He shifted on his feet, restless and frustrated. He needed a bout in Gentleman Jackson’s ring. At least, the ring offered a man a straightforward fight.
The door swung open on silent hinges, and the taciturn servant beckoned him inside. As he stepped across the threshold, he saw that he was entering a proper Japanese household, spare, clean, and open. Even as he wanted to exhale in the specific sort of relief one felt in familiar surroundings, he wouldn’t. He must remain alert. This house sheltered his enemy.
The servant bade him stop and pointed toward a low wooden rack. He intuited her meaning and removed his boots before following her to a windowless, low-ceilinged room lit by a dim lamp centered on a low rectangular table. Plain seat pads set atop the tatami floor were the room’s only other furniture.
He stepped into the room alone, and the rice paper door shushed shut behind him on wooden tracks. Before he could gather his bearings, the door slid open to admit a man clad in plain white tunic and trousers, today dressed in clothing more Eastern than Western.Jiro.
He was taller than Jake remembered, but he’d only seen the man seated unobtrusively in a corner, once. Jiro lowered himself onto a mat, fluid and sure. Although his mode of dress and bearing conveyed the impression of an older man, Jake could see that the man was younger than he by a few years.
He was handsome, as well, but not in the narrow Western ideal. No doubt the strongly defined features of his face—cheekbones, jaw, chin, lips—would catch the attention of even the most small-minded Society lady, his appeal extending beyond that of a novelty here for the pleasure of the nobility.
Nobility. Another word that applied to this man. Strange and not at all what Jake had expected of an art master, or a thief. None of the individual pieces were coming together in a neat configuration.
The servant returned with tea service, and the floral scent of jasmine permeated the air. She poured tea into two cups and hastened out of the room on quick cat feet. The man wrapped long, elegant fingers around the cup and lifted it to his lips.Unhurriedwas yet another word for this man.
Jake’s patience ran out. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am.” A tight smile formed about the man’s mouth. “Jiro.” He took another insufferably long sip of his tea.
Jake curbed his annoyance and remained silent. The man would have to ask him to state his business sooner or later.
Jiro blew across the surface of his tea, the liquid a muted ripple, and took another sip. “At last, you’ve found your way to me.”
Jake shifted on his feet and tried to find his balance, both physically and mentally. His opponent had all the control. “You know me so well? I don’t recall two words ever having been exchanged between us before today.”
At last, Jiro’s eyes lifted to meet his. Those eyes were as impenetrable as the deepest, blackest night. Yet, in some strange way, they were familiar to Jake. Again, the feeling that there was a piece, a piece that eluded him, missing from this puzzle tickled the back of his brain.
“A father’s love for his daughter is that predictable,” Jiro replied, a flicker of emotion, unfathomable and quick, fleeting across his features. “I was counting on it.”
Twin flushes of anger and fear pumped through Jake. “Explain yourself lest I misinterpret your intent.”
More than ever, it struck him that he had no understanding of this man’s wants, only his own, which was to reach across the table, grab Jiro by the throat, and silence him forever. As quickly as it came, the impulse passed, leaving him seething with frustration, hollow and acid. More than one piece was missing from this puzzle.
Jiro uncrossed his legs and rose. “Follow me.”
~ ~ ~
Jake stood before the otherworldly glow of gold overleaf and vibrant color, basking in the beauty and warmth of the paintings that had stirred so much trouble. He’d never viewed them in full light, only in the semi-darkness of a windowless room and only once. He gravitated toward the bottom left corner of the final painting.
Thereshewas.Clemence, soft and luminous, exquisite. Her loveliness had become almost an abstract idea these last fifteen years.
“Stunning, yes?” Jiro asked.
Jake’s gaze darted toward a more neutral spot. “Stunning, indeed,” he replied, on his guard. He couldn’t be sure of Jiro’s meaning. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected to be led straight to the paintings. He’d expected more of a struggle.
Jiro drew abreast with him, and they faced the paintings together. “Only noble families own such beauty, yes?”
Jake nodded. It was a fact of their time. For all time, he suspected.
“They were produced by the Kano school during the volatile Momoyama period. It amazes that a time of such chaos yielded a work of such serenity.”
“They weren’t produced fifteen years ago?”
“No.”
“Then how didshe”—He pointed toward the figure of Clemence—“come to be in the painting?”
Jiro stiffened. “A later artist placed her there.”
