When a noblewoman and kitsuke artist visited the Ozawa mill for an advanced peek at the newest summer-weight silks, I noticed her speaking with Madame, and fingering a pale green brocade of my weaving with an appreciative caress.

“Madame Ozawa, may I ask, who is this brilliant protégé who is weaving your most lovely silk? You cannot intend to keep us forever in the dark.”

Madame Ozawa gently retrieved the green brocade.

“I am perfectly comfortable keeping House secrets, Madame Sato. You have yours, too, I know.”

“Yes, but this is different. There is something very special about some fraction of your fabric. You are harboring a genius in your mill and people are beginning to talk. Your prized weaver is going to be identified, and you should welcome it. She will bring you good fortune. You must show her to the world.”

Madame bowed politely, though I could sense her frustration.

“Of course, of course, but let’s discuss it no more. Fame can sometimes destroy weaker creatures. You wouldn’t wish to endanger my pet, would you?”

“No, but an artist is not a pet.”

Madame Ozawa gently guided her guest out of the room and into her private salon where others, and in particular, I could no longer overhear their conversation.

I brightened at the notice Madame Sato had taken of one of my recent pieces. It was heartening to think that even while I copied Madame’s patterns, I could transcend the mundane with a spirit of creation all my own. She had taken much, but Madame Ozawa couldn’t take everything from me. And yet, this creativity wasn’t all my own. I couldn’t take full credit, and I wondered how to explain myself.

As the days passed, I contented myself with my work, and though Madame now saw all of her customers in private conference, she couldn’t hide the fact that she was receiving more and more customers from more distant regions. She couldn’t hide my dwindling inventories, no matter how quickly, nor how long, I worked. And Madame Ozawa began to do something I never expected; she began to give me more freedom. She didn’t explicitly say, “Weave whatever you wish, Furi.” But one day, she asked my opinion on a piece of embroidery.

“What do you think of this butterfly, Furi? If you could change anything, what would it be?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Madame had never asked my opinion in this way before, and at first, I thought it was a trap. I replied with a terse, “Nothing Madame. It is perfect as it is.”

But she pushed me. “Of course. It is a classic design. I know it wants nothing, really. But there is an artisan in Yoshioka prefecture selling a variation on this design, and making quite a sensation. I think we might do as well as he does. What would you do if you had to change it?”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Of course, it would be inferior to the original,” I prefaced, to be safe, “But if I had to make a change, I would do this…” I traced a design of a butterfly with added dimension, implying more movement, making it dynamic. Madame only nodded, and said nothing more.

Later that week, she asked my opinion about another design and then another, and slowly, I began to see that she wanted me to replicate them. I knew she did not want me to work them during the daytime. I felt, distinctly, that she wanted me to weave or embroider them at night, unseen by the other weavers.

I could go on pretending not to understand, but something inside me yearned to do more, to be more. I decided to make a test. And so, I arose from my futon at midnight and worked at my loom until dawn. In the morning, I crept into the silk closet where Madame stored all of my work, and placed the fabric gently atop the small pile of silks of my own weaving. Then I crept back to my futon and slept one final hour before the house awakened.

The following day, Madame made no sign of affirmation or approval. No. But neither did she make any sign of anything amiss. She behaved as though nothing had happened at all. I had no question of her having seen my nighttime production. She saw it, and she must have approved. In fact, the following evening, when I crept back into the closet, I noticed it had been removed, possibly already sold.

Madame continued to speak to me in brief, coded messages. She would mention a design that was popular in a distant prefecture…or something she had heard of the Emperor’s daughter herself having worn. I knew, then, that she wanted me to try something similar.

Perhaps I should have known better than to let her lead me along with her hints, but I ached to create, and I hoped against hope, that Madame Sato was right. Someday, I would be known to the world. Someday, I would be free to work as I wished, and receive commendation for what I had done.

Even with all my precaution, I was not the only one to notice the increase in demand for my work. Other weavers noticed as well, and tensions between us began to rise. A few of them tried to mimic me. But since I confined my most innovative work to the nighttime, mimicry wasn’t easy. So some began to complain about me. If they could not think of an honest complaint, they invented one.

“Madame, Furi has taken my spools. I don’t know why, but they’re gone and no one else would do it.”

“I did not. You’ve hid them yourself in the closet,” I defended myself.

“See! It must have been her. Here they are in the closet. Only the thief could have known where they were.”

Madame sensed the jealousy, and wanted to appease her paid weavers. She made a display of whipping me, though I think a bit half-heartedly. But I couldn’t be grateful to Madame for her tepid abuse. I burned at the injustice. It seemed no matter how well I did, I would always receive her hatred.

But no amount of abuse could satisfy Madame’s weavers. They saw how quickly I produced, and they knew their own work was not met with anywhere near the same demand. They grew more jealous, and began to whisper among themselves, so quietly, I could not hear more than one or two dropped words together, but one of the words was Ansei.

I knew the weavers were plotting against me. I also knew I couldn’t depend upon Madame for protection. She may not like to be rid of me, and I took some confidence from that, but since I had no one in whom I could confide my worries, I worked and waited for the attack to come.