Mukudori briefly chastised Hane for their lateness as they returned to the noodle shop but Hane was only-half listening. It had been a troubling day. Thoughts of destiny and divinity and ancient bones beat against the sides of their skull like a dragonfly in a jar.

So it was a relief to return to the everyday heat of the stove, the rhythmic slicing of whatever fish this was that Mukudori had scrounged up, the scratchy fabric of the batik kimono, the smell of flour and coconut milk, the orangey sunset through the orangey glass, the scattering of rai on the counter, Mukudori’s croaking voice and the clatter of human accents. It was a small shop, but busy. Right on the edge of the island and on its busiest street, it looked out upon the hill of Nefunuku. As the lights of the inner city glimmered down onto the sea, Mukudori’s shop replied with its own tinny lightbulbs.

Mukudori talked to the customers and took their orders while Hane cooked in the kitchen with the door propped open, served food in coconut-shaped bowls, and cleaned when needed. Their mind cleared. It was like meditation.

Rather late that evening, when the shop was mostly empty apart from a few of Mukudori’s friends in the corner, a group of nine or ten men crowded in, smelling of tobacco, salt and alcohol. They spoke in enunciated voices, and wore clothing elaborately embroidered with blocky geometric designs. Hane watched through the smoky doorway as the men gave their orders to Mukudori.

Their eyes passed over each of the men in turn. The edge of a tattoo peeked out from a creased velvet collar - a black beak, or was that Hane’s imagination? Au Tahuna had mentioned that the Tangata cult lingered among the rich… their gaze caught as they met one’s eyes. He had, they realised, been looking at them for a moment. He seemed oddly familiar. Had a tengu face. But once they had made contact, he turned and talked to his little crowd.

Mukudori passed their orders on to Hane as he grabbed some bottles of wine from the kitchen - they wanted mostly the sacrilegious kind of thing that Nefunukans seemed to prefer to real Tengu food - and that put it out of their mind for a while as they chopped the taro. When they finally served the dishes, one of the men reached out a little too fast and knocked his glass from the table. He giggled.

Hane sighed, grabbed the mop from the corner, and went to mop up the spilled wine. One of the men clicked his fingers under their nose. They pointedly refused to look up. Hey. Again, and a harsh laugh, first from him and then all the other men. Hey, saburuko.

The Tengu word got their attention, and they straightened up. Yes? they said warily.

He had a sharp face, sharp nose, thick eyebrows, angled chin. His hair was pulled back into a tight black bun while the rest trickled over the shoulders of his black coat, and they thought they saw small iridescent feathers sticking out. He tilted his head to the side as he observed them. Then his hand darted out and pushed Hane’s hair aside to reveal their own feathers.

Kujaku?

Oh! Karasu. Yes - he was so much more polished now, like a shard of obsidian ground into a knife, but he still looked like Karasu, if Hane squinted.

Karasu turned to his crowd with a hawkish grin. My friends - this is Kujaku, an old friend of mine. A good friend. This was generous but Hane gave a pursed-lip smile to the thought. There were schools in Sobishima that taught the children of the rich in matters of calligraphy, etiquette, poetry, the proper making of tea... Karasu, a few years older than Hane, had attended at the same time, and they had moved in similar circles. You’ll excuse us, won’t you?

And with a swish of his frock coat he swept Hane off to another table, pulling out a chair for them and sitting with a broad smile.

Kujaku-kei! Oh, you haven’t grown a bit have you? he cooed, which was not much of a compliment as Hane had been sixteen when they last met, a mere fledgeling. The careless condescension was as familiar as the genuine excitement in his expression.

You have become a fine person, Hane said with a nod.

How have you been? Is Taka here with you?

No. We parted ways.

I remember when you two were like a peach and its stone. Shame, isn’t it? Kamome - you must remember her - her family made that yuzu wine - we were betrothed for years. Yes, Hane remembered Kamome. She had round black eyes that seemed to reflect everything, and lips as red and shiny as apple skin, and a very nasal laugh. Neither of her parents had grown wings, and when the cluster of feathers had begun to erupt out of her spine, it had been Hane that she whispered to in the shade of the chrysanthemums, Hane that she allowed to see her paper-white back. Hane never knew quite what to say, which Kamome seemed to find comforting. We had a whole life planned out, and then one morning she was gone. Left everything behind. We were sure she had died. Two years later, I heard news she had gone to be a monk in Tír na hÓige.

That doesn't surprise me. She always did seem the otherworldly type.

Not to me she didn’t, Karasu said with a laugh. I’d have expected that more from you. Never would have imagined you... here. How did that happen?

They waved a hand. The storm of fate has shipwrecked me. Why are you here?

There are many rich men in Nefunuku, and my father’s business requires that we become good friends with rich men. But he gave Hane a conspiratorial smile, and leaned forward. His breath was hot against their ear, and smelt of the yuzu wine, though Hane knew that was just memory interfering. Teisatsu, he whispered. Infiltrator. They wondered how many others he couldn’t resist whispering that to. Not that his table were listening.

Hane looked over at his friends’ table from the corner of their eye. You pick an odd place to take rich men.

And yet you’re here, and I don’t remember you being particularly poor. They are more comfortable if they think of our home as like this, and forget the nicer, more dangerous elements. Hane smiled. Not that this isn’t perfectly nice, Kujaku, for a shipwreck! he laughed hoarsely. But it’s hardly befitting of people of our standing.

Hane took a deep breath, reached across the small table and stroked the coal-black velvet of his coat. Perhaps you can help me, Karasu.

I would be honoured, my friend. What do you need from me?

You are right. This place is not befitting of me. Down here they don't appreciate someone who can play the shamisen and arrange flowers and make proper tea. Your friends - I suppose they are the kind that live at the top of the hill. Perhaps they will have a better use for me. And if they do - I am sure they will be grateful for your introduction.

Karasu's eyes gleamed like obsidian, and he turned to his friends with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.