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“Yes, I hated him that night,” Buntaro continued in the same calm voice, “and wanted him dead—and you and Fujiko-san. My bow whispered to me, like it does sometimes, asking for a killing. And when, the next dawn, I saw him coming down the hill with those cowardly little pistols in his hands, my arrows begged to drink his blood. But I put his killing off and humbled myself, hating my bad manners more than him, shamed by my bad manners and the saké.” His tiredness showed now. “So many shames to bear, you and I. Neh?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me to kill him?”

“You must do what you know to be your duty,” she said. “As I will always do mine.”

“We stay at the inn tonight,” he said.

“Yes.”

And then, because she had been a perfect guest and the cha-no-yu the best he had ever achieved, he changed his mind and gave her back time and peace in equal measure that he had received from her. “Go to the inn. Sleep,” he said. His hand picked up the stiletto and offered it. “When the maples are bare of leaves—or when you return from Osaka—we will begin again. As husband and wife.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you agree freely, Mariko-san?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Before your God?”

“Yes. Before God.”

Mariko bowed and accepted the knife, replaced it in its hiding place, bowed again and left.

Her footsteps died away. Buntaro looked down at the branchlet still in his fist, the tear still trapped in a tiny leaf. His fingers trembled as they gently laid the sprig on the last of the coals. The pure green leaves began to twist and char. The tear vanished with a hiss.

Then, in silence, he began to weep with rage, suddenly sure in his innermost being that she had betrayed him with the Anjin-san.

Blackthorne saw her come out of the garden and walk across the well-lit courtyard. He caught his breath at the whiteness of her beauty. Dawn was creeping into the eastern sky.

“Hello, Mariko-san.”

“Oh—hello, Anjin-san! You—so sorry, you startled me—I didn’t see you there. You’re up late.”

“No. Gomen nasai, I’m on time.” He smiled and motioned to the morning that was not far off. “It’s a habit I picked up at sea, to wake just before dawn, in good time to go aloft to get ready to shoot the sun.” His smile deepened. “It’s you who’re up late!”

“I didn’t realize that it was . . . that night was gone.” Samurai were posted at the gates and all doorways, watching curiously, Naga among them. Her voice became almost imperceptible as she switched to Latin. “Guard thine eyes, I beg thee. Even the darkness of night contains harbingers of doom.”

“I beg forgiveness.”

They glanced away as horses clattered up to the main gate. Falconers and the hunting party and guards. Dispiritedly Toranaga came from within.

“Everything’s ready, Sire,” Naga said. “May I come with you?”

“No, no, thank you. You get some rest. Mariko-san, how was the cha-no-yu?”

“Most beautiful, Sire. Most very beautiful.”

“Buntaro-san’s a master. You’re fortunate.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Anjin-san! Would you like to go hunting? I’d like to learn how you fly a falcon.”

“Sire?”

Mariko translated at once.

“Yes, thank you,” Blackthorne said.

“Good.” Toranaga waved him to a horse. “You come with me.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Mariko watched them leave. When they had trotted up the path, she went to her room. Her maid helped her undress, remove her makeup, and take down her hair. Then she told the maid to stay in the room, that she was not to be disturbed until noon.

“Yes, mistress.”

Mariko lay down and closed her eyes and allowed her body to fall into the exquisite softness of the down quilts. She was exhausted and elated. The cha-no-yu had pushed her to a strange height of peacefulness, cleansing her, and from there, the sublime, joy-filled decision to go into death had sent her to a further pinnacle never attained before. Returning from the summit into life once more had left her with an eerie, unbelievable awareness of the beauty of being alive. She had seemed to be outside herself as she answered Buntaro patiently, sure her answers and her performance had been equally perfect. She curled up in the bed, so glad that peace existed now . . . until the leaves fell.

Oh, Madonna, she prayed fervently, I thank thee for thy mercy in granting me my glorious reprieve. I thank thee and worship thee with all my heart and with all my soul and for all eternity.

She repeated an Ave Maria in humility and then, asking forgiveness, in accordance to her custom and in obedience to her liege lord, for another day she put her God into a compartment of her mind.

What would I have done, she mused just before sleep took her, if Buntaro had asked to share my bed?

I would have refused.

And then, if he had insisted, as is his right?

I would have kept my promise to him. Oh, yes. Nothing’s changed.