Chapter – 13
Soran flinched in surprise and hurriedly reached out her hand. Gyohum easily avoided her touch and continued polishing the bowl.
A flat, indifferent voice slipped through his teeth.
“I couldn’t sleep either.”
“Oh! You mustn’t scrub that hard. You’ll scratch the brass bowl.”
“Hm?”
Now that he looked closely, unlike hers, his bowl wasn’t shiny at all. It was covered in fine scratches. It must have been a defective piece.
Soran bounced her feet where she sat.
“You have to rub it with just the right amount of pressure. Not too strong, not too weak.”
As she spoke, she demonstrated. Her small hands moved swiftly back and forth.
Swish, swish.
In her hands, the bowl looked brand new.
“But how does Madam know so well? You’ve probably never cleaned dishes before.”
“…Pardon?”
Clang.
The bowl slipped from Soran’s hands and rolled across the floor again.
Gyohum raised one eyebrow, watched the bowl spin, then slowly bent down.
He picked it up and handed it back to her. Soran took it with trembling hands and quickly spoke.
“I-I really have never cleaned bowls before. Truly.”
“……”
Gyohum stared at her in silence. Feeling guilty for no reason, Soran quickly averted her gaze.
Clatter, clatter.
The bowl in her hands rattled noisily.
Gyohum withdrew his gaze and began polishing his own brass bowl again—this time, not too hard and not too gently.
At the same time, a faint breath drifted in from beside him. A sigh that sounded like relief.
No more words were exchanged. In a light silence, the two of them did nothing but scrub brass bowls.
The firewood in the hearth burned softly, and a warmth unbefitting a late-winter night lingered around them.
The silence was more comfortable than expected.
Gyohum glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Soran, who had been fidgeting moments ago, was now fully absorbed in cleaning. Her tightly pressed lips stuck out like a bird’s beak.
Scrape, scrub.
Shine.
Each time her hands moved, the brass bowl donned a new sheen. Reflected in it, her eyes sparkled just as brightly.
While I finish one, she finishes three?
She was suspiciously skilled.
Had the daughter of the Minister ever polished brass bowls before?
Impossible. Even if she were a concubine’s daughter, the servants in that household would have been horrified.
Then how was she so adept?
—If you don’t leave now, I really will get angry.
Her voice, raised deliberately at the maid, surfaced in his mind. Though she pretended to be angry, her voice had trembled faintly.
Only after Yeonsan-daek left did she bury her face in her skirt and let out the tears she had been holding back.
No—at first, he hadn’t even realized she was crying. If her shoulders hadn’t shaken through the crack in the door, he might never have known.
Yes. She had been crying—using the method she was most accustomed to: enduring it.
What are you, really?
Lately, Gyohum found himself thinking that question often. He glanced at Soran again.
Her face, flickering in the firelight, was more flushed than usual.
Even so, her jet-black eyes sparkled conspicuously—like the polished brass bowls she had cleaned.
“Is this good enough?”
Gyohum handed her the bowl he was holding. Soran inspected it carefully, then smiled brightly.
“Yes.”
“!”
At that moment, Gyohum’s eyes widened.
Thud.
Something fell—but the brass bowl was still in his hand.
Clenching his jaw, he sprang to his feet.
“I’ve just remembered something important. I’ll excuse myself first.”
“Pardon? Ah—yes.”
Soran nodded as if urging him to go. Gyohum left without looking back.
Bang.
As he closed the door, his face hardened.
He would not be fooled by her smile. Others might be deceived—but not him.
“I won’t forget that you are the Minister’s daughter.”
Muttering to himself, Gyohum began to walk. Behind him, a shadow darker than the night followed silently.
After changing into her nightclothes, Soran yawned long and walked toward the bed. It had been a while since she’d polished brass bowls, and her stiff body now felt refreshed.
Looks like I’m destined to work until the day I die.
“I’ll have to wake up at dawn to check whether the embers have gone out.”
When she lived in the Minister’s household, waking up in the middle of the night had been pure misery.
Partly because of the exhausting labor during the day, and partly because the thin quilt did nothing to keep out the drafts.
Compared to that, this place was paradise.
The room was cozy enough that she couldn’t even tell if there were drafts, a brazier warmed the bedside, and the heavy cotton quilt pressed down comfortably on her body.
Though such luxury still felt unfamiliar, tonight she felt she could sleep deeply without dreaming.
As Soran let out a quiet breath while praying for the youngest child of Yeonsan-daek, the door suddenly opened without warning.
“You should go to sleep too—oh.”
Thinking it was Kkeutsun bringing a water jug, Soran smiled—then froze.
Standing at the doorway was Gyohum, already changed into his nightclothes.
Why?
Soran blinked slowly.
She strained her mind to understand the situation, but no answer came.
Gyohum entered the room with a gentle smile. Click. The door closed behind him.
Keeping her eyes fixed on him like a startled animal, Soran slowly stepped backward.
Gyohum whispered in a honeyed voice.
“Mother instructed us—so from today on, shouldn’t we share a bed?”
Share a bed.
“!”
Realizing the meaning belatedly, Soran’s face turned pale with shock. As if she had just discovered that the creature before her was not a fox, but a wolf.
Watching her with slanted eyes, Gyohum walked toward the bed, step by step.
Soran’s gaze took on form, tracing his skin—first his cheeks, then his shoulders, and then—
“Even if you stare like that, I really do intend to just sleep.”
“…Pardon?”
She asked blankly. Gyohum replied with deliberate nonchalance.
“There was a murder at the marketplace. I was busy all day. I have to leave early again tomorrow, so tonight I’ll just sleep beside you.”
“……”
“Isn’t it better to sleep together than to have pointless rumors spreading?”
“……”
“Of course, if Madam is hoping for more, I wouldn’t necessarily refuse.”
“W-What do you mean?”
Soran asked reflexively—then shook her head violently.
“N-No! Please sleep! Just sleep! You must be tired—please rest!”
Suddenly, Gyohum’s eyes narrowed.
Did she really need to react with such disgust?
Should I just pounce on her?
Hm?
He frowned faintly.
No. As if he could. To lie with the daughter of his enemy?
In the end, Gyohum let out a long sigh. A heavy weariness washed over him, draining his strength.
“I really am tired.”
Murmuring weakly, he lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over himself.
Behind him, he sensed Soran fidgeting.
Turning only his eyes, he saw her carefully lying down as well.
“……”
Unable to pull the blanket fully over herself, Soran clung precariously to the edge of the bed.
Does she think I’m some kind of pervert?
In truth, Gyohum felt rather wronged.
They were husband and wife. Sleeping in the same bed, bodies touching, was hardly something shocking.
To be honest, even more than that would have been acceptable.
Yet Soran lay dangling at the far edge, as if even brushing his fingertips would be unbearable.
Good grief.
Having grown up constantly compared to his upright elder brother, Gyohum had developed a nasty streak—when told not to do something, he wanted to do it even more.
Whenever he looked at her, that troublesome temperament flared up again and again.
Should I really just pounce on her?
Repeating the thought, Gyohum shook his head.
No. What if she got pregnant? Or worse—what if affection took root and she became dear to him?
He had no intention of abandoning his revenge against the Minister, nor of complicating matters.
So his relationship with Soran only needed to be one thing: a loving couple in appearance.
That was enough.
He would not pity her. Only enough attachment to cut her off cleanly if necessary—that was ideal.
“……”
Soran’s breathing evened out, as though she had fallen asleep.
Slowly opening his eyes, Gyohum frowned faintly as he looked at her curled-up back.
Anyone would think I’d mistreated her. I’m suppressing my nature and playing the part of a devoted husband.
Turning over, Gyohum let out a short sigh and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.
As a result, his own side of the blanket barely covered him—but the night wasn’t cold enough to complain.
Gyohum closed his heavy eyes.
He had thought his tangled thoughts would keep him awake, but before he realized it, consciousness slipped away.
The door opened quietly. Soft footsteps on tiptoe approached.
Half-asleep, Gyohum pretended to turn toward the door.
“Hk—!”
A sharp intake of breath followed.
There was no need to check who it was.
It was surely Soran, who had quietly gotten up and slipped out of the room moments earlier.
