She recalled what was next. With deliberate dignity she extracted a small napkin from the obi of her loose yukata, wiped the rim of the bowl, and placed it carefully onto the tatami in front of her. The motion had to be quick, spare. Ken didn't try to disguise his pleasure; she had passed some sort of crucial test.
And she told herself, he had too.
Together they had joined in one of the most demanding yet exquisite bonds two people can share. At that moment she felt—was it imagination?—like an ancient Fujiwara, celebrating some age-old tradition. . . .
The ceremony was over now. She bowed again, then lifted the bowl to admire the light crackle in the glaze, the slightly inturned lip.
"It's Raku. I think it's the finest I've ever seen."
"From my collection. It's by the hand of Chojiro, the seventeenth-century Korean who was in the employ of the Shogun Hideyoshi." He smiled. "I had it brought down to Kyoto especially for tonight. For you."
"I'm honored." She was.
After she had admired the rest of the utensils—the remaining formality of cha-no-yu—they both relaxed, their minds purged, their spirits attuned. Like the ceremony itself, the moment was esthetic and sensual.
"Tam, this has been a wonderful rebirth for me, being with you again. You've helped revive in me so many feelings I'd almost forgotten. The joy of it all. Who could have known?" He leaned back and reached for a flask of plum wine. Formalities were definitely over. "As someone once wrote, 'Love. Its roots are deep. Its source unknowable.'" He was pouring two small glasses.
"That's from the Tsurezuregusa, fourteenth century. Right?"