Steel Wrapped in Silk
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: Learning Steel
The training began before dawn.
Mio woke to Tama sliding open her shoji, the sky still gray with pre-dawn light.
“Time to rise, young mistress. Aoi-sama is waiting.”
She dressed quickly in the plain practice kimono that had been laid out for her—dark blue cotton, simple and unadorned. Nothing like the elaborate silks samurai women wore for formal occasions, but that would come later. First, she needed to learn to move in them.
Aoi was waiting in the main room, already perfectly composed despite the early hour. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that must have taken an hour to create. Her kimono was formal but appropriate for household instruction. She looked like she’d been awake for hours.
“Good morning,” Aoi said, evaluating Mio’s appearance with a critical eye. “Your obi is tied too tightly. It restricts movement. Loosen it slightly—samurai women need to move gracefully, and you can’t glide if you can’t breathe.”
Mio adjusted the obi, feeling the subtle difference.
“Better. Now, kneel.”
For the next two hours, Aoi taught Mio nothing but how to kneel.
“Lower. Slower. Control every muscle. A samurai woman doesn’t drop to the floor—she descends like falling silk. Again.”
Mio’s thighs burned. Her knees ached. But she did it again. And again.
“Your back is curved. Straighten it. Imagine a steel rod running from your tailbone to the crown of your head. Again.”
Again.
“You’re anticipating the movement. Don’t think ahead. Be present in each moment of the descent. Again.”
Again.
By the time Aoi finally allowed her to stop, Mio’s legs were trembling and sweat dampened her collar despite the cool morning air.
“That’s enough for now,” Aoi said. “You have the basic concept, but you’ll need weeks of practice before it looks natural. We’ll drill it every morning until your muscles remember the movement without thought.”
“Yes, Aoi-sama.”
“Now, breakfast. And while we eat, I’ll begin correcting your speech.”
Breakfast was simple—rice porridge, pickled plums, tea. But even eating became a lesson.
“You’re holding your bowl too low,” Aoi observed. “Raise it to the proper height. And smaller bites—you’re eating like someone who’s worked all morning and is hungry. Samurai women eat like they’re performing a ritual, not satisfying hunger.”
Mio adjusted, taking a smaller portion of rice.
“Better. Now, your speech. You used the word ‘watashi’ for ‘I’ yesterday. That’s acceptable for merchant women, but samurai women of our class typically use ‘watakushi’ in formal contexts. It’s more refined.”
“Watakushi,” Mio repeated, testing the syllables.
“Good. And you tend to end sentences with ‘yo’ for emphasis. Stop that. It’s too casual, too direct. Samurai women soften their speech. We use ‘wa’ or ‘no’ to end sentences, or let them trail off entirely, leaving meaning implied rather than stated.”
Mio listened carefully, absorbing the subtle distinctions. It was like learning a new dialect of a language she already spoke—close enough to be familiar, different enough to require constant attention.
“Another thing,” Aoi continued. “You speak clearly and project your voice. That’s excellent for working in a shop, but inappropriate for a samurai wife. Lower your volume. Speak more softly. Force people to lean in to hear you. It creates an impression of refinement.”
“Like this?” Mio asked, deliberately softening her voice.
“Better. Keep practicing. By the end of the year, you should sound like you’ve never raised your voice in your life.”
Even though I could calculate profit margins faster than you can drink your tea, Mio thought. Even though I know the difference between good steel and inferior metal just by looking at it. Even though I’m probably smarter and more capable than half the samurai women you’re trying to make me emulate.
But she said only: “Watakushi wa ganbari masu.” I will do my best.
Aoi’s lips quirked—almost a smile. “Your accent is still slightly commercial, but we’ll work on that. Now finish your meal. After breakfast, we begin calligraphy practice.”
The days fell into a punishing routine.
Dawn to mid-morning: Physical training—kneeling, rising, walking, sitting. Every movement practiced until Mio’s muscles screamed in protest. Aoi was relentless.
“Smaller steps. Samurai women glide—we don’t stride. Again.”
“Your hands are too relaxed. Fold them just so, fingers aligned. Again.”
“You’re breathing visibly. Control it. Your chest should barely move. Again.”
Mid-morning to noon: The arts. Calligraphy first, because Aoi said it revealed character and discipline.
Mio had learned basic writing from her mother, but this was different. Every stroke had to be perfect. The pressure, the angle, the flow of ink—all of it mattered.
“Your ‘ki’ character is too angular,” Aoi said, examining her practice sheet. “Soften the final stroke. Samurai calligraphy has elegance, not just precision. Again.”
Mio ground fresh ink and tried again.
And again.
And again.
Afternoon: Tea ceremony (chadō). This was perhaps the most challenging for Mio, because it was pure performance with no practical purpose. Every gesture was choreographed, every movement symbolic.
“The way you place the tea bowl reveals your respect for your guest,” Aoi explained. “Turn it exactly one hundred and eighty degrees before offering it. Not one hundred seventy. Not one hundred ninety. Exactly halfway.”
Mio practiced the rotation until her wrists ached.
“The sound of the water should be like wind in pines. Listen to it. Adjust your pour. Again.”
Pour. Listen. Adjust. Repeat.
“Your bow is too deep for this context. Save the deepest bow for the highest-ranking guest. Everyone else receives graded levels of respect. Learn to calibrate it precisely. Again.”
Bow. Measure. Correct. Repeat.
Evening: Flower arrangement (ikebana), poetry recitation, proper seasonal references in conversation, the elaborate rules of gift-giving and receiving.
By the time dinner arrived each night, Mio was exhausted in ways she’d never experienced in her father’s shop. Physical work she understood—her hands had been strong from helping with blade repairs. But this was different. This was the exhaustion of constant performance, constant vigilance, constant perfection.
And through it all, Aoi watched with sharp eyes, correcting every flaw, noting every mistake, pushing Mio to refine and refine and refine until the performance was flawless.
Two weeks into the training, Mio made her first major mistake.
She was practicing tea ceremony when Aoi asked her a question in formal speech—something about seasonal references appropriate for early summer.
Mio answered automatically, exhausted and not thinking: “Sō desu ne, chichi ga itsumo...” Yes, well, my father always...
She caught herself mid-sentence, but it was too late.
Aoi’s expression went cold.
“What did you just say?”
Mio’s heart sank. “‘Chichi’ for father. I should have said—”
“You should have said nothing about your father at all.” Aoi set down her tea bowl with deliberate calm. “You don’t have a merchant father anymore. Your father is Mōri Kaito. Samurai. Retainer to the Tokugawa branch families. Your childhood is erased. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Aoi-sama.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Aoi leaned forward. “What you just did—that casual reference to your birth father—is exactly the kind of slip that will destroy you. One comment like that in front of Shabazu-sama’s mother, and she’ll start asking questions. Where did you grow up? What did your father do? Why do you speak of him in the past tense as if he’s dead?”
Mio felt ice in her stomach. She hadn’t thought of it that way.
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because here’s what happens if you make that mistake in your new household: They investigate. They discover the truth. They annul the marriage. Your adoptive family—my family—is shamed. The five hundred ryō we were paid gets returned, bankrupting us. And you?” Aoi’s voice was sharp as a blade. “You return to your birth parents in disgrace. Damaged goods. Unmarriageable. Your father’s three thousand ryō sacrifice was for nothing.”
The words hit like physical blows.
“I’m sorry, Aoi-sama. It won’t happen again.”
“It can’t happen again. Not even once.” Aoi stood, pacing. “From this moment forward, if you need to reference your childhood, you speak of growing up in my household. Your memories are of this garden, this house, my husband teaching you the proper appreciation of swords from a samurai perspective—not a craftsman’s perspective. Your mother taught you ikebana—not account-keeping. Do you understand the difference?”
“Yes.”
“Then prove it. Tell me about your childhood.”
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