Chapter 15: The Last Handspan

Shiori lit the hall lanterns herself.

She did it one by one, with a taper, and her hand was not steady.

Tomoe stood in front of the scroll in her stocking feet with her braid half undone and her robe tied wrong.

The silk hung from a black rod on the east wall.

Seven lines of brush writing ran down it in a tall old hand.

The bottom of the scroll was rolled up tight, a handspan of it, and bound with a brown cord wound four times and knotted.

"Eight lines," Tomoe said.

"Eight."

"You can only see seven."

"I know the eighth," said Shiori.

"My teacher said it at the gate, the day she brought me in. She said the oath is for life."

"Did she say it from the scroll?"

"She said it from her mouth."

"Did you ever see her read it?"

Shiori opened her lips and shut them.

"I was eight," she said.

"Did she tie the cord?"

"She tied it the first week, and she said not to touch it."

"And nobody asked why?"

"I was eight," Shiori said again, and this time her voice shook.

Tomoe turned and looked at her.

Shiori stood in the lantern light with her hands hanging.

She was a tall woman who had been afraid of a piece of string for twenty-three years.

"Do you want to do it?" Tomoe asked.

"I cannot."

"Do you want me to?"

A long pause.

"Please," Shiori whispered.

The knot was old and swollen and would not give.

Tomoe tried it with her nails, and then her teeth.

She went into the kitchen and came back with the little paring knife that had a scratched handle.

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