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Yahei was returning from an errand for the retired abbott when he saw a well-dressed samurai leave Shogen’s cottage, followed by a manservant wearing the Uesugi family crest, and he realized at once that this was Shiro’s uncle, Saigo Kenzaburo, who held an important post (Yahei couldn’t remember what, exactly) in the Uesugi’s upper mansion.

Yahei stepped off the foot path, bowing to Shiro’s uncle when the man came close enough to pass, and Saigo stopped dead, casting his eyes down on the boy. For a few awkward seconds neither of them spoke; then the old man cleared his throat.

“You’re that boy, the one my nephew calls Yahei, are you not?” he demanded, the words spoken with so much disdain they were more of an accusation than a question.

“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” he pressed on, giving Yahei no chance to speak. “If you hadn’t talked my nephew into that nonsense in Osaka, perhaps I could have placed him as a retainer, but as things are…”

He cleared his throat again, as if needing to swallow an unpleasant taste. “I hope the two of you are proud of yourselves for shaming this family.”

He paused, perhaps waiting to see if Yahei would say anything in his defense.

“I should cut you down where you stand,” Saigo hissed after a bit Yahei hadn’t responded, making a movement to draw his sword, but then he stopped himself, his hand relaxing against the silk wrap of the hilt. “You’re not even worth it.”

He walked away, the servant following in his wake.

Yahei was too stunned to raise his head, hands shaking against the wrapped parcel he was carrying.

What… what did this mean?

He slowly straightened, looking after the old man and his servant in confusion, panic rising from the pit of his stomach.

Did this mean Shiro’s uncle had no intention of taking in his nephew after they’d come all this way? After he’d promised he would take him in?

Yahei forced himself to walk to the cottage, legs feeling like lead weights with every step as he made his way inside.

He placed the parcel beside the irori almost mechanically, but then he wavered in front of the room he and Shiro shared, dithering uncertainly, his hand unwilling to reach out and open the doors.

Eventually, he quietly slid the door open, almost afraid to look into the room. It was dark inside, a dusk-gray illuminated only by the light falling over Yahei’s shoulder.

Shiro was sitting beside his futon, legs pulled into his chest.

The light caught an object near the door: the glint of a polished gold koban, and as Yahei’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized coins were scattered across the floor.

“Take them,” Shiro’s voice sounded hollow, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile that held no joy at all. “That’s all I’m worth to my family.”

He buried his face in his arms, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

“My uncle…” He took a breath to keep his voice from cracking, somewhere between anger and despair.

“My uncle sat here and ordered me to take the bandages off my face. Then… he grabbed me by the chin, looking me up and down, as if he were appraising a new horse for his stable. And he…” His voice was shaking now. “He made this face, this… this… expression… of utter disgust…”

He curled into himself, sobbing.

Yahei wrapped himself around Shiro, holding him as tight as he could manage.