Chapter 05
For Hermès
“Wow, it’s so beautiful!”
Miyu couldn’t close her mouth.
A portrait of a graceful woman unfolded across fine silk—so vivid and precise it looked alive.
The slender-faced lady with delicate brows and gentle eyes wore a quiet expression. Her small red lips were firmly closed, her gaze slightly lowered beneath an ornate wig. A pale hand rested on her sash, as if in the middle of tying—or perhaps untying—it.
Her deep-blue skirt and triple-striped jeogori jacket gave her a restrained elegance, clearly marking her as a high-born noblewoman.
But what captured the eye most was her expression. Though she showed no overt emotion, her face was richer and more alive than any other painting Miyu had ever seen—like Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
There was only one reason: the painter had captured the woman’s inner life on the silk.
“The brushwork is so delicate. This artist is a master,” Miyu thought with certainty.
Perfect composition, confident strokes, the painstaking detail down to the softest hairs—yet an easy revelation of the subject’s spirit. Truly breathtaking skill.
“And whoever she is… she’s stunning.”
After staring at the woman for a long time, Miyu rolled the scroll back up, set it on the cabinet, and pulled down the folded bedding stacked on the chest.
Her body felt heavy as wet cotton. She crawled beneath the quilt, laid a hand on her chest, and closed her eyes.
It had been a long day, like those endless ones the year her mother died.
“Tomorrow’s Mom’s memorial day… What’s Dad doing all alone? If only I could call him.”
What if I’m stuck here forever?
Eyes squeezed shut, she shook her head.
“Think only good thoughts, Jo Miyu.”
Her gaze drifted to the silk scroll she’d left on the chest.
Just one Joseon-era painting could change everything. Dad and I could live well…
“Huh?”
Suddenly Miyu sat bolt upright, lips slowly parting in shock. She grabbed the scroll, spreading it across the floor.
“Why not? I can take it back when I return! Not just this—imagine all the art I could bring back. I’d be rich.”
She almost squealed.
Money—piles of it!
How?
With my psychology and marketing skills.
She would earn enough to buy art.
I have the eye for great paintings.
Then…
I’ll bring them all home.
And finally?
“Easy. Sell them and become a millionaire! Jo Miyu, what are you waiting for?”
Not just tens or hundreds of times the value—thousands, tens of thousands!
A grand plan took shape in her art-dealer mind.
Even this single painting might rival Beauty (Miindo) by the famed Joseon master Shin Yun-bok.
Miindo is held by the Kansong Art Museum.
What was the estimate when Kansong auctioned the national treasures—the Gilt-Bronze Triad and the Gilt-Bronze Standing Buddha? She narrowed her eyes, recalling.
“Four billion… no, four-point-five billion won!”
Miindo is a national treasure of even higher stature. Only works by Jeong Seon or Kim Hong-do could compare.
At least ten billion won, experts whispered. In a true auction, the price would soar—beyond a commodity into pure cultural meaning, drawing billionaires from around the world.
A hidden masterpiece to rival Miindo!
She imagined the headline: a painting destined to be listed alongside Miindo in school textbooks, crowned as a national treasure.
Thump, thump, thump—her heart pounded like a giant’s footsteps.
“Miyu, you’re unbelievable.”
She lay awake with excitement until her eyelids finally closed.
Outside, a scops owl called.
Then a fox cried in the night.
Morning, cold with dew.
Miyu washed her face in a copper basin and sat on the wooden porch.
Peep-peep, peep-peep.
She watched chicks huddle around their mother hen on the warm stone step.
The air itself felt different. She took a deep breath. No factory smoke, no car exhaust. Breathing it made her heart feel clean.
People live harder, but the world is purer.
The fresh air made her miss her father, who worked construction breathing cement dust and grit. She wished she could share this air with him.
Peep-peep.
A chick opened its beak wide at her feet.
“Are you saying hi? Nice to meet you too.”
She reached to pick up the fluffy bundle, but the mother hen rushed over.
Peck! The hen jabbed her hand.
“Ow! Fierce little thing.”
The chick scurried back to the brood.
“Hey, Mrs. Hen, I’m friendly! Don’t be so harsh to someone motherless like me,” Miyu pouted.
Just then, old Mr. Mandol, wearing a narrow-brimmed hat like a squat frog, bustled in through the middle gate.
“Up already?”
“Yes. I was just about to grab some soup at the tavern and head to the vegetable market,” she said quickly, before he could prod her.
“Well now, you’re impressive. I hear you sold all the surplus vegetables at full price?”
The usually gruff Mandol looked almost cheerful.
“It wasn’t that much,” Miyu replied with a bright smile.
“Amazing, amazing. First time I saw you, I thought you were a bit simple.”
“Oh my, what should I do with you, Mr. Mandol?” she teased.
“What now?”
“You’ll be surprised a lot more. I’m about to rake in all the money from Songpa Market.”
“Ha! You must be born a merchant. Go for it.”
“Of course.”
Then Miyu frowned.
A merchant? Really?
In fantasy novels, a woman dropped into another world usually became a princess or a duke’s beloved, at least a fallen noble’s daughter. Even in Eastern romances she’d catch a prince or grand duke. But a merchant? Too realistic—like a survival game.
And in those stories, the way home?
It always shows up eventually.
She reassured herself.
No point struggling. She’d wait until the exit appeared.
Until then? Work hard and earn.
Earn to buy paintings.
And when she returned? Jackpot.
Who’d envy a Gangnam landlord or a rare-winner lottery ticket? She’d be exploiting the difference in time itself—a perfect time-lag attack.
Heh-heh-heh, just wait, Chanel, Louis Vuitton— I’ll wrap myself in you head to toe! Wait for me, my love—
“Hermès!”
The name burst from her lips as she looked straight at Mr. Mandol.
“What? You’re having a baby?” he asked, eyes bulging as he puffed his pipe.
“Ah, no! Forget it. Anyway, what brings you here so early?”
“Oh right, important news. If you keep this up, I might let you run an empty shop. How about it? Feel confident?”
“Really? Of course!”
Her eyes sparkled.
“Your spirit’s on fire.”
“Gotta give it my all to make money.” She pumped her fist.
“Give it your… all?”
“It means I’ll work my bones off,” she explained.
Miyu passed the silk merchants and the rice dealers. Few stalls were open so early, but the streets already bustled.
Humans really were creatures of adaptation. Yesterday she’d been overwhelmed by the sights; today the Joseon market felt familiar.
I’m already turning into a Joseon native!
Her own resilience amazed her. The anxiety of an uncertain future had vanished, replaced by sharp clarity.
She would make the Princess Vegetable Market thrive, earn enough to secure her own shop, buy paintings, and go home. Hope swelled in her chest.
Today the roads were full of cattle—black, yellow, speckled—on their way to Songpa’s cattle market.
I must have missed this spectacle yesterday.
Songpa Market, one of the largest near Hanyang, ranked among the nation’s busiest. It rivaled even the city markets of the capital. Goods from Gangwon and the southern provinces all passed through here, famed especially for cattle and southern cotton.
Miyu reached a stall lending out novels and sensed a sudden shift in the air.
What’s this strange tension…?
She narrowed her eyes. The women around her were flushed with excitement.
Because of them.
Two young scholars stood apart, gazing up at the empty sky.
Both were strikingly handsome, but of different moods.
One, in a deep indigo robe and black hat, had large, intense eyes and a firmly set mouth. His broad, squared shoulders didn’t belong to a mere bookish noble.
Beside him, the scholar in a gray robe had lips as red as roses and skin fairer than any woman’s. Tall and slim, with fine features and big eyes, he looked every inch the carefree aristocrat.
Women glanced between the two men and the empty sky they watched. Whether in the 21st century or Joseon, good looks drew every eye.
Then their curious conversation reached Miyu’s ears.
“Surely they’ll come, don’t you think?”
“They absolutely will not.”
“Ha, you don’t know. By evening, they’ll be here.”
“This time, you’re wrong.”
Who’s coming? And who isn’t?
Miyu tilted her head, puzzled.
