“Our braided cords hold a thousand years of Itomori’s history. I tell you, that school of yours really should put priority on teachin’ this sort of town history to you children. Listen, two hundred years ago…”

Here we go again, I think with a wry little smile. It’s Gran’s favorite speech, and I’ve heard it over and over in this workroom, ever since I was small.

“A fire began in the bathroom of Mayugorou Yamazaki, the straw sandal–maker, and it burned up this whole area, including the shrine and all the old records. It was what people call—”

Gran glances at me.

“ ‘The Great Mayugorou Fire,’ ” I answer smoothly.

Mm-hmm. Gran nods, looking satisfied.

“What? They named the fire after him?!” Yotsuha exclaims, startled. “Poor Mr. Mayugorou,” she mutters. “Havin’ his name stick around ’cause of somethin’ like that.”

“Thanks to that fire, we don’t know what our dances or the patterns in our cords mean anymore. All we have left are the forms. Still, even not knowin’, we mustn’t ever let the forms disappear. The meanin’ in those shapes is bound to resurface someday.”

Gran’s words have a unique rhythm to them, like a traditional ballad, and as I braid my cord, I mouth the words along with her, silently reciting them from memory. The meanin’ in those shapes is bound to resurface someday. Here, at Miyamizu Shrine—

“Here, at Miyamizu Shrine, that’s our solemn duty. And yet…”

At that point, Gran lowers her mild eyes, sadly.

“And yet, that foolish son of mine… As if abandonin’ the priesthood and leavin’ this house weren’t enough, he had to become a politician…”

Gran sighs, and I sneak a small sigh of my own underneath it. Even I don’t really know whether I love this town or hate it, whether I want to go somewhere far away or stay with my family and friends forever. When I remove my finished, brightly colored cord from the round stand, it makes a soft, lonely click.

I think the sound of the wooden Japanese flute that drifts from the shrine in the darkness would probably terrify city folks. It sets the mood for some sinister event, like in an old murder mystery novel. For a little while now, I’ve been performing a ceremonial shrine maiden dance, feeling gloomy enough that I wish a killer like Jason or Jack the Ripper—anybody really—would just put me out of my misery.

This time every year, the Miyamizu Shrine holds its harvest festival, and Yotsuha and I have the misfortune of being the stars of the show. On this day, we wear crisp shrine maiden outfits, paint on bright-red lip rouge and wear jingly hair ornaments, go out in front of the standing audience at the kagura hall, and dance the dance Gran taught us. It’s one of the traditions whose meaning was lost in the fire, and it’s performed by two people, moving in sync. We’re both holding bells with colorful cords tied to them. We ring them, twirling around and around, making the cords flare out and trail behind us. During my last spin, I spotted Tesshi and Saya out of the corner of my eye and got even more depressed. Those little— I told them and told them not to come, and they’re still here?! I’ll hex them with my shrine maiden power! I’ll text them tons of curse stamps with Line! That said, the dance isn’t the part I hate. Sure, it’s a little embarrassing, but since I’ve been doing it since I was little, I’m completely used to it. No, it’s not this. It’s that one ritual. The one that’s more embarrassing the older I get. That thing I have to do right after this. The part that seems intentionally designed to brutally humiliate women.