Chapter 11: Plum Wine

Ibuki left the next morning with a pack full of rice balls and the biggest grin on the mountain.

"I saw nothing," she told Tomoe at the gate, loudly.

"Good."

"I saw no light and no shadows and no bath."

"Ibuki."

"Master was always cold. I'm very glad she has a hot water bottle." Ibuki hugged her around the neck, hard.

"Feed her. Don't let her stand out in the snow for three hours."

"She does that?"

"She does that when she's thinking. She did it the week before the vote."

Tomoe held very still.

The week before the vote, not the week after it.

But Ibuki had already swung her pack onto her shoulder and turned to bow to Shiori on the porch, with her fist against her heart.

"Master," she called. "I'll write again."

"Write," Shiori said. "I will answer."

Ibuki's face did something complicated.

She ran down the mountain before anyone could see it.

Tomoe watched her go.

She decided to ask about it at a good time, with a hot cup in her hand.

She never got the chance.

That afternoon the plum trees by the south wall opened.

The first blossoms came out white and pink against the snow, and the whole yard smelled faintly of honey.

Tomoe made plum wine from last year's jar, with sugar and a splash of cold water, and carried it out on a tray.

Shiori was practicing in the yard.

"Show me how you stand," Tomoe said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said you'd teach me to hold a sword. It's been six weeks. I've been waiting."

Shiori lowered her blade.

"You are a cook," she said.

"And you're a swordswoman who eats pickles for breakfast. We're both full of surprises."

Tomoe set down the tray and picked up the long wooden ladle she had brought out for stirring.

"I don't have a sword. This is as close as I get."

"That is a ladle."

"It's got the same balance. Watch."

She swung it overhead.

Shiori's mouth twitched.

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