Page 203 of Mercy Written in Blood

"He survived the fall."

Haruki looked up.

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I saw him afterwards."

The room seemed to tighten.

"When?"

"Three years later."

"Where?"

"Kyoto."

"What did he say?"

Renji searched the memory. A courtyard. Rain striking stone. Shibata standing beneath a covered walkway. Renji bloodied and starving. Shibata's expression sorrowful. He remembered the words.Your father mistook sentiment for principle.Renji had believed Shibata was grieving. Perhaps he had been. That no longer meant innocence.

"He said the Takahara brought destruction upon themselves," Renji replied.

Haruki went very still.

"Did you believe him?"

"Yes."

The word cost more than it should have. Renji looked down at the journal. His own younger hand appeared again several pages later, the ink darker, the strokes made quickly.

Shibata says the council will not tolerate further embarrassment. Father refuses to reverse the judgement. Mother has ordered the children moved to the inner house. Hana says I am frightening everyone by carrying my sword indoors. I told her fear is appropriate. She says fear is only useful if it helps us choose what to do next.

Renji stopped breathing. He remembered carrying the sword. Not why. He remembered Hana teasing him. Not what she had said. Fragments existed. The meaning between them had been stripped away.

He turned the page too quickly. The paper shifted in its cradle. Haruki caught his wrist.

"Careful."

Renji looked at his hand around him. Warm. Steady. Haruki loosened his grip but did not remove it. Renji let him remain.

The next entries had been damaged. Only isolated lines survived.

Three more families arrived from the south. Mother says we cannot shelter everyone. Father says we must begin somewhere.

Masato believes the fever passes between human and vampire blood differently.

Hana has begun teaching letters to the settlement children.

Lord Shibata returned with two council representatives. They asked whether coexistence was our intention. Father said it was already our practice.

Renji closed his eyes. Something moved behind them — a courtyard in summer, human children running beneath red banners, Hana kneeling beside a boy with scraped knees, his mother speaking with a woman carrying an infant, Masato drunk beneath a tree. The images appeared and vanished before Renji could hold them. Were they memories? Or imagination assembled from the words? He no longer trusted the difference.

"Renji."