Chapter 12
At Során’s words, Yeonsan-daek’s face turned pale as death.
She crawled across the floor and clutched at the hem of Során’s skirt.
“I was wrong. I was wrong, Young Lady. Please forgive me just this once.”
Során slowly raised one hand. Yeonsan-daek thought she was about to slap her and squeezed her eyes shut.
The next moment, a small hand grabbed her shoulder—with all its strength.
“What are you doing here when the child is sick? Why aren’t you going back at once?”
“Young Lady…?”
“Consider what happened today unseen and unheard. If anyone notices, let them think I ate it myself.”
“Young Lady!”
Yeonsan-daek let out a scream that sounded more like a wail.
“Shh.”
Során brought her index finger to her lips and lowered her voice.
“On your way back, stop by the storeroom and bring a pound of beef. And let that also be considered something I ate myself.”
“No! Please don’t! I was wrong! I won’t do it again! Truly, Young Lady!”
Yeonsan-daek clutched Során’s skirt desperately, shaking her head repeatedly. Her face was as white as paper. Anyone looking would think she was being expelled.
“What are you doing if you don’t leave? Do you find my words funny?”
“No, today I’m on kitchen duty…”
“I’ll clean up afterward.”
“Eh? You, Young Lady?”
Yeonsan-daek looked utterly shocked, as if she had heard nonsense. She couldn’t tell whether Során was serious about sending her back. If she went now, she might never cross this house’s threshold again.
No, Során herself couldn’t possibly clean up afterward. A lady raised so delicately… She had likely never even touched cold water with her hands. How could she…? It was all impossible. So Yeonsan-daek could only shake her head helplessly.
Során’s voice softened.
“I won’t even put out the embers, so don’t worry—just go.”
“Embers? But still…”
How did she even know a kitchen duty required keeping the embers alive?
“If you don’t go now, I’ll really get angry.”
Során placed both hands on her hips. She had never truly been angry before, but now she forced a tense expression, staring straight ahead.
Is this enough? Will it look frightening enough?
…But she didn’t look angry at all. On the contrary, she seemed cute, like a chick puffing up its chest.
Yet somehow, Yeonsan-daek felt she shouldn’t say that.
When Yeonsan-daek nodded blankly, Során pushed her back with a satisfied expression.
“Go and come back early tomorrow morning. Then no one will know.”
“But…”
“Shall I really get angry?”
“Eh? Ah, no. Thank you.”
Során again placed her hands on her hips, issuing a gentle threat.
Yeonsan-daek shook her head in a daze, and Során lowered her arms triumphantly, gently patting her back.
“I hope you get better soon.”
“…Yes.”
Tears that had been held back finally spilled. Yeonsan-daek barely managed to respond in a choking voice.
“Yes, you will get better. You must. Of course.”
At that moment, the scent of a soft apple drifted in.
“….”
It smelled of lies. The child could not recover. Során lowered her gaze, unable to look at Yeonsan-daek.
Yeonsan-daek kept glancing back, moving forward reluctantly.
“Make sure to stop by the storeroom and get the beef. If you don’t, I’ll really be angry. I’ll check myself later.”
“Yes. Thank you, Young Lady.”
Során stood at the kitchen door, forcing a smile as she sent her off—until the darkness swallowed Yeonsan-daek.
The breeze brushing her neck felt unusually lonely.
“I hope… she really gets better,” she murmured to herself, unheard, and slowly turned back into the kitchen.
All that remained was the smell of the burning firewood.
Hoping the blazing flames would erase the lingering damp smell of the rainy season, Során tossed a few dry branches into the fire.
Crackle.
The previously calm fire leapt up. Only then did Során let the tears she had held back fall freely.
She crouched down, burying her face in her skirt, quietly sobbing.
“I hope… she really gets better.”
She repeated the words like a fervent prayer.
Clatter, clatter. Során crouched in front of the hearth, rubbing charcoal onto straw, scrubbing a silver spoon.
“Haa.”
Her breath fogged the spoon’s surface, and the straw quickly moved across it.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
Each time, the spoon gleamed a little more, until finally it shone enough to reflect Során’s face.
“Hmm.”
She set the spoon down with a satisfied expression and picked up a brass bowl this time.
“Haa.”
Breath, straw, scrubbing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah!”
Startled by the sudden presence, Során dropped the brass bowl.
Clang. It rolled across the floor.
Slowly bending down, Gyoheum picked up the clattering bowl and cast a questioning look at her.
Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, cheeks pale. Során looked as though she had seen a ghost.
Tsk. Noticing that no breath escaped her parted teeth, Gyoheum spoke again.
“Were you very surprised?”
“Haa…”
Finally, Során exhaled the breath she had been holding. Her raised shoulders sank, her stiffened back relaxed.
“Ah… it’s you, Nangjang-nim?”
“Nangjang-nim?”
Gyoheum tapped the brass bowl with his index finger. The clear sound rang like a bell.
Nangjang-nim… She wasn’t his subordinate, so the title felt odd. But if not that, what should he call her? And why would he be offended by her title?
Offended? No way. He snorted.
He had never trusted Során and expected nothing from her. She was merely a piece in his game, a tool.
Handing the brass bowl to her, he asked gently,
“Why are you cleaning bowls at this hour?”
“….”
Során blinked her large eyes at him. The faint smell of bitter grass grew stronger.
Yet Gyoheum’s voice was sweet, like syrup, leaving her unsure how to respond.
He glanced around the kitchen and raised one eyebrow.
“Where is the maid?”
“Eh? Ah…”
Only then did Során begin to visibly panic. Her round eyes were lost, her thin fingers restless.
“Well… she told me to do it because she thought I’d get bored in the room and told me to rest inside.”
Gyoheum stared intently at her. Anyone who still didn’t notice the lie at that point must be blind.
Yet Gyoheum did not press her about it. Instead, he recalled the conversation he had overheard behind the kitchen door.
Során had been impressive interrogating Yeonsan-daek.
—On my way, I checked the storeroom myself. The pork you took wasn’t returned. It hadn’t increased or decreased since lunchtime.
Gyoheum immediately realized it was a bluff.
Yet Yeonsan-daek, guilty, had crumbled under that single statement, and Során easily extracted her confession.
Far superior to any official interrogator.
“It’s true.”
“….”
“It’s true. I couldn’t sleep, that’s why.”
She fidgeted nervously, fearing Gyoheum wouldn’t believe her.
It was impossible to imagine she had just been the strict interrogator of Yeonsan-daek.
What was her true self? Gyoheum remained silent, lost in thought, and Során dropped her gaze, pouting.
“I insisted on sending the maid back, so don’t scold her.”
She looked pitiful, like a wet dog.
She had lied, deceived him—but somehow, it didn’t feel like she had done anything wrong.
Feeling guilty, as if he had tormented a weak, young animal, Gyoheum clicked his tongue quietly.
She wasn’t weak or young. She was the cunning, malicious daughter of the Minister of Central Affairs.
Having such a father, she too must be cunning and malicious. There was no reason to pity her.
If he had to choose the weaker party between them, it would not be Során but himself. He lacked her father’s power.
“….”
Yet Gyoheum no longer argued. Instead, he crouched beside her, took a handful of straw, and began cleaning the brass bowl.
“Don’t worry! I’ll do it!”
