me, I shall manage quite well. And Akiko will come around in the end because Toshikage is a kind man.”
Akitada nodded, remembering that he had once also doubted this brother-in-law. “In three weeks’ time the forty-nine days of mourning for your mother will be up. I see no reason why you cannot have a quiet wedding in the spring. If you like the idea, I shall speak to Kojiro about a marriage contract. I mean to give you the same dower as Akiko.”
His sister covered her face with both hands and began to weep.
“Yoshiko!” Akitada struggled up in dismay. “What is it? What have I said?” He went to kneel beside her.
She buried her face against his chest. “Nothing, everything,” she sobbed, half crying and half laughing. “Oh, Akitada. Thank you so much. Oh, and Kojiro will thank you also. We are both forever in your debt.”
“Well,” said Akitada, dabbing his own eyes and patting her shoulder. “In that case, I had better get busy clearing up three murders, and you will have to use your needle on your own gowns instead of Yori’s. It is high time we got out of these dark clothes.”
TWENTY-TWO
The Dance of the Demon
On the next to the last day of the year, Akitada was well enough to leave the house. The weather was gray, but the bitter cold had finally broken. Akitada wore elaborate court dress—his new robe, made by Yoshiko from the silk he had bought so many weeks ago—because he was on his way to court to present his official report.
Years ago this would have been a highly stressful affair for him. Even men older and higher in rank than Akitada quaked at the prospect of making their bow to the chancellor and assorted ministers and imperial advisers. But Akitada had just been given back his life. That sort of experience put the present ordeal and even his six years in the frozen north into a new perspective.
He therefore arrived calmly smiling at the officious young nobleman who had pitied his frayed costume on his last visit. The young man flushed with embarrassment and bowed Akitada obsequiously into the presence of the great men. Oblivious to their sharp-eyed scrutiny, Akitada extended New Year’s wishes with goodwill and more smiles to the three ministers and the haughty and bored chancellor. Then he presented his official report. He spoke easily and concisely on matters of national security, handing over sheaves of neatly written documents, answered their questions, and stated his recommendations for the region with strong arguments and to such good effect that even the chancellor sat up and listened. What should have been a stiff and formal affair suddenly became a lively exchange of views, and the eminent men consulted Akitada’s opinion with flattering interest and respect.
He left the palace smiling and whistling under his breath, the recipient of several invitations to seasonal parties. Strange, when one stopped caring so much about impressing the great, they became entirely human and quite likable.
After changing from the stiff silk gown with its long train into a more comfortable robe, Akitada set out again for the Nagaoka house.
This time the gate was answered by the old man who had entertained them at Fushimi, the one who loved old stories. Akitada racked his brain for a name. Kinzo! That was it.
“Well, Kinzo,” Akitada said, “I hope you remember me.”
“Sugawara,” snapped the old man. “I’m not senile yet. Lord Sugawara, I suppose I should say, though your ancestor held a much higher rank. Well, my master got out of jail without your help. Never mind! We can’t all be brilliant.”
Akitada chuckled. Lest he become arrogant after the flattering reception by the chancellor and ministers, here was Kinzo to remind him that greatness was a matter of opinion. He patted the old man’s shoulder. “True, but I am as happy as you that your master is finally free.”
Kinzo grunted as he slammed the gate shut behind them. “Maybe if he had chanted sutras in jail like Shuncho, the holy Fugen would’ve come to release him.”
“In that case, perhaps the god could have solved the murder of his sister-in-law. And prevented the killings of Nagaoka and Yasaburo.”
Kinzo pushed out his lower lip and considered. “It reminds me of the story of the Somedono Empress,” he said. “She was possessed by a demon who was her lover.” He shook his head. “The demon did terrible things and many people died for it.”
Akitada looked at him sharply. It was a strange parallel. But perhaps the old man was getting senile. He asked, “How is your master?”
“He’s the invisible man. Demon spit will make you invisible, you know.”