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enough,” Hirata said bitterly.
    “You’ll soon be able to fight as well as ever,” Midori persisted.
    “Will I?” Despair filled Hirata.
    Midori hung her head; she couldn’t promise that he would ever be himself again. The doctors had told them he should be satisfied just to be alive. But she said sensibly, “There’s no need for you to fight, anyway.”
    Hirata exhaled. If he couldn’t fight, how could he call himself a samurai?
    “The detectives can do whatever needs to be done,” Midori said, “until—”
    “Until something important comes up that they can’t handle by themselves and I can’t manage from home,” Hirata said. “Then what?”
    He heard someone call, “ Sōsakan-sama .” He sat up as Detective Arai, his chief retainer, came toward him along the passage.
    “There’s a message from the chamberlain,” Arai said. “He requires your assistance on an urgent matter. He wants you to meet him at the Edo Castle racetrack immediately.”
    Honor, duty, and friendship propelled Hirata to the racetrack. It wasn’t far from his estate, but by the time he arrived with two detectives and they dismounted from their horses inside the gate, his wounded leg ached even worse than usual. He looked across the compound and saw Sano at the opposite end, talking to a group of officials. Hirata drew a deep breath. His infirmity magnified the distance between him and Sano tenfold. He gathered his strength.
    “Come on,” he told Detectives Arai and Inoue.
    As they began the long walk, Detective Arai spoke in a quiet, offhand voice, “We could ride.”
    His men always tried to make things easy for him. “No,” Hirata said.
    This was one of his rare public appearances. Most of his colleagues hadn’t seen him since he’d been injured, and he had to demonstrate that he’d made a full recovery. To show any weakness would diminish his status. While he labored toward Sano, the officials scattered around the track bowed to him, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He feared that everyone could see how hard he was struggling not to limp. Sano, Marume, and Fukida hurried to meet Hirata and his detectives.
    “Honorable Chamberlain,” Hirata said, trying not to gasp for breath.
    “ Sōsakan-sama ,” said Sano.
    They exchanged bows; their men, once comrades in the detective corps, greeted one another. Hirata was glad to see Sano because he rarely did; perhaps a month had passed since they’d last met. Although Hirata was technically still Sano’s chief retainer, their new duties kept them apart. Now, a stiff formality had replaced the camaraderie they’d once shared. Relations between them had been awkward since Hirata’s injury.
    Sano signaled their men to move off and allow them some privacy. “I hope all is well with you?” Sano said. Concern sobered his gaze as he regarded Hirata.
    Perhaps the fact that Hirata had saved Sano’s life should have brought them closer together, but it had had the opposite effect. That Hirata had done only what a samurai owed his master didn’t exempt Sano from guilt because he was whole and Hirata maimed. Sano’s guilt and gratitude, and Hirata’s loss, filled a wide gulf between them.
    “All is very well with me.” Hirata stood as straight as he could; he hoped Sano wouldn’t read his pain etched on his face. He didn’t want Sano to feel worse; for Sano to suffer distressed Hirata deeply. “And you?”
    “Never better,” Sano said.
    Hirata noticed that Sano had lost the anxious, careworn air that had marked him in his early days as chamberlain. Indeed, he looked like himself in the old days when he and Hirata had first worked together. But Hirata didn’t want to think about those days.
    “What happened?” Hirata said, gesturing around the track.
    “Ejima Senzaemon, chief of the metsuke , died during a race,” Sano said. “Lord Matsudaira suspects foul play and has asked me to investigate.” He described his meeting with Lord Matsudaira, and the preliminary