“Trouble?” I repeated.
“Hugh-san is in prison, to be tried for the murder. You didn’t know?” Yuki’s eyes were big.
“He’s been released,” I said shortly.
“Oh, really?” Taro asked.
“Rei-san, you surely haven’t seen him?” Yuki wailed.
The coffee went down the wrong way, and I began coughing into my napkin.
“This is not a good idea. Hugh-san may be free at the moment, but most people believe he is a criminal!” Taro’s voice was sharp enough that the two grandmothers dining quietly at the next table turned their heads.
“I thought you liked him,” I said.
“He was very kind and funny, but the police do not hold prisoners unless they have a very strong case.” Taro said. “His true character must be different than our first impression!”
If he is indicted, just remember the judge convicts in ninety-nine percent of all cases. It’s the Japanese system,” Yuki said soberly.
“This Japanese system, I guess I don’t understand it, Yuki. I wonder why, for instance, you and your husband found it so crucial to share my sex life with Captain Okuhara.” The fury that had simmered in me for a week spilled over.
“I told you not to tell!” Yuki shrieked at her husband.
“When a policeman asks, you must tell the truth,” Taro argued back. “Rei-san needs to be protected! She’s a girl who knows nothing about men’s nature.”
“Excuse me,” I said, waving a hand in his face. “If you’re going to insult me, do it directly, please.”
“Rei-san, I am not your relative, so I cannot tell you what to do. But please, you must not see him again. You must be careful,” Taro said.
“I always am.” I whisked the check out of the tiny silver holder where the waitress had placed it, trying to quash the anger rising in me. I owed a lot to the Ikedas. They had shown me around Shiroyama, uncovered the box’s carving and even handcarried it into the city to return to me. But they had also brought me something that I didn’t want: the old nagging doubts.
Ishida Antiques had closed by the time I arrived at the dingy 1930s house where Mr. Ishida worked and slept among his Japanese treasures. I figured he was probably home and knocked until he craned his head out of an upstairs window.
“Shimura-san! Wait shortly, please!” A smile creased the face of the man who looked as devout as a monk whenever I spied on him at the shrine sales.
I waited for him to unbolt the door that creaked like something out of a horror movie but led to a paradise crowded with dusty furniture: table standing atop table, ceramic urns stacked in precarious towers that leaned but never fell. Today the shop smelled like oranges. I finally spotted an offering of tangerines at the base of a beautifully carved miniature shrine hanging over the entrance.
“I’ve brought something mysterious for you.” I pulled my box out of the Mitsutan shopping bag. As Mr. Ishida examined it, I started to narrate the legend of Princess Miyo.
“I know the story, of course. I presume you’re interested in learning if your purchase connects to the legend.” He set down the box.
“Could it be genuine?” I asked.
“It is interesting. Especially since the name is inscribed in hiragana and not kanji.”
“Mostly women wrote in hiragana, right?”
“Yes, they wrote in phonetics for the centuries before they were allowed to study kanji. But Princess Miyo was a young lady in the 1860s, when national reforms were beginning to include an education curriculum for all. A princess, especially, would have had a private teacher.” Mr. Ishida scratched his cheek.
“What about the carving? Do you think a woman might have been trained to do that?”
“Certainly. Noblewomen often carried knives so they could be prepared to commit suicide, should enemies take over.”
“So maybe it isn’t a fake.” My spirits rose.
“Even if she didn’t carve this herself, it was surely done in the nineteenth century. I’ll show you something for comparison.” Mr. Ishida rummaged in a corner, coming back with a small wooden hibachi—a brazier in which coals were once burned for warmth in the household. The hibachi had calligraphy running down one side that had been smoothly worn down by age; this, we compared to the carving on my small box.
“The wood used for your box is lighter and cheaper, but both are from the same era. I feel it.” Mr. Ishida held my box almost reverently. “Most likely someone between 1830 to 1870 has carved this name. Probably a child.”
“It could have been her.” I pictured a beautiful little girl in a handmade silk kimono, her head bent industriously over the box as she whittled away.