Milton walked from Tameike-sannō Station and passed through the first of the red torii gates that led to the shrine. The area was as busy as Hachirō had predicted, with a large crowd of people jostling to pass through the gates so that they could make their way into the streets around the shrine. Milton saw musicians playing from floats and others carrying mikoshi shrines. Many of those taking part in the festival wore traditional dress: kimonos with colourful obi sashes, yukata robes and zori sandals; there were also a number of men wearing just fundoshi loincloths. Many of the revellers in the crowd sported costumes that included masks. Milton saw some in noh masks, others with traditional fox or devil masks, and others still in contemporary kigurumi masks. He took his own mask from his bag and put it on, arranging the elastic band so that it sat comfortably behind his ears.

He checked his watch. It was nearly ten minutes to one and he was supposed to meet Satoshi on the hour. Milton was relieved that Furokawa had agreed to make the exchange so quickly; it meant that there would be a limit to the amount of time that he had to hold Natsuki, and, more practically, it would make it difficult for Satoshi to put anything into place that might complicate matters.

Hachirō had proposed the steps of the haiden, the main hall of worship, for the meet and, as he approached, Milton could see that the location would work well. There was a flight of stone steps that led up to an impressive building with a gabled roof and stone lions guarding the entrance. Milton walked along a parade of stallholders, waiting for the crowd to open enough for him to approach the steps to the temple. He climbed up and turned back so that he could survey the area. He saw Satoshi almost at once. He was making his way through the crowd, surrounded by a retinue of younger men who must have comprised his security. The men at the front barged through the crowd, clearing a path so that Satoshi’s progress could be more serene. Milton stepped to the side, putting himself in their way.

The man in the front—big and mean, with a buzz cut and heavy rings on his fingers—reached up to move Milton aside. Milton intercepted his hand, isolating his index finger and bending it back before the man could do anything to stop him. He gave a curiously feminine yelp of pain, his knees buckling as Milton used the pain from the stressed joints to move him out of the phalanx that protected Satoshi.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Eric.”

The other men stepped up, but Satoshi stood them down with a flick of his hand.

“The mask,” he said. “Take it off.”

“No,” Milton said, releasing the big man’s finger.

“I don’t blame you,” Satoshi said. “You are right to be frightened.”