Steel Wrapped in Silk
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4: The Preparation
The two weeks passed both too quickly and impossibly slowly.
Mitsui Rin began the preparations the morning after the decision was made. Not because she wanted to—every fiber of her being resisted what was coming—but because denial would only make the inevitable separation more brutal.
If her daughter was to be transformed into a samurai bride, then the trousseau must be perfect. Flawless. Beyond reproach.
The merchant families who specialized in such things were discreet. They understood yoshi-engumi arrangements and knew how to create a bride’s chest that would pass the scrutiny of the most exacting samurai mothers-in-law.
Rin visited three different shops, comparing quality and prices with the practiced eye of a woman who’d managed household accounts for two decades. Each item she selected felt like another nail in a coffin she was building with her own hands.
The Shiromuku (the white wedding kimono): She commissioned it from the finest silk merchant in the district. Pure white, layers upon layers, heavy enough to require assistance to wear. When the merchant unfurled a sample of the fabric, Rin had to turn away to hide her tears.
“This is beautiful work,” the merchant said, oblivious to her pain. “Your daughter will be the most elegant bride.”
You won’t be there to see it, Rin thought, but said only: “Yes. It must be perfect.”
The Iro-uchikake (the colored outer robe): This took longer to commission. Rin wanted something that would honor both families—the wealth of the Mitsui, the status of the Shabazu. She chose a design of cranes in flight, embroidered in gold thread against coral-pink silk. Cranes for fidelity, for longevity, for the hope that her daughter’s marriage might bring happiness despite its calculated beginnings.
The peonies and chrysanthemums woven throughout symbolized prosperity and nobility. The flowing water patterns at the hem represented adaptability—the ability to flow around obstacles.
May you be as strong as water, Rin thought as she approved the design. May you survive this.
The other items: Bronze mirror in a lacquered box. Cosmetics—the white powder and red pigment that would transform Mio’s face into the mask of a samurai bride. Kai-awase shells painted with scenes of devotion, each shell fitting only its perfect match. Writing materials in an elegant desk. Sewing supplies in a decorated chest.
Every item was chosen with care, wrapped with precision, placed in the marriage chest that would accompany Mio to her new life.
The chest itself was a work of art—black lacquer decorated with gold maki-e depicting pine trees and plum blossoms. Takatoshi had commissioned it from the finest lacquerware craftsman in the province.
“She’ll have beauty around her,” he said quietly, watching the craftsman work. “Even if she doesn’t have us.”
While Rin assembled the material elements of Mio’s transformation, Takatoshi handled the financial arrangements.
Three thousand ryō.
He’d known the amount intellectually, but seeing it in physical form—watching the money-changer count out the gold and silver coins, feeling the weight of the sealed boxes—made it devastatingly real.
This was his life’s work. Everything he’d built. Every blade he’d repaired, every commission he’d completed, every careful investment. All of it, converted into currency that would purchase his daughter’s elevation and his own heartbreak.
The money-changer, a dried-up man who’d handled fortunes for decades, raised an eyebrow at the sum.
“A significant dowry,” he observed. “Your daughter is marrying well, I trust?”
“Very well,” Takatoshi said, his voice hollow.
“Then congratulations. Few merchant families can afford such generosity.”
Generosity. As if he were giving it willingly. As if it weren’t being extracted from his chest like his still-beating heart.
But he signed the documents, accepted the sealed boxes, and made arrangements for the funds to be transferred on the day of the formal adoption.
Two thousand five hundred ryō to Shabazu Matsui.
Five hundred ryō to Mōri Kaito.
The price of transformation.
Mio spent the two weeks in a strange, detached state.
She helped her mother select the trousseau items, giving opinions on colors and patterns as if they were discussing someone else’s wedding. She practiced the formal movements her mother taught her—the deeper bows, the more rigid posture, the careful way samurai women were expected to kneel and rise.
“Lower,” Rin would say, adjusting Mio’s shoulders. “Samurai wives show deference through their bodies. Every movement must be controlled, graceful, smaller than you feel comfortable making.”
Mio learned to walk with tiny steps, to keep her eyes downcast, to make herself smaller and quieter and more contained.
It felt like erasing herself one gesture at a time.
In the evenings, her father would sometimes call her to the workshop. Not to teach her blade work—that was no longer appropriate for her future station—but simply to sit with her while he worked.
They didn’t talk much. What was there to say?
But his presence was a comfort, and she memorized the sound of his hammer on steel, the smell of the forge, the way the firelight played across his weathered hands.
Remember this, she told herself. When you’re in that strange house with those strange people, remember what home felt like.
One week before the adoption, Rin took Mio to a private room and presented her with a wooden box.
“These are for you,” she said quietly. “To take with you.”
Inside were small, precious things:
A jade hair ornament that had belonged to Rin’s mother.
A set of writing brushes Takatoshi had commissioned when Mio turned ten.
A tiny carved rabbit that Mio had treasured as a child.
A sealed letter.
“What’s this?” Mio asked, touching the letter.
“Words I wanted to write while I still could.” Rin’s voice was unsteady. “For when you’re alone and frightened and wondering if we ever loved you. Open it then. Read it and remember.”
Mio clutched the letter to her chest. “Mother—”
“No.” Rin held up a hand. “If we start crying now, we’ll never stop. And we have one more week. I want to spend it being your mother, not mourning you before you’re even gone.”
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