It was surprisingly small and shabby for all that, and nearly deserted this bright spring morning. The tributary that it spanned was deep and narrow; the trees on either bank towered above it, and the water looked almost black. I did not really need my painted parasol, but at least it gave me something to do with my hands. I sat on one of the little benches carved into the crest of the bridge and stared at the grimacing, scarlet-painted dragons — evidence of the fashions of the Old Empire — and wondered what I was doing. “Good morning.” Otieno’s voice came from behind me. I froze, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up, whether with fear or excitement I could not have told. “Good morning, A Suda-san.” I forced myself to stand, bracing myself to meet his eyes, only to find that he was staring down at the dark river. Grateful for the reprieve, I let myself gaze at him. His hair was loose today, with just one strand of golden ornaments braided next to his ear.
