Tucked away in a green mountain stood a bathhouse inn of five levels. Among still pools of sulphuric waters, soy milk shabu shabu, and sea catch served on silver platters, she threw feminism to the wind, or at least that kind of Western feminism.

From his perspective, a black silhouette pronounced itself against a vaguely yellowed washi foreground. The silhouette lowered itself to the floor. As the wooden shoji slid open, the silhouette became a featured woman. With his drinks on a tray, she bowed and announced a presence he was already well aware of.

She delicately poured his drink,

engaged him in the art of conversation, both verbal and brush,

and performed dances that stirred up his soul.

Her mastery of courtly arts was apparent:

her social and aesthetic skills impeccable,

her gustatory and olfactory merits unrivaled,

her memorization of minutiae unfailing,

her repartee cutting and flawless.

This was not a geisha, but a shirabyoshi who wore a man’s hat, carried a hand-held fan, and danced to the gods by drum and cymbal rhythms.

A sakura in the sekkanke heyday, her delicateness only endeared her to nobles more as other women appeared as mere fumbling maiko of weak constitution in her presence.