The salt and umami of the pickles from Kōnozō lingered on the back of her tongue even now. She'd bowed her head. Chosen her words carefully. That alone was enough for Dōmae Yoshiharu to say, "Well, come on up." One bite of the pickled Chinese cabbage, and her honest reaction had shown on her face—and he'd said, "I can trust someone who makes that kind of face." (Trust, huh.) Reina chewed over the word as she stepped on the stone path toward Tsukishirado. She hadn't moved to earn trust. The pickles were just genuinely delicious, and her body had answered first. But to the eyes of a merchant with decades of experience, that had registered as "the real thing." She passed under the noren curtain. The faded characters of "Tsukishirado" looked slightly different this morning. From the kitchen came Sumie's presence. The sound of her finishing nerikiri—the Tsukishirado technique of shaping wagashi by hand alone, without molds or tools. That quiet sound of white bean paste taking form unde