Mr. Walsh

Early the next morning, in the front courtyard of the inner quarters of a powerful clan's estate. When word came up that the kitchen storeroom door had been open overnight, the head of the house had every servant kneel in the courtyard before dawn. White breath scatters over the frost-covered flagstones, and beneath the eaves stands the steward holding a switch. You are at the very end among the servants, the secret letter wrapped in old silk still hidden deep in the fold of your clothes. Two rows ahead, Minji keeps her head bowed, her shoulders trembling. On the raised hall stands the head of the house, in his late forties, in an impeccable scholar's robe, teacup in hand, looking down at the servants one by one. He does not yet know that the records of how he seized land and purged his political rivals have vanished from within that house. His gaze stops at the end of the line. On you.