The three farmers huddled together by the opposite wall for warmth, leaving the entire deck to Jack. Since he was a samurai, the hierarchy of Japanese society meant Jack was given the best position and the greatest comfort.

As he arranged the loose straw into a mattress, Jack spotted the girl out at the back, scrubbing away at the cooking pot in a trough of ice-encrusted water. Though she worked without complaint, Jack didn’t envy her lowly position.

Pulling the mat over his weary body and his hat on to his face, Jack settled down to sleep. The three farmers began whispering to one another, but Jack was too exhausted to follow the conversation. With his hunger satisfied, he quickly drifted off …

Jack snapped awake as he sensed someone removing his hat. His taijutsu training was instinctive – he grabbed the offending hand and twisted it into a lock. But his hat fell to the floor and he came face to face with the girl. She made no sound, despite the painful wristlock Jack had put her in. She merely gawped in utter amazement at his blond hair, blue eyes and white skin.

Hoping he hadn’t hurt the girl, Jack released her from his grip.

‘Sorry, but you shouldn’t have done that,’ he whispered as she rubbed her wrist in the darkness.

But she was more taken by his blond locks. Reaching out, she touched a stray curl and grinned in delight at its softness. Jack smiled back, relieved by her friendly reaction to his foreignness. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the three farmers were still fast asleep, Kunio snoring as loudly as a pig.

The girl returned his hat with a respectful bow, then silently padded over to her corner and curled up on the floor, her eyes never leaving his face. She didn’t appear afraid and, to Jack’s surprise, didn’t alert the farmers to her discovery.

Perhaps she doesn’t know about the Shogun’s decree banishing all foreigners from Japan, thought Jack. Or the reward for capturing me, dead or alive.

This gave Jack cause for hope. Maybe the farmers hadn’t heard the news either. If that was the case, then their village would make the perfect safe haven. Covering his head to go back to sleep, Jack prayed the farmers’ reaction to finding out he was a gaijin samurai would be as welcoming as hers.

Bleary-eyed and stiff with cold, Jack emerged from the storehouse. The storm of the previous night had passed and the snow-covered landscape now glistened crystal-white in the early dawn sun. Breakfast that morning had been meagre – a thin miso soup with a cup of weak green tea – but at least it had been warming. Sora, apologetic as ever, had promised a hearty supper on arrival at their village.