Word of Prince Jangheon’s crimes and Nurse Inyeong’s revenge inevitably reached the palace. By then, a week had passed since our return from Gwangju, and two days since Nurse Inyeong had confessed and had been found guilty. She had died before her execution day.
With her gone and Eojin still in fragile condition, it was I who was summoned to the palace by members of the Old Doctrine faction. I was to testify against the Crown Prince. In that moment, while kneeling in the courtyard before King Yeongjo, detailing all that I’d discovered while assisting the inspector, I felt perilously close to my end. Truth could easily be twisted into slander, and slander against the prince meant death. But His Majesty had shown me immeasurable grace; he’d called me a loyal subject for sharing what the palace had kept hidden from him.
That night, while leaving the capital, I wondered what lay ahead for Crown Prince Jangheon, and whether Nurse Inyeong and her mother would ever find rest, or if their spirits would forever roam this kingdom filled with han—deep sorrow, resentment, grief, and helpless anger. For now, all I knew was that I had done my best to keep my promise to her.
I paused by the road in which Nurse Inyeong had been buried. For the first time since receiving her request, I unfolded the crinkled letter, to read before burying it with her. Raising the paper to the starlight, I frowned, noting how familiar the writing looked. It took only a moment to realize why: it was the original handwriting that Inyeong had imitated in the anonymous handbill she’d circulated.
Inyeong—
I am happy to learn from your letter that all is well with you. When my daughter is doing well, I too am doing well.
I am sending you my love, along with a bundle of top-quality cotton tightly packed and tied with string. I will pay you a visit during the Chuseok festival. I will stop writing now even though I have so much to say.
Eomma, twenty-fifth of the fifth moon.
A shallow breath escaped me, the words an iron ball in my chest. It was just an ordinary letter between a mother and daughter. Yet the ordinary, I realized, became like cherished treasure when taken—torn away, stripped, and left to rot in the mountains, like Inyeong’s mother.
She ought never to have died.
“I wish you both a better afterlife,” I whispered as I dug a little hole in the earth and slipped the letter in. Smoothing the soil back over, I remained still, my heart too heavy to move.
The only consolation I could find was in imagining their life to come. Perhaps Inyeong would open her eyes to find herself a child once more, resting in her mother’s arms—a mother with a warm, smiling face, cooing down at her. They would live life, grow old together, and this time—please, just this once—they would choose a different path.
The path that did not lead into the palace.
Neither Eojin nor I went to the Lotus Lantern Festival. He had left the capital for the mountainous province of Gangwon, taken there by his worried uncle and at the physician’s advice. The hope was that nature would become its own medicine, helping him to heal. And as for myself, I had avoided the festival, knowing that the sight of lanterns would only sharpen Eojin’s absence.
He did manage to send me a letter, consisting of three barely legible words: Wait for me.
I didn’t reply, not knowing what to say. I instead waited for further word from Jieun every day at Nurse Jeongsu’s home. I lived with her now, helping her around the house, as she still struggled to walk. She’d invited me to stay ever since we’d lost our house; Father hadn’t changed his mind about throwing us out, even after the case was resolved. Mother seemed quite content without him, though, with her new life as a servant at an inn. The innkeeper, Madam Song, was an old friend, another retired gisaeng like herself.
“No word yet?” Mother asked when I visited her there. “Did the inspector share when he would return?”
“Not yet,” I replied.
We sat on a raised platform in the backyard of the inn, next to the kitchen. There were baskets full of vegetables, which Mother had sliced into neat little mountains, and she was slicing more yet. Chop—chop—chop. She cut slowly, carefully, still new to this work. Her brows were lowered in concentration, her face bright and full of vigor, her hair loose in the mountain breeze.
It was pleasant seeing her like this, no longer cooped up in a cage of her own making.
She seemed more at ease with herself, and with me, each time I visited her—and with every visit, she also fussed over me more. Why haven’t you eaten yet? she’d demand, then badger me for an entire afternoon about the importance of eating three meals a day; then on my following visit, it would be about something else. And today, it was about the inspector.
“When the jongsagwan returns, what then?” she asked, glancing my way. “The investigation is over. It will not be the same as it was before.”
I reached for a bulb of garlic and aimlessly picked at its thin, papery skin, trying not to let her words bother me. Mother annoyed me at times with her questions, yet it was a strange delight—to be annoyed at all, rather than experience the stiff and formal silence I’d grown up with.
“I just…” She heaved out a sigh. “I just don’t want to see you hurt or disappointed.”
I turned her words over for a moment. “No matter what happens, life goes on, doesn’t it?” Yours did. “I will be fine, eomonni. Besides, I hardly think about him these days.”
Mother arched a brow. “But you wait for news from Jieun every day.”
“Only out of curiosity—to see how the inspector is faring,” I said, rather heatedly. “Like you said, the investigation is over, and has been for months. He’s likely moved on. I’ve moved on, and I am fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. Why don’t you write to him?” she asked. “Isn’t that what Jieun keeps telling you to do—”
“I will not,” I said, as the truth bruised me: I had mustered up the courage to write to him once, then had torn the letter into pieces, afraid that he’d forgotten me. And equally afraid that he still cared. “I’m not going to chase after a boy.”
Mother shook her head, clucking her tongue as she returned to her work. “I certainly do not miss my younger days,” she murmured. “Such chaotic days of unnecessary strife—”
“Ajumma.” A young servant girl ran over to my mother, then discreetly gestured behind her. “There’s a strange man lingering by the fence. He’s been staring at you for so long.”
I glanced past the row of glossy brown pots, past the brushwood fence, and there, standing by a tree, was my father. Mother stood at once, and while walking away, she mumbled something about how she never wanted to see his face again. But I remained, watching as the man who’d haunted my life hesitantly walked around and entered through the back innyard gate.
On the day I had been summoned to the palace, I had detailed my investigation—including the truth that Father had been Prince Jangheon’s alibi. The king had stripped Father of his title as punishment for withholding evidence. For weeks now, Father had rushed out to the palace gate every day, where he expected the king to order his banishment or execution, waiting in the rain, sun, and wind.
“Hyeon-ah.”
Father stood before me now, his gentleman’s hat crooked and his robe filthy. He looked no different from a commoner. At last, he sat down on the platform, far enough from me that three men could have sat between us.
“Hyeon-ah,” he said again, and a tremor crept into his voice. “The king was so gracious as to reinstate me. He said it was all owing to you. What did you do?”
I peeled off the garlic skin. “The king offered to reward me for telling the truth,” I said matter-of-factly, peering up at him. His brows had clouded over, and his pale face had grown even paler. “And I asked that His Majesty be gracious to you.”
“But you could have asked for any reward,” Father said, searching me, as though he might detect some scheme underneath my words. “You could have asked for your own position back. Why did you ask for my reinstatement?”
I silently held his gaze, the man who had always reminded me of what I would never have: a loving father. The harmony had long been broken between us, and I realized now that hanging on to him any longer would morph into hatred. It would twist me.
“Because,” I said at last, “I decided on that day, just that day, I would be your daughter for the last time.”
A defeated, remorseful look filled his eyes. He tried straightening his hat, then spoke in a whisper. “I suppose I owe you an apology. I—I am sorry.”
My eyes watered, my throat so sore I couldn’t speak. His apology had come too late. Much, much too late.
“Hyeon-ah—” There was an anguished, scrambling note to his voice. Then, as though struck by an understanding, he closed his eyes for a moment and whispered, “Nurse Hyeon.” He swallowed hard, then looked up at me, a new calm in his gaze. “When I am in need of medical advice, may I come visit you? My health is no longer what it once was…”
Pushing down all my emotions, I offered him a small nod. I had parted ways with him as daughter and father … but perhaps we could come together as uinyeo and patient.
We sat together like this for a long time, saying not a word. I turned my gaze up to the sky. The ache in my chest eased; the sting passed away.
This was enough. It would be enough.
October arrived in a splendor of red maple and vivid yellow ginkgos. Eight months had passed since the Hyeminseo massacre, long enough that the bleeding wound left open by the violence had closed and repaired, and was now pink and slightly tender to the touch.
Physician Khun had barely survived a flogging, his punishment for marrying a court lady, and was working in an apothecary somewhere on the penal island of Jeju. Madam Mun had lost favor with the king, but still remained in the palace. Commander Song continued to stubbornly guard his position in the bureau, still terrorizing the weak, despite the growing rumors that His Majesty intended to replace him. Nurse Jeongsu had gone back to teaching, and Minji had returned to her place as a student nurse. As for Jieun, she had resigned from the palace to join me at the Hyeminseo.
Life seemed almost ordinary again.
I paused on my walk through the marketplace, before a bronze mirror propped up for customers who wished to try on hair ornaments. Leaning forward, I straightened the black garima on my head. The weight of the cotton no longer felt so heavy. It felt as it should—a long strip of black fabric, light enough that it billowed behind me in the wind.
Some dreams, I’d learned, were meant to fade away. And to let go of them didn’t mean to let go of myself, but to release the life I’d imagined I wanted. The loss had grieved me at first, but in its fading away—slowly, very slowly—a new dream had bloomed. A dream that was quieter, less desperate, mellowed by the ashes of those who had died in the massacre. But it was also a dream that infused my world with deeper shades and brighter hues, with richer scents and far warmer streaks of contentment.
As I left the stall and continued on my way, I opened my five-stitched book, looking over the text I planned on teaching to a group of student nurses who’d begged me to tutor them. I had finished reviewing The Great Learning with them. And now we had moved on to the medical texts, with titles as difficult as their content: Injaejikjimaek, Tonginch´imhyŏlch´imgugyŏng, Kagamsipsambang, T´aepyŏnghyeminhwajegukbang, and the Puinmunsansŏ. It was the last that I’d be teaching today, which I had spent the past few days reviewing myself. As Nurse Jeongsu had said, a good teacher must teach precisely and with a whole heart in order for a student to be molded into a true uinyeo.
I flipped to the next page and paused, glancing up from the text to the police bureau. It had become a habit over the months—looking, but no longer searching, that way each time I passed by. And out of the same habit, I lowered my gaze to the text, then froze. I must have imagined it, a glimpse of blue silk at the corner of my vision.
I shot a glance back up.
There, across the wide road, stood a familiar young man among a circle of officers. He looked bright and healthy, his skin a crisp contrast to the dark sweep of his brows. At the sight of Eojin, memories swept in, bright and flickering. Our promises whispered within the papered walls of the inn. Our long nights of discussion, questions that haunted us both. The kiss on my cheek, which I’d turned away. The sensation of his heart fading on my back as I’d carried him through the forest.
I couldn’t compel myself to leave, my stare fixed on him as crowds passed by, farmers leading wagon-loaded ponies, nobles in their black hats and flowing robes, young ladies hidden under jangot veils. When Eojin chuckled over something, my chest ached and my eyes grew damp. Half of me was convinced that this was a hallucination … until he glanced my way, and his smile faded.
Instantly, I turned and hurried away, my fingers ice-cold. I wasn’t even sure why I was so afraid.
“Hyeon-ah.” Eojin had followed me on the other side of the road, matching my quick pace, his gaze unwavering on me. He hurried over to my side, bringing with him the scent of pine on windy mountains. Like the forests that engulfed the shadowy slopes, his gaze engulfed me.
“Where are you going so fast?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
“I’m going to the Hyeminseo.” My throat felt deathly parched. “I work there now.”
After a moment of hesitation, he said, “I’ll walk you there.”
I could feel his hesitant glances my way as we strolled down Jongno Road, before turning right at the intersection. What are you thinking about? I wanted to ask him. What has changed between us? Or has nothing changed? But a sudden shyness fell over me, and instead I asked, “How is your arm?”
“Not the same,” he replied, and that was when I noticed his waist was bereft of a sword; he’d always carried one before. “There’s a stiffness to my elbow, and I can hardly feel my right hand.” He cast another glance my way. “I wrote several letters to you, but the writing was too illegible to send. Neither did I want to dictate to a servant. I’m sorry for the wait…”
In his lingering gaze, I could see what he truly wished to say: Why didn’t you write back?
I quickly shook my head and said light-heartedly, “No need to apologize. It must have taken you a while to even recover enough strength. You were so badly injured.”
A muscle worked in his jaw, then he matched my light-hearted note. “I suppose so.” Stretching out his right arm, he stared down at his hand and murmured, “I’m hoping the stiffness will go away with time, or I’ll be the only inspector in this entire kingdom that is unable to wield a sword.”
“One doesn’t always need a sword to find the truth.”
“Like you,” he whispered.
I blinked up at him. “Like me?”
“That day in the forest,” he said, and my body tensed at the memory, “you didn’t even raise a blade to Nurse Inyeong. I was terrified she’d murder you right before my eyes. But you made her lower her sword.”
Our steps slowed as we arrived before the back gate of the Hyeminseo, near the spot where he’d helped me over the wall when we first met, more than half a year ago. Eojin seemed to be thinking of that day, too, for he gazed at the tile-capped wall, as though imagining me—the Hyeon who had dangled over, whispering to him, I highly doubt our paths will ever cross again.
“The first time I met you, I don’t think I quite knew,” he said softly, looking back at me, “what a surprise you would become to me.”
He said no more, his gaze on mine ever searching—ever waiting—and for a moment, fear split through my chest. I didn’t want him to go, but I was afraid of what would happen if he stayed. This kingdom was filled with young women who were far more than I was, or could ever be. More beautiful, more respectful, more charming. Father had always wanted more, and Mother had never been enough. And that was my greatest nightmare—that Eojin would stay and find out that I was not enough.
“I should go,” I said, my heart closing up like a clam.
“Will I see you later?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
His expression faltered. “Only perhaps?”
Chewing nervously on my lower lip, I could imagine the days ahead unfolding before me. I would bid him farewell, promise to perhaps see him again, then avoid him for weeks, and weeks would turn into months. Growing distant, severing the ties myself before I could get hurt. We would go our own separate ways, and years later, I would see him passing down the street one day and wonder—Why were you so afraid, Hyeon?
Why, indeed, was I so afraid?
“So much has happened since we first met,” I murmured. “We’ve solved a string of murders and a palace conspiracy together. We’ve braved uncertainty, with both our lives on the line. Too much has happened…” My voice trailed off as my mind reached a realization—too much had happened to be afraid. Whatever awaited in the future, I had to trust that he would watch out for me, as I would always watch out for him.
At the frown pinching my brows, Eojin must have misunderstood my silence. “I know; too much has happened. But I am still the same, and I thought you were waiting. I had hoped—” His voice rasped, then he ran a hand over his face, the handsome face that had grown so familiar to me. “No, never mind. I do understand…” His expression tensed as his back turned to me, and he moved to leave.
“Eojin.” I reached out to stop him, gently catching his wrist. He felt my hand and grew very still. “We endured so much together. You didn’t let go of me then. Don’t let go of me now.”
His pulse bounded against my fingers, as quick as my heart beating in my chest. Then slowly he turned to face me, his cheeks flushed, a timidity I’d never seen before now lighting his eyes. “I won’t,” he said in a bare whisper. “I won’t let you go, no matter what.”
He moved my hand into his, and as our fingers intertwined, it occurred to me that love wasn’t all that I’d feared it to be. I had imagined that it was a wildfire that incinerated everything in its path. Instead, it felt as ordinary and extraordinary as waking up to a new day.
“The Segeomjeong Pavilion,” he said quietly. “Wait for me there after work. There’s so much I want to tell you.”
I nodded, my heart feeling so full and near bursting as he stepped impossibly close. His lashes lowered, his ears bright red, Eojin ducked his head and pressed a soft kiss against my cheek.
“There is only you.” His words caressed me, winding themselves around my soul. “There will only ever be you. I promise, Hyeon-ah.”
Tiptoeing, I wrapped my arms around his neck, the book I held dangled against his back as I found his lips. He seemed stunned at first, then he smiled against my kiss, and I could hear his thoughts: You always surprise me.
I smiled, too. I know.
When at last we broke away, our gazes remained locked—half dazed, half startled to have broken etiquette in broad daylight.
“I really should go now,” I whispered.
He continued to linger, brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You probably should; it seems you are needed.”
Together, we glanced down the narrow road that curved around the Hyeminseo. There was a line of ailing peasants crowding the front of the establishment, waiting for the gates to open; it was astonishing that no one seemed to have noticed us.
I gave Eojin one last look, held his hand a moment longer, then slipped past the back gate.
I tucked my medical book under my arm and made my way—face flushed—to the main pavilion, where the physicians and nurses were gathered, awaiting the start of their duties.
“You are late,” came a familiar voice. It was Nurse Jeongsu, now in charge of the uinyeos. She watched me closely as I hurried up the stone steps onto the terrace; it overlooked the vast courtyard and the main gate. “You’ve never been late before.”
“I got distracted, uinyeo-nim,” I said, slightly out of breath, as I found my place next to Jieun.
“That is good to hear.” After a pause, a smile creased Nurse Jeongsu’s lips. She leaned her weight onto the walking stick, a cane made of bamboo that the baekjeong she’d protected had carved out for her, delivered by one of his children. “I’ve worried, even since you were a student nurse, that you perhaps try too hard to excel at everything. It is good to see you late and rather flustered for once. You seem almost changed.”
“Perhaps it is because I’ve grown a little, since you were away,” I said, my voice lowered for her ears alone. My mentor’s smile widened, and the servants unbolted the main entrance, opening onto a flood of clamoring patients.
I held my hands together and drew my back straight, my heart rising with the morning sun. “The gates are now open, uinyeo-nim. Our day begins.”