Ninth Month, Seventh Day

It was too humid to make love.

Normally a man of optimistic disposition, Hiromasa felt as if he'd lost the will to live. When he moved, the air pressed down upon him, smothering him in unpleasant, liquid heat. Raising a finger was bad enough; raising anything else seemed beyond his capability. He murmured an apology to his companion and covered his face with his sleeve.

"That's quite all right." Winter Moon, his current mistress, gave a sigh of what Hiromasa thought was relief as she settled on her back beside him. Her long hair, coiled on his chest like a sleeping cat, felt heavy and intimate through the layers of his robes. Discreetly, Hiromasa nudged it away from his chin while she continued to talk.

"It's so unpleasant to get all sweaty. Even if it is nice to lie with you, my lord, it's still a messy business whichever way you look at it. The next auspicious day for washing hair isn't for another eleven days, and it's loathsome to feel sweat amongst one's hair. Besides, Her Majesty gave me this silk only last week, and it would be a shame to ruin it. It's very fine, don't you think?"

Hiromasa made a noncommittal noise to show he was listening, and allowed his mind to drift.

Winter Moon liked to talk more than any other woman he'd met. He'd approached her only because he'd wondered if she resembled her name. At the beginning of summer, he'd yearned for an ice-pale maiden with whom to cool the heat. After a flourishing exchange of poems, they'd met at her mother's estate. Hiromasa discovered Winter Moon was small and slightly plump, her disposition simple and open. She had no calm elegance and blade-sharp wit, only childish enthusiasm and a sense of her own importance that came from being one of the Empress' favourite ladies-in-waiting.

Under normal circumstances, Winter Moon would be his ideal woman. But the relentless heat had revealed many ideals as foolish romantic fantasies.

Autumn was peculiarly warm this year, the bitterness of winter still an impossible dream. It was as if the seasons had forgot to turn, and autumn had become an extension of summer. Life at court remained intolerable as men and women drooped in apathy. Tempers flared with the heat then dampened down with the afternoon rains. Jealousies real or imagined sparked violently before subsiding into glowering resentment. It seemed that the heat unmasked people's true personalities, revealing their shortcomings with cruel clarity.

Hiromasa was conscious of his own boredom and a longing for escape. He blamed these feelings on Winter Moon's droning chatter, but knew she was blameless. The problem lay within the stultifying rituals of court life, and within himself.

Only one person of Hiromasa's acquaintance seemed unmoved by the heat: Abe no Seimei. His house, on the very edge of the city, caught the breeze from the distant mountains. It was always deliciously cool in summer and comfortably warm in winter, although Hiromasa imagined that was due to magic rather than architectural design.

Even away from his home, Seimei looked unruffled, his silks immaculate and not even a sheen of sweat upon his forehead. Hiromasa had seen him earlier, kneeling in full sunlight as he studied a scroll. The white of his hunting costume had a glaring brilliance, almost an insult to the limp fabrics of the courtiers around him. The pale blue of the robe beneath looked like ice under snow, cool and tempting.

Hiromasa had wanted to touch him. He'd longed to go over and speak to his friend, to apologise for what had happened between them three weeks ago. He'd stepped out of the shadows of the long gallery and started across the courtyard, determined to give the speech he'd rehearsed so often in his head.

Seimei had looked up and fixed him with an impenetrable gaze, and Hiromasa's bravery shrivelled. He'd swung about, black silks fluttering, and retreated back into the shadows of the palace.

It had been his fault, of course. Hiromasa despaired of ever learning the right way to do things. He shone at court niceties and excelled at trivial affairs, but when it came to something important, he always failed.

Take, for example, the way he'd treated Seimei. Hiromasa squirmed restlessly at the thought, dislodging the coils of Winter Moon's hair from his chest. The hair, heavily scented, slumped between them. She didn't seem to notice, prattling on about something else. When she paused for breath, he murmured his agreement to whatever she'd said.

Not that she heard him. Winter Moon could probably talk to a folding screen all day and be content with hearing the sound of her own voice. Not like Seimei, who wrapped himself in silence and only spoke easily when sake and good humour had loosened his tongue.

Hiromasa shifted again, sweat trickling down his sides to dampen his under-robe. His mind turned, as it often did, to the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival – and the last time Seimei had spoken to him.

The night existed in his memory only as fragments, scattered puzzle pieces of an indefinable whole. He remembered the lingering note of sake on his tongue, the pounding of blood in his ears, the feel of torn silk and warm skin. He remembered Seimei's scent, the snap and crumple of a paper fan, the taste of Seimei's nape and the slow tumble of hair loosened from its topknot.

At first light, sick with a hangover matched in ferocity only by his sense of remorse, Hiromasa had hurried home. So desperate was he to put distance between himself and Seimei that he allowed an acquaintance returning to the city to take him up in his ox-cart. Later, he realised he'd invited fresh gossip about himself and Seimei. The difference this time would be that the rumours were true.

Only when he reached the safety of his home did Hiromasa pause to think about what he'd done. He worried at first then reasoned that it was not so terrible. Sex was just an act, a casual diversion. Male friends often slept together for no more reason than drunkenness or a passing whim. Perhaps it had meant nothing to Seimei, and all his fears were groundless. But then Hiromasa remembered how he'd acted, and worried afresh. He prided himself on being a refined lover. Refined lovers did not bite and scratch like fighting cats.

It was only then that Hiromasa realised he'd been so busy fretting about the consequences of the night before that he'd violated the rule of the morning after. Only a complete boor would ignore convention. Exhausted by his thoughts, he spent the next hour selecting the right paper and grinding ink to the ideal consistency. Then he attempted to frame a suitable poem.

But how could he write a poem about something that made him feel such confusion? And how could he write anything when Seimei always seemed amused by his fumbling attempts at poetry? Hiromasa panicked. Not to write anything would be considered an insult, but to express himself badly would be worse.

By sunset he'd written something trite about the moon and clouds. He winced when he read it, then folded it, fastened it with a spray of sweet-smelling evening honeysuckle, and called for a messenger to deliver it.

Seimei had sent his reply on beautiful white Chinese paper, the like of which Hiromasa had never seen. It shimmered as if faceted with mother-of-pearl, and seemed warm, alive, to the touch. Bound with a sprig of violets, the paper was blank.

Confused, Hiromasa had stared at the empty paper until hurt crept in and filled the gaping silence.

The hurt and silence still lingered now, three weeks later. Hiromasa heaved a sigh loud enough to distract Winter Moon from her monologue. She put a hand on his chest and gave him a quizzical look. "My lord?"

Hiromasa hastened to reassure her. "I'm fine. Please, do continue your story. It's so interesting."

She preened a little and resumed talking. He heard something about the mismatched colours of Lady Sadako's robes and found his thoughts floating free. They turned once again to Seimei. His friend wouldn't care about mismatched robes. Indeed, it seemed from the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival that Seimei preferred the sensation of skin on skin, without even a single layer of silk to cover his modesty.

When Hiromasa had crept away at dawn, he'd left his friend sleeping naked beneath the blanket of layered robes. He gave another wistful sigh. Nudity had never appealed to him before, but in this heat it seemed like a good idea. It was almost as enticing a thought as that of Seimei naked, his pale body sinuous, his skin cool, only his mouth warm with the taste of sake.

Arousal pricked at him. Hiromasa blushed beneath the cover of his sleeve. One really shouldn't think of one lover – could he really call Seimei his lover? – whilst lying beside another. He banished all thoughts of his friend and tried to focus on Winter Moon's monologue.

Her chatter had turned from clothes to a recent root-matching contest. Apparently a fight had broken out between two ladies when one accused the other of cutting her root in half. The second had suggested that the first lady had broken the root herself while employing it for other purposes. The subsequent exchange of words had led to physical blows. When summoned, the palace guards, clearly enjoying the diversion, had watched the two women rather than separate them.

"The heat is making us all crazy," Hiromasa muttered, moving his sleeve.

Winter Moon turned onto her side and looked at him. "That's what Her Majesty said! Not that she used those same words, but that's what she meant. So she's asked His Excellency her father to judge the contest."

Hiromasa blinked out of his daze. "Hmm? What contest?"

She giggled. "The new contest, the one I was telling you about before I told you about the root contest. Her Majesty's incense contest. It won't be judged until winter arrives, of course, when this awful heat has gone, but the weather will change soon, I'm sure of it."

"Right." Hiromasa tried to keep up with Winter Moon's constant shifts in conversation. He was too warm and flustered to follow each topic with the devotion a lover should show, and felt guilty for his lapse. He needed to make more of an effort. "So, you're entering the incense contest?"

Winter Moon hid behind a fold of her gown, her eyes gleaming above the fabric. "Perhaps."

"I'm sure you'll win a prize." Hiromasa glanced at her with a smile. "My mother won several such competitions when she was young. Our family has a special recipe. Perhaps she would share it with you."

Winter Moon gave a squeal of delight, displaying far more animation at the prospect than she'd ever shown in his bed. "That would be wonderful, my lord! But you know, several gentlemen have said they'll take part in the contest. You should try it, too."

"Me?" The idea startled him. "But I don't know the first thing about incense-blending."

"Oh, please." Winter Moon clung to his sleeve. "You must try. A newcomer to the art always produces interesting and unusual scents. Or you may have inherited the skill from your mother. Besides, blending the perfect incense is the real test of a gentleman. Everyone says so."

Hiromasa snorted. "I thought you said the test of a gentleman was in the music he played, the poetry he wrote and the clothes he wore."

"And the perfume he creates." Winter Moon flirted a little. "Say you'll enter the contest. Everyone likes you, my lord. If you take part, others will want to join in, too. It'll be the biggest and best contest ever!"

"It takes so long to make incense," Hiromasa remarked, but already he was pondering the suggestion, calling to mind the scent of his mother, his lovers, the women he'd only loved from a distance.

"That's why it's the perfect contest for this horrible weather." Winter Moon drew away from him and sat up, patting her hair. "It takes time and patience, so it's ideal for alleviating boredom. That's what Her Majesty says, anyway."

Hiromasa made a sound of agreement, still thinking of perfume. If he was going to go to the trouble of learning how to make incense, he wanted to do it well.

"Lord Seimei says the weather will change soon, even if the astronomers don't believe him." Winter Moon retrieved her fan and fluttered it, the tiny breeze welcome against the heat. "His Excellency agrees with Lord Seimei, and so the incense contest will be held at the end of next month, when Lord Seimei guarantees the weather will be cold and clear."

"Seimei?" Hiromasa gazed at her in surprise. "Seimei is predicting the weather?"

Winter Moon giggled again. "I was there with Lady Takumi when he made his report to His Excellency and Her Majesty. We peeked at him through the screens. He really does look like a fox, doesn't he?"

"Yes," said Hiromasa. "He does."