Chapter -12
At Soran’s words, Yeonsan-daek’s face turned deathly pale.
Crawling across the floor, she clutched the hem of Soran’s skirt.
“I was wrong. I was wrong, Young Madam. Please, just once—have mercy.”
Soran slowly raised one hand. Thinking she was about to be slapped, Yeonsan-daek squeezed her eyes shut.
The next moment, a small hand grabbed her shoulder—firmly.
“Your child is ill. What are you doing here instead of going back?”
“Y-Young Madam…?”
“Today’s matter—I saw nothing, and I heard nothing. If anyone notices, say that I was the one who ate it.”
“Young Madam!”
Yeonsan-daek cried out, almost screaming.
“Shh.”
Soran brought her index finger to her lips and lowered her voice.
“On your way back, stop by the storehouse and take a geun of beef. Say I ate that too.”
“No! Please don’t! This was my fault! I’ll never do it again! I swear it, Young Madam!”
Clinging to Soran’s skirt as if to a lifeline, Yeonsan-daek shook her head repeatedly. Her face was as white as paper.
Anyone would have thought she was the one being cast out.
“Why are you still here? Do you find my words amusing?”
“No, but… today I’m assigned to kitchen duty—”
“I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Pardon? You will, Young Madam?”
Yeonsan-daek stared at her in shock, as though she’d heard something impossible.
She couldn’t tell whether the order to leave was sincere. If she went back like this, she might never cross this household’s threshold again.
No—before that, how could Soran possibly clean up the kitchen? A woman raised in such luxury.
She must never have dipped her hands into cold water even once. For someone like her to do this—nothing about it made sense. So Yeonsan-daek could only shake her head helplessly.
Soran’s voice softened.
“I won’t even put out the fire, so don’t worry and go.”
“The fire? But still—”
How did she even know that the kitchen attendant wasn’t supposed to extinguish the embers?
“If you don’t leave now, I really will get angry.”
Soran planted her hands on her hips. Someone who had never once shown anger forced her eyes wide, trying her best to look fierce.
Is this right? Do I look scary enough?
“….”
She didn’t look angry at all. If anything, she looked like a chick puffing out its tiny chest.
But somehow, it didn’t feel right to say that.
When Yeonsan-daek nodded blankly, Soran smiled in satisfaction and gently pushed her along.
“Come back early tomorrow morning. Then no one will know.”
“But—”
“Shall I really get angry?”
“Ah—no! Thank you.”
Soran put her hands back on her hips threateningly. Yeonsan-daek nodded again, dazed, and Soran lowered her arms, then gently patted her back.
“I hope your child gets better soon.”
“…Yes.”
The tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over. Yeonsan-daek answered through her sobs.
“Yes… she will. She has to. Of course she will.”
At that moment, the scent of overripe apples lingered in the air.
It was the smell of a lie.
The child would not get better. Soran couldn’t bring herself to look at Yeonsan-daek and lowered her gaze.
Yeonsan-daek walked away slowly, turning back again and again, her steps reluctant.
“Be sure to stop by the storehouse and take the beef. If you don’t, I really will get angry. I’ll check later.”
“Yes. Thank you, Young Madam.”
Standing at the kitchen door, Soran forced a smile as she saw her off—until darkness swallowed Yeonsan-daek whole.
The wind brushing her nape felt especially lonely.
“Still… I truly hope she gets better.”
Murmuring words Yeonsan-daek could no longer hear, Soran turned and went back into the kitchen.
All that remained was the scent of burning firewood.
Hoping the lively flames would chase away the damp smell of the rainy season, Soran tossed a few dry branches into the hearth.
Whoosh.
The fire flared up suddenly, and only then did the tears she’d been holding back begin to fall.
Crouching down, Soran buried her face in her skirt and sobbed softly.
“I hope she gets better.”
She repeated the words over and over, like a desperate prayer.
Clink, clink.
Crouched in front of the hearth, Soran rubbed charcoal powder into straw.
Then she scrubbed a silver spoon vigorously.
“Hah…”
She blew on it, fogging the surface, and ran the straw over it again.
Scritch, scritch.
Each stroke made the spoon shine brighter, until it reflected her face.
“Hmm.”
Satisfied, Soran set it down and picked up a brass bowl.
“Hah.”
A breath, then more scrubbing.
“What are you doing here?”
“Ah!”
Startled by the sudden presence, Soran dropped the bowl in her hands.
Clang.
The bowl hit the floor and rolled away.
Gyoheum bent down slowly, picked it up, and looked at her questioningly.
Wide eyes, parted lips, pale cheeks—Soran looked as though she’d seen a ghost.
Tsk. Noticing that no breath was escaping her open mouth, Gyoheum spoke again.
“Did I startle you that badly?”
“Hah…”
Only then did Soran finally exhale. Her raised shoulders sagged, her stiff posture melting away.
“Oh… it was you, Captain?”
“Captain?”
Gyoheum tapped the brass bowl lightly with his finger, producing a clear, bell-like sound.
Captain.
She wasn’t his subordinate. The title didn’t fit.
But then—what should she call him instead? And before that—why did the way she addressed him bother him at all?
Bothered?
Impossible. Gyoheum scoffed inwardly.
He had never trusted Soran, nor expected anything from her. There was no reason for him to be offended.
She was nothing more than a piece on the board he intended to use. Handing her the bowl, he asked gently,
“Why are you washing dishes at this hour?”
“….”
Soran blinked up at him. The faint bitter scent of herbs grew stronger.
Despite that, Gyoheum’s voice was as sweet as honeyed syrup, leaving her unsure how to respond.
He glanced around the kitchen, one eyebrow lifting.
“Where is the maid?”
“Huh? Ah…”
Only then did Soran visibly panic.
Her round eyes darted around aimlessly, and her slender fingers fidgeted restlessly.
“I—I was bored staying in my room, so I said I’d do it myself and told her to rest.”
Gyoheum stared at her.
Anyone who couldn’t tell that was a lie must have holes instead of eyes.
Even so, he didn’t press her. Instead, he recalled the conversation he’d overheard behind the kitchen door.
Soran interrogating Yeonsan-daek had been quite a sight.
—On my way, I personally checked the storehouse. The pork you took hasn’t been returned. It was neither more nor less than at lunchtime.
He’d recognized it immediately as a bluff.
But Yeonsan-daek, burdened with guilt, crumbled at those words, and Soran extracted her confession without difficulty.
A hundred—no, a thousand times better than the investigator.
“It’s true.”
“….”
“Really. I couldn’t sleep.”
She fidgeted anxiously, afraid he wouldn’t believe her.
It was impossible to imagine this woman as the same person who had just cornered Yeonsan-daek so decisively.
Which was her true self?
Lost in thought, Gyoheum remained silent, and Soran lowered her gaze, crestfallen.
“I was the one who insisted on sending the maid away. Please don’t scold her.”
She looked like a rain-soaked puppy.
She was the one who lied, the one who deceived him—yet somehow, he felt like the villain.
Clicking his tongue softly, Gyoheum felt an unexpected pang of guilt, as though he’d bullied something small and fragile.
But she wasn’t small or fragile.
She was the cunning and wicked daughter of the Chancellor.
And as the Chancellor’s daughter, she must be just as cunning and wicked. There was no reason to pity her.
If one of them had to be considered weaker, it wasn’t Soran—it was him. He didn’t possess power or authority comparable to the Chancellor’s.
“….”
Yet Gyoheum didn’t pursue it further. Instead, he crouched beside her, grabbed a handful of straw,
and began scrubbing the brass bowl himself.
“It’s fine! I’ll do it!”
