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The ache of it never really goes away. Cheoljong thought that he would get used to it as the months pass, but it gapes its maw wider, its hunger endless. Winter gives way to the dusty storms of spring, and his heart will not heal.
Kim Soyong is understanding. She knows, better than anyone, what ails the king. She described it, the first and only time they spoke of it, as though half of her had been ripped out. Over time the two souls in her body grew together in such a way that they could not be disentangled without bleeding. But she has found comforts since. Suk-ui Min takes long walks by the queen’s side, their arms linked as if they are supporting each other’s weight, her hand stroking So-yong’s rounded belly. He knows that they share a bed, but it does not bother him. There was only one of his consort that he loved, and that person is gone. Before he even knew her real name.
He reads and rereads his Queen’s Dictionary, that odd patchwork of phrases that is all he has left of her. It provides momentary relief, even though the words have lost their enchantment without her here to say them. He first wrote this dictionary at night as a talisman against the dark, to keep his nightmares at bay. Now, he dreams of her instead: her crooked smile, her brash gestures, and it is worse than a sword to the neck. He wakes up crying.
The first time he sees her, Cheoljong does not recognize her. There are hundreds of maidservants in the palace and he has scarcely made a habit of charting their faces. But he keeps seeing her around, and something about her catches his eye. Perhaps it is the irreverent way she stares at him when her fellow maids bend forward in abject humility. There is something beckoning in that look. Something like a challenge.
In meetings with his newly appointed ministers he finds himself thinking of that open stare. He tells himself that it is healthy. A sign that he is moving on. All the women in the palace belong to him, even though he is not the kind of king to make use of that fact. At least he did not think that he was. With a vague sense of shame he sends his eunuch to fetch her, describing her pert nose and impudent air.
“I believe she is a kitchen maid,” he says, because he saw her slink down that part of the palace once, her arm laden with fruits from the royal garden. The servant nods, stone-faced and impassive. When he returns, the girl is spitting insults.
“You could at least tell me why,” she complains, the cadence of it familiar even if the voice is not. “I was in the middle of something important, y’know.”
She trails off when she sees Cheoljong. She watches him, the same unabashed staring. He thinks then that it must be her rudeness that attracts him. It is familiar as a caress.
“You should bow to your king,” he reminds her, and belatedly she does.
“Your Majesty,” she says. “Why am I here?”
“I should think that is obvious,” he retorts, mostly because he is much too embarrassed to say it out loud.
After all, what other reason could the king have for summoning a kitchen maid to his bedchamber? He tells himself that he will send her away untouched. He just needs to know what it is about her. Why, when he closes his eyes, she lingers so in his mind.
He steps closer, studying her. The face is unremarkable, the hair tied up into braids, the apron unkempt with dried stains of food. In the middle of his inspection she looks up, meeting his gaze boldly, and his stomach does a funny flip.
“Who are you?” Cheoljong asks her, because he can’t stand the fluttering sensations inside him.
“Just a lowly maid, Your Majesty,” she says, but there is no humility in her voice. It sounds almost mocking. Then, she adds: “The rumors must be true, then.”
“Which rumors?” he asks, too enchanted to care about the fact that she, a servant, should not dare to speak unless spoken to.
“That Your Majesty is a total pervert.”
He draws a shuddering breath of air. That is a word that no one in Joseon knows. Not yet, at least. Not in this lifetime.
He grips her arm, probably too tightly, because she whimpers a little.
“Who are you?” he repeats, becoming agitated. “How do you know that word?”
“If I tell you, will you let me go? Or are you bedding all the maids these days?” she huffs. The harsh tone is so like her that tears rise unbidden to his eyes.
“My queen,” he whispers.
She smiles then, and though the mouth is unknown to him, the self-assured smirk of it is not.
“Busted,” she says.
She sneaks closer, folding her body against his like a paper fan snapped closed. She is shorter than Kim Soyong, and her curves rounder, and yet she feels like home in his arms.
“My queen,” Cheoljong says again, because what else can he say? His mind has become blank as water. When she presses her cheek to his heart, she must feel its rapid pulse. “How are you returned to me? Is this a dream?”
“Not a dream,” she whispers, wrapping her arms snugly around his waist. “I made a deal with this girl. She drowned herself too, you know.” She peers up at him, admonishing. “You should offer some kind of mental health care for the women of this palace. They can’t all go jumping into the lake.”
“A deal?” he asks at once, his mind already torn with dire predictions. Of spells ended at midnight. Of awards with too-great costs.
“She wanted a different life, one with choices. And I wanted to be myself. Here. With you.” She shrugs. “I guess I got used to being a woman. And now she gets to be a man in the Republic of Korea, with all the freedom that entails. Win-win.”
“Jang Bong-hwan,” Cheoljong whispers, finally saying the name out loud, the name from the rock. But she shakes her head, grinning a little.
“That name, while very majestic, belongs to a past me. Or,” she adds sheepishly, “a future me, I suppose. You can call me Sobong.”