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Chelgrin?
    He couldn’t decide which.

8
    At Joanna’s request, the hostess at Mizutani telephoned the Sogo Taxi Company. The cab arrived in less than five minutes, a black car with red lettering.
    Joanna was delighted with the driver. No one could have been better suited than he was for the little tour that she had in mind. He was a wrinkled, white-haired old man with an appealing smile that lacked one tooth. He sensed romance between her and Alex, so he interrupted their conversation only to make certain that they didn’t miss special scenery here and there, using his rearview mirror to glance furtively at them, always with bright-eyed approval.
    For more than an hour, at the driver’s discretion, they cruised the ancient city. Joanna drew Alex’s attention to interesting houses and temples, and she kept up a stream of patter about Japanese history and architecture. He smiled, laughed frequently, and asked questions about what he was seeing. But he looked at her as much as at the city, and again she felt the incredible power of his dark eyes and direct stare.
    They were stopped at a traffic light near the National Museum when he said, “Your accent intrigues me.”
    She blinked. “What accent?”
    “It isn’t New York, is it?”
    “I wasn’t aware I had an accent.”
    “No, it’s certainly not New York. Boston?”
    “I’ve never been to Boston.”
    “It’s not Boston, anyway. Difficult to pin down. Maybe there’s a slight trace of British English in it. Maybe that’s it.”
    “I hope not,” Joanna said. “I’ve always disliked Americans who assume an English accent after living a few years there. So phony.”
    “It’s not English.” He studied her while he pondered the problem, and as the cab started up again, he said, “I know what it sounds like! Chicago.”
    “You’re from Chicago, and I don’t sound like you.”
    “Oh, but you do. Just a little. A very little.”
    “Not at all. And I’ve never been to Chicago, either.”
    “You must have lived somewhere in Illinois,” he insisted.
    Suddenly his smile seemed to be false, maintained only with considerable effort.
    “No,” she said, “I’ve never been to Illinois.”
    He shrugged. “Then I’m wrong.” He pointed to a building ahead, on the left. “That’s an odd-looking place. What is it?”
    Joanna resumed her role as his guide, although with the uneasy feeling that the questions about her accent had not been casual. That sudden turn in the conversation had a purpose that eluded her.
    A shiver passed through Joanna, and it felt like an echo of the chills that she endured every night, when waking from the nightmare.

9
    At Nijo Castle, they paid the cab fare and continued sightseeing on foot. Turning away from the small Sogo taxi as it roared off into traffic, they followed three other tourists toward the palace’s huge iron-plated East Gate.
    Joanna glanced at Alex and saw that he was impressed. “It’s something, huh?”
    “Now this is my idea of a castle!” Then he shook his head. “But it looks too ... garish for Japan.”
    Joanna sighed. “I’m glad you said that. If you admired Nijo Castle too much, then how could I ever like you?”
    “You mean I’m supposed to find it garish?”
    “Most sensitive people do ... if they understand Japanese style, that is.”
    “I thought it was a landmark.”
    “It is, historically. But it’s an attraction with more appeal for tourists than for the Japanese.”
    They entered through the main gate and passed a second gate, the Kara-mon, which was richly ornamented with metalwork and elaborate wood carvings. Ahead lay a wide courtyard and then the palace itself.
    As they crossed the courtyard, Joanna said, “Most Westerners expect ancient palaces to be massive, lavish. They’re disappointed to find so few imposing monuments here— but they like Nijo Castle. Its rococo grandeur is something they can relate to. But Nijo doesn’t actually represent the fundamental qualities of