Chapter 6 #2
Seojun stepped around his peers, strode down the corridor, then walked out into the quiet morning, the air chill and moist with the scent of the dew-dampened earth.
“It must be so,” Namgil pondered aloud, still continuing with his earlier line of conversation.
“The thought of marriage must indeed be weighing upon you, but I wouldn’t worry, doryeonnim.
You will fall in love and find that love is—” Namgil expelled a little sigh.
“Love is so sweet, and she will become your entire world. You’ll want to do anything to keep her happy. ”
“You know something about love?” Seojun raised a brow at the manservant, who was his equal in age. “You never told me you had a sweetheart. Do I know her?”
Namgil turned red. “I am but a lowly servant. I dare not bother you with—”
“You know I’ve always liked your stories.”
Namgil let out a nervous laugh but spoke no more.
With nothing to distract his thoughts, Seojun felt his shoulders grow heavier as they traveled back to Myeongwoldang.
The residence was as silent as a casket, the hush deep and undisturbed as he strode through the interconnected courtyards.
Only a few servants were awake, pausing in their tasks to bow as he passed.
His father had likely already departed for the Ministry of Justice, where he would remain until evening.
As for his sister … she had long since lost track of time. Days blended into nights, nights into days; she woke when the household slept and slept when they woke. The mere thought of her weighed on him further.
“Find out for me if my sister has finished reading all her novels,” Seojun said as he approached his study. “I’ll borrow more if that is the case—”
He froze.
The lock usually fastened on the handles of his study room’s double door dangled. It was hanging open.
Impossible—he was certain he had secured the door. He never left his home without ensuring that this entrance was locked.
At a sudden movement, he shot a glance toward a pillar, and recognized the figure trembling in its shadow: his sister’s personal attendant.
“Maid Daebi,” he called out, keeping his voice calm.
She stepped forward, and he studied the girl, wondering what she was doing lurking about the men’s courtyard.
Suspicion flitted through him as he glanced back at his door.
Was she a thief? But what was there to steal?
A maid would do better raiding her mistress’s chamber, full of trinkets and silk, than his own, used only to study for his exam.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” he inquired.
“Mistress Gwideok couldn’t sleep.” She offered a nervous smile, revealing the gap between her two front teeth. “S-so she sent me out to find a b-b-book for her to read…”
“And you entered my study?”
She flinched as though he’d struck her. “No!” she cried. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare, doryeonnim. I came to see if you were awake; you always have books to lend to Mistress Gwideok. But then I saw the lock hanging open like that and became afraid.”
Seojun studied the maid, who was growing paler under his scrutiny. Beads of sweat dampened her brow. She had her hands held behind her back, not politely before her.
“May I see your hands?” he requested.
“Of—of course, doryeonnim.” She hesitated, then stretched to hold her palms out before her.
“Turn your hands around.”
She did so. Darkness lined the crescents of her nails. Then he noticed the dirt on her sandals and on the hem of her skirt, and a trail of it down the veranda and across the courtyard. His curiosity piqued, he followed the trace of dirt, the two servants scurrying behind him.
“What is it, doryeonnim?” Namgil asked. “What is the matter?”
“I heard…” Seojun observed how the trace of dirt led to a bed of crushed flowers, and took note of the scuff marks along the wall. “I heard that Housekeeper Myeongsu is militant when it comes to cleanliness.”
“Sh-she is, doryeonnim,” Maid Daebi replied, her voice shaking.
“Then how is it your nails are lined in dirt?”
“I was cleaning spring greens.”
“This early in the morning?”
“I was cleaning it last night, then—then accidentally fell asleep.”
“Indeed? And why would the personal maid of my sister be made to clean spring greens?”
Splotches of red stained her cheeks. “Kitchen Maid Aji is my dearest friend, she was overwhelmed with work, so I offered to help—”
“There is dirt in your nails,” Seojun bit out. “Dirt across the courtyard. And someone has broken into my study.”
“Perhaps, doryeonnim,” his manservant said cautiously, “perhaps you simply forgot to secure the lock. And as for the dirt, perhaps … perhaps it was the stray mutt you asked that I bring inside.”
Seojun frowned. He had never forgotten to secure his door before. “Perhaps you are right…” He wrestled with this possibility for a moment longer, but an uneasiness settled in his bones. He turned to the maid once more. “Did you hear or see anything while in the kitchen?”
Her delicate brows knitted together. “I did briefly wake up to sounds of a clatter and a thud. But then I heard nothing more after that.”
“And at what time was this?” he asked firmly. “What time did you hear this ‘clatter and thud’?”
“I—I can’t be too sure. But it was shortly before the great bell rang at dawn.”
Only moments before his arrival …
After dismissing the maid, he returned to his study and stared down at the lock. Absentmindedly, he reached for his keys only to find them missing.
His blood went cold.
The keys he carried everywhere. The keys no servant ever touched. The keys that remained on his person at all times, except when he slept, and then he kept them hidden under the false bottom of a document box.
He pulled the lock free from the handle, slid the door open, and stepped inside.
His study appeared as though a storm had blown through. Scattered papers littered the floor, bookshelves stripped of their contents, heavy volumes cast aside. A pale porcelain jar rested on the floor, miraculously unbroken. And the second lock—the one securing his red pinewood chest—also hung open.
He stared at it with incredulity.
Two locks. Both undone. It was impossible—he could think of no other way to describe this circumstance, but that it was, truly, impossible.
His locks were turtle locks, their hard shells a symbol of their impenetrability; there was a reason why they were referred to as “secret locks.” Each held riddles that had to be solved before they could be opened, a multilayered series of tumblers, latches, and pins, each requiring precise manipulation.
The thief would have had to know exactly what to do.
His pulse pounded. He forced himself forward and tugged open the small double doors of the red pinewood chest.
Shock carved a hollow into his chest.
His entire manuscript was missing.