Motoko and Banri kept running into each other. Motoko couldn't account for why. It wasn't her intention to go into town or to go to the café, any more than it had been her intention to call herself Mo; but it happened all the same. She would sit at her table and wait until 3:00, when he would appear and sit down with her. Then they would talk or, more often, he would talk and she would listen and respond to questions. He didn't seem to mind; and neither did she. It gave her an opportunity to indulge herself, drinking in the sharp angles and muscular swells of his body while he told her about the town. She wondered what was so different about him that she should desire his company, but found no answer.

"It is the weekend, tomorrow," she said, one evening as they watched the sunset over the water. The sea shone an almost blinding orange. She ran a hand through her hair as she turned to look at him.

"It is," he said, looking out at the sea.

"Would you…?" She trailed off. Requests were not something she made of men. Demands were more her stock in trade; but for the first time, since her father, she had found a man with whom she sought gentleness.

"Would I, what?" he asked with a smile.

"There are some beautiful ruins near where I am staying. Tomorrow morning, would you like to come see them with me?"

"Of course." The immediacy of his reply surprised her.

He arrived three minutes before the appointed time of 8:00 the next day.

"You're smiling," he said as she rose from the doorstep.

She looked away. "Am I?"

"It's very nice."

"Stop it." But, to her horror, her smile widened.

At that moment, Mutsumi and Naru appeared in the doorway.

"Oh!" Mutsumi exclaimed. "Hello Banri. How is your mother?"

"Very well." Banri bowed to the girl.

"How do you know each other?" Mutsumi asked Motoko, whose face was growing warm. She'd hoped to slip away with him undiscovered.

No, not like that, she thought. That makes it sound like some sort of tryst.

"We met at the Chacha Maru," Banri answered. "We're going on a hike."

"Well, well," said Naru with a smile.

"'Well, well', nothing!" Motoko snapped. "Let's go, Banri."

"What's the matter?" Banri asked catching up to her.

"Nothing."

She led them through the woods at a fast clip, grumbling to herself about Naru and that supercilious little smile of hers. If she went hiking with someone, what concern was it of Naru's? She admired his taste in literature and his sharp eye – that was all. How was this controversial? It wasn't as if she were journeying into the woods with someone like Urashima. She nearly laughed at the thought.

"Mo, where are we going in such a hurry?"

She shrugged.

"Okay, then do you mind telling me what you're so mad at?"

"Nothing."

"Well, then-" He let out a sudden hiss. When Motoko turned, he was clutching his injured arm.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Muscle pain, that's all," he replied through his teeth.

"Let me see."

"No really, it's all right, just maybe if we slowed down and-"

"What's wrong now?" she asked as he stiffened.

"There's a very large spider on your shoulder." His eyes were riveted to the spot.

She looked at it. A wolf spider; and certainly not the largest she'd seen. "Don't worry, she's harmless."

"Get rid of it, would you?"

She stared at the tension in his eyes. "All right," she said, brushing it away. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked at his shoes. "Could it be," she said, trying to reconcile this fearful display with the Adonis warrior of the Café, "that you're afraid of spiders?"

"Not afraid of anything," he grumbled, his eyes all fire as he nudged past. "Just don't want to get bitten."

She couldn't help it – the sheer incongruity of a warrior made helpless by a simple arachnid set her to giggling.

"It's not funny," he said, as joyful laughter unlike any she'd known in years bubbled from her lips like a geyser of champagne. The more she felt it, the more she wanted to surrender to it; so much so that, for the first time since her father, she was unprepared against a male opponent.

"So you think it's hilarious, huh?" He dove at her ribs and tickled her hard and without mercy.

"Stop it!" she cried out between guffaws. The indignity of it all! The pride of the Aoyama family being caught off guard by a strange man. And yet, did he feel strange to her at all…?

"Stop it!" She caught him in the ribs with an elbow strike.

"Ow!" He sprang back. "All right, may have deserved that," he said, clutching his chest.

"Such liberties!" She gasped, trying to catch her breath. "Just who do you think you are?"

He shrugged and continued along the trail. She stared after him. This male! Was he not afraid of her in the slightest? Normally, just her presence was enough to make men sit up straight.

"You're the one who knows where these ruins are," he called back. "You're really the one who should be leading."

After that flagrant display, it would serve him right if she left him there to fend for himself; but she jogged to catch up, and they continued on. They arrived at the ruins around noon: a clearing containing the lopsided remains of an island watchtower, though the trees had long since blocked its view of the sea. Next to it was a much newer shrine to the sea god, a worn wooden hut built to contain the statue of the deity. An incense holder sat beside it.

"This looks fairly new," Banri observed, as Motoko extracted some incense from her bag and lit some in honour of the god.

"Indeed," she replied, straightening up and clapping to begin her prayer. Afterward, she said, "I found it a week ago, and wondered who built it. One of the Otohimes, I expect."

"It's very nice here," he said, sitting down on one of the wall stones. "Even the air feels different."

"You noticed that too?" The aura of the place was softer than the rest of the forest. Perhaps he too was sensitive to such things.

They stopped for lunch, onigiri and little bit of fish leftover from last night. Keitaro's catch, she realised and ate without qualm.

"You're a kendoist too, right?" he asked in between bites.

"How did you know?" she asked, looking at him.

"The way you stand and put your weight on the one foot. I've seen it a lot. Even I do it, see?" A smile crossed his face. "Let's practice."

"But your arm."

He bent down to pick up a pair of sticks. "I can manage half speed." He tossed her a stick. "Now, come on."

As she stood up and accepted the stick, she was gripped by a feeling unlike any other she'd felt before a fight. This silly boy had no idea whom he was up against. For the first time since leaving home, she hadn't worn her family history on her sleeve. How shocked would he be when she loosed a wind strike as a warning shot? She bit her lips to keep from smiling as she raised her stick, trying to ignore the predator within that wanted to devour him whole.

They bowed to one another and assumed their positions. She could see he was relying on his good arm, no surprise there. For a moment, all they did was circle each other. It was usually her policy to strike like a hurricane and crush any potential opposition at the outset; but she restrained herself and drank in his stance and fluid movements. He was so unlike most kendo boys she had met. There was no cockiness to him, no expectation of deference from her just because he could swing a stick. Even injured, there was an economy of movement; and his guard seemed so careful that it was difficult to get a read on what his first movement might be. He was no dabbler.

Then he made his move, a basic men strike to the shoulder. He was fast, faster than she'd expected him to be – with or without the injury – but she blocked it without trouble. Still, she held back, savouring his strikes, feeling like a big game hunter stalking a tiger, who stalked her in turn.

This is so much more fun than chasing Urashima, she thought, blocking a strike to her right side.

Deciding that it was time to make a show of herself, she struck back, putting him the defensive as she launched into a flurry of easily blocked blows. No point in ruining the fun just yet. Then he surprised her by catching her forte with his own. Leaning in with all his might, he pushed her back and raised his arm to strike once more. Caught off guard, she could only leap back out of the way as he swung for her. She struck back hard, reminding herself to keep to half speed as she sought to reassert her superiority. Raining blow after blow down upon him, she had him backing up into a corner. Arrogant man, he was actually making her break a sweat.

He, too, was beginning to breathe harder. His eyes, once steady, now flickered everywhere, probing for weakness. Deciding to shut things down, she took a deep breath and called forth the ki within her. Banri paused for a second, as if sensing the change in the air. The strike was almost ready, when she caught the look in his steady brown eyes. In her mind, she imagined their progression when she loosed the wind strike; watched them grow wide with wonder and confusion, then flicker into comprehension, and narrow into respect and fear.

No.

She willed the strike to subside and blocked his latest attack. His defense was good, but his guard was weak on the one side while he compensated for his injury. Calling her blow, she struck on the side opposite and landed on his shoulder. They froze together. His eyes met hers and he nodded. Panting with something more than just exertion, she retreated back to her place. He did the same and they bowed to each other before resuming lunch without saying a word about the fight. No words were necessary. Neither of them spoke until they were finished eating.

"This place must have been quite important once," he said. "Must have been here to spot invading fleets or pirates."

But there had been no battle here. She would have sensed it, that lingering sense of tension she felt wherever blood had been spilled. "You know the history of this area?"

He nodded. "All people out here know the history of the Ryukyu kingdom."

"A remarkable people."

He snorted. "They lost. This" – he gestured about the ruins – "This is what happens to the ones who lose."

Then the clouds above them burst. In her fixation on the trail, she hadn't even noticed them gathering; but now she shrieked in surprise as rain came down upon them in sheets.

"Over here," he called to her, pointing to a stone archway. "Hide under here."

Together, they ran for safety, but by the time they had reached shelter, the storm had already done its work. Motoko rung out her hair, which clung to her like wet sheets, as did her shirt. She shivered minutely as the warm rain turned cold against her skin.

"What's the matter?" she asked, as Banri did a very conspicuous job of trying to keep his eyes on the ceiling.

"Nothing."

Shrugging, she turned her back and tried to ring out the front of her shirt. Even with her back turned, she could sense his every moment like a feather brushing against her back. Was that why she was so unconcerned? Certainly, he was pleasant enough, and with his injury he wasn't likely to pose much of a threat; she'd just proven that. Perhaps it was that, in going to an all-girls school, she rarely encountered male kendoists her own age. Or was it the calming atmosphere that seemed to permeate every part of this little corner of the world? She smoothed out the damp shirt, and turned back to him.

"How long?"

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"How long with the storm last, do you think?"

"Hard to say," he said with a shrug. "A lot of them blow over pretty quickly, but some last out the day. Just have to wait and see."

If it lasted the whole day, there was no way they'd make it back before nightfall. A whole day under an archway with a male – part of her was shocked that she was even considering it. He was, after all, a man. Could he be trusted that much over time? she wondered as he tugged at his wet collar. The rain had turned his white shirt transparent and the cotton was sticking to him like cellophane.

On the other hand, she thought, drinking in the sight of his sculpted abdominals.

"Is there something on my shirt?" he asked.

"Not a thing," she said, now staring at the ceiling herself.

"If you say so."

She glared at him. "Wipe that smirk off your face right now, or else."

He obeyed, and began examining his bandage. "Damn it. The rain is soaking into it."

"You should take it off," she told him. "It would be shame if it were to get infected."

Nodding in agreement, he began tearing at the tape, wincing as he did.

"Don't be a child," she told him.

"I'll remember that remark if I'm ever where you're sitting now," he said, glowering.

The bandage came away to reveal long cut that ran the length of the bicep, black stitches protruding from angry purple scabbing.

"How many opponents were there, really?" she asked, wishing she had something to dry the wound with.

He shook his head with a rueful snort. "Not one."

She looked at him in confusion.

"Didn't get it in a fight," he said, looking away. "I was helping my uncle on his fishing boat, and I slipped and fell shoulder first onto a cleat. I only told the guys that story because the rumours were already spreading that I had saved some girl from the Yakuza."

She crossed her arms. "You lied."

"Hey, come on. I didn't lie. I only told them what they wanted to hear. They asked for a story and I gave it to them. If they couldn't figure out it was fiction, well then…"

"Semantics."

"Whatever," he said, his eyes hardening. "Do you have any idea how exhausting it is having to be strong for all these people all the time? This thing hurt like hell, but do you think I could ever admit it to them?"

"So why tell me?" she asked, honestly curious.

He shrugged. "Because you don't live here? I don't know. Maybe because you like Mishima too? Or maybe it's because you're like me and you'd rather be alone than in a crowd."

"What do you mean?" she asked, leaning forward.

"You're here with at least two people, but you're always alone or with me."

"So?"

"So, maybe we're – I don't know – the same? It's exhausting having to be strong for everyone, isn't it?"

The question pierced her like a dart, and her mind travelled to another time. Satomi was sitting up in bed, crying from a nightmare. Motoko had been the first on the scene.

"It's all right," she had said, rubbing her little sister's back. "I'm here."

"Where's Papa? I want Papa!"

But Papa wouldn't be coming; could never come to his daughters' aid again. Who would sit with her? Motoko had asked. Who would soothe her nightmares? What was the point of being strong if no one could be strong for her?

Back at the archway, the rain had stopped. Without a word, they moved together through the jungle and back towards the inn.

"Will I see you again?" he asked.

"At the café," she said.

And then, he was gone.

Later that night, while Naru was using the bath, Motoko opened the package from her mother. Wrapped in tissue paper was a black kimono with intricately woven butterflies whose many colours shone up at her like stained glass. She bit her lip as she gazed at the sight that had greeted her so often when she was at home. On top of the kimono was an envelope with her name on it. The letter inside was in her mother's handwriting:

My Dearest One,

After the wedding, Tsuruko left this in my care, with the intention that it would one day pass down to you. She knew how much you admired it, and wished that it go to someone who would love and care for it as she did. I hope that this letter finds you well as you continue your studies and training in Hinata; but I do hope that you are also getting enough rest. You have always been your own greatest opponent when it came to training; and I worry, as ever, that you are putting your goals above your needs.

Your sisters are well and continue their own training at an admirable pace. Satomi is almost at an age where she will be ready to learn her first Wind Strike, and Harumi's ability with a blade will soon match her violin playing. She remains, of course, in the shadow of Tsuruko, which taunts her into striving ever harder. Eri and Fujiko are the same, as always. A day in the dojo is not complete without them engaging in a battle royale over some petty or imagined slight.

You may be wondering at the suddenness of this message, and the unusual nature of its delivery; but I wished you to have it now, at this time of all times. It is my deepest hope that you will join us to honour your father's passing this year. Though we have received no word from you, I look forward to seeing you after all this time. If this is not to be, however, I want you to know that I bear you no anger for your decision to stay away. You, especially, were close to your father, and I can only imagine the pain you must be wrestling with to this day. He loved you deeply, and it is a grievous wound whenever we lose someone with whom we share so much love. It is my greatest desire to have you home with us, but I know that your father's would be for you to be happy, whether that happiness keeps you near or takes you far.

So, much as it pains me to have you so beyond my reach, be happy, Dearest One. Continue to train and seek mastery; but do not forget love. I saw you withdrawing as your father suffered. Indeed, I could see the chrysalis of your decision to leave, perhaps even before you did; and I did not stop you because I knew it was what you needed. You are strong, My Motoko, but do not forget the softness that your father loved so much. And when you have found the peace you seek, come back to us. We all miss you terribly.

Until then, I remain your loving Mother.

Motoko's hands shook as she laid the letter down and removed the kimono from the box. Wrapped inside it, she lay down and inhaled the scent of home.

He could hear them through the walls. He tossed and turned, and clapped his hands over his ears; but it made no difference. A moment ago, he had been leaning against the wall, reading a book, when he heard Noburo and Natsumi turning in for the night. Noticing the late hour for the first time, he decided to do the same, and settled in under the covers in the dark. That was when he heard giggling and whispering through the wall, which quickly turned into something else. The first moan shot Keitaro out of bed, prickling with surprise and burning with shame at his arousal. He tried, tried so hard, to ignore it, but the sounds kept filtering through. The word Darling took on so many meanings as it floated through the thin walls, over and over: loving, entreating, demanding, begging, worshiping. Uncertain of what to do, Keitaro finally listened to his conscience (and the worry that Motoko or Naru might discover him this way), kicked away the blankets, put on his robe, and sought the quiet of the back porch. On the way out, he saw a bottle of Noburo's whiskey sitting on the kitchen table. With a silent apology to the owner, he poured himself a glass and savoured the burning sensation down his throat.

Outside, the fireflies were floating through the nightsky like little lanterns, and Keitaro sat down on the patio to watch them flit about. It was the perfect night for lovers. Do fireflies feel love? he wondered. He shook his head at the useless wondering and lay back on the porch.

"Are you unwell, Urashima?"

He rolled over to notice Motoko for the first time. She was sitting at the far end of the porch staring out into the night. She was wearing a kimono he had never seen before, whose beauty made him think instantly of Sachiko. Tracing the many butterflies with his eyes, he recalled Eri's advice about how to win her sister's approval.

"I'm fine," he replied, feeling uncertain – unused to Motoko being so willingly close or open in her concern. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

"The same."

He squinted in the dark, trying to make her out, but she was outside the beam of the overhead porch light, looking away from him, far beyond – he suspected – the mere confines of the Otohime grounds.

For a long time, neither of them said anything, until at last, Keitaro, uncomfortable with the silence, said "Sometimes, I wish we could just stay here."

"Stay here?" Motoko was still looking away.

"Yeah, it's so beautiful here, and it's so far from everything. No problems, no troubles."

"A typically naïve assumption," she replied, sounding very much like her normal self for the first time. "There are troubles everywhere, and they do not go away just because we are on vacation."

Or run away to Tokyo, he thought, but he kept it under. "I know, but it feels nice to pretend sometimes."

"Paradise was made for man, but not man for paradise." She sounded like she was quoting something. Her voice sounded tight, and he wished he could see her face.

"That's a very beautiful kimono," he said at last.

She started, as if she'd forgotten for the moment that he was there. "Thank you."

"Mutsumi's?" he asked, though it looked far too formal for a girl like Mutsumi.

"My sister's. Tsuruko," she corrected herself.

"Ah, the one sister I haven't met."

"Yes." She was silent so long that Keitaro wondered if he ought to say anything or leave; but then she coughed and asked, "How are they?"

He tried to see her clearly, but she was too far out of the light to see clearly. He pondered his answer, very conscious of his audience. "Satomi nearly killed me with all those running games of hers."

As soon as he said it, Motoko surprised him by laughing. She covered her mouth as a musical giggle slipped through her fingers. "Yes, that sounds like her. I assume Eri and Fujiko are the same."

When Keitaro told her about the duel at the dojo and how Harumi had separated them by their ears, she only laughed harder; and harder still when he mentioned Sachiko's threat to set up a marriage meeting. Keitaro marvelled as the usual taciturn warrior dissolved again and again into giggles, as if seeking out humour the way a man in a desert seeks water.

"If my mother judges you worthy of such attention, then perhaps I have judged you too harshly."

Keitaro was stunned. It was the closest thing to a compliment she had ever given him.

"You must miss them very much," he said.

She turned to look at him, and for the first time he saw that her eyes were red. "Indeed" was all she said, getting up to leave.