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Chapter 1
The illegitimate daughter of the Minister of the Central Secretariat—said to be so weak that even a passing bird could knock her down—was more widely known by her nicknames “Fool” and “Eight-Month Wretch” than by her given name, Soran.
“They say no matter how harsh the insult, she only grins like a fool.”
“She’s supposed to be the Minister’s daughter, yet her lot is worse than that of his household maids.”
Whenever two people gathered, they whispered about her.
“Of course. She was born to one of the main wife’s handmaids. Imagine how that proud Lady Munhyeon must have been wounded.”
“Her mother fled, leaving the child to endure such cruelty alone. Tsk, tsk. They say she rises earlier than the maids, and sleeps later than the maids.”
“I saw her the other day, claiming to run errands. Her appearance was so shabby, I never would’ve guessed she was the Minister’s daughter.”
“I saw her too. She bowed with that silly grin. Good heavens, what’s there to smile about? That’s why she’s called Fool.”
“Born before ten full months were up… of course she must be lacking, lacking in every way.”
A man clicked his tongue, lowered his voice, and glanced around.
“For the mistress to have tormented the handmaid so much that she couldn’t even carry to term… it’s obvious enough.”
“And they say the Minister himself pretends she doesn’t exist?”
At that, the man cut himself short, glancing sidelong at the palace where the queen resided.
“Well, it makes sense.”
Everyone nodded in grim agreement. After all, Lady Munhyeon was the queen’s elder sister, and the Minister’s power came entirely from her. It was only natural he dared not oppose her.
And so, the Minister’s illegitimate daughter hauled laundry in midwinter and stoked fires in midsummer. Mocked and abused, she never complained—always smiling, always grinning. It was no wonder the name “Fool” clung to her.
“Hey, Fool.”
“Yes, sister.”
Soran dropped her broom and ran when Sehwa called, lest she be scolded for dawdling. Looking up with her round eyes, she smiled.
“Did you call me, sister?”
“How many times must I tell you? You’re no sister of mine. You’re just a maid in this house.”
Sehwa kicked off her embroidered shoe and flung it straight at Soran.
“Ah!”
The shoe struck her cheek. Soran hunched her shoulders instinctively.
“So slow. What, did that hurt?”
Soran quickly shook her head.
“No.”
If she admitted pain, harsher words—or even no supper—would surely follow.
“Then smile. Or people will think I’m bullying you.”
“Yes, si—…” Soran swallowed the word sister and instead grinned, bending to pick up the fallen shoe. A delicate blossom was embroidered in red over pink silk.
“Hehe.”
“Clean it before I go out today. If I see even a speck of dust, you’ll regret it.”
“…Yes.”
With her eyes crinkled in a docile smile, Soran returned to work.
Only when Sehwa disappeared inside did she let out a long sigh and slump onto the steps, brushing the dust from the shoe.
The words she feared most in the world were: No supper for you tonight.
Once, when she was very young, she had longed for her father’s love. When she discovered she was not an orphan, but the daughter of the great Minister, her heart had leapt.
I have a father!
For days she lingered before his hall, until at last she caught sight of him leaving work.
Little Soran, her face flushed, gazed up at him with shining, pebble-bright eyes.
That’s him. My father—the man who gave me life!
But when their eyes met, the Minister simply turned away, indifferent as if looking at a stranger.
No hug. No kind word. Not even a warm glance. That tiny wish had been too much.
From that day on, Soran stopped expecting, stopped hoping.
“I’m all right, madam,” she told Paju with a brave smile.
The older maid clucked her tongue.
“Those who do evil will meet heaven’s punishment. Mark my words.”
Heaven’s punishment… Soran did not dare hope for that. She only wished her own life might be a little less hard.
Three meals a day. The chance to sleep soundly.
And perhaps—nurungji.
The thought lit her eyes. White rice was a luxury far beyond her, but scorched rice? Even that simple food felt like happiness.
Crispy when dry, savory when boiled, delicious even when cold—nurungji was her dearest wish.
Whenever Lady Munhyeon ordered her to bed hungry, Pajudaek would sneak some into her blankets. Chewing it in the dead of night, even her loneliness eased.
One day, Paju whispered:
“Go to the kitchen. There’s nurungji left in the cauldron—”
But before Soran could move, a sharp voice cut in:
“So, here you are.”
Lady Munhyeon approached, her face like stone. Soran’s smile faltered.
“How long do you mean to dawdle? There’s a wedding to prepare for, and you idle as if your life were leisure.”
“A… wedding?” Soran blinked, startled.
“Whose wedding…?”
“Whose do you think? Yours, of course.”
“Eh…?”
The shoe slipped from her hand in shock. Just then, Sehwa stormed from the room.
“Fool! How dare you throw my shoe? No supper for you tonight!”
Soran looked down at her trembling fingers. Why had her strength failed her now? She lowered her head, already knowing she would once again owe Paju.
Crispy when dry, savory when boiled, delicious even when cold—nurungji was her only comfort.
Meanwhile…
“A marriage, you said?”
Quo Qin , lifting a teacup, froze and turned toward his father. Once, the man had seemed like a tiger. Now, he was gaunt, diminished.
“Yes.”
“So, you mean I am to marry the Minister’s illegitimate daughter?”
“Yes.”
Misfortune, after all, never came alone.
