The year was 1856, and Nagasaki’s harbour pulsed with life as dusk spread over the sea. Lanterns flickered against the encroaching night, their glow catching on the lacquered hulls of foreign ships. The air was thick with salt and the clamour of voices–Japanese merchants haggling with English traders, sailors boasting of their travels, and the occasional murmur of gossip about the courtesan of the harbour.
Minato Miura stood at the edge of her ship, The Frosted Lantern, the fabric of her pink-and-black kimono rippling faintly in the sea breeze. Her name was whispered with reverence and desire throughout the harbour, but she moved with the assured poise of someone who understood her place within the delicate dance of power and prestige. Her painted lips curved into a faint smile as she gazed at the bustling port town, her thoughts heavy with the evening ahead.
“It’s going to be a long night, Mistress,” her attendant murmured, holding a parasol against the fading sunlight. The young woman cast a furtive glance toward the teahouse that loomed on the hill above the harbour, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky. “Do you wish for me to accompany you?”
Miura’s gaze lingered on the town. The teahouse had once been a haven, a sanctuary where she could perform her art and bask in the adoration of her clientele. But tonight, it felt different. Heavy. The foreign presence loomed larger than ever, and with it came a weight she couldn’t shake.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“No,” Miura said at last, her voice soft but resolute. “Tonight, I will walk alone.”
The attendant hesitated but bowed. “As you wish, Mistress.”
As Miura disembarked, the soft click of her wooden geta sandals against the dock seemed to draw every eye in the harbour. Men paused mid-sentence, their laughter fading as they turned to watch her. Some gazes were filled with longing, others with envy or disdain, but Miura paid them no mind. She had grown accustomed to the scrutiny. It was her armour as much as it was her burden.
Her kimono shimmered faintly in the twilight, the delicate embroidery of plum blossoms and cranes a testament to her status.
As she walked, she felt the weight of the whispers that followed her.
“The Frosted Lantern’s mistress…”
Words swirled around her like the sea breeze, but her expression remained serene. Let them wonder. Let them speculate. Her life in Japan was a performance, every step a deliberate act in the play of survival.
The teahouse awaited her at the top of the hill, its paper lanterns glowing warmly against the deepening night. As she approached, she paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the harbour below. The mingling of Japanese and English ships created a chaotic tapestry, a visual reminder of the world’s shifting tides. She could feel it, the tension in the air–the unease of a nation caught between tradition and change.
A shadow crossed her face, but only for a moment. Then she straightened, her posture perfect as she stepped through the teahouse gates. The evening had only just begun, and Miura was ready to play her parts.