Chapter 12
It was the bluish hour before dawn.
When morning comes, one can finally extinguish the lamps that had been burning all night. For that reason alone, Ilip always awaited this time.
Was it a nightmare? Or, since he saw his mother again even if only in a dream, should he call it a sweet dream instead?
Ilip, waking from his trance-like sleep, could not easily open his eyes. In the blink of darkness that came with closing and opening his eyes, he saw it again—the palace, the very place where one’s limbs could be torn apart.
Dozing lightly was familiar to him, and so was the habit of inspecting food and drink with caution. Yet the other day, what recklessness had led him to drink the decoction a strange woman handed him?
Was he truly so desperate to survive in this hell?
In the faint lamplight, between shallow breaths, he could still taste the medicine he had swallowed that day lingering on his tongue.
“I remember now.”
Ilip pushed his exhausted body upright and brushed back his damp bangs, soaked in cold sweat.
“The scent of that decoction—it was the same as the one Mother gave me.”
Memory always returned without warning, and in an instant, in the most secretive ways. The scent stirred through his mind, and with it came suspicion.
Though no one was nearby to hear, Ilip muttered to himself,
“How could that fragrance exist here, in this foreign land…?”
He hastily searched at his bedside for his pipe. White smoke filled his lungs and swept through his clouded mind.
“Su-o!”
Ilip called to Su-o, who had been lightly dozing in the next room. As if waiting, Su-o appeared holding a scroll. Ilip deliberately shoved a teacup from the desk, letting it crash to the ground. Even the faint flame of the oil lamp toppled with it, rolling and dying out.
As Ilip intended, Su-o carefully unrolled the scroll across the desk. Even before the parchment lay flat, Ilip’s eyes narrowed.
“This was sent by an eunuch we bribed inside the imperial palace. We can’t trust it completely, but the general positions should be correct.”
“‘Generally correct’…? Such vague words are troublesome.”
“My apologies, Your Highness. The man is greedy for wealth, but he wouldn’t risk lying outright.”
“Hm.”
What spread before them was a map of the Hoan Empire’s imperial palace. Vast and imposing, the palace sprawled grandly. The map marked the names of each hall, and some even showed hidden passageways—proof that their source enjoyed a certain level of imperial trust.
“The emperor has countless consorts,” Su-o reported, “but the ones of true significance are Noble Consort Jeong, Consort Im, and Consort Gong.”
“And Noble Consort Jeong’s power?”
“Solid. Her family’s outside influence can move the military, and with that, she enjoys strong imperial favor.”
Ilip studied the map in silence, his eyes shifting cautiously as though he were placing pieces on a game board.
“Consort Im and Consort Gong belong to the Empress Dowager’s faction. That would mean…”
Ilip’s gaze settled on one spot. Su-o promptly answered,
“The Cold Palace. Lady Heo resides there. She is said to be ill. She long ago lost the emperor’s favor, and rumors of madness keep anyone in the palace from even mentioning her name.”
It was a small, desolate dwelling at the very edge of the palace grounds, farthest from both power and eyes.
“Does Lady Heo have a daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then the flower to be transplanted into Gyeonryung’s harem will be taken from the Cold Palace. I can no longer afford to fatten the stomachs of Queen Consort Park’s relatives. For a disposable piece, she’ll do.”
Ilip’s voice as he said this carried a note of resignation, tinged with loneliness—something only Su-o, standing near, could perceive.
“Yes.”
Though Su-o answered simply, Ilip’s gaze was already fixed on the frozen flower dwelling in the Cold Palace.
“The banquet is tonight?”
“Yes, but… Your Highness has only just managed to rise. Will you truly be able to attend?”
“Prepare the incense. I can’t go reeking of medicine.”
Su-o bowed heavily, his eyes falling upon the man before him, thinking of the cruel weight he carried upon his shoulders.
Before dawn fully broke, with faint moonlight still lingering, the needle in Yeo-ro’s raised hand caught a glimmer.
She was sewing deep into the night. Though the lamp flame quivered with the smallest breath, Yeo-ro’s hands moved busily. As silver thread passed over indigo silk, the outline of a jacket gradually took shape.
But she had little talent for needlework. Her fingertips trembled. She feared she might ruin the precious silk she had struggled to obtain, yet she couldn’t dare disobey the order given by the Empress Dowager. Between fear of failure and duty, her heart wavered.
Then—
“Ah!”
The needle pricked her finger. Yeo-ro hurriedly set down the indigo silk. If blood stained the fine fabric, it would be a disaster.
She pressed her bleeding fingertip to her lips, swallowing the metallic tang of blood. Just then, a draft slipped in through the window.
Even in midsummer, the dawn air was chilly. Yeo-ro rose to close the window, worried the breeze might disturb her mother’s sleep.
At that moment, her ankle tugged taut.
“Ah…”
She sighed upon noticing the shabby cloth tying her ankle. It was the cord binding her to her mother—so she wouldn’t wander in the night dew again. They had grown so accustomed to sleeping tied together that she sometimes forgot and stumbled like this.
Carefully loosening it, Yeo-ro shut the window. The sounds of palace servants shuffling and leaves rustling in the breeze cut off sharply.
She gazed quietly at her mother’s peacefully sleeping face, then let out a small sigh before returning to her work with the indigo silk.
The jacket’s form was now apparent. All that was left was to tie off the knots. She clipped the thread’s end and lifted the finished indigo jacket into the air.
Most likely, Noble Consort Jeong would contrive excuses not to wear such a garment to the banquet. In the end, it would be discarded. The thought left Yeo-ro’s heart aching with quiet sorrow.
She did not entrust the task to Yu-so or any other servant, but instead carried it herself to Noble Consort Jeong’s residence.
The palace attendants, seeing her scurrying with a bundle, paid little attention. They were used to it—life in the Cold Palace was shabby, and few wanted to go there, so Yeo-ro often busied herself with such errands.
Arriving, she cleared her throat and requested a court lady, “Please inform Noble Consort Jeong of my presence.”
But the maids ignored her, pretending not to hear.
Ah, it’s starting again.
Yeo-ro resigned herself and stood waiting until the sun rose. The scorching sunlight burned her black hair and seared her back, but she did not move. This was just another of the consort’s cruel games.
“Well, well—though you come from the Cold Palace, you are still the emperor’s princess. How dare these wretches treat you so discourteously?”
Noble Consort Jeong finally emerged, stretching with a long yawn, her tone lazy. The servants didn’t cower; instead, they snickered at Yeo-ro.
“It is my fault, Consort. I did not know your waking hour and committed an offense. Please forgive me and accept this humble gift.”
Yeo-ro bowed meekly, holding out her bundle. Jeong glanced at it with a smirk.
“Oh? So you did manage to obtain Gyeonryung silk after all?”
She ordered a servant to take the bundle and open it. Seeing the neatly folded jacket inside, she let out a short breath, the corners of her lips curling upward.
“The stitching is atrocious. How am I supposed to attend the banquet in this?”
“I apologize. Since it was for you, I dared not entrust it to the servants and made it myself, but…”
“Well, regardless, a promise with Her Majesty the Empress has been kept. As the elder, I suppose I must show generosity.”
Relieved, Yeo-ro swallowed her gratitude. But before she could speak, Jeong clacked her nails on the armrest to summon a maid.
“Then I shall bestow a gift upon you in return.”
The smile on her face made chills run down Yeo-ro’s spine
