She was a warrior, and the dead could not taunt her.
The head seemed to be done talking now, so Sen shoved the body into the pit. She’d spent the last hour digging a hole too deep for any animals to unearth, even though she hadn’t seen a single animal in days. The last thing she wanted was a raccoon digging up a severed hand and carrying it into town. So she’d dug through the soil that was wet and soft at first but quickly gave way to dry, powdery earth and tiny stones. Her arms ached, but pushing herself to keep digging was easier than letting her mind cloud up with other thoughts.
Like what the spy meant for her family, and what would happen next.
The government would notice this man’s disappearance. Maybe Sen’s father was too enraged to consider this, but it wasSen’s first thought. Soon, the imperial army would await a report, but none would come. The army might send someone smarter, or they might save themselves time and send men with guns straight to their village. It wasn’t a large village, and it wouldn’t take long to find them.
She dragged the man’s upper half into the grave. Ribbons of intestines trailed behind him, blackened from dirt. Perhaps Sen had cut open his bowels, because something smelled awful, like he’d already begun to rot. She covered her nose with her sleeve and looked up at the sky, wishing for the air to clear.
She pulled off the dead man’s shoes—maybe one of her brothers could wear them when they were older. Then she remembered that her brothers would never get older. They would die when they were two and thirteen.
Maybe their bodies were only lost, Sen thought, even though the hope felt paper-thin. Maybe her mother and brothers had hidden, and the imperial soldiers had marked them as dead, and that was why the koseki had listed their death dates.
But they would not have done the same for her father, and probably not for Sen. They had chased Iwasaki Itaro this far, and they would end him.
As Sen shoveled the hard dirt over the body and the smell of wet earth slowly concealed the stench of death, a strange calmness descended over her, as if she had buried her fears along with the corpse. She imagined being dead, melting into the dirt, finally at peace.Are you proud of me,Chichiue?she thought.I’m imagining death without fear.
At last, she patted down the earth with the back of her shovel, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and headed back to the house.
She hoped Lee had waited for her return, or else her father would have killed him on sight. For a moment, she imaginedthe scene through his eyes, and she slowed to a stop. She saw herself—covered in dirt and blood, clutching a dripping, severed head in one hand.
Shehad grown up in the world of samurai, but Lee would not understand why she had killed the spy. He would fear her. Heshouldfear her. She imagined the look of disgust on his face when he crawled out from under the porch and wished she could fold up like a flower after sunset, hide inside herself.
She hung the head up on the west side of the porch, where Lee wouldn’t see it. Only then did she return to the yard and kneel below the porch.
For a moment, she thought Lee was dead.
He lay still and pale in the darkness, covered in dried blood. His face had turned scarlet from it, his hair matted down from its salt. But his chest rose and fell slowly, almost imperceptibly, like prey animals who pretended to be dead in the forest.
“It’s safe to come out now,” Sen said quietly.
Lee jolted at the sound of her voice, then slowly turned his head toward her. Against the mask of dried blood, his eyes looked searingly green. He blinked slowly, as if just understanding her, then licked his lips.
Sen’s fingers clenched in the dirt. She thought of her own bloody reflection in the river, how she’d savored the taste of blood on her lips. Then she moved back as Lee rolled onto his stomach and began to claw his way out.
Under the stark moonlight, Lee looked like he’d climbed his way up from the depths of hell. Surely he wanted to yell at Sen, or run from her, but they couldn’t risk being heard so close to the house.
“You can wash off in the river,” Sen said, taking a step back to see if he would follow. “We can’t speak so close to the house, or my father will hear.”
Lee looked down at the dirt, then up at her face as if searching for something. Sen took another step back, and this time he followed, walking unsteadily into the forest behind her.
Sen carefully carved a path around the grave she’d just dug, leading Lee to the river. She didn’t turn around as she walked, too afraid of what she’d see in his eyes. She only listened for the sound of his footsteps to make sure she hadn’t left him too far behind.
After a few minutes, the trees thinned out and they arrived at the river.
Lee brushed past her and sat down on the riverbank. He dipped his hands into the cool water and brought a handful to his face, scrubbing at his eyes. He pulled his wet fingers through his hair, scoured his neck with his sleeve. Sen knew the river was freezing this time of night, but Lee Turner didn’t shiver or break into goose bumps—he didn’t react at all. The water washed away the remnants of her kill, leaving Lee’s skin rubbed pink and raw.
“That’s good enough,” he said at last, his voice strangely even. “I can shower when I get back. I just can’t look like a crime scene in case my father sees me before I can make it to the bathroom.”
“Okay,” Sen said quietly, waiting for what would come next. They stood an awkward distance apart, the wind whistling through the emptiness between them. Something had to have changed, now that he’d seen what Sen was capable of. But his eyes looked the same as ever—darting across her as if cataloging her.
“How many people have you killed?” Lee said, as casually as if he’d asked her what she wanted for lunch.
Sen scowled. “I have only ever killed to keep my family safe,” she said.
Lee rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t an accusation. I’m trying to figure out why you’re the bridge.”
Sen grimaced, thinking back to Lee’s promise.
