Aside from the anticipation of gifts and special food later on, the morning began just as a thousand others had. Aimi woke me, burrowing under the covers to poke me in the ribs when I refused to leave the warm futon. After I had done shrieking and laughing, we helped each other dress, Aimi sighing as always over my badly folded obi. I slipped my favourite kanzashi pin, with its carved bone flowers, into her hair, because I knew she loved it.

We breakfasted with father, who was smiling and mysterious when I teased him about what presents I might open that night.

“A poor father you must think me, to spoil your fun so early, little sparrow ” he teased back. And then his smile turned down at the corners as he said, “Your mother will be upset that she has not gotten home in time.”

“Maybe she will arrive today, Oji-san,” Aimi said, trying to comfort.

I slurped a mouthful of miso soup, and said nothing. I missed mother too – it was weeks since she had travelled to comfort my great aunt over the death of her husband – only I could not help but feel it would be a more relaxed birthday without her scolding me for doing all the things that made such times fun, like trying to guess what my presents were, and eating too much, and wearing my formal furisode that mother said must be kept for best.

When breakfast was done I went to my room and took out my three-stringed shamisen. I put the little cloth cover on my hand and took out my tortoiseshell plectrum, handling each item with respect. My instrument was not a fine one. I knew its sound was not very good. Still, it gave me pleasure to play and sing. Since it was one of the few ladylike pursuits that I would sit still for, I had been allowed to continue, so long as I did not disturb the family. But I was restless that day. After two songs and a little more than half an hour, I put my instrument away and went to look for Aimi.

The serving girl told me that my cousin was outside, but I did not find her in the formal garden that ringed the house. I knew what that meant. I sighed and went to search the orchards. They were much larger than the garden, sloping all the way down to the road that separated father's land from the forest. The translucent pink cherry blossoms and the white apple blossoms were just starting to fall, and the scent of them was wild and sweet. I trailed my fingers carefully over the black and silvery gray bark as I walked through the trees.

I found my cousin at the farthest tip of the orchards, overlooking the place where the road emerged from the woods. There was a little bench there, concealed by the foliage, so that you could look down on passersby without being seen. Not that many interesting people passed on this quiet country thoroughfare – but if they did, we would be in the right place to see them.

I sat down beside Aimi on the bench and watched the empty road for a few moments before speaking. “Did father's talk about mother at breakfast upset you?”

“Oh, no. Of course not.” She took my hand and patted it, but did not look at me. I waited.

After a moment she sighed. “It is silly to feel sad, when I have been so lucky.”

“It is not,” I said firmly. Aimi was a year older than I, and so lovely that next to her I sometimes felt like a squashy brown toadstool. But she was gentle and sensitive and she needed someone to look after her. “How could anyone feel lucky in your position? You have a right to mourn.”

“Oba-san would say I was being sullen.”

“Mother says a great many things I do not agree with – ” I broke off and giggled. “I sounded like her then, didn't I?”

“A little,” Aimi said, with a watery smile.

“Well, do not worry. I will not give you indecipherable instructions to pass onto the cook, or send you find a book that does not exist, or ask you to unravel all the threads in the embroidery box.” I said. “I think that mother is sharp with you because you remind her of herself. Father said it devastated her when her parents died. But that is not your fault.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” she whispered.

“Wonder what?”

“Why I lived, when everyone – mother and father, even the baby – died of the fever. Why I lived to come here, and annoy Oba-san, and be a burden to Oji-san.”

I pressed my lips together to hold in the angry denial that wanted to escape. I put my arm around her, and hugged her fiercely.

“Perhaps,” I said, when I had control of myself, “Perhaps the Moon took pity on me?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, surprised.

“I was so lonely before you came,” I said, pleased to have her full attention. “I used to pray for a brother or sister, someone to talk to and play with. Most especially I prayed for a sister, a kind, beautiful sister. Perhaps the Moon heard my pleas, and spared you when my aunt and uncle died, not for your own sake, but for mine? If so, I cannot be sorry. Though you might be, to have such a sister forced on you, and such a mother as mine.”

“Suzume!” she said, a little amused and a little shocked. “What would your father say?”

“Oh, he never says anything. That is part of what makes mother so cross all the time.” I said airily. “Father knows that if he scolds me I argue, and arguments are so noisy, and – ”  

“A quiet house is a happy house,” she chorused with me.

She was smiling now, the sweet, happy smile that I loved to see. I congratulated myself, though I had said nothing but the truth. I was about to suggest that we walk back to the house, when I heard hoof-beats on the road. Lots of them. Traveling at a gallop.

We exchanged interested looks. Mother? No – why would she be in such a hurry, so close to home? Besides, we could not afford so many outriders.

As I leaned forward, the troop of riders broke out of the forest. Aimi made a sound of wonder. There were an even dozen of them, and they wore black lacquered armour, and rode dark horses. The spring sunlight gleamed on the horses gear and on the silver edges of the armour. They made a glorious picture.

I expected them to carry on along the road, but instead the leader, who had a crest of white feathers on his helm, pointed, and they wheeled their horses and turned onto our little road, riding under the ranks of blooming trees. The thunder of hooves shook the ground, and pink and white petals showered down, catching in the dark flowing manes and tails of the horses. They looked like an illustration from one of father's books.

Yet, as the leader passed us in our hidden place, a cold finger touched my back and I shivered. I did not like the feeling. Sometimes it came when we were about to get bad news.

“They are from Tsuki no Ouji-sama,” Aimi said in awed tones. “Only his men may wear such black armour.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved. If something had happened to my mother, the Moon Prince would hardly send his men to tell us. My mother was not even in the city, let alone at the Moon court.

“Do you think – is it possible – they say the Moon Prince comes of age soon, and he will hold his first Kage no Iwai, to chose a favoured companion. Do you think...?”

I clucked my tongue. “Why would Tsuki no Ouji-sama invite us to his Shadow Ball? In real life the Shadow Bride is always a rich daughter of some High Up nobleman, just as in real life the Moon Prince always has to marry someone who is a princess herself.”

“Then what about Kano Akira-sama?” Aimi said challengingly.

“Oh, you and that fairytale !”

“It isn’t a fairytale,” Aimi said chidingly. “It is a true story and it only happened ten years ago. I think it's beautiful.” 

“Of course you do, little dancer,” I said, and Aimi blushed. Mother had caught her dancing in our room recently, and scolded her, telling her that only nasty, common women moved their bodies like that. But Kano Akira-sama had danced at the Shadow Ball and won the old Prince’s heart with her beauty, even though she had nothing but the clothes on her back – and she had become the Shadow Bride, the highest ranking woman at court save the Moon Princess herself. So dancing could not be that bad.

 “Anyway,” I went on, “Kano Akira-sama wasn't invited to the Ball; they hired her to dance there. Otherwise she would never have gotten within sniffing distance of the old Prince. And this new Prince has never seen either of us. He doesn't know the Hoshima family from...from...the cleaners that sweep his path.”

“Well, why have they come then?”

“Perhaps the Prince has seen some of father's poetry, and has found it so beautiful that he intends to invite him to court.” I said, not really believing it.

“That would please oba-san!” Aimi said with a laugh.

“But not father. Mother says he is the least ambition person she knows.” And whenever she said her face was like a woman who has bitten into a sweet dumpling and found fish-guts inside.

 “He is the happiest person I know. When Oba-san is home, he is always smiling.”

“That shows he must have a naturally happy disposition,” I said, looking at her sideways for her outraged reaction.

 “Suzume!”

“Well, there's only one way to find out for sure,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Come on!”

I caught her hand and when she rose I began to run, forcing her to trot after me. She protested breathlessly, laughing as she tried to pick up the hem of her kimono.

“Suzume! I'll rip something. I'll fall.”

“Run faster then, baka,” I said.

But I was much more used to running than Aimi was. I was punished for it all the time. A thrush sang in the trees above us, and slowed to a walk as I listened, letting Aimi get her breath back.

I opened my mouth to make some comment about the bird – and heard a scream.

We jerked to a halt, Aimi catching her balance on one of the trees. The screaming voice cut off as suddenly as it had started, but I had already recognised it. It was the little serving girl, Chou. The iciness touched my back again, colder and more insistent this time. I looked up through the dancing leaves and flowers at the blue sky, as if there might be reassurance there.