Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [2]
“Only logical,” he echoed. “I would be very interested in anything you might discover about the piece. I am somewhat an expert in ceramics, and I’ve never seen anything that particular shade of blue. Perhaps you might let me borrow it, examine it more closely, and I could help you with your research.”
“You’re very kind,” she murmured. “But I’m certain the piece has little monetary worth—it was simply a gift from my nanny, and for that reason I cherish it. If in fact it does have considerable intrinsic value, then I would return it to the Japanese government.”
There was no shadow in the Shirosama’s benevolent smile. “You are as generous and honorable as your mother.”
Summer resisted a snort. It wasn’t enough that Lianne was funneling huge sums of money into the True Realization Fellowship, which seemed to have an insatiable need for cash. They weren’t getting Summer’s Japanese bowl, no matter how much they seemed to want it. She knew why Lianne wanted to get rid of it. Ralph had told her it was valuable, and Lianne had always been jealous of Summer’s nanny. Hana-san had been the mother Lianne had never had time to be, loving Summer, protecting her, teaching her what she needed to know and listening to her. The bowl had been one of the keepsakes she’d given Summer when Lianne had finally managed to fire her and send Summer off to boarding school, and Summer had promised that she’d keep it safe until Hana came for it. But Hana had died, unexpectedly.
And shallow, beautiful Lianne wanted to hand it over to her current guru. Over Summer’s dead body.
“Your mother has expressed great sorrow that you haven’t been to see her recently,” he added in his soft, rolling voice. “She wishes to make peace with you.”
“How very kind,” Summer murmured. Lianne Lovitz preferred her daughter to be as far away as possible—it was damn hard to convince the world you were in your early forties if you had a daughter in her late twenties hanging around. If the Shirosama wanted her to say anything more, she wasn’t going to; her relationship with her mother was none of his business.
He turned to glance back at the ceramic bowl. “You know that she promised this to me?”
Nothing like coming straight to the point. “And you know it was not hers to promise, your holiness,” Summer said with exquisite politeness.
“I see,” the Shirosama murmured, though Summer had no doubt her mother had filled him in on all this. “But do you not think it should be returned to its rightful place in Japan? To the shrine where it belongs?”
“Almost everything in this room should be back in Japan,” she said. Including you, she added silently. “Perhaps I should be in touch with the Ministry of Fine Arts and see if they’re interested.”
It was rare to see someone with no pigmentation in their skin turn paler still. “I doubt that’s necessary. I will be returning to Japan in a short while—I can make inquiries for you if you wish.”
She bowed as Hana had taught her. “That would be very kind of you,” she replied with exquisite courtesy. She’d heard rumors that the Shirosama and his Fellowship were not particularly well thought of in Japan—probably a result of the distrust built up after the sarin-gas poisonings on the Tokyo subways more than a decade ago, perpetrated by a fringe cult of doomsday fanatics. The Japanese government tended to look on alternative religions with a wary eye, even one steeped in sugary goodwill like the True Realization Fellowship. But the Shirosama was good at what he did, and he could probably count government ministers among his deluded disciples. If she turned the bowl over it might very well just land back in his hands.
He gazed at the bowl, sitting in innocent beauty beneath the bright lights. “I promised your mother that we would bring you by this evening, after the reception,” he said, changing the subject. “She is most eager to see you and to clear up any possible misunderstandings.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,