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home shortly anyway.   It will be on my way,” he lied.
     
    “Oh . . . in that case . . .”
     
                “Shall I return tomorrow for your letter?”
     
    “Yes.   If you are sure.   Nobody comes here as a rule.   The first half of the hour of the hare?   It’s the time of the morning rice, and I can slip away then.”
     
    He bowed again and left.  
     
    Later in the day, he asked someone about the Oba family and was told that Oba’s daughter was the Retired Emperor’s newest acquisition.   Shock and pain struck with equal fierceness: shock that he had mistaken one of the imperial women for a mere child and conversed freely with her, even touched her — and pain that she was not for him.   She was fourteen, it appeared, old enough to be bedded and bear an imperial heir.   The thought sickened him, and he wished they had not met.
     
    But he had given his word, and the next day, dressed in his best silk robe and court hat, he returned.   The courtyard was empty.   He waited a little, nervous about being seen, and was just turning to leave, when the green shade moved a little and a small hand gestured.   Climbing quickly to the veranda, he asked softly, “Lady Toshiko?”
     
    “Yes,” she whispered.   “I don’t have much time.   You are so kind to do this.   I have thought about it all night.”   The hand reappeared and pushed a pale blue folded letter his way.   Then, before he could respond, she gave a little gasp and whispered, “I must go.   Thank you.”  
     
    He took the letter and left quickly.
     

Lady Oba
     
     
     
    Toshiko’s mother was startled when the visitor was announced.   With her husband and oldest son away, she had expected a quiet day.  
     
    The visitor’s name was Yamada.   She once knew someone by that name, but this visitor had come from the capital.   Perhaps, she thought hopefully, he was bringing good news about Toshiko.
     
    Her husband was getting impatient and angry because no invitations had come from His Majesty.   Their oldest son, Takehira, was looking sullen.   He had expected to join the imperial guard long before now.   When his younger brother, Yasuhira, brushed off Takehira’s complaints with the comment that only a fool would want to live in the capital among the perfumed dandies, Takehira had punched his face.
     
    But Lady Oba worried mostly about Toshiko.   Her daughter was alone at court, without her family’s support or even her own maid, and Toshiko’s father refused to allow her a visit home or her mother to go to her.   Only this morning, he had made his feelings clear to his wife.   He wished no contact with Toshiko until she achieved success.   Lady Oba had tried to argue but that only made matters worse.   He and Takehira had stormed off to drown their frustration in pleasure.
     
    She knew where they went because this was not the first time.   They were with women in the nearby town, and she was glad to have them gone.  
     
    But now this Yamada had come, and she felt hopeful.   She put on a gown of crimson brocade over pale violet silk and prepared to receive him.   The formal reception hall was an old, dark room.   Its heavy timbers rose from black, polished floors and thick shutters protected it from winter storms and the rain torrents of summer.   It was rough and plain — like the men of the Oba family — but it was the most formal room they had, and she did her best to give it a touch of elegance.  
     
    The southern sets of shutters stood open to the veranda, where her husband had entertained the Emperor and his nobles.   The view from there was famous, because the Oba manor overlooked a wide valley of moving grasses, a winding river, and blue hills beyond.   The sun was bright, and the greens and blues outside were as intense as the colors on the painted screen she had her maid place behind her.
     
    She was seated on a thick grass mat bound in black and white brocade, and the layers