Candle to the Devil Chapter 13

[A/N: I really am sorry this chapter took so long. I forgot to tell all of you that I was going on vacation, and after that I’ve been scrambling to look for a new job because my old one cut my hours and has been all around pretty horrid to me so…that’s what’s been happening. I might be moving within the next few months (if all goes well) so I’m going to be pretty busy this latter half of the year. And there’s the whole grad school anxiety and shenanigans as I try and flounder into a semi-stable adult life that is proving far less exciting than people give it credit. But I am going to try and update more than once in a blue moon. I tried to make this chapter a little longer to make up for it.

Enjoy!]

Throughout the Goryeo period, gisaeng held the status of cheonmin, the lowest rank of society. They shared this status with other entertainers, as well as butchers and slaves. Status was hereditary, so the children of a gisaeng were also of cheonmin status, and the daughters automatically became gisaeng as well. Gisaeng could only be released from their position if a hefty price was paid to the government; this could usually only be done by a wealthy patron, typically a high government official. It was not until Western intervention that slavery was outlawed during the Walled Cities period. While no longer slaves, the status of gisaeng did not change dramatically.

The best prospect most gisaeng had for long-term support was through becoming the concubine of a patron. However, even this was not an option unless their patron first purchased them from the state, which few men of the Joseon period could afford.

In addition, most gisaeng had a gibu, or "gisaeng husband," who provided protection and economic support, such as buying them pretty things or granting them social status in return for entertainment. Most gibu were former soldiers, government enforcers, or servants of the royal household. At times, there was friction between would-be customers and possessive gibu, although the gibu was not the gisaeng's husband and had no legal claim to her. The role of the gibu changed over time; at first, many gisaeng in government service had no such patron. However, by the late Joseon dynasty, the gibu system was more or less universal.

Prostitution saw a rise during the Walled Cities Period. Many were unable to afford the cost of living and turned to other, more lucrative methods of survival. The Red Light District of Hanseong was particularly famous, second only to Hong Kong.

            While the Tea House district of the haengsu was much sought after by the ability, the Red Light District provided comforts that the Tea Houses lacked, mainly in the diversity of merchandise.

            Hanseong’s Red Light District was famous—or dare we say infamous—for its male gisaeng houses. The haengsu refused to allow upper-class male establishments on the Tea House streets, but that did not stop those who wished to cash in on this ever-growing commodity. Several high-class male gisaeng houses sprouted up, interspersed between common brothels.

--excerpt from Silk and Saffron: Institutionalized Prostition in Asian Countries by Mei Won.

 Chapter 13

Hanseong Community Theatre

Friday, 9:00pm, May 13^th, 1858

            He hadn’t planned on coming. He’d gone out to pick up some parts that Chanyeol said they needed for one of Jongdae’s machines…and somehow he’d found himself standing in front of the theatre. The windows had been darkened by heavy drapes but the moment he’d walked in the place had been illuminated to the point of brilliance.

            Gas lamps aren’t Korean, he’d thought briefly, as the crowd surged around him and pushed him deeper into the throng. He stared down at the paper mask he’d been given at the entrance and noticed that everyone else inside was wearing theirs. He quickly placed it over his face, the smell of pain and ink overwhelming. He fumbled for a few moments with the hemp chord tie as the crowd heaved around him.

            He wondered how many of these people he’d seen on the streets before. How many had he passed on his way to get some bread the day before yesterday? Somewhere on stage, traditional music was playing. A troupe danced, and the people nearest to them swayed along, laughing. He could smell the faint hint of soju in the air, along with smoke.

            He briefly thought of Chanyeol, worried for him, wondering where he’d gone. Chanyeol wouldn’t think he’d gotten into any trouble, would he? No, Baekhyun had taken to late night walks, this would be normal to Chanyeol by now. He’d never suspect a thing.

            Baekhyun couldn’t stand being in that house. Chanyeol was too friendly with the two Chinese boys. They were different, they shouldn’t be so close. Chanyeol constantly asked him about his knee; Kyungsoo this, Kyungsoo that, medical nonsense and his aggravating optimism that made Baekhyun nauseous.

            And the Chinese…mostly the younger one. He was always watching Baekhyun, as if calculating whether or not he’d been worth saving. The elder one took everything in placid stride, though even he seemed wary of Baekhyun. The younger was always on edge around him. Baekhyun didn’t feel safe. He knew what they had done in the Deadlands. He’d heard Jongdae translating the story for the others. If that boy could crush the skulls of an Afflicted so easily, what could he do to a person?

            He’d have to tell Chanyeol that the sooner they found another place for the Chinese to stay the better. Doctor Do couldn’t possibly be safe living with the two of them.

            The atmosphere seemed to shift, drawing Baekhyun out of his thoughts as the music came to a halt and the crowd’s murmuring became more unified. Several men now stood on the stage, all dressed in traditional hanbok and wearing wooden, painted talchum masks.

            One of the masked figures walked to the center of the stage. He was tall and thin, and the mask he wore was white and green. It matched his hanbok. Good quality, he could see that even from where he stood, fighting to get a glimpse from behind the taller men and their gat in front of him.

            “Welcome, my brothers.” The man in the talchum mask greeted. His voice was lighter than Baekhyun had expected. Young. But it did not seem to lack conviction as he leaned against the podium of sorts they’d erected near the front. “I know it was not easy for all of you to come here tonight.”

            The crowd had grown quiet, listening. “But the life we now live is not easy either. Your bravery in appearing here tonight shows me and my compatriots that there is some fight left in our people. You know that the only way we can reclaim what belongs to us is through our own actions and for that, I commend you.”

            The crowd murmured in agreement.

“For too long we have allowed ourselves to be invaded and ruled. Our military is weak. Our government is weak. Our emperor is weak. Our country is weak.”

            The crowd rumbled in agreement, a single churning mass of suppressed rage. Baekhyun moved with it, throat tight and skin prickling. His chest constricted and he wasn’t sure if it was pride or terror.

            The murmuring quieted as the figure on stage held up his hand.

            “A weak country cannot survive the perils we face. We will fall either to the hunger of the West or the Afflicted.”

            “The immigrants bring the disease with them!” Someone shouted somewhere to Baekhyun’s left.

            The crowd yelled their agreement.

            “Kill the Chinese dogs!”

            “Send them to face the Afflicted!”

            “Let them die in their own country!”

            The speaker nodded. “Brothers, I understand your anger. The Chinese are an open sore. One that will continue to fester until we find a way to stop it. Joseon’s lesions are many. The Chinese. The British. Our own ignorant government. First we must drain the puss.” His empty-eyed stare scanned the crowd and seemed to land on Baekhyun.

            His chest tightened painfully.

            “And then we cauterize the wound with fire.”

            Though the crowd roared with agreement and the house shook from its very eaves, all Baekhyun could hear was the soft click and whir of his metal knee.

Baggerby and Green, Haeju

Friday, 2:34pm, May 13^th, 1858

            “Get back to work!” One of the foremen shouted, hand on the pistol at his hip. “We don’t have all day!”

            Wu Fan wiped the sweat soaking his forehead and looked out across the yard. The small group had been unloading Baggerby and Green’s latest cargo, but they’d begun to lag behind as the afternoon wore on. When the men slowed, the foremen always became antsy…and they’d sent Wu Fan into the thick of it to keep order while the rest of them sat in the shade and “supervised” from afar.

            He headed back to where the rest of the foremen sat and grabbed one of the water canteens to take a drink.

            “The riots are finally stopping, aren’t they?”

            “The police can’t handle anything, I thought they’d hire us to take care of business.”

            “It’s all because of that Kim Jongdae.”

            “We didn’t find a body, but chances are the fool ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

            Wu Fan suddenly seemed to find the canteen very interesting. He stared down at it and tried not to make eye contact with the other foremen. Not that it mattered; they never talked to him anyway. Still, the last thing he wanted was for them to notice how on edge he was.

            He’d been like this ever since he’d first seen the two Chinese workers. The fact that they hadn’t found either of them and the newspaper editor that was housing them had escaped as well made it hard to sleep at night.

            Every day he awoke wondering if he was going to be found out…and if he would suffer the fate that had awaited Kim Jongdae. He’d been properly lectured and chastised when neither Kim Jongdae or the two Chinese workers had shown up, even though he’d been assigned to the task of “taking care of it”. He’d had two months’ pay docked as a result. He’d hoped that was the end of it.

            “Hey you,” A stout man in the garb of the Baggerby and Green clerks pointed at him, jerking his head toward the main buildings. “Mr. Heath is waiting for you.”

            Wu Fan’s stomach plummeted, and he was left with an odd light-headedness. This was it. Somehow Mr. Heath had found out that Wu Fan had lied. He was going to have him killed. They’re going to give my cat to Jack. He’s going to kill it. He didn’t know why that was the thought that came most to mind, only that as he walked mechanically toward his doom he was more worried for the stupid kitten than himself. I haven’t even given it a name.

            Perhaps he’d lived in fear of this moment for so long that it was a relief to have it finally end, even if it meant the end of his own life. No, that couldn’t be true. He was far too selfish for that. I can only look out for one person in this life, and that is myself. If I die, it all becomes pointless.

            Mr. Heath looked up when he entered and seemed relatively cheerful for a man about to send Wu Fan to his death. A bottle of whiskey sat on the edge of his desk, and he smiled over the paperwork he’d been signing. “Just the man I wanted to see. How are you doing Kris?”

            “Well,” Wu Fan began warily.

            “I got a message from the Headquarters in London and news has been rather positive, despite our recent setbacks. They said not to worry about a few yellow-faced bastards publishing newspapers. The poor can’t read anyway.”

            Wu Fan nodded stoically, pushing down the anger. He’d gotten good at that. It seemed Mr. Heath hadn’t brought Wu Fan to be punished, so what was his intent?

            “I called you in here to discuss a new project that I’d like you to supervise.” Mr. Heath continued, going back to the paperwork on his desk. “You’re the only one that can talk to these blasted Chinese dogs. The other foremen won’t learn the language. Useless sots, all of them.”

            You won’t learn it either, he thought, but once again remained silent.

            “We’re making a second track. The nobles are complaining about the immigrant smell. They say you can smell it all the way from first class.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Some more ships are due next week.”

            Wu Fan stared at him. Something noxious and dark twisted in his stomach. They wanted him to send more to their deaths. Hundreds, possibly thousands. More men like Zhang Yixing and his brother who would trust him because he was also Chinese, who would stare at him with those same eyes filled with fear and hatred before they were abandoned. “No.” He said it before he knew what he was doing, as if someone else were speaking through him.

He felt a hint of regret, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but shut it. No…he wasn’t going to do this anymore.

Mr. Heath had stopped signing his papers. He eyed Wu Fan over the rim of his reading glasses. “Excuse me?”

“I quit.” It felt like he wasn’t in control of himself anymore, and yet he seemed to have more power over his own fate now than he had his entire life. He’d thought about quitting so many times but he’d always talked himself out of it. He needed to survive. He needed money. There was no time to worry about ethics and morals. So why did he suddenly care?

Perhaps it had all eaten away at him until he could no longer deny that nothing was worth killing all of those people, not even his own security.

            Mr. Heath gazed at him long and hard. “I’m going to give you one chance to take that back.”

            But he felt braver now. “I quit. I’ll collect my wages and leave before the night is out.” He turned on his heel and didn’t look back. He felt lightheaded. What had he just done? Where would he go? No, he knew what he would do. He’d been planning this in his head for a long while now. He hadn’t given the fiery, self-righteous speech he’d planned, but this would suffice.

            He wasn’t the type to make those speeches anyway.

Beulli ing-eo, Hanseong

Friday, 8:26pm, May 13^th, 1858

            The coach rolled to stop and Kyungsoo knew where he was even before the door was opened. The smell was enough. Heavy alcohol and perfumed smoke.

            The Red Light District.

            This was not the Tea House District, where the haengsu lived, entertaining the wealthy and noble. This was where the common man came to rut. There were no soft-spoken meetings or exchanges of poetry. Only alcohol and flesh.

            The woman sitting beside him, who had introduced herself as Jinri, fidgeted nervously and watched him. She was obviously embarrassed to have brought him here, but the desperation with which she had pleaded with him told him that whoever this Kai was, he was important to her.

He alighted the coach with Jinri in tow and found himself standing at the entrance of a brothel called Beullu ing-eo. It looked nicer than he thought it would, as Jinri hurried him inside and waved off the armed men that stood at the front, demanding payment from those on the streets.

There was a large courtyard inside, and a few groups of men and women were sitting at candle-lit tables, or dancing drunkenly on verandas. Jinri led him past them and down a darkened path, away from the main house and towards what Kyungsoo assumed were the gisaeng’s living quarters.

A few half-clothed women stood in the hallway, and more than a few men. Kyungsoo averted his gaze, even as he tried to nod in greeting. “Come on, he’s down here.” Jinri tugged on his sleeve. The gisaeng watched them as they passed.

The hallways were quite mazelike, and it was hard for Kyungsoo to keep track of how many times they’d turned or how many stairs they’d gone up. Finally he found himself standing in the doorway of a large suite. “He’s inside.” Jinri nodded her head and ducked back down the hall, leaving Kyungsoo alone.

The sliding bamboo door and been pushed aside, and the entryway was instead covered in red silk curtains. He held his bag in one hand and pushed the curtains apart with the other. The suite was a menagerie of clothes, trinkets, and furniture. Some of it was haphazardly stacked upon tables or draped over cushions, and it all smelled heavily of red wine and roses.

On a raised dais was the bed, and on the bed was a man that Kyungsoo had not expected to see. He stared, and was met with the half-lidded gaze and smirk he’d become so used to over the past few months.

“Surprised?”

Kyungsoo swallowed back a “yes” and busied himself with his bag. “I’ll need to check your pulse.” He placed his bag on the bed and sat next to it, far enough on the edge that he wasn’t touching Jongin at all. He gripped Jongin’s hand lightly, fingers resting against his wrist.

Jongin watched him intently. He had expected something more. A bit of a reaction. But Kyungsoo had recovered from his shock and hid it beneath a thin layer of professionalism. He wouldn’t look Jongin in the eyes.

Kyungsoo dropped his hand a moment later and it fell against the silken sheets like a discarded cigarette butt. Jongin felt his chest tighten. Kyungsoo had turned to search through his bag again. And with his back to him, Jongin panicked.

            “What is there to look down upon? What is there to regret? That I am free? That I can buy anything that catches my fancy and wear it without fearing propriety? That women and men lust after me and I can have my pick of them?”

Kyungsoo glanced back at him, wide eyes curious. His face really did betray everything.

Jongin swallowed. “You’re right. I must live a dreadfully horrid life. If only I had not been a prostitute. Then I could have been a beggar. Or a butcher. Or one of those immigrants working in the Deadlands. Woe is me, the courtesan.”

Kyungsoo gave a small laugh, and his eyes said is that all? As if Jongin had just uttered a badly delivered line at a theatre. You’ve amounted to only this? And it hurt, because he didn’t know if those were Kyungsoo’s true thoughts or what he was creating in his own mind. Because part of him wanted the scorn. It didn’t make sense for anyone to be that accepting. It wasn’t natural. Kyungsoo was as selfish and flawed as Jongin, wasn’t he? “There is nothing wrong with what I do.”

Kyungsoo placed the stethoscope in his ears and met Jongin’s gaze for the first time. “Then why does it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

He wasn’t sure if it was the look or the cold of the stethoscope against his chest that took his breath away. “Because I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m disgusting.”

“I think you’re sick. You have a fever.” Kyungsoo cocked his head to the side. “Breathe in for me. Slowly.”

Jongin found himself obeying silently and he wondered if Kyungsoo could hear how rapidly his heart was beating. They stayed this way for several minutes, the quiet broken only by Kyungsoo’s soft, “breathe in, breathe out. Again.” He finally placed his stethoscope back in his bag and grabbed for something else.  “I’ve treated prostitutes before,” he spoke lightly, and it caught Jongin off guard.

“That doesn’t seem very likely for an Oxford graduate.” Jongin sneered, haughty, because he would not appear ill at ease in front of Kyungsoo, not when he had brought all of this upon himself.

Kyungsoo paused in his search before resuming. The British tended to find Koreans dirty and diseased, Oxford graduate or no. He’d had to make money and practice just like the other students only he wasn’t allowed to touch anyone above him. So he’d worked on those that no one else would touch. He wouldn’t say that though, not to Kai. Perhaps he would have told Jongin. But not Kai. He had his own pride that was already being stripped from him piece by piece. He had to keep some of it intact. “When was your last encounter?”

“Hm?” A soft drawl, slurred from alcohol and fever alike.

            “The last time you engaged in sexual intercourse.”

            Jongin wasn’t sure if Kyungsoo was insulting him or not. But he’d held his bravado this long. There was no point in caving in now. “Last night.”

            “How many?” Kyungsoo’s voice was too professional, too removed. It didn’t fit him.

            “…four…” Jongin sounded almost ashamed.

            “Were these partners regular customers? Did they seem unwell?”

            “Why are you asking?”

            “There are several diseases spread through sexual intercourse.” You know this. Everyone knows. “So we need to rule out those before we can move on to another diagnosis.”

            “I don’t have a disease.”

            “Any swellings?” Kyungsoo reached for Jongin’s robe, ignoring his words. This was not how this was supposed to be. It felt wrong as he checked Jongin’s neck. He tried to keep his gaze trained on his shoulder and not the collarbone that dipped dangerously or the silk that slid off like water. Even if he hadn’t been given a disease, there were plenty of viruses that he could have picked up from a sick client.

            “You don’t like what I am.”

            “I don’t like dishonesty.” Kyungsoo answered curtly. And it was partially true.

            “Would you have spoken to me if I had told you what I was?” No one is that pure. That inherently good. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to hurt him. He was ashamed of himself and the way Kyungsoo looked at him, condemning and understanding all at once. No. He didn’t want this. Kyungsoo needed to feel the way he did. Because the only way he could live was if he brought Kyungsoo down to his level and made him just as dirty, bitter, and defiled.

            “At least then I would have known what to expect.” Kyungsoo answered softly.

            “Ah.” Jongin gave a soft laugh. “Don’t tell me you started to fall for me? I don’t know if you could afford to keep a mistress. And your high and mighty morals wouldn’t allow for it, even if your accounts did.” And there was a whisper of a plea for acceptance. He watched Kyungsoo intently, because he wanted just a flicker of a chance that Kyungsoo felt the same. That he had thought of it.

            Because Jongin would have accepted without a second thought.

            But the only thing in Kyungsoo’s eyes were tears. He hurriedly wiped them away and his smile was professional and terrifying. He reached for his bag and for a moment Jongin thought he would bolt. But he simply pulled something out of it and headed back toward the bed.

“You’ll be fine.” Kyungsoo placed the bottle of pills on the table to his left. “Take this twice a day with a full glass of water. It will help reduce the fever.”

            “How much?”

            “Don’t worry about it.” Kyungsoo slipped on his coat. All this time, Jongin had made him play the fool. Had he come to the train station to pick up a client, only to pick up Kyungsoo by mistake? It made sense, the way Jongin had been so genuinely surprised at Kyungsoo’s words that night. He’d thought Kyungsoo was a rich patron. He had been completely duped.

            “I don’t need your charity. I can afford this.” Jongin already had Kyungsoo’s scorn. He didn’t need his pity.

            Kyungsoo had stood, ignoring Jongin’s words as he headed for the door. “I don’t need your money. The pills aren’t that expensive.” Kyungsoo paused at the doorway. “If other symptoms present themselves, be sure to make an appointment. There is a clinic near the University for medical students. They’ll treat you.” I don’t think I can do this again.

            “I can’t come looking for you?” And there was a vulnerability behind the scorn. A vulnerability that Kyungsoo pretended he didn’t notice because if he gave in, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

            “It’s troublesome.” He didn’t know what he was feeling right now—or how he was supposed to feel. Humiliated? Angry? He needed to get out of there, to distance himself from the situation so he could properly think about it.

            And with that, he fled.

Geum-eocho Street, Hanseong

Friday, 10:12pm, May 13^th, 1858

“Wǎn.”

Chanyeol stared at the object that Yixing motioned toward. He gave a small nod and repeated, “wǎn.”

Yixing nodded with a pleased smile. Chanyeol grinned and pointed back at the bowl, “Geuleus.”

It had taken around three hours, but Chanyeol was proud to say that he had learned the Chinese word for almost every single item found within a kitchen. Yixing was a patient teacher, and he enjoyed learning the Korean in turn. Zitao was a bit more taciturn, but he begrudgingly practiced along with them and pointed out when Chanyeol pronounced things incorrectly.

Until Jongdae arrived and they began their newspaper in earnest, Chanyeol had been left with little to do. He’d found himself visiting Yixing and Zitao more often, especially since all Baekhyun wanted to do was go exploring. The other Korean man was secretive about where he went, and he said he didn’t like it when Chanyeol tagged along in his Western clothes.

It seemed as if the stronger his knee got, the more cantankerous he became. He was like a bear just come out of hibernation, and Chanyeol planned on giving him space. But that left him with very few people to talk to, especially since Kyungsoo was always off at the university or holed up in his laboratory in the basement.

There was only Yixing and Zitao, whose Korean was minimal at best. He’d decided to remedy that and brush up on his Chinese at the same time. So far it was going swimmingly. They’d worked on greetings the first day, and how to introduce yourself. After that they’d decided to stick to sets of objects…and today’s lesson had found them sitting at the kitchen table.

Yixing had just been about to tell Chanyeol the Chinese word for cup when he spotted Zitao tearing off the second wing of the Cornish game hen they’d made for supper. He frowned, “You had the first one, put that down.”

“But the wings are the best.” Zitao whined.

Chanyeol watched the two argue over the rim of his teacup. He thought Zitao was cute, despite how rigid he always seemed. If he stopped scowling so often he might even seem approachable. The strong façade Zitao wore faded quickly when his brother scolded him. He returned to being a petulant child, and was currently pouting while Yixing took the chicken wing out of his hand and placed it back on the plate.

Chanyeol reached over and grabbed the wing, “Dalg nalgae.” He took a bite and grinned as Zitao’s frown deepened and he let out a dramatic sigh.

Yixing opened his mouth to tell Chanyeol the Chinese word when they heard the front door open. Chanyeol turned with a grin, “Baekhyun, you’re back.”

Baekhyun paused near the table and held up a burlap sack. “Here’s the things you asked for.”

“The market closed a few hours ago, didn’t it?” Chanyeol smiled, opening the sack, “What else did you do today?”

“Sorry not all of us can move as quickly as you.” Baekhyun snapped.

Chanyeol blinked, taken aback at the outburst. “I wasn’t—”

“Even if I wasn’t a cripple, you don’t need to know where I was. It’s my life.”

Chanyeol’s confused smile turned into a frown. Baekhyun was staring down at him, fists clenched and chin jutted out in defiance, as if he were merely waiting for Chanyeol to fight back so he could take a swing at him. “…sorry.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Continue your little Chinese tea party.” Baekhyun huffed, whirling around. He stalked out of the kitchen toward the door, footsteps heavy. Chanyeol, Yixing, and Zitao remained silent, though Zitao looked like he wanted to say something. 

They heard the door open a few moments later and a muffled conversation before the door slammed shut. Kyungsoo appeared in the doorway, shrugging off his coat.

“Hey Kyung, how was work?”

Kyungsoo turned to him distractedly. “Ah, sorry. What did you ask?”

Chanyeol’s frown deepened. “I asked about your work.” He wondered why Kyungsoo hadn’t asked about Baekhyun, because he’d obviously met him on the way out. But Kyungsoo didn’t seem to be focused on much of anything. He was still holding his jacket, as if he’d expected the coat rack to be in the kitchen.

“It was fine.” It didn’t look like it had been fine.

“Are you hungry?”

“No. No, I’m going down to the laboratory to work for a bit” Kyungsoo waved him off absently and stalked down the hallway, leaving the three men to sit in confused silence.

Sunkyungkwan University, Hanseong

Saturday, 12:10pm, May 14^th, 1858

            Oh Seyoung checked her reflection in the hallway window outside of the professors’ offices and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Somehow it had gotten out of the coif she’d had her maid style earlier that morning. Gayong never seemed to do anything right. She would probably end up telling mother where Seyoung had snuck off to and she’d be sent to bed without dinner.

            But it didn’t matter, not if she got to see Doctor Do.

            She placed her hands to her cheeks and smiled to herself. She hadn’t been able to forget him since her father’s dinner party. He’d been so kind, so courteous, so handsome. There were so many things she’d wanted to ask him that night, but etiquette dictated she wasn’t to speak at the table.

            This time though, without her pesky meddling father, she’d be able to talk to him properly! She’d made sure to dress in her finest gown from London. She wondered how out of fashion it was…Doctor Do had been on par with the elite of the ton…surely he would know if her dress was from an old season…oh why hadn’t she worn a hanbok instead? She’d wanted to show off her knowledge of England but she was just going to make herself look like a fool.

            She bit her lip and considered turning around. She made it halfway before she bumped into a student coming the opposite direction. “Oh!” She stumbled, but the young man caught her and righted her before she could trip up in her hoop skirts.

            She nodded her head in thanks, “Thank you, my lord,” she looked up at her savior and blinked. He was smartly dressed, and handsome in an almost ethereal way…like the elves in the picture books her little sister read. His eyes were large and dark—like Doctor Do’s—but his expression was one of bemusement. Doctor Do would have fussed over her and asked if she were alright. This boy simply stared.

            Uncultured couth.

            “The only women allowed on campus are the maids and cooks, and you seem a bit too upper class for drudgery work.” The boy leaned against the wall and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

            Seyoung pursed her lips. Should she ask this man for help? There weren’t many other options…even if this boy had a strange accent. “Excuse me, do you know where I can find Doctor Do?”

            The young man seemed taken aback, “Why do you need to see Doctor Do?”

            “Do you know him?” Seyoung brightened.

            “We’ve had tea once or twice.” The foreign boy answered, “He hasn’t been on campus since last night. He doesn’t have classes today, so he’s probably at home.”

            “What?” Seyong practically wailed. All of this for nothing? She’d be punished and she hadn’t even seen her doctor! “He won’t be here at all today?”

            “No. He’s—”

            “Oh Seyoung, what are you doing?”

            Seyoung froze, wide-eyed as her older brother stalked down the hallway toward her, his permanent scowl even more prominent. “I…I was…”

            “She was looking for Doctor Do,” The foreign man grinned, “Our professor seems to be quite popular with the ladies.”

            Sehun didn’t bother to spare Luhan a passing glance. He grabbed his sister’s arm. “You are going home right now. Where is Gayong?”

            “She’s at home.” Seyoung pulled her arm out of his grasp and pouted. “Why are you always so mean? I just came here to talk to Doctor Do.”

            “It isn’t proper.”

            “I don’t care what’s proper! You’re just a big bully!” Seyoung cried out, fleeing down the hallway with a last sob and a curse, “You’re horrible Sehun!”

            Sehun watched his sister turn another corner and storm off and gave a sigh. The last thing he’d expected to see was his sister cajoling with Luhan of all people. His eyes narrowed as he turned to the Chinese student. “Stay away from my sister.”

            Luhan didn’t seem to find it necessary to inform Sehun that Seyoung had spoken to him of her own volition. “I’m surprised you’re awake enough to feel protective. I thought you’d sleep in after that rousing speech last night at the theatre.”

            Sehun paused. “You were there.”

            Luhan continued to smile. “Your anonymity works both ways, I’m afraid.”

            “It won’t take long to root out the weeds.” Sehun snapped back. “You should return to Beijing now.”

            “I don’t intend to go anywhere.” Luhan answered smoothly. “I like Hanseong, and the last I checked, I was allowed to be here.”

            “That will change soon enough.” Sehun managed, swallowing back a curse. He couldn’t let Luhan rile him. Luhan enjoyed making him angry…it was time he did the same thing. He’d never seen the other man do anything except smirk. It was time to wipe that expression from his face.

            “I heard the reason you came here was to look for your mother. There’s a rumor that she’s Korean.”

            Luhan’s eyes narrowed.

            Sehun felt his own smirk forming. “The great Marquis of Beijing had an affair with a Korean noblewoman—or was she a prostitute? The details of the rumor are rather hazy.”

            He saw Luhan’s jaw tighten and his kit-gloved hands curl into fists. He wondered if he’d take a swing at him. He was itching for a fight. Instead, Luhan took a deep breath and nodded his head in a cold goodbye.

            “But even though half of your blood is Korean, the Chinese part of you makes it impossible for you to be accepted here.”

“A word of advice,” Luhan paused in his exit. “The leaders of a revolution rarely survive. The people will turn on you. You’re the son of Lord Oh. What makes you think you’ll be safe from their wrath?”

            “I am different than my father. I’m not one of them.” Sehun spat.

“You wear British clothes made on British machines and you preach French philosophy.” Luhan eyed Sehun coolly. “You cannot escape the West, you only make a fool and a hypocrite of yourself.”

“You know nothing!”

“I know exactly what you’re doing and you’re going to incite a rebellion that will destroy us all. The British are not the enemy you should be facing now.”

“They are always the enemy!” And so are you.

“There are dead walking outside our walls.” Luhan’s voice trembled. “And you want to create more? Grow up, Oh Sehun. Before it’s too late.”

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