The Last Tea Bowl Thief

  THE LAST TEA BOWL THIEF

  Books by Jonelle Patrick

  Nightshade

  Fallen Angel

  Idolmaker

  Painted Doll

  THE LAST TEA BOWL THIEF

  JONELLE PATRICK

  Published 2020 by Seventh Street Books”

  The Last Tea Bowl Thief. copyright © 2020 by Jonelle Patrick. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover image © Shutterstock

  Cover design by Jennifer Do

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Inquiries should be addressed to Start Science Fiction

  221 River Street, 9th Floor

  Hoboken, New Jersey 07030

  PHONE: 212-431-5455

  WWW.SEVENTHSTREETBOOKS.COM

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  978-1-64506-022-2 (paperback)

  978-1-64506-029-1 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  引き取る

  hi-ki-to-ru

  1. to take over; to take back

  2. to retire to a private place; to withdraw; to get out

  3. iki wo hikitoru: to draw one’s last breath

  PROLOGUE

  Feudal Japan

  FEBRUARY, 1788

  Edo (now known as Tokyo)

  He’s not used to waiting. The guard who greeted him at the temple gate feared him enough to hustle him into a private room instead of making him stand outside with the coughing and miserable rabble, but his irritation is ratcheting up by the minute. What’s keeping that head priest? Feeling naked without his swords, the daimyō of Yodo Castle clutches a wooden box, pacing the bare anteroom. Three there, three back, three there, three back.

  The door slides open, revealing a shaven-headed figure in white linen robes, forehead pressed to the floor.

  “His Reverence extends his apologies for keeping you waiting, Your Excellency.” The priest rises. “If you’ll come this way . . .”

  The two retainers posted outside the door fall in behind their commander, and the scent of smoking sandalwood grows stronger as they near the chapel where the carved figure of the Kinkokoro Jizo awaits.

  The temple staff must have been burning incense day and night since the outbreak, because the long chains of golden lotus surrounding the altar disappear into a sacred haze before they reach the coffered ceiling. The head priest is bowing front and center, clad in magnificent gold brocade vestments for the occasion, flanked by a dozen minions.

  The daimyōs eyes dart around the chapel. Who are all these fools? He doesn’t need—Ah, there it is. Oblivious to the pomp surrounding it, the face of the shoulder-high, wooden saint radiates serenity. Healing. The kind of healing he came here to obtain.

  Introductions are made, polite phrases exchanged. The burning sticks of incense in the offertory urn grow shorter, along with Lord Inaba’s patience. Why are they wasting time with needless—

  “What brings you here to petition the Jizo-san today, Your Excellency?”

  Finally.

  “My son,” he growls. “It’s the pestilence.” The pestilence that has claimed more than a tenth of his household, the pestilence that struck down his favorite concubine, the pestilence now trying to take his son.

  He motions to the retainer on his left, who steps forward to extend a bulging doeskin pouch. It clinks softly as an under-priest receives it with a low bow. The retainer on the daimyō’s right steps forward, offering a shock of rice, representing the tithe of his holdings that he will pay in perpetuity to Senkō-ji temple from this day forward. It, too, is received with ritual gratitude.

  Then the warlord himself limps forward, holding a box. He’d commanded that it be brought from the family stronghold in Kyoto, but he still hesitates before offering it. His father would have forbidden him to allow its luck and influence to escape their clan. The tea bowl in this box had cemented his House’s hold on Yodo Castle, consolidating allegiance among the nobles who exerted power through a devious command of culture and custom, not their swords.

  But there will be no House of Inaba if his son dies. The daimyō hides his desperation behind a fearsome scowl as he extends the box with both hands.

  “Please accept this humble offering and appeal to the Jizo-san to spare my son’s life.” He bows. “I beg you.”

  And the tea bowl named Hikitoru passes out of one circle of influence, into another.

  1.

  Present-Day Japan

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28

  Tokyo

  Nori rings the doorbell for the third time, then peers through the rusting metal bars that crisscross the pawnshop’s display window. She squints into the darkness beyond the red “silk” wedding kimono and a pair of questionable samurai swords.

  Nothing moves but a fly, trapped against the glass. If she were taller, she might be able to see past the display and get a better idea what kind of place this is. Too bad she takes after her grandmother. She reaches to press the bell for a fourth time when a light flicks on deep inside, silhouetting a figure in the hallway beyond. She steps back to the door as two locks thwap, and it opens with a sticky sound. In the narrow crack allowed by the security chain, a woman’s lined face appears.

  “We’re closed.”

  “I know. But my grandmother told me that Miura-san might be very interested in something I have to sell.” She thrusts a note stamped with her grandmother’s hanko through the gap.

  The woman takes the slip of paper and reads it, frowning. Pursing her lips, she unchains the door.

  “I apologize for troubling you.” Nori steps inside. Bows. “I’m Chiyo Okuda’s granddaughter, Nori.”

  “I’m Miura’s daughter.”

  The woman isn’t as old as Nori had first thought. Threads of white are beginning to streak her dark hair, but the lines in her face are deep with suspicion, not age. Early forties, maybe? Younger than her mother would be now.

  The woman closes the door and flips on a dim overhead light, revealing a room crowded with wooden chests, miscellaneous bric-a-brac cluttering every surface. Plates from the 1970 Expo are stacked beside iron teapots and boxes of jumbled kimono cords. Souvenir geisha dolls sit atop crumbling boxes that might hold anything from soup bowls to ceremonial sake sets. It doesn’t look like any of it has been moved in years. Had her grandmother made a mistake sending her here?

  “Is that it?” the woman asks, flicking a glance at the flimsy convenience store bag in her hands.

  “Yes.” She makes space amid the miscellany on the nearest chest. Setting down the bag, she draws out a square box, wrapped in green silk.

  “I’ll take it to my father and ask him ifhe’s interested.” The woman reaches for it.

  Nori’s fingers tighten.

  “I’m sorry, but my grandmother wouldn’t be happy if I let it out of my sight.” She’s not letting it disappear down that hall.

  The woman sighs. “All right. Wait here. I’ll see if he’s feeling well enough to see you.”

  Once she’s gone, Nori wrinkles her nose. Something smells of mildew. She moves away from the suspect basket of secondhand kimonos, and catches a glimpse of herself in a tar
nished silver platter. She snatches off the kerchief her grandmother makes her wear while she’s working. Crap. She can’t believe she came here looking like a shop-slave.

  She reaches up to smooth the spikes of hair escaping from her too-short ponytail. It’s finally growing out again after she let her best friend chop it off for a beauty school exam. Yu-chan had convinced her that if she looked more confident, she’d be more confident, but the dismayingly boy-like clip had only given her confidence in her decision not to return for a trim until her hair is long enough to pull back with a rubber band.

  Raising her eyes past the scratched silver plate to the cabinet pushed up against the far wall, she sees that its shelves are stuffed with wooden boxes the same size and shape as the one she brought. She glances at the doorway that swallowed Miura’s daughter, then crosses to the cabinet and picks one up, inspecting the calligraphy on the lid. She puts it back, pulls out another. The artists’ names mean nothing to her, but their general state of dusty neglect adds to her fear that Mr. Miura is no longer any good at selling pieces as valuable as the one in her bag. Has he fallen on hard times since the last time her grandmother had dealings with him? Can he really afford to pay what the tea bowl is—

  “We don’t keep the good stuff out here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  She spins around, half-guilty.

  The woman regards her impassively from the lit doorway. Setting out a pair of guest slippers, she says, “Come on back. He says he’ll see you.”

  Nori sheds her shoes, steps into the slippers. Following the woman down the hall, she wonders if her mother’s hair has begun to gray too. Of course, it wouldn’t show as much in her mother’s bleached curls. Unless she’d stopped coloring them. What if her mother has let her hair revert to its natural black? She’d never thought of that. Would she even recognize her if—

  The woman stops before a door marked Private, and Nori nearly bumps into her. She knocks, then stands aside for Nori to go in first.

  The pawnshop office is eerily similar to the one behind her grandmother’s pottery shop on Kappabashi Street. Shelves sag with the same kind of sales ledgers her grandmother uses (although these have blue spines, not red), the local merchants’ association calendar features a photo of too-pink-to-be-believed cherry blossoms, and the tatami mats underfoot are worn in the same dark path from the door to the low lacquered table in the center of the room.

  Behind the black table sits the man she came to meet. He’s swimming in a stiff, wide-lapel suit that nearly stands by itself around his thin frame. His face is as seamed as her grandmother’s, his thinning gray hair combed straight back from a forehead stenciled with age spots.

  She bows.

  “I’m Nori Okuda, Chiyo Okuda’s granddaughter.”

  “I’m Miura,” he replies, returning the greeting. “Mariko,” he says to his daughter, “could you bring us some tea? And get the boy. I’d like him to see this.”

  With a grumble of assent, the woman disappears. The pawnbroker turns his sharp eyes on Nori.

  “Why didn’t your grandmother come with you?”

  “She . . . wasn’t feeling well.” It’s not exactly a lie.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Her grandmother is lying unconscious in a hospital bed, but she’s spared from answering by the arrival of a skinny boy in black-rimmed glasses, the unselfconsciousness of childhood only slightly tainted by the awkwardness of adolescence. Twelve, maybe? Thirteen? A cheap—but huge—digital watch slides freely around the bony wrist poking from his white uniform shirt, and the inch of sock showing between his loafers and the hem of his uniform pants suggests he’s growing so fast his mother can’t keep up with letting them out. He’s already half a head taller than her.

  “You wanted to see me, O-jii-san?”

  “Yes, come in. This is Nori Okuda. She brought us something I’d like you to look at. Okuda-san, this is my grandson, Daiki.”

  “Hajimemashite,” the boy says, following the formal pleased-to-meet-you with a bow.

  His buzz cut is a topography of light and dark patches, and Nori feels a twinge of sympathy. She’d been subjected to many home haircuts herself.

  Miura waves the boy closer, and he lopes across the room, stationing himself behind his grandfather, like the Emperor’s most trusted retainer.

  “Well, Okuda-san,” the pawnbroker says, folding his hands before him. “Let’s see this famous tea bowl.”

  She kneels on the thin cushion across from him. The bag rustles as she draws out the box and offers it to Miura. The grandson moves closer, peering over his shoulder.

  The old man unties the green silk wrapper and peels back the corners one by one, revealing an unvarnished wooden box, darkened by time. It’s tied with a blue cord, grown stiff with age. The pawnbroker’s gnarled fingers tease apart the knot, and the cord falls away. He lifts the box from its wrappings, sweeping them aside. Daiki crouches at his grandfather’s elbow, peering at the hand-brushed calligraphy and the square, vermilion stamp on the lid.

  “Read it,” the pawnbroker says to the boy.

  “It’s called . . .” He studies the writing, draws back, puzzled. “Hiki-toru? That can’t be right. Who would call a tea bowl ‘Taking Back’?” He glances at his grandfather, hoping for enlightenment, but none comes. He returns his attention to the box. “Looks like it was made by . . .” he sounds out the characters in the artist’s stamp. “Yoshi Takamatsu?”

  “Well done.” The grandfather allows himself a small smile. “Now tell me, is the box genuine?”

  “How am I supposed to know that, O-jii-san?”

  “How would you find out?”

  The boy turns to his phone.

  “What are you doing?” Miura sounds annoyed.

  “Looking for a picture of the box, so I can compare it with this one.”

  “And what’s wrong with the senses you were born with?”

  “O-jii-san,” the kid moans. “How many times do I have to tell you? Everything is on the internet now. We don’t always have to do things the hard way, you know.” He scrolls through the results on his phone, grows impatient, keys in a new search. “Huh. It can’t be that famous. I can’t find any pictures of it.”

  “That’s because there aren’t any,” Miura says, with satisfaction.

  “But here’s another one made by the same guy,” Daiki says, refusing to give up. “It’s called . . . ‘Snow Bride.’” He scrolls some more. “And . . . yes! Here’s a picture of it with its box.” He zooms in and holds the photo next to the box on the table. His eyes flick back and forth between them. “The artist’s stamp looks the same.”

  “So . . . do you think this one is genuine?”

  “Well, they look the same to me,” the boy says warily, sensing a trap. “But I guess one of them could be forged.” He shoots Nori an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”

  “How are we going to find out?”

  “I guess we could get a sample of the ink from Snow Bride’s box and compare it to a sample from this one and—”

  “Or we could use the faculties the gods gave us,” the old man snaps, seizing the box and holding it to his nose. Giving it a sharp sniff, he nods, then holds it out to his grandson.

  Daiki takes a cautious whiff. “Smells like . . . charcoal?”

  “It smells like Senkō-ji temple burning to the ground in March of 1945,” his grandfather informs him. “The box is genuine.”

  The pawnbroker sets it on the table and eases off the lid. He lifts the brocade-swathed tea bowl from its nest, then stops. His eyes narrow. Placing it before him, he unfolds the covering. With a grunt of disapproval, he fixes Nori with an accusing glare.

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t Hikitoru. Did you think you could fool me?”

  “No! I didn’t know! I mean . . .”

  She stares at the pale irregular bowl with dark drips running down one side. It look
s like an expensive tea bowl to her. And it was inside the box her grandmother had hidden in the secret place under their tokonoma alcove.

  “How . . . how do you know?”

  Miura hands it to his grandson. “Tell her.”

  “What? That’s not fair, O-jii-san! You didn’t give me time to . . . I mean, I can’t just—” With an exasperated groan, he pulls out his phone to study the description of Snow Bride again.

  “Okay, this other Yoshi Takamatsu tea bowl came from Sasayama, which means it’s, uh . . . Tamba-ware?”

  He glances at his grandfather. No correction comes, so he returns his attention to the bowl, brow creased.

  “This one is white with brown drips like the one in the picture, but they’re only on one side, so . . . maybe it wasn’t really made by him?”

  His grandfather shakes his head.

  Daiki sighs. Hefts it.

  “It’s . . . too heavy?” he guesses.

  “Yes. A genuine piece of that quality would be lighter. And?”

  The boy flips the bowl over and studies the bottom. Laughs.

  “Oh. It’s stamped Yamamura. Not Takamatsu.”

  Nori’s face burns with shame. How could she have been so stupid not to have checked whether it matched the box or not?

  But Miura doesn’t notice, because he’s telling his grandson, “Even if it was stamped with Yoshi Takamatsu’s name, that tea bowl wouldn’t be Hikitoru.”

  “Why not?” asks the boy.

  “Because the artist who made it died in 1724, and there shouldn’t be a mark on the foot at all. Signing one’s work is a modern conceit. Remember that, Daiki. Someday it may save you from buying a fake from a forger who didn’t do his homework.”

  He shifts his attention to Nori. “But passing off fakes isn’t Chiyo Okuda’s style. Your grandmother didn’t bring me many things to sell, but they were always the genuine article. So why is your o-baa-san suddenly sending me the right box with the wrong tea bowl inside?”

  She has no answer. Had ’Baa-chan lied to her? But she’s sure her grandmother had been deadly serious about the stuff hidden beneath the main room’s tokonoma alcove. When Nori had surprised her opening the secret storage well a week ago, she’d been told to forget she’d seen it. Not to even think of investigating the shadowy recesses she’d glimpsed before the slab of polished wood was latched firmly back in place. Yes, the things stored there were valuable. Rare. But they weren’t to be touched, except as a last resort. This was their insurance, said the grandmother who didn’t trust banks.