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Terayama-san’s face for all to see. Mother’s face was less easy to read. It was blank, white with nerves or excitement. There was a brilliance in her eyes, though. A glitter, like stars in the deep night sky. Every now and again, her fingers reached out across the little gap between them to gently touch his knee.
    She turned her head suddenly to look at me and smiled, an awkward smile of stiff lips and rapidly blinking eyes. I smiled back. My smile was much more natural. It was the one I had stolen from Aimi. Mother nodded and turned her attention back to — I forced myself to think it — her husband. If she looked away from him for too long, he would notice. He always noticed when she was looking at something other than him.
    It was so easy to fool her now. Once she had seen through my every excuse, detected my every disobedience. Once I had been unable to keep anything from her.
    Once, she had known me.
    I could hardly wait to be alone that night, hardly wait for the dinner to be over, so Mother and Terayama-san would climb into their flower-hung palanquin and be borne off on their tour of Terayama-san’s lands. When the chattering guests finally departed, Mai accompanied me to my room. It was not thought proper for a maiden to be unattended at night, but while Terayama-san and Mother were off on their wedding trip, I had the power to ban Mai from my room, and I did, sharply.
    That night one cut was not enough. I broke open the scabs of other cuts, old wounds that I had made over the past three months, and made new ones, slashing again and again with the curved silver blade I had stolen from Mother’s manicure tools. I felt no relief. I heard nothing but the shrill cries inside me.
    The blade slipped from my fingers and rolled across the tatami mat, leaving a wet trail behind it. I stared, panting. My throat was dry and sore, and my lungs were tight, as if I had been screaming, but the only screaming had been inside, I was sure of that.
    Head swimming, I reached for the blade. There were soft plopping noises as I extended my hand. Fat, dark drops spattered the mats. I stared for a long moment before I realized I was looking at blood. My blood.
    It had spilled over my pale pink kimono and snaked down my arms. My hands dripped. The gashes gaped open like red mouths. Too confused yet to panic, I tugged down my long sleeves with weak fingers and wrapped the thick layers of fabric around the wounds.
    The pain was coming now. It grew with each movement, throbbing and burning. It cleared my head, and I looked in horror at the mess I had made. I had to clean this up. I had to get rid of the blood, or else everyone would know what I had done. I began to use the edges of the kimono to mop up the sticky trails, but more blood was already trickling down my arms. Wetness pooled at my elbows and dripped onto my legs. My sleeves were soaked. I had not known there was so much blood in me.
    There isn’t that much blood in you. Not anymore.
    I needed help.
    Youta would help me. He would keep my secret. He was alone in the kitchen at night, he had said.
    I staggered to my feet, the ground shifting uneasily under me. I could not even put out an arm to catch myself. Keeping upright with an effort, I nudged back the shoji screen with my foot and went unsteadily down the corridor.
    The pain in my arms was worse with every moment. They felt molten, as if the flesh might simply drop off the bone. It was merest luck that got me down the stairs and outside without falling.
    I pushed open the heavy kitchen door with my shoulder, gasping, “Youta?”
    Inside it was empty, only the orange glow of the triple-hearthed stove visible. The walls seemed to loom miles above me. I could not hold myself up for much longer. Darkness threatened at the edges of my vision.
    “Youta?”
    I am going to die,
I thought, and closed my eyes on a surge of relief.
At last.
    Then strong arms wrapped around me. They swung me up, making everything spin and whirl