“Is it acceptable?” her father said, his arms crossed.
Soitwasa test, Sen thought. Her father wanted to see if she could ascertain the quality of a blade. She didn’t know where he’d found the money to buy himself a new sword when they could hardly afford food, but it wasn’t her place to ask.
Sen considered her answer carefully, scanning the blade for any chips or flaws in the surface, trying to recall if it had felt unbalanced. But she could think of nothing but the keen whir of air as she’d cut down, like the strike of a whip, that pure and elegant perfection.
“Yes, Chichiue,” she said at last.
Her father nodded.I’ve answered correctly, Sen thought, letting out a breath.
“Then it’s yours,” he said. He turned and passed a small satchel of coins to the blacksmith, who bowed deeply as he accepted it.
Sen froze, gaze snapping back to the katana. “Mine?” she whispered. Her father would never give something like this to her. This had to be another test. Did he think Sen was too greedy? Too gullible? Her father only glanced at her coolly before heading for the door.
The blacksmith was already rewrapping the sword, closing the lid and bowing as he slid the box toward her. Sen picked it up with numb hands, clutching it close to her chest and hurrying after her father.
“Chichiue,” Sen said, shouldering the door open, “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to misunderstand about a katana?” her father said, still walking forward. “If this is too confusing to you, return it.”
“But why would you get this for me?” Sen said. She held the box tight to her chest, as if it would disappear the moment she stopped touching it. “I don’t deserve it.”
A frown carved down her father’s brow. “It is vain to seek out praise,” he said.
“I’m not seeking praise,” Sen said, shaking her head quickly. “Chichiue—”
Her father sighed and ground to a stop. They stood alone on an empty street, her father backlit by the morning sun, his eyes focused only on her. He so rarely looked her in the eye that his undivided attention startled her.
“The imperial soldiers will come for us one day. You know this,” he said. “You will stop them with a blade worthy of your skill.”
A strange warmth bloomed in Sen’s chest, steadying her hands where they trembled against the box.
“The sword is the soul of the samurai,” he said. “My daughter’s soul is not cheap, or worn, or brittle like the blades you’ve been using to train. There is no metal on earth that is pure or strong enough for you, but I hope this will suffice.”
Sen clutched the box, feeling like her whole body was suddenly made of the brightest light.He loves me, she thought, the dangerous feeling rising to the surface of her mind.He respects me. He sees me.She clenched her jaw against the tears she knew her father would despise. She would have cut her own hands off if it meant she could be perfect for him for just a moment longer. She would not cry, or breathe, or shatter this moment for anything in the world.
Behind her father, the doors of town hall unlatched as themorning workers made their way inside. One day, her death would be recorded in the koseki and filed away in that very building. This dream would pass, like all things.
She shook her head, dropping her gaze down to her feet. “It should be your blade, not mine,” she said.
Her father scoffed. “My soul is disgraced,” he said, turning away. “I am lost. But you, Sen, are ready to be what I could not.”
Sen’s throat closed up, tears burning at her eyes.He has no idea that I’m going to die, she thought.I’m going to fail him.His praise stung keener than any blade because she knew she didn’t deserve it.
But in that single moment, her father believed in her. Sen wanted to wrap this memory up in fine fabric and ribbons like the katana in her hands, store it carefully inside a beautiful box. The fierceness of that love, that faith, was almost enough to convince Sen that her father was right. Maybe something as futile as vengeance could change the past and overpower fate. She wanted, with every part of her heart, to believe him.
Her father, now apparently done with his rare show of sentimentality, took off walking again. Sen hurried after him, holding the box close to her heart. She would treasure this sword for the few days she had left.
The sword is the soul of the samurai, she thought. Sen’s soul might have been made of foolish hopes and shattered dreams, but it was hers for as long as this world would allow it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lee
Let me out, Lee
This time, the words were not echoing through his mind, or his dreams, but glowing on the screen of his cell phone.
A second message from “James” had come in that morning, only four words. Lee had been so startled that he’d dropped his phone. It clattered from the kitchen table down to the tiled floor, and cracks bloomed across the screen. The display flickered now, distorting the four horrible words before it went black. Lee shook off the loose glass shards, plugged the device into the charger, and prayed to the phone gods. By the time his phone turned back on, the text was gone.
