Chapter 13
Alone with her in the forest, his mind had turned to the consistency of gruel.
He couldn’t think. Words escaped him. And when he finally did, he had spoken with burning clumsiness.
The mere recollection of his response to her, when she had thanked him for his assistance, left him mortified.
He had, of all things, quoted the Analects, as though he were a dull, gray-haired schoolmaster.
He couldn’t understand why she had such an effect on him.
He had always prided himself on perfect composure, but he felt overly self-conscious before Mistress Haewon.
“Here, step on this rock and you’ll be able to mount,” Seojun said once he managed to untether his horse. “I’ll escort you to Hwasadang now that the rain has stopped.”
“I will walk, Lord Yu,” Haewon declared. “I refuse to sit in your saddle while you hobble next to me. My legs work perfectly fine.”
“If you walk, it will take us three times as long. And don’t you wish to see your sister sooner?”
“You told me my sister is safe.”
He trained his gaze ahead, warmth gathering under his collar as he muttered, “We’ll ride together then.”
“Together?” she blurted, sounding as scandalized as he felt. Then her tone turned almost taunting. “Of course you are aware of the rule, nauri: Namnyeo-chilse-budongseog. ‘Boys and girls over the age of seven mustn’t sit together.’ You are the perfect gentleman and I would hate to ruin you.”
Her repeated use of the term perfect gentleman was starting to grate on him. “We’ve already broken that rule a long while ago. I’ve already touched you.”
She froze, her eyes widening, the flush on her cheeks deepening.
“When you assisted me with the bandage,” he rushed to clarify, his own face burning.
A tense silence thickened in the rain-soaked air.
He couldn’t bear the thought of her walking, drenched and cold, while he rode on horseback.
But she was right. There was etiquette, and there was also the pain in his ankle, growing sharper with every step.
No wisdom from the Five Classics could offer guidance here.
“Walk then, and I will follow,” he said, then added politely, “if you please.”
“I need to visit my home first. To inform my parents.”
“Your sister will want you with her.”
She seemed hesitant. “Very well, I suppose I could send a note instead…”
The journey that followed, he imagined, would be mortifying, with him on horseback and a lady shivering as she traveled on foot.
But Shin Haewon seemed to have come to the decision to ignore the circumstance—and him—completely.
Soon, she seemed lost in her own thoughts as she walked in long strides, skipping away from puddles, hopping over rocks.
His own taut limbs eased as he watched her.
He followed the direction of her gaze—at the hills, a smudge in the mist; at the drying reeds that swayed like tresses of unbound hair; at the way light fell across the shape of the earth.
“You look captivated,” he murmured, “by the sight of a nearly flooded land.”
“It’s not so bad as the flood two years ago. Look at the way the sky reflects in the waters on the road.”
His horse tromped through a particularly large puddle, and he cursed, steering the horse away to keep from splashing muddy water on her. But she continued on, voice light. “Like riding through clouds.”
She was a puzzle to him; each new angle of her face seemed to reveal something unexpected. From the side, he caught the faintest curve of her lips, ever so slightly tilted, as if she was secretly amused by something. What is on your mind? he wanted to probe. What so entertains you?
Then some thought darkened her face, and her smile fell.
“What is it?” he asked, before he could catch himself.
She stayed quiet a moment, then said, more to herself, “I hope the officers leave Five Willows alone. That book-lending shop is like a second home to many, and the only home to Wol.”
“Wol’s father, Merchant Hyoyang, has given government officers a share of his profits in return for protection,” Seojun replied. “But with this edict being reinforced, I suppose no bookshop owner can truly feel safe. No one knows just how severely the law will be enforced.”
“If at all,” she said hopefully.
“If at all,” he echoed.
He tried to focus on the road again, but his gaze strayed back to her. His mind was turning. And he realized, with some irritation, that he was searching for questions to ask her. He was curious; he wanted to know her. And his curiosity, his traitorous curiosity, refused to be held back.
“At the bookshop,” he said, “you mentioned you are an expert at recommending books.”
“Yes,” she replied warily. “Yes, I am.”
“What book would you recommend for me?”
Her brows arched, and the dark clouds in her face cleared. “Is this a challenge, nauri?” The corners of her lips twitched into a hint of a smile, her thrill ill-disguised. “You think, perhaps, that I couldn’t possibly recommend a novel that would pique your interest?”
“If you would like to take this as a challenge, then yes, it is a challenge.”
“What are you interested in?” she asked, with a look in her eyes he’d come to recognize—she was preparing one of her thorny jokes. “Well, whatever your interest, I would certainly recommend the works of Yeonam to you.”
He held back a smile.
“In particular, I would recommend The Tale of Kwangmun.”
Yeonam’s books were characterized by satirizing the hypocrisy of the yangban; the tale she’d recommended was about a morally pretentious nobleman, whose conduct was contrasted by that of the righteous beggar Kwangmun.
“I doubt you’ll read it, though,” Haewon said.
“I promise I will.”
She let out a single laugh, a delightful sound.
“Do you doubt me, Mistress Haewon?” he asked.
“Entirely, Lord Yu. I have absolutely no faith in you.” She snapped her gaze back to him, another impish smile curving her lips.
“After The Tale of Kwangmun, I would recommend the works of Munmuja.” Her expression turned genuine, seemingly determined to make a case for it.
“Most consider Munmuja’s works inferior compared to Yeonam’s.
But I think Munmuja is a rare talent, one of those writers who exists only once every few centuries.
There is something about his writing that feels so …
free. He writes for the joy of writing itself, unlike most writers. ”
“The joy of writing itself…” Seojun whispered, his chest constricting.
Her words made him want to pick up his brush again, to write, to take flight from everything he knew—yet in that exact instance, the heavy hand of his father weighed him down.
“The aim of writing,” he said, repeating the words he’d grown up with, “should be to increase morality.”
She arched a brow. “Indeed? So one cannot write to simply express … life?”
Seojun felt compelled to speak on, to convince himself. “The ancients claimed that a society’s character can be seen in its writing style. And these days, with this storm of sensational novels that make no attempt to shape a moral society … how can we preserve Confucian order?”
Bemusement twinkled in her eyes as she studied him, so intently that he had to resist the urge to look away.
“You are, Lord Yu,” she said softly, “a man of absolutely no surprises.”
He considered her for a moment, unsure what she meant by this. She had a peculiar way of being charmingly sweet in tone despite her sharp words.
“I, myself, have a deep fondness for Confucius and his works, particularly the Analects. And since you insist that all writing must shape a moral society,” she pressed, “then I might argue that if you examine Munmuja’s works—the most free-spirited book in bookshops—you will often find morality is there.
The theme of his writing is that everything changes and goes away.
Nothing remains. Honor doesn’t remain, reputation doesn’t remain, it is all fleeting.
So you see, I think you still ought to try reading one of his books.
” She let out a sigh. “I ramble. I am boring you, nauri.”
Not at all, he caught himself thinking.