UN 01

Chapter 01

The illegitimate daughter of the Chief State Councillor—so notorious that people said she could bring down even birds flying in the sky—was known less by her given name, Soran, and more by the cruel nickname Mojil, or the Harsh One.

“They say no matter how badly she’s insulted, she just keeps smiling.”
“She’s the Chief Councillor’s illegitimate daughter in name, but her lot in life is worse than that of the maids.”

Whenever people gathered, they whispered about her.

“Well, of course. She’s the child born of a maid who served the lawful wife. Imagine how deeply Lady Munhyeon’s lofty pride must have been wounded.”
“Her mother ran away, leaving the daughter behind to endure all that cruelty alone. Tsk, tsk. They say she wakes earlier than the maids and goes to bed later than them.”
“I saw her passing by the other day on an errand—her clothes were so shabby. You’d never think she was the Chief Councillor’s daughter.”
“I saw her too. She greeted people with that wide smile of hers. Honestly, what does she have to smile about? That’s why they call her Mojil.”
“She was born before ten months were even up—what do you expect? Something’s bound to be wrong with her.”

A man who had been clicking his tongue glanced around and lowered his voice.

“If the lady hadn’t tormented the pregnant maid so badly, would she have given birth so early? You don’t even have to see it to know.”

“By the way, they say the Chief Councillor pretends his daughter doesn’t exist.”
“Well, that’s only natural. Lady Munhyeon—”

The man who was about to say more shut his mouth and darted a glance to the side. His eyes flicked toward the magnificent palace, and he swallowed the rest of his words.

“Well… I suppose that makes sense.”
The others nodded in agreement.

Lady Munhyeon was the queen’s elder sister, and the Chief Councillor’s power came from the queen herself. It was only natural that he could not oppose his wife.

Because of that, the Councillor’s illegitimate daughter did laundry in the dead of winter and stoked the kitchen fires in the height of summer.
Despite the harsh treatment, she never complained, only went about smiling brightly—so the nickname Mojil didn’t seem all that strange.

“Hey, Mojil.”
“Yes, sister.”

Soran, who had been sweeping the yard, ran over clutching her broom. If she were even a moment late, a scolding would rain down on her.

She looked up at Sehwa and smiled.
“You called me, sister?”

“Who are you calling sister? How many times do I have to tell you? I’ve never had a defective little sister like you. You’re just a maid in this house.”

Snapping sharply, Sehwa took off the flowered shoe she was wearing and threw it at Soran.

“Ack!”

The shoe struck her cheek, and Soran instinctively hunched her shoulders.

“So slow.”

Rather than apologizing, Sehwa glared at her. “What? Does it hurt?”

Soran quickly shook her head.
“No.”

If she said it hurt, harsher words would follow. If she were unlucky, she might even go without dinner.

“Then smile. If people see us, they’ll think I’m bullying you.”
“Yes. Sis—”

Soran swallowed the word sister and forced a timid smile as she picked up the fallen shoe. It was a lovely slipper, embroidered with red peonies on a pink background.

“Hehe.”

“I have to go out today, so clean it properly before then. If there’s even a speck of dust left, don’t expect any mercy.”
“…Yes.”

Soran smiled again, folding her round eyes sweetly, as Sehwa turned and disappeared into the room.

“Phew.”

Only then did Soran release the breath she’d been holding and slump down on the stone step. She tugged at her sleeve and began brushing the dust from the shoe.

Of all the things in the world, being told to skip dinner frightened her the most.

Bang! The door slammed shut, and soon a sly whisper drifted out—Samdeok’s voice.

“Please don’t be angry, miss. It’s not like Soran’s behavior is anything new.”
“Exactly because it’s not new, it drives me mad.”
“If you get angry, you’ll only get wrinkles on that pretty face. How about this hairpin? It’s so flashy—it would suit you perfectly. If you go out wearing this, all the men in town will only have eyes for you.”

A musty smell wafted out of the room, thick and heavy like aged soybean paste.

Samdeok must be lying, Soran thought.

But Sehwa didn’t seem to notice.

“I wish Mojil were half as sharp as you.”
“Oh, miss. Why do you think they call her Mojil? Even if she died and came back to life, she’d never be like that.”
“Well, that’s true.”

The two of them burst into giggles at the same time.

Soran pretended not to hear and kept wiping the shoe.

“That nasty little Samdeok.”

At the sudden rebuke, Soran looked up to see Paju-daek, carrying a laundry basket.

Staring at the closed door, the woman muttered, “No matter what, she’s still the Chief Councillor’s daughter. What kind of attitude is that? So ill-mannered.”

Soran smiled awkwardly.

To be honest, she’d been treated like this since birth, so she no longer felt especially wronged or angry.

When she was very young, she had once wished for her father’s love—back when she learned that she wasn’t an orphan after all, that she had a family.

I have a father too!

Once, she lingered in front of the main hall for days, hoping to meet him. By chance, she ran into the Chief Councillor as he was returning from court.

Little Soran, her face flushed red, looked up at him. Her pitch-black eyes sparkled like wet pebbles.

That’s my father. The father who gave birth to me.

But when their eyes met, the Chief Councillor simply turned away, his gaze as indifferent as if she were a stranger.

She hadn’t hoped for a warm embrace, nor expected kind words.
She had only wished for him to look at her with affection. Was even that too much to ask?

Recalling that disappointment, Soran tugged bitterly at the corner of her lips. Now she knew that Sehwa and she lived in different worlds. If she didn’t expect anything, there was nothing to be disappointed by.

She put on a brave face.
“I’m fine, Auntie.”

“Don’t mind it, miss. Those who do wrong will be punished by heaven someday. Even if people don’t see it, the sky does.”

Heaven’s punishment.

She didn’t wish for that much. She only hoped her life might become a little less arduous—if she could eat three meals a day and sleep soundly, that would be enough.

Ah—nurungji, too.

Soran’s eyes widened as if she’d forgotten something terribly important. White rice was a luxury for her. But if she could just eat her fill of scorched rice, she’d have no other wish.

It was delicious eaten plain, delicious boiled into porridge, delicious even when cold.

Whenever she angered Lady Munhyeon and had to skip dinner, Paju-daek would secretly hide some nurungji between the blankets. Late at night, crunching on it made not only her hunger but even her loneliness fade—the sorrow of a cold father, the longing for a mother who had abandoned her.

“That Samdeok has always been a crafty one. Remember this well, and when your circumstances improve someday, pay her back in full.”

At those words, Soran lowered her gaze and smiled faintly. Noticing the meaning behind that smile, Paju-daek said firmly, “There’s no rule that says a person’s fate can’t change.”

Soran slowly lifted her head. Her eyes, gleaming with affection, were especially dark.

“You’re the only one who calls me ‘miss,’ Auntie.”
“If I don’t call you miss, should I call you young master instead?”

At the blunt reply, Soran’s eyes curved again into a smile brighter than the flowered shoe in her hands.

Paju-daek always smelled faintly yellowish—like compassion fully ripened.

“I’ll finish cleaning the shoes and then go to the washhouse.”
“Why come at all? There’s not much to do—I’ll finish it quickly myself. You go to the kitchen instead. There’s some nurungji in the cauldron—”

“Ah, there you are.”

Before Paju-daek could finish, a sharp voice cut in. Her face stiffened, and Soran’s smile faltered.

Even before lifting her head, Soran knew who it was. As expected, Lady Munhyeon was striding toward them, her brows deeply furrowed.

She shouted at Soran without preamble.
“How long are you going to dawdle? There’s a mountain of work to do to prepare for the wedding, yet you live such a charmed life.”

“A wedding?”
Soran’s eyes flew wide. “A wedding? Whose wedding—”

“Whose wedding do you think? Yours.”
“…What?”

Startled, Soran dropped the shoe she was holding. As if on cue, the door flew open and Sehwa’s angry shout rang out.

“Hey, Mojil! How dare you throw my shoes around? Don’t expect any dinner tonight!”

“Ah…”

Soran stared resentfully at her own fingers.

Why did her strength have to give out just then? Her eyes drooped. It seemed she’d have to rely on Paju-daek again tonight.

Scorched rice—delicious plain, delicious boiled, delicious even when cold.

“Did you say a marriage?”
Gyohum froze with his teacup halfway to his lips and looked at his father. The man who had once been like a tiger now looked thin, almost like a different person.

“Yes.”
“So you mean… I am to marry the Chief Councillor’s illegitimate daughter?”
“Yes.”

Misfortune never came alone.