Chapter 02
Hired in Joseon
Miyu clutched the blanket in both hands and pressed her back against the wall. Her heart pounded so hard it felt as if it might break through her ribs and drop to the floor.
A wooden oil lamp, a brazier beside a small chest, a copper lantern, a coarse chamber pot, and a painting of a fierce tiger hung on the wall.
Antiques?
They felt far too real. Waking up in a five-star hotel suite would be less strange than this.
Miyu slowly let her large, dark, monolid eyes roam the room again.
These aren’t antiques.
A shiver ran through her.
She rubbed a fingertip across the lamp’s soot. Fresh— it smudged easily.
The brazier still held a trace of warmth.
Not relics of the past, but items currently in use.
Cheep. Cheep-cheep. Cheep. Cheep-cheep.
The chirping of chicks drifted through the paper-paneled door, swelling and fading as they followed their mother hen away.
Then came a magpie’s call and the muffled murmur of voices beyond the wall.
The sounds were gentle, dreamlike—not the noise of modern Seoul.
This world clearly wasn’t meant for her.
She looked down at the unfamiliar clothes: a white cotton jeogori jacket and a black skirt.
“My clothes…”
Her own outfit lay neatly folded in the corner. Someone had changed her.
Her hair, too, was different—long, thick, and carefully braided to her waist, a red ribbon tied at the end.
Startled, she felt for her neck. Thankfully, the necklace from her late mother was still there.
Everything else changed, but the necklace stayed.
Just then an older man’s sharp voice called from outside.
“Hey, what on earth are you doing in there?”
Her eyes shook like a wind-tossed lake. She swallowed loudly.
Who is that? What do I do?
“Miyu, you inside?”
He knows my name? How?
Maybe she’d done something wrong? But if so, wouldn’t she be in a jail cell?
She almost slapped her own cheek, then merely rubbed it.
Get it together. Don’t think about “getting it together”—just do it.
She drew a deep breath. I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.
First: reconnaissance. Start with the man outside.
She noticed a tiny peephole in the door lattice, widened it with a finger, and peered out.
“Pitch-black,” she whispered.
“’Course it is—you’re blocking the light,” came a man’s reply.
Startled, she fell back.
“Can I open the door?”
“Wait a moment.”
She scanned the room for anything she could use to defend herself.
“All right. You can open it.”
She stood pressed to the wall as the door slid open with a clatter.
“If you’re still dawdling like this, what’s the matter with you?”
Miyu clenched her teeth and glared at the man on the porch: a frog-eyed, round-cheeked middle-aged fellow wearing a blue vest-like kwaeja and a narrow-brimmed gat hat.
Is this really the Joseon era?
He didn’t look dangerous, but she stayed on guard.
He stared at her; she stared back, trying to look intimidating.
Then he blurted, “Well now, you’re quite the beauty.”
His gaze swept her: the oval face with a peach-tinted glow, the intelligent dark eyes, the glossy black hair, and above all, porcelain-pale skin—like a young lady from a noble family.
Miyu only gripped the chamber pot tighter.
Does this frog think I’ll melt over a compliment? Not a chance.
“So why are you holding that chamber pot?”
She bit back the urge to demand where she was and who he was. Better to probe.
“I just woke up. Aren’t you rushing things a bit?”
The man drew deeply on his long pipe, exhaled, and pulled a folder from his robe.
“Jo Miyu. Lives in Mapo. Age twenty-two. Born the Year of Im-sul. Father Jo Young-ho, mother Jang Hye-ju. Correct?”
“…Yes.”
He even knew her late mother’s name.
Her grip on the pot slackened.
“Thought maybe you’d been swapped with some noble miss. Anyway, merchants from Pyongyang are due today, so get moving.”
“Where am I?”
“Songpajang in Gwangju, of course. And put that pot down before you spill it.”
“It’s empty.” She set it down quickly.
“What year is this?”
“Joseon Calendar, year 431.”
“Joseon… calendar?”
“Of course. King Taejo founded Joseon after toppling Goryeo, so we count from then. You think we’d use the Ming dynasty calendar instead?”
She knew from her art-dealing studies that Joseon always used the Chinese calendar. Something was off.
“What month?”
“Third month, second day, half past the hour of the Dragon—about eight in the morning.”
Suspicion flickered in his frog-like eyes.
“You’re prettier than the famous Chunhyang, but even more surprising is how clueless you are.”
“Clueless how?”
“Late to work, don’t even know the date—what good’s a pretty face? You’re a half-wit.”
“I am not a half-wit!”
1392 plus 431… 1823.
Impossible.
She’d time-slipped two centuries.
“Two hundred years…!”
“What’s that nonsense? I’m Park Mandol, not ‘Two-Hundred-Years.’”
He barked a laugh.
“Anyway, enough jokes. We’re busy—hurry to the Gongju vegetable stall where you’ll be working this month.”
“You mean I’m supposed to sell things here?”
“Why else are you at Songpajang? Want to go back or not?”
“Go back? I can return?”
“Take a boat.”
“A boat?”
“One quick ride from Songpa Ferry to Mapo.”
Her mind raced.
This strange place… the only person she could rely on was this frog-man.
“Wait!” She dashed out and grabbed his vest.
“What now? I’ve no time even for the privy.”
“I’ll work. As a clerk.”
“You mean it? Then no more questions. Go straight to the Gongju vegetable stall. That’s your post for the next month.”
“Yes, please take care of me.”
Hands together, she bowed ninety degrees.
“Polite after all. No house, no boat fare—figured as much. Work hard. When the great merchant lords arrive, even ministers bow. Money runs the world, remember that.”
“Oh, I know.” Miyu raised a fist. “Money is everything!”
“Intense, this one,” he muttered, satisfied.
And just like that, Miyu found herself employed in Joseon.
Unlike rural five-day markets, Songpajang bustled every day.
Close to Hanyang and the gateway to the southern provinces, it overflowed with goods and customers.
The noise of bargaining and shouting swirled around her. Everywhere she looked was strange and dazzling, as if someone had slapped her awake.
Drawn by the scent of red-bean rice cakes steaming in a shop, she automatically thought of posting a photo on social media. A Songpajang selfie would go viral…
A crash interrupted her thoughts—shattering pottery, startled cries, sharp whistles.
Two masked men burst from an alley, kicking up dust as they sprinted toward her.
“Eek!”
She bent and twisted just in time to avoid them.
Good thing I’m athletic. I nearly got taken out on day one…
But as she turned to glare, one man swerved and collided with her.
“Ah!”
She would have hit the ground face-first, but a strong hand caught her arm and yanked.
They spun half a turn before the man’s back slammed to the earth, Miyu landing atop him.
Her head pressed against a broad, solid chest.
Thump—she heard his rapid heartbeat.
“My lady, pardon the impropriety. Are you hurt?”
The deep, resonant voice vibrated through her.
Mortified, she scrambled up, cheeks burning.
So embarrassing.
The man silently gathered his scattered belongings: rolls of paper, brushes, and a portable ink set, all dust-covered.
A painter, maybe?
Then constables shouted, rushing toward him.
“Seize him! He posted seditious broadsides against the Crown Prince!”
The man dashed off in the same direction as the masked figures.
“A traitor?”
Miyu stood frozen until he disappeared from sight, then brushed dust from her skirt.
At her feet lay a fallen silk scroll.
Did the fugitive drop this?
She glanced around, then quickly hid the scroll inside her sleeve.
