Without the press of his lips against her knuckles, she could have managed a dutiful smile. But she could feel him smiling as his breath warmed her skin, feel her own breath quickening in response. She tugged her hand away before he could find her fluttering pulse. "I am cheerful," she said sharply. "I just don't show it by grinning like an idiot. If you can move, I'll make the beds."

Asuma laughed, dipped his head in an ironic little bow, and clambered stiffly to his feet. Natsumi tried not to watch him wavering, or hear the muffled ow as he discovered what 'half-healed' meant; she was already far too aware of him for her peace of mind. She took it out on the futons with a vengeance, shaking out and folding the comforters and the under-mattresses, beating the chaff-filled pillows into shape, and stacking it all behind the carved wooden screen in the corner. Her feet ached, but she refused to let herself limp.

When she turned at last, Asuma had managed to slip his bracelets and his headband on and had paused to mull over one of his scrolls. He was still naked to the waist. A dark, fuzzy scrawl marred the burnished skin between his shoulderblades: tattoo, Natsumi realized after a breathless moment, not another injury. Fading bruises blossomed liberally over his back, green and yellow down his spine, edging to purple in the heavy muscle of his right shoulder. The monks' bruise-balm must not have worked quite so well there. Natsumi shook off more absurd questions--Does it hurt? Can I help?--and tightened her own yukata belt reflexively.

"After spending most of last night under-dressed," she said, shuffling very carefully across the tatami floor to join him, "I should think you'd want more clothes on." She crouched to sort through her hip-pouches and retrieve a small wooden comb. "Or are you planning to show off to the monks, too? I hear their vows of celibacy don't always extend to men."

Bitter was even worse than sharp. She tugged at her hair, and winced.