Inside the pleasure house, an attendant manned the entryway. Two courtesans chatted with clients in the reception room, but the real festivities wouldn’t begin until after sunset. A servant led Sano to a courtyard garden, where flower beds and stunted pines surrounded a tiny pond. Female voices shrilled like discordant birdsong.

“Peony, pour me some more tea.” “Peony, fix my hair.” “Peony, this bath is too hot. Add some cold water.” “Peony, massage my back.”

On a veranda sat three women, all in bright dressing gowns. One held up a tea bowl while she filed her toenails. Another frowned into a hand mirror, poking at her upswept hairdo. The third shed her robe and flopped facedown. Through the open door beyond them, Sano saw a fourth woman’s face protruding from a wooden bathtub. They chattered and giggled together, interjecting more orders:

“Peony, my tea!” “Peony, my hair!” “Water!” “I want my massage now!”

Shuttling frantically among them was the witness Sano had come to question. As he approached, he saw that all the other women were beautiful and no doubt belonged to the Half Moon’s first rank of courtesans. But Peony was one of the biggest, ugliest females he’d ever beheld.

Though no more than twenty years old, she was as dumpy as a middle-aged matron. The skirts of her plain blue cotton kimono, hiked up to allow easy movement, bared legs so bowed that she could have carried a rice bale between them. Her face was so flat it looked almost deformed, with sallow skin, narrow eyes, broad nose, and a puffy, loose-lipped mouth. Her only good feature was her hair—thick, luxuriant, and blue-black, piled untidily on her head.

Peony picked up a teapot and splashed tea into the courtesan’s upheld bowl. Then she hurried to the next woman and plucked pins from her hair. Her movements were awkward, jerky. The bathing courtesan shouted, and Peony dumped a bucket of water into the tub. Then she squatted and gave the prone woman’s back a few strokes before the others complained and she jumped up to serve them. Her loose mouth quivered; her eyes welled with tears. Sano pitied her, and almost hated to cause her more trouble than she already had.

“What are you doing here?” demanded a loud male voice. “This area is off-limits to clients.”

The women shrieked when they spied Sano. Peony dropped the teapot; it shattered on the veranda. Turning, Sano faced a swarthy man with the pugnacious scowl of a carved temple dog, dressed in expensive silk robes. He berated first Peony for breaking the teapot, then the servant for bringing Sano inside.

“I’m Sano Ichirō, the shōgun’s sōsakan,” Sano explained. “I’m here to ask Peony about the last night she spent on Deshima. Are you the proprietor?”