"You are early today, Doctor Fujiwara," says Chisato Yamauchi, even before my body has passed through the door.

Coming from her, this almost sounds like a scolding. Despite her years, she holds her spine up straight with all the elegance of a woman a quarter of her age, as if the sheer weight of her heritage has coiled inside of her, the sole descendant, like unburnt gunpowder, dry paper, fireworks -- though the time has not come, just yet.

"I apologise, Madam." I settle myself in the metal chair across of her, ducking under the low-hanging lamp that hangs between us in the chamber. Under the light, her features become all the more sharply defined. Visible nobility is such a rare gift: it finds purchase, despite life's hardships, in the curve of her lips, in the needle-point glint of an eye. I wonder what she thinks of me, pony-tailed and bleary-eyed, store-brand concealer covering the bags under my eyes. Doctor Lin in Medical thinks I have seasonal depression; my mother thinks I have scoliosis.

Today's work is dealt out in front of us in two neat piles. At Madam Yamauchi's right hand lies the lacquered box itself. Altogether, between us, there must be no more than two dozen of the cards left.

"Shall we begin?" she offers.

"You first," I reply. We have always given her the honour of the opening hand; a small courtesy, I imagine, in exchange for her secrets. She smiles, nodding to herself, laying the top card of her hand onto the table. A gray peak, three-horned, shrouded in mist, emerges from the front.

"The Mountain," she announces. "We begin here, as many stories do."

"Birthplace of heroes," I continue for her. "The mountains raised Momotaro and Kintaro, and its forests begat the princess Kaguya." Alas, I have none of the illustrious youths in my hand; I must settle for their inversion.

"Mountains, in other stories, also mark the ends of journeys. I present the Hermit, at peace from his travels."

I place my card directly opposite hers: the straw-cloaked monk on his snowy peak, red lantern glowing from his hand. In its original tarotic incarnation, the lantern represents truth and enlightenment; rendered in the cochineal brush-stroke carvings of the Yamauchi deck, it casts a fearful glow.

"The Mirror," recites Chisato Yamauchi. She plays her card, depicting an austere reflection of pines. "He finds it, abandoned, on the ground, perhaps while collecting firewood -- or, by synecdoche, encounters a still pool instead. Your next card shall decide."

From my hand, I respond with the Siren, rising from the depths. My partner proceeds with the Jewelled Sword in her grasp, which I develop into a conflict: the mikoshi-nyudo on the loose, roaming the peaks with murderous intent. Before long, the Hermit has set off on his quest under the auspices of the North Star, symbolising the warrior-god Bishamonten, who frees the Siren by way of Kiyohime's curse -- and our cards, like the story, spiral out from our respective places, curving across the table like galactic arms, sweeping themselves into a world...