Fingers trembling, I splashed myself, barely feeling the cold water on my cheeks, knees and neck. I managed to clean myself passably before the house began to awaken, and hurried back inside to dress and then repack my chest. As Kame returned from the servant’s washing basin, I closed my chest with a satisfying thwump.
She regarded me warily.
“Where have you been this morning? You look as though you’ve been at the springs.”
“I had to wash. Madame beat me.”
“This morning? Already?”
“Yes.”
Kame dipped her head and muttered, “Well at least she’ll be well out of my way.”
* * *
All morning long, Madame made her search, violating every crevice and corner of the house before she was finished. Meanwhile, I retreated to a near corner of the garden with a small piece of complicated sewing, needle trembling uselessly between my thumb and forefinger while I watched. Intermittently, I bent my head to the job, senseless to balmy garden breezes, though not everything escaped my notice.
It was only a tiny viol, standing innocently beside the now empty washing bucket I had previously attributed to Ansei. Goaded by curiosity, I rose to examine it. Opening it released an earthy aroma of white pine. It was a salve made from the bark and intended for healing abrasion. I glanced around for a sign of Ansei or any other person it might belong to, then inhaled again, longingly, while my back sent me stinging reminders of Madame’s angry switch.
Did I dare?
Pressing my index finger against the salve, I applied a bit to the tender areas of my neck, and winced. Even reaching behind was too painful and I couldn’t reach far enough. It didn’t seem worth taking what might not be intended for me, particularly if I couldn’t make use of it without a nurse.
I replaced the jar and returned to my seat. As I worked, I kept one eye on the well, wondering whether I would see Ansei return for his medicine. It was not the kind of thing to misplace carelessly. As I worked and watched, I wondered about him.
Who was he? Where did he come from? And what business did he have interfering with me? Surely there was nothing for him to gain by meddling, and quite a bit to lose. It seemed ludicrous to think Tatsuo was right in his superstitions, but I could make no other sense of anything. Why was I so aware of him? How did I sense his nearness without the slightest visual detection?
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And if Tatsuo were correct in his suspicions, could I really believe Ansei a sympathetic being? Mightn’t he also mean something terrible for me? After all, my quality of life had not improved since his arrival. It had only declined.
Madame had discovered my disobedience and was more watchful than ever. Satomi, too, was stirred up against me constantly. I no longer dared spend my nights at the loom. I had neither the comfort of the garden, nor the pleasure of my own work. How long would it go on this way?
For a long time, I hardly dared pursue my thoughts to their logical conclusions. They seemed to validate suspicions of the supernatural, or my own madness. But there was one occurrence I could not deny, and it stanched the fear that had bloomed up in my breast.
The night following Madame’s beating, I dreamed. This dream pressed into my mind with a vivid recollection that lasted long after waking. As the day wore on, it never faded, but ran continuously through my mind.
I saw a garden spreading around me, untamed with wild growth. Poppies spilled from their beds. Pale azaleas carpeted the roots around a wood. And upon the branches of those tall pine trees, white lace fabrics draped—glistening in the warm afternoon sun. The fabrics were more delicately woven than anything I had ever seen and I gazed at them in hypnotic wonder.
A shallow bed of silk lay across a shady patch of grass. As my gaze fell upon it, a sense of fatigue overwhelmed me. I couldn’t resist falling upon the bed and drifting into the most profound sleep I had ever slept. I could recall nothing more, but the distinct impression that this sleep was a healing slumber, and that while there, I would regenerate at a far faster pace than was usual.
When I awakened to the rough surface of my worn futon in Madame Ozawa’s house, the scent of pine lingered heavily in the air. Something cold and solid filled my right hand. When I opened my palm, I realized with a start what I held.
It was the tiny glass viol.
Stranger yet, I became aware of the cooling sensation of the salve massaged into the ravaged skin of my neck and back. But I had no memory of how it came to be there, or what invisible hand had applied it.
My face flushed at the thought of this intrusion, but I checked the thought. I had a growing conviction Ansei had some kind of magical power. If he really were an immortal, then whatever he determined, either for or against me, I couldn’t hope to escape.
Later that morning, I stole a glance at my neck in a small mirror above the wash basin and gasped at what I saw—or what I didn’t see. My scars were faint—nearly healed. I didn’t know how that could be, but there it was, impossible to deny.
My dream returned to my mind’s eye. Something strange, even supernatural, was happening to me.
I stole another glance at myself in the mirror. Whatever was happening seemed also to have stolen over my countenance. I didn’t look merely well. I almost didn’t dare to see, and yet I couldn’t look away. Surely others could see it too.
* * *
In spite of contrary evidence, the dream, my healed neck, even my reflection in the mirror taught me to believe Ansei held goodwill for me. This confidence grew up inside of me, and touched everything, even the work of my hands.
The change was so powerful, even uniform patterns became distinctly my own. Fabrics that should have matched exactly with other weavers shone more clearly and more brightly from my loom.
Suddenly, Madame could sell my work for more money, because it was far finer, more elegant than anything the other weavers produced.
It was a curious phenomenon, and strangers began to ask questions.