Away, perhaps, from the eyes of an investigator.
The hairs on my skin rose. I tried pushing the thought aside, shocked by the leap my mind had made. Yet, once there, the thought could not be undone.
I slipped from the courtyard as quietly as I’d come and collected the still-empty market basket. Speaking to no one, I hurried from the mansion, the secrets of Lady Kang burning inside me.
FIVE
THE DEEP RUMBLE of the great bell had already echoed through every street and alley, announcing the start of curfew. The time of total silence. Occasionally footsteps hurried across, followed by a patrolman’s call of “Arrest him!”
I had spent the entire next morning and afternoon trying to appease the chief maid’s fury. After all, I’d left the bureau for far too long the day before to visit Lady Kang. So I’d made sure to catch up on all my chores until every limb in my body ached in protest.
Now the sky had finally darkened, and it was nearly time to retire for the night—but not yet.
I stood by the courtyard gate with a lantern, waiting for Damo Aejung. Iron cauldrons, ablaze with smoky light, cast moving shadows against the curve of rooftops, reminding me of the midnight waves of my childhood, crashing against the cliffs, then withdrawing. I had watched their dance from the door of our hut. A dance that reached for the moon.
The moon had fascinated me: how alone it looked, how locked up within darkness. My brother had told me its story. To escape a hungry tiger, two children climbed a rope to the sky. The brother became the sun. And the sister became the moon. “I am scared of the night,” said the sister, and so the brother replied, “I will be the moon for you instead.” So the brother became the moon, and the sister became the sun.
I opened my eyes to the flooding light. It was never pitch-dark in the capital, especially in the police bureau, the place that never slept. Prisoners groaned in the eastern courtyard. A servant ran with eyes to the ground, his torch going whoosh, whoosh as he searched for something lost. Though most of the gwanbi—the local office servants—had returned to their homes for the night, the damos were ibyeok, live-in servants, so we had no families to go to. The police bureau was our home.
Lanterns hanging from eaves illuminated the main pavilion; our superiors got little rest when a murder occurred.
This hanok building was divided into three quarters: the office of the commander, the meeting hall, and the guest room. The paper-screened doors of the office stood open to allow in the late summer breeze. Two gentlemen knelt inside. Inspector Han sat in a position of subordination, and the commander sat at the head of the table with the paneled screen behind him, the position of honor. Their voices were faint but audible, like the rustling of faraway trees.
“Councillor Ch’oi visited you, I hear,” the commander was saying.
“He did, yeonggam. His Lordship reminded me of his friendship with”—Inspector Han cleared his throat—“my father. He asked that I help him for the sake of old ties.”
“With what?”
“He fears the regent’s offensive to purge the Southerners.”
“Of course. He must be counting down the remaining days of his life.”
“Indeed. Without King Chŏngjo’s protection, Councillor Ch’oi fears the Old Doctrine will come for him. He wants protection.”
“And what could you possibly do for him?”
“Assist in the capturing of Priest Zhou Wenmo.”
Silence pooled. I could feel the rippling tension. Priest Zhou Wenmo. There were wanted posters of him all over the capital, all over my hometown, and likely all over the kingdom. The only priest of Joseon.
Inspector Han continued, “If Councillor Ch’oi can claim to have had a hand in the priest’s capture, it will shield His Lordship from being swept along with his fellow Southerners. But you may rest assured, I have no intention of assisting him.”
A shiver trembled down my spine as a thought crept into my mind. Councillor Ch’oi feared that the link between his faction and Catholicism would lead to his death, and the councillor’s son resented the Catholic Lady O for humiliating him. A connecting thread gleamed.
“Aigoo, aigoo. Always eavesdropping, you.” It was Aejung, arriving with a tray of bottles of wine and bowls for officers staying at the bureau tonight. Even though she was a year older than I was, she was a head shorter. In fact, I was taller than most damos here. “One day, you will learn something you should not know and it will kill you.”
“They will never find out,” I said. “I’m invisible.”
As we passed by the pavilion, I noticed someone whom I hadn’t seen earlier. Senior Officer Shim was standing next to a pillar, hidden in the shadow. Though he must have seen us, his head didn’t turn as we passed. His gaze was locked in the direction of Commander Yi and Inspector Han, and his normally stern brows had weakened. I think there was despair in his eyes.
It seemed the bureau would drain the joy out of all of us until we were only shells.
* * *
“Seol! Hold the lantern higher.”
Aejung struggled to balance the clinking bottles as we walked through a small gate and stepped into the western courtyard. She kept her voice low as she said, “Officer Kyŏn is also inside. He hasn’t forgiven you for stealing his bow.”
I felt as though I’d swallowed a steaming cup of hot water. I had almost forgotten that incident, but now it returned with a fury that burned through me.
“You may think he’s a lowly officer, but how do you suppose Officer Kyŏn got his position despite his poor military skills? His family was once nobility and still has old ties to powerful families.”
“I know, I know,” I murmured.
“Senior Officer Shim”—Aejung glanced over her shoulder, as though to ensure he was not following us—“he is quite the opposite. His status is lower than Kyŏn’s.”
“Eh? He’s not a nobleman?”
“He’s a seoja, a bastard. He was prohibited from taking the exams because of his impure blood.”
I frowned, confused. Police officers were selected through the mugwa military examination, and all men were allowed to take them except for illegitimate sons. A seoja was as helpless to rise in the ranks as the most ignorant peasant. “So how did he become a military officer?” I asked.
“Inspector Han. He appealed to the commander that great talent would be wasted. You know Inspector Han’s closeness to the commander, like son and father, so how could our chief—Seol! Lantern!”
I raised it high again, the flame bright through the rice paper.
“I once overheard Officer Shim say his father has no legitimate son,” Aejung continued. “And instead of making Shim his heir, he adopted a nephew. Common enough, but still … can you imagine the pain of being denied by your own father? ’Tis no wonder he is so quiet. He keeps his gaze lowered even when speaking to us!”
He bore a mark like me, I realized. An invisible one that flared across his forehead: son of a concubine.
I should be kinder to him, I thought. Another outsider, like me.
“Officer Kyŏn is free to take the military exam as often as he wishes.” Aejung grunted. “He just doesn’t have the talent to pass it. He’s not very good at anything.”