“And that was when she smiled?” I guessed.
“No, she never did smile. Instead, he made her cry enough to fill the entire sea. They love each other still, even after twenty years. I see the councillor riding by, now and then, just to ask about her health, about her day. And I see such passionate longing in his eyes. But she was the one to end their affair, all to become an innkeeper’s wife.” He snorted. “What a prize this place must be, eh?”
“So she loved the innkeeper more than the councillor,” I observed.
“Aigoo, she loves no one more than Councillor Ch’oi. After she left the House of Bright Flowers, too old to stay there and too stubborn to ask the councillor for help, she simply had nowhere to go.”
“No family?”
“Her family sold her to a gisaeng school when she was a child.”
“Oh…” I’d heard of gisaeng schools, places where girls as young as eight were taught to sing, dance, play music, read, and write. They grew up without mothers or fathers, their tears wiped away with promises of gigantic mansions filled with servants—but only if they could become the mistress of a rich man’s heart.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If Madam Song and the councillor love each other, why did she choose to become an innkeeper?”
“She was too pretty for her own good,” he mused, not answering me. I wondered if I was speaking to a man or the dozen empty bottles littered around him. “It’s a good thing that you aren’t pretty.”
I kept my expression blank, pretending not to feel stung. “Will you answer me or not? Why are Madam Song and the councillor not together now, ajusshi?”
“Ajusshi?” He barked out a laugh. “I have not been a middle-aged man in a long, long time. I’m old enough to be your grandfather!”
“Ajusshi!” I pressed, growing annoyed.
Finally, he answered. “There was another woman—Jumo!” he yelled out, shaking the empty wine bottle to catch the owner’s attention.
I wanted to reach out and yank the rest of the story from him, but before I could, Madam Song appeared. She had a broad forehead and pointed chin, full lips, and heavy-lidded, dreamy eyes. Eyes that watched me. I curled my lips into my mouth, hoping she wouldn’t see the taint of gossip glistening on them.
After setting a new bottle on the man’s table, Madam Song’s gaze drifted to one corner of my face. Her knitted brows straightened.
“What did you do?” she asked.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
She tapped the side of her face. It was then that I became aware of the hot summer’s air brushing my branded cheek. I loosened short strands of hair from my braid, letting them fall over the ugly mark. “I looked for my brother. When I couldn’t find his grave, I tried to run home,” I mumbled. “I was caught. That is all.”
“Home…,” she said in a steady voice. A series of emotions flowed through her dark eyes. “So my guess was right: we did meet before. You are the girl with the drawing. Have you found your brother’s burial ground yet?”
“Not yet, madam.”
“Let us see the sketch of him if you have it still,” the drunkard called out. “Perhaps I’ve seen him.”
“Yes,” Madam Song said, “let me see him again.”
“My brother?”
“That is why you have come, is it not?”
“It is, madam.” I fumbled for the sketch and thought to myself that this was a good way to continue my conversation with Madam Song. I doubted she would be pleased to know that I’d come for the sole purpose of learning more about a killing. Once I handed the drawing to her, I tensed as she studied my brother’s face.
“A fragile-looking young man,” she observed as she sat down on the edge of the platform, and I scooted over to sit next to her. A moment later, the drunkard also joined and looked over both our shoulders. “He traveled to the capital all on his own, you say … No, I never did see him.”
The drunkard chimed in, “Neither have I,” and returned to his drinking, finally leaving us to sit quietly together.
“I would remember a face like his. Does he have any other recognizable features?”
I often recalled my brother’s voice, his words and stories a clear echo in my ears, but the image of him had faded into a blur. I looked over Madam Song’s shoulder at the blank sky, trying to remember the last time I’d seen him. On a boat, surrounded by misty waters. A glimpse of his brown eyes, so light that it had seemed almost amber. The apple of his throat that had amused me, the way it would rise and fall with each uttered word. As my mind’s eye surveyed him, I frowned at a detail I had forgotten until now. On his lower right arm, a wound—a large patch of raw red.
“He had a burn on his arm,” I said, my thoughts still twelve years in the past. “A very bad burn.”
Madam Song nodded. “Then it would have left a scar. And do you know of any relatives here in Hanyang?”
“No, madam.” I knew very little about the details of my past. Older Brother and Sister had made sure of that, always speaking about our parents and relatives in whispers whenever I was around. As though stories about our family were a great and terrible secret.
“Was your brother clever?”
I nodded. “Neh.”
“Then he must have come to the capital knowing there was someone here,” she said. “When we first met months ago, you referred to your brother as someone who was dead. But he may be alive—and quite well.”
I lowered my head to avoid Madam Song’s gaze. She was wrong, and there was no point in considering a thought so preposterous. My brother had to be dead; I could feel this truth bone deep, this feeling that ties had been severed.
“Ajumma!” a maid yelled out, fracturing my thoughts. People called crude and tough middle-aged women “ajumma,” not queenly ladies like Madam Song. “Ajumma, a letter for you has arrived!”
Madam Song moved to leave, and at once, I remembered why I had come to the inn—to investigate. I threw out a question, letting it cling to her. “Madam, one last thing! Four nights ago, did you notice anything odd?”
“You mean the night of that young lady’s murder.”
“Yes, madam.”
Madam Song clucked her tongue. “An officer was pestering all my customers about that incident. He pestered me too, but I told him to leave.”
“Who was the officer?”
“A handsome one,” she answered, and when I stared blankly at her, she added, “Very obnoxious and arrogant.”
“Officer Kyŏn,” I whispered. “Did you see anything that night, madam? He claims that one of your customers saw something.”
“Hmm. I remember seeing a young maid, running into the inn to ask my customers if they had seen her mistress. Everyone said no, so she came to me next. She was so pale, the blood drained from her face, her lips nearly blue.”
“And what did you say, madam?”
“I told her no as well. It is busiest at night here at the Red Lantern. I hardly notice my own hunger as I’m too occupied tending to the needs of others.”
“And after that?”
“After that, she left, and I saw her hesitating before a drunk man on horseback. He was slumped forward, slightly swaying on his saddle. So I was worried for the young maid. A drunk man can trample a girl with his horse.”