It was popular in springtime, when the trees were in flower and the people of Edo flocked to picnic in the pavilions, drink in the teahouses along the path, float in pleasure boats on the river, and admire the pink blossoms.But today the blossoms were long gone, the pavilions empty, the sky threatening more rain. The trees, in full summer leaf, shadowed the wet ground. Barges and ferries plied the river, which was brown and murky.Yanagisawa and Yoritomo were among the few people strolling the embankment. They’d shed their rain capes and hats; they wore dark-colored silk robes without identifying crests. Their entourage waited behind them at a distance.“What’s the matter?” Yanagisawa asked.“You look ill.”Yoritomo’s handsome face was pale and sweating; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed convulsively. “I’m just nervous.”“Why?”“I’ve never done this.”They were about to embark upon a rite of passage that Yanagisawa had never subjected his son to before. Yanagisawa wondered if he should have scheduled a few practice runs to put Yoritomo at ease.
