Madame brought the familiar obi from her trunk and shook it out before me.

I gasped, “It was you who bought the hummingbirds!”

“I paid Madame Ozawa dearly for them to be sure,” Madame said, though a smug smile tugged at the corners of her normally discreet little mouth. “You will wear this today—for your triumph!”

“No Madame!” I said. “I will wear the obi, but not today.”

“Today is the day. I have been saving it for this particular moment.”

“No, Madame. There will be another triumph,” I said, resisting her. It was too early. Too early for Ansei to see it and recognize me. I could not risk that now.

In the end, Madame relented with my promise to wear a kimono that rivaled this one in its beauty. This time, she performed the kitsuke herself.

And unlike the day prior, I paused to view my reflection in the glass. I stared at my image, no longer wondering how Kiyo had taken me for a rival. I had seen ladies wither beside silk’s grandeur. Had seen slight women diminished by the elaborate folds of the heavy obi. Some women, however noble, could not master the dignity of silk. They seemed to pale beside its luster.

I did not.

I knew every thread of my own weaving. Marked every catch of the light on its yardage. Wrapped in its folds, I belonged to it as much as it to me. And it announced and validated my presence with every rustle of movement. Robed in silk’s armor, and perhaps only for that instant, I didn’t feel myself a fraud. I could stand next to any noble. Take tea with any minister. Lift my pale face even to heaven.

I was determined not to appear self-conscious as heads swiveled around me where I walked on the street and up the path to Nobu’s residence. It wasn’t easy. Even Madame—so controlled in her emotions, betrayed a hint of self-satisfaction as Nobu received us with the deepest dignity, within his rooms, and before his guests.

Following us, three hired servants bore Madame’s chests, packed tight with silk. Nobility and prominent silk merchants crowded the room, eager to see the chests’ contents. But Madame did nothing without taking her tea, and this she did with great ceremony. With every tilt of her head, every flick of her wrist, I knew Madame measured the emotional tension within that room, she measured and heightened that tension with a charisma and charm I had never seen before.

I bent my awareness to the same focus, and I was almost surprised how simple it was to read the collective pulse. I detected much awe, ample lust, and keen jealousy.

I knew Madame expected to leverage all of this to the furthest extent. But she could not have known my own intentions. Even so, I felt certain she was trying to guess my mind as well. It would be possible, even likely, she would see through me too, if Ansei were present. He wasn’t visible, fortunately, but I knew him well enough to suspect he was not far away.

After tea, Madame produced a silver key and commanded a servant to unlock the largest chest. Madame herself withdrew and presented the chest’s contents.

Cries of ecstasy issued unreserved from all around. I couldn’t pretend humility. I, better than anyone, knew feelings of delight upon completing a weave.

Hearing, at last, the praise of others was an unexpected experience for me. It had been over a year since I had been able to take uncomplicated pleasure in anything. But I was not wooden to this approval. It brought something like pleasure to my heart and I am sure I didn’t disguise it.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Now, Madame Sato, please reveal to us the identity of this brilliant weaver,” Lady Nobu begged.

“I will,” Madame said. “But I anticipate some surprise when I do—perhaps there will be more than surprise, but I trust in your civility.”

“Of course,” Lady Nobu said.

“Then may I present to Master and Lady Nobu and their honored guests, my daughter, Sato Fuyuko? She is the weaver of every last thread within these chests, and more.”

Madame had rightly anticipated surprise. And if my sense of awareness was not faulty, hostility. Dared I also note outrage? That said, I sensed an equal exertion to master all these emotions.

“It is hard to believe,” Lady Nobu admitted, “that a girl so young, so unacquainted with the world, could be the source of these sophisticated designs, and the master of such superior technique.”

“She showed an aptitude to fine needlework from a tender age. When she asked for instruction, I did not withhold it because she was young. You may now, perhaps, understand my reluctance to bring her out publicly, and hence, my long silence as to her identity.”

“We don’t know what to say,” one of the merchants said. “I agree with Lady Nobu, but if your daughter can produce a sampling of such superior work, what can anyone say? We are most impressed and will celebrate her skill with you.”

“Of course,” Lady Nobu echoed. “We have a loom and we can furnish raw silk for an experiment.”

Madame Sato glanced at me. “I will not answer for her, nor pressure her to prove herself to you.”

The irony of Madame’s deference struck me and she almost flinched at the expression I turned on her. Yet, no one but she would have seen it for what it was.

“Give me one week at a loom,” I said. “Place it in the garden tea room with thread, and four lanterns filled with oil. I will take one meal at mid-day and tea in the morning. Have a servant bring this to me on a tray. Otherwise, please understand my need for strict privacy.”

Lady Nobu accepted my conditions, and I closed myself inside the tearoom that very afternoon.

I did not begin work immediately. One week was more than ample time for me to produce a showpiece. But I hoped for uncommon inspiration, and did not want to commence work too early.

Also, my mind was preoccupied with the prospect of reaching out to Ansei. I hoped for a chance—any chance—to speak to him without bringing Kiyo into confidence.

I lit all four lanterns at night in hopes he would come, but drew only moths, and eventually a shrewd spider to the corner of the ceiling. I slept, dreaming always of Ansei, but he never appeared in the flesh.

On the third day of my apparent indolence, the shoji doors split, and Kiyo popped her prettily coifed head through them.

“Are you enjoying what our cook puts out for you daily? It must be exhausting lying around all day, not lifting a finger to do anything. I hope you are not wasting away.”

I snapped up and pulled myself into seiza. It was hot in the teahouse and I was wearing only some light cotton underclothing. And so I faced Kiyo, exposed in more than one way, and my head hung, as much in embarrassment, as in deference to my host’s eldest daughter. “I beg your pardon, Kiyo. The meal I receive is very fine. But why are you coming to me now? Haven’t I one full week?”

“Oh, you’ll have your week, I suppose. Though my father thinks it is a monstrous charade you and your mother are playing, but we are all intensely curious about what you expect to gain from it.”

“There is no charade. I—I am preparing to work! And you had promised strict privacy.” I should have been more outraged, but I was off balance with her abrupt intrusion, and direct manner of speaking to me.

“You have as much privacy as anyone has around here. I hope you will not rely upon it too heavily. As I have said, only I can guarantee your anonymity. The whole house can see, of course, that you are opening the doors and burning an obscene quantity of oil through most of the night. How does that figure into your creative process?”

“I cannot explain it, but it is how I work,” I said wishing for the dignity of my kimono dress. “You will have to trust me.”

Kiyo laughed in my face. “Of course, of course.”

* * *

In the end, I was grateful for Kiyo’s intrusion. Rude as she had been, it might have been so much worse, so much had I trusted in Nobu’s faithful compliance with the conditions I had demanded. At least Kiyo had destroyed that pretense. I no longer hoped for a chance meeting with Ansei. I would find a way to free him without this advantage.