She had sewing practice that day, as she had it twice a week, and even though she was working on a new piece of needlepoint, it was so dreadfully dull. She had sewn enough stitches in her life to be content hundreds of times over. She was spacing out again as she worked, staring out the window, hands almost moving on their own as they expertly worked at pulling and threading the needle. She hardly had to watch where her hands went now, as she had practiced so often, it was simple muscle memory.
She fought off the bile that pooled in the back of her throat; the medicine she had to drink daily always ensured she felt like vomiting, but it was a necessary evil. Her father had told her that there would be a bride ceremony in a weeks time, and that she would be attending- her first one, and potentially her last. Megohime stopped and set her needlework aside, rubbing her sore wrists with a soft sigh, a flutter of anxiety flickering to life in her chest.