The Peony Lantern by Frances Watts

practise in the meantime with some flowers from the garden.
    But despite the challenges of ikebana , my whole mood felt lighter. With our hands and minds engaged, the afternoon had passed with the swiftness of a breeze and, best of all, Misaki was opening up to me.
    â€˜A messenger came from the master,’ Ishi told us when we went to the kitchen to fetch tea. ‘He’ll be home for dinner, and he’s bringing his nephew too.’
    â€˜Oh, I hadn’t even thought about dinner. What do you think, Ishi? It’s been so hot.’
    â€˜I have bonito fresh today,’ the cook offered. ‘We could have it seared.’
    â€˜Yes, with some shiso leaves and wasabi. And we should use different dishes tonight, don’t you think? Where’s Otami? No, don’t call her, I’ll go to the storehouse myself. Come help me choose, Kasumi.’
    Ishi raised her eyebrows at me, and I knew she was wondering what had made Misaki so animated.
    I just shrugged and followed my mistress outside.

    When Shimizu and Isamu entered the reception room that evening they went at once to the shelf to admire our flower arrangements.
    â€˜How did you find your first ikebana lesson, Kasumi?’ asked Shimizu.
    My eyes flew to Misaki in panic. I couldn’t very well say disastrous! She smiled encouragingly.
    â€˜It was very . . . interesting, sir. The shin and the tai and the, er, angles.’
    As the two men looked from one vase to the other, Misaki kept tactfully silent, so I admitted, ‘Misaki’s is to the left; the vase on the right is mine.’
    I could tell Isamu was struggling to keep a straight face.
    â€˜What an eye you have, Misaki-chan,’ Shimizu said to his wife. ‘And such grace. You have captured the perfect artistic balance, such harmony between the three elements.’ Though she ducked her head modestly, her quick smile showed how her husband’s compliment had pleased her.
    â€˜And you, Kasumi. Your arrangement is . . .’ He gestured with his hands as if they might magically produce the appropriate words.
    â€˜Kasumi draws inspiration from the forest,’ Misaki explained, her hand in front of her mouth to hide her smile. ‘Where the spirit of nature is wild and free.’
    It was a valiant defence of my lopsided and somewhat limp effort, which looked about as wild and free as cabbage leaves in miso soup.
    Shimizu looked surprised and, I thought, pleased to see his wife in such a mischievous mood. He was smiling broadly as he turned back to regard my arrangement. Far from being derided, my poor efforts were being looked on almost with approval. I could only imagine what my father would have said.

    After our first ikebana lesson, Misaki began to treat me more as a companion than a servant. She still volunteered no information about herself, but she was always urging me to tell her about life in the valley, in the inn, to describe the beauty of the forest, and the days passed more quickly and pleasantly.
    The rains were easing and we were able to spend more time in the garden, gathering material to practise ikebana . We had just come in from collecting willow branches by the pond one afternoon when we heard voices outside. I looked at Misaki but she had frozen in place, head cocked to one side to listen as the feet crunched over gravel, bypassing the entrance to the formal reception room and continuing on towards our quarters.
    I recognised Shimizu’s voice, but the other was new to me. ‘It doesn’t sound like Isamu,’ I said, conscious of a small stab of disappointment.
    â€˜It’s not! My husband is bringing someone home. Quick, take the branches away, put everything in order.’
    â€˜A visitor!’ We repeated it to each other with rising excitement as she thrust the willow branches at me to take into the garden and hurried to replace our vases and scissors in the kitchen. It was a measure of how quietour life