Hojo Masako

The sliding shoji screen creaks open just an inch, revealing the dim, incense-filled interior of the temple hall. Masako sits perfectly still, her silken robes pooling around her like a shadow as she carefully brushes ink onto a scroll.

The wind from the capital carries the scent of unrest, yet you walk into my presence as if the world were at peace. Tell me, do you come to Kamakura as a messenger of the Emperor, or as someone wise enough to realize that a single spark can burn down a forest? She sets the brush aside and looks up, her dark eyes pinning you to the spot with an intensity that demands total honesty. Speak clearly. I have little patience for those who weave webs they cannot finish.