Candle to the Devil / Chapter 7

Chapter 7

While many prominent and notable men lived during the Walled City Period, none can deny the impact made by Lord Luo Lang the Marquis of Beijing. Known commonly as the Savior of China, he kept the country afloat while Korea rose as a prominent Asian power.

Map of Peking/Beijing

As China began to flounder in the wake of the Afflicted, it was the Marquis that maintained order and helped establish the walled cities that later prospered. He set up the new governmental system that ran the walled cities, regulated a new sewage system, and was the major force behind the implementation of the telegraph lines that connected China. He also put down several racial cleansing campaigns by the Han Chinese against the smaller ethnic groups. 

Half of China’s revenue during the Walled City Period is attributed to Beijing, the second largest city within China and the capital. It was the pinnacle of China’s power, opposed only by the British-established Hong Kong. While the British dictated Chinese rule through their own capital, the Chinese looked to Beijing for direction and in turn, to Lord Luo Lang. 

--excerpt from Heroes of the Walled City Period by Han Guo

                                                                                             

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Friday, 7:12am, April 1st, 1858

“…you were crying last night.”

Yixing’s brow furrowed and he glanced over at his younger brother. Zitao was watching him earnestly. He’d just awoken, and had been trying to collect his thoughts when his brother had spoken in his soft Chinese.

“Just a nightmare.” Yixing answered, stretching a little. His brother’s hair was hanging in front of his face, is eyes unreadable.

“…do you hate me?”

Yixing blinked. “What?” Something twisted in his gut.

“For killing our mother.”

I did. I hated you so much. I’m so so sorry. “It isn’t your fault. Mother was all water and you’re wood. You needed to grow.” The answer was mechanic. They’d had this conversation before, more than once, but the sick anxiety that coursed through him never eased. “You know—”

“You always tell me that. You and Auntie Fong. She always said if I had been fire the water would have killed me instead.” He didn’t want to say that oftentimes he wished he had died. Then their father wouldn’t have hated him so much. “…but people aren’t made out of wood or fire or rock. I killed her. It’s my fault.”

A hand found his. Fingers laced together, warm and secure, though Yixing’s voice was soft and shook slightly. “I don’t remember what she looks like, Zitao.” When he dreamed of her, her face became someone else’s—the lady who sold them deokbeoki, a gisaeng they passed on the street. His grip on Zitao tightened. “But she made me promise to protect you. I’ve never forgotten that.” Once, once I did. “Mother loved you.”

“Father hated me.”

“Father hated living.” Yixing replied after a brief silence. “That’s all, father just hated living.”

“Was that why he opened Changsha’s gate to the Afflicted?” Zitao whispered hoarsely.

“Yes.” Yixing felt Zitao begin to shake. He remembered that night, the screams, the fire. Auntie Fong had been torn apart in front of his eyes. Uncle Zhou had saved them. Without him they would have died, just like their father and sister and Auntie Fong. Zitao almost died. You almost let him. You let go of his hand when you promised you wouldn’t. If Uncle Zhou hadn’t come…

“She was holding my hand.” Zitao’s voice broke. “They ripped her away and she was gone. I couldn’t hold on. I let go. It’s my fault it’s always my fault.”

“No.” Yixing whispered fervently. “You did good. You lived like mother wanted.” Zitao was always searching for that hand, to remind him he wasn’t alone. An empty hand with nothing to grasp reminded him that he had been abandoned.

I did that to you. Yixing felt like crying again. I left you with Auntie Fong to die because I hated you. I let go of your hand first. It was me. Auntie Fong went back for you and died because I let go.

Zitao’s nails dug into the skin on the back of Yixing’s hand so hard he was sure the skin had broken.

“It’s ok.” Yixing reassured, one hand rubbing Zitao’s back. “Let’s go get breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“…yes…” Zitao whispered. It was a lie. He didn’t feel like eating anything, but he rolled out of bed anyway. He hated when he was like this. He hated bringing it up because he knew that it hurt his brother too.

Probably more so. He had met their mother and their father had loved him.

Tao hurried to gather his clothes.

Sungkyunkwan University, Hanseong

Friday, noon, April 1st, 1858

It did not take long for Sehun to form a small following, mostly due to his title and lineage and partially the announcement during the introduction ceremony that he had scored the highest grade on the entrance exam. His speech had stirred the Korean purist faction as well. They flocked to him and he let them stay. Truthfully he could care less about making friends. But this was the place where he could make political connections that would last well into his career. So whether he wanted them or not, it was important to have them.

Even the older Korean students respected and feared him for the political power his father wielded. People offered to help him study, to take notes, but he’d politely refused. If his father found out he was shirking his studies…

It was after their second lecture that day, when the first years were filing out of the lecture hall. Apparently a third year lecture course was being held next because they’d begun to enter before Sehun and his group had left.

            The boy in front of him was certainly not an elder. His pretty, youthful face didn’t match the badge on his coat that said he was a third year student. His coat was finely made—green velvet over a dark gray vest with a gold and rust-colored ascot. Tucked into the breast pocket was a pair of reindeer leather gloves. He had a quick smile with even, white teeth.

            His friends were not quite as welcoming. A tall boy leaned forward, hand braced on the edge of the desk. “These are our seats.” He had an accent. Chinese.

            Sehun glanced up, his stiff expression turning sour. The Chinese again…

            “Do you know who we are? Who he is?” One of Sehun’s group taunted, gesturing at the young Lord Oh.

            “You made the speech as the 1^st year representative, didn’t you?” The third Chinese asked. He was broad-shouldered and broad-face, a disagreeable looking boy.

            “The one that said China is obsolete.” The tall one continued.

            “Ah, the one with the lisp!” The bright-smile boy laughed. Sehun felt his stomach drop, and an angry flush dotted his cheeks. “I remember, your speech was so rehearsed I walked out. Who wrote it for you?”

            One of Sehun’s allies stood angrily, the others following.

            The two Chinese boys behind the smiling one issued some curses in Chinese, the burly one clenching his hands into fists. The other third year students that had come in were standing around the room, attention fixed on the fight about to begin.

            Sehun remained seated. He wouldn’t let them rile him, not these filthy Chinese. He wasn’t going to brawl like a common street thug. “Who are you?”

            “He is Luhan, heir to the marquisate of Beijing.” The broad-faced boy rumbled.

            “This is Oh Sehun, heir to the earldom of Hamheung. His father is Lord Oh, the Lord High Chancellor.” The boy obviously didn’t realize that Luhan’s rank was higher. Well, it didn’t matter. It was only a Chinese title, not a Korean one. Had it even been sanctified by the British or was it just an old rank? That was what really mattered.

            Besides, the Marquis of Beijing had no sway in the courts of Joseon or Great Britain.

            Luhan was still smiling, and he turned and said something in Chinese to the other two boys that made them quiet down. Sehun wanted to slap the smile off his face. He thought he was better than him, didn’t he? It was that boiling rage that made Sehun speak, his voice loud and haughty. “China is done. You’ve wrung yourselves dry. You bow to us now, not the other way around. Speak Korean, you live here now.”

“Are you going into law?” Luhan asked candidly. “You certainly do love to argue.” There was a pause. “And you have quite the over-inflated view of your own importance. The last I checked, we all bow to the British and their queen. You had best brush up on your English.”

            Sehun stood, grabbed his bag, and stomped out of the auditorium.

Streets of Hanseong, Hanseong

Friday, 2:13pm, April 1st, 1858

The streets of Hanseong were busier than Haeju, but not as crowded as London. The air smelled cleaner as well. The factories were fewer than Haeju, and the air wasn’t clouded with smoke. But it felt different…everyone walked with a purpose. There was a very specific sense of duty and rank here.

And no Chinese. He had seen none at all, outside of the school. Hanseong was no refugee city. The people of Hanseong had also all but abandoned traditional clothing. One out of twenty wore a hanbok, and most that he saw were women.

“I was told the tailor was on this street…” Kyungsoo glanced at the hastily written note and then around the busy street. One of the maids had told him that the best tailor worked on this street, and his coat was in need of mending. He also needed a new one for his dinner at Lord Oh’s home. It would not do to come in his current attire. It was fine for a man who didn’t care about appearances, but it would be seen as an insult to his host if he showed up at Lord Oh’s house dressed so poorly.

He had enough to worry about without insulting Lord Oh because of his state of dress.

While he was there he could ask the tailor if he or she knew of any property for sale within the city. He needed to find a home quickly.

He located the tailor's shop ten minutes later with the tinkling of a bell as he pushed the door open. Three women glanced at him in turn. One was sewing the collar of a suit jacket, her work in her lap. Another was cleaning up a spilled basket of needles and measuring tape. The third stood behind the counter, grey hair pulled back into a tight bun and fixed with a jet black pin. A pair of spectacles hung on the tip of her nose, and she squinted at him through the thick lenses.

“Good afternoon,” Kyungsoo took off his hat and gave a small nod in the direction of the matron. “I am looking for a new suit, as well as some alterations on the one I own.”

The older woman lifted one thin, plucked eyebrow before she gave a nod. “Will that be all?”

“I would like a new waistcoat and two new shirts as well, please.” He was in dire need of some new clothing. He could afford to spend a bit.

“Hee-soon, get his measurements. Tae-jung, bring out our latest waistcoats.”

The two girls scrambled to do as they were told. The matron held out her arms, “Let me take your coat.”

He hurriedly handed it to her and she placed it delicately over one silk-clad arm—she wore traditional hanbok, though her two assistants did not—and walked out from behind the counter toward the middle of the room.

“H-hold out your arms, sir.” One of the girls—Hee-soon—refused to meet his eyes as she held out her measuring tape. Kyungsoo tried to give her a reassuring smile but she only blushed and began measuring with trembling fingers.

“Do not dawdle, girl. We don’t have time for this. When will you need these by, sir?”

“I have an important dinner tonight. If I could have the new coat and waistcoat fitted now…” He trailed off, catching her sharp glance. He knew he was asking for quite a bit.

“It will depend on how close we have to your size. We might be unable to fit the coat by tonight but it will hang properly. You can come back to have it fitted later, if that is the case.” The matron turned to the second girl that had just arrived from the back of the store with an armful of waistcoats. “Do you see one you fancy, sir?”

“The maroon double-breasted one, please.”

It fit a little loosely, though that was to be expected. Kyungsoo was not a large man by any means. Hee-soon had finished her measurements and hurried out of her mistress’ way as she began to pinch and fold the fabric around his chest and under his arms, muttering to herself as she went. “This we can do quickly.” She affirmed as she undid the waistcoat and handed it to Hee-soon. She rambled off instructions with numbers that Kyungsoo did not understand before she grabbed a few shirts. “There is a room in the back for you to change, sir.”

 The room was small, but clean, with a sliding door to close it and a full-length mirror in a corner. He glanced at the folded shirts he’d been given and pulled off his own after gently tugging the ends out of his slacks. He made sure not to glance at himself in the mirror as he pulled the first shirt over his head, but his skin tingled nonetheless, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

The first shirt was too large, but he liked the way the collar looked against his neck. It would look nice with the double-breasted waistcoat and one of his silk puff ties. The second fit worse than the first, hanging loose under his arms in a way that made him wonder if it was possible to take the fabric in enough while keeping the cut.

It took two hours before the head seamstress had finished the alterations on the waistcoat. The few shirts he’d picked out would be ready by the middle of next week, along with his old coat. His new frock coat was packed neatly in a case along with his waistcoat and three new detachable collars and two new ascots. He almost felt guilty spending so much in one trip until he remembered that he had plenty in the bank and barely any in the closet. Yes, this trip had been much needed.

He tucked his parcel under his arm and waved goodbye at the blushing seamstress assistants, who hurriedly promised once more that they would have his coat and other items delivered as soon as possible. He left with a smile and a better mood.

Now if only he could find a house…

He blinked as a familiar figure walked out of a nearby building. He was dashing in a sleek black greatcoat and the top hat that Kyungsoo remembered. What luck! Kyungsoo had not thought he’d meet this man again—truthfully he had not thought of him since that night—but now was his chance to repay him for his kindness.

“Kim Jongin-ssi!”

The other man turned languidly at his call and paused for a moment, a look of subtle surprise etched on his sensuous features. He was quite a handsome figure, Kyungsoo noted. He hadn’t been able to fully study his face that night.

 “Ah, Jongin-ssi!” Kyungsoo walked quickly toward the other man. “I did not expect to see you again!”

Jongin nodded slowly, gaze impassive. “Neither did I.”

Kyungsoo glanced at Jongin’s companions. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jongin looked behind him before he turned back to Kyungsoo. “I was just leaving. Would you care to join me for tea?” He grabbed his arm and steered him down the street without a glance backwards, although Kyungsoo swore he heard the men calling after them.

Jongin didn’t seem to notice.

Oh Manor House, Hanseong

Saturday, 5:00pm, April 2^nd, 1858

Joonmyun arrived fifteen minutes to 5 with a migraine dancing behind his eyes and no appetite. He had a feeling he’d caught something foul and had almost sent a letter of apology to Lord Oh explaining the situation but he knew that it would do no good. No matter what excuse he gave it would be just that, an excuse. Lord Oh would not forgive him for running away.

He was the last of the guests to arrive, he noted, as he was led into a drawing room off to the side of the entrance hall. Lord Oh was seated near the fireplace, and around him his family gathered. An elegant wife in a Western gown of mint sat primly on the edge of a settee. She was flanked by her two daughters. They looked to be 19 and 15 respectively, thought it was hard to gauge exact ages. They were both also dressed in the western style, one in a gown the color of buttermilk and the other a rich emerald green. Their hair was up in a mass of curls atop their heads in the style adopted by many of the nobility over the old tradition of braids for unmarried maidens.

Behind his father’s chair stood Lord Oh’s only son and heir. He was taller than Joonmyun, with sharp eyes and a handsome face, though it lacked expression. He had none of his father’s confidence and all of his severity.

Across from the family was the man that Joonmyun could only assume was Doctor Do Kyungsoo, the doctor from Oxford. He was a slight man, with large eyes, heart shaped lips, and the face of a child. He was dressed well, richly enough that they knew his station but also that he would not try to rise above it.

“Lord Kim,” Lord Oh stood, and the rest of the family and Doctor Do followed suit. “I am so glad you were able to come. My family has been most anxiously awaiting to hear from Doctor Do about London but I made them wait for your arrival.” His tone was warm but his eyes were frigid and biting.

Joonmyun smiled back as well, giving a nod in the direction of Lord Oh’s wife and children and then toward Doctor Do.

“Honggun tells me that dinner is ready to be served. Please, all of you, follow me.” Lord Oh led them down a hallway lined with mahogany scroll-work  Oil paintings and Grecian busts dotted the dark wood, lit by elegant lamps set into the walls.

The dining room was as spectacular as the entrance hall had been, and just as richly decorated. The table was made of teak, the wood engraved and stained until it glistered under the crystalline chandelier that hung above it. It spanned the length of the room, though only half of it was set for guests.

Lord Oh sat at the head of the table, with Joonmyun directly to his right, followed by Doctor Do and then his son. To his left sat his wife and his two daughters. Joonmyun shifted uncomfortably in the high-backed chair as their wine was poured. The youngest of the two daughters—Lord Oh had said her name was Se-jim—would not stop staring at him, except when he met her gaze. Then she demurely lowered her own and stared at the hands in her lap.

“Now Doctor Do, both the Lord Great Chamberlain and I are very interested in hearing of your stay in London.”

Doctor Do gave a tentative smile. It was a smile fit to calm a crying child or reassure a frightened woman, but it was not a smile that could disarm Lord Oh. “What would you like to know, Lord Oh?”

“Do all of the British ladies really wear different dresses every day?” Seyoung burst out, before she was frightened into silence by her father’s withering stare.

“Women should be seen and not heard.”

Seyoung flinched and kept her mouth shut, but Doctor Do answered the question with another calming smile. It had its proper effect on Seyoung, whose shoulders loosened a bit as the anxiety slipped from her features. “The women in London do not boast such wealth. Even the nobility could not afford a new dress every day.”

“The train system within London and the surrounding walled cities is much more efficient than it is here, or so I’ve been told. Is there any truth in it?” Joonmyun asked, diverting attention from Lord Oh’s obvious displeasure at his daughter’s outburst.

Doctor Do nodded. “The tracks are of higher quality, and are inspected and repaired on a regular basis. They have more manpower for their railroad, which makes it easier to maintain.”

“It’s because they send us their leftovers.” The son, Oh Sehun, defended hotly. “If we began to smith our own steel—”

“Silence.” Lord Oh ordered briskly, “You don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Joseon and the other Asian provinces of England signed an agreement that all railroad steel and machinery will be manufactured and regulated through Baggerby and Green.” Joonmyun put in, knowing that the boy knew the law but understanding his outburst. This boy is still chafing at the bit. He hasn’t been broken yet. That could cause problems later on. A horse that hasn’t been tamed is a danger to the rider, after all. But it pleased him a little, that some of the youth weren’t afraid of speaking up.

“Was the medical practice much different in London, Doctor Do? I heard you’ll be debriefing the other medical professors on the subject.”

“Ah,” Doctor Do nodded slowly, “Well, there is more leeway within the medical field on the use of cadavers in England that allows for a more comprehensive study of the human body and its functions. Because of this there have been greater discoveries within the field of medicine.” He took a sip of his wine.

            “I see.” Lord Oh gave a pleasant nod. “I was hoping that we could convince the emperor to allow for a more…open approach to medicine but he seems quite content to leave us where we stand. There are many other lords that would love to have their sons taught in the ways of Western medicine.”

            Half-sons. Illegitimate ones. Bastards. No true son would go into medicine. Perhaps it had been meant as a slight or perhaps not, but Kyungsoo was used to looking for daggers in the dark. He simply gave an answering nod.

            The rest of the dinner went by smoothly. Kyungsoo described London and the plays he had been to, the fashion there, the layout of the city and its factories and churches. The Oh daughters drank it all in with awed stares. Sehun glared into his plate. Finally the servants came to clear away the last remnants of food.

“Would you like me to send the wine to your study?” Honggun bowed meekly.

Lord Oh gave a nod. “Yes. We will retire there. If you would follow me?”

Sehun rose as well and caught his father’s eye.

“This is a man’s conversation. Stay here with your mother.”

The embarrassment burned his cheeks. A scalding brand as Doctor Do and Kim Joonmyun stood. “But father—” It wasn’t fair. Do Kyungsoo was only a year older and Lord Kim only three. He was just as much a man as they were! Why was his father singling him out? He had told him to stay with the women like he was some kind of child!

            His mother placed a hand on his arm and he relented under her soft gaze. He listened to the others leave and when the door closed he slid back into his chair.

            “Would you like to retire to the sitting room?”

            “No.” He bit out angrily, looking at the tablecloth. British. Imported. He wanted to burn it.

            “Well I want to go to the sitting room.” Se-jim announced.

            “Sit down, we will take our tea here.” Her mother announced calmly, smoothing her skirt. “Hwangrim, please bring our tea and biscuits. Also, a cup of wine for Sehun.”

            It wouldn’t make him feel like an adult just because his mother was giving him wine! But Sehun said nothing, gaze trained on the tablecloth. His sisters looked like they wanted to argue but settled themselves down with soft huffs and grumbles. It didn’t take long for them to forget their irritation, however, as they began to talk about the two men that his father had invited into his study.

 “Lord Kim is the perfect man. Rich, handsome, and of noble lineage.” Se-jim blew on her tea to cool it, eyeing the plate of sweets hungrily. Se-jim had quite a fondness for sweets, the bane of their family seamstress who had to let out her dresses quite often.

“But Dr. Do is so beautiful! And he’s been taught by the British. He graduated from University. Lord Kim did not finish his time at Sungkyunkwan.” Seyoung defended. “Dr. Do is obviously the better option.” She paused, looking to her mother with wide eyes. “Oh mother do you think father would let us marry? He must be ever so famous in London, don’t you think? Can’t I marry him instead of a merchant?”

His mother gave her simpering daughter a calm smile. “I will talk with your father.” The tone she used said she would do no such thing.

“He isn’t even a noble.” Sehun replied hotly. “Lord Kim is the better choice. A Western education isn’t everything.”

“You’re just jealous that he went to Oxford and you were rejected!” Seyoung huffed.

“Seyoung!” His mother sent her a reprimanding glare. “Enough of that.”

            “I don’t want to marry a merchant even IF he gives me a new dress every day! I want to marry Doctor Do!” Seyoung cried, shoving away from the table and dashing out of the room.

            The china jingled at the movement and Sehun watched his cooling tea splash out of the cup and onto the saucer underneath. He hated this. He hated how everyone thought the British were so perfect and superior. Why couldn’t anyone be proud they were Korean and stay that way?

            Joseon doesn’t need the British. One day we’ll be free! We won’t be one of Great Britain's provinces, we’ll be our own country like before. His grip tightened on the sugar spoon.

“Are you going into law?” Luhan asked candidly. “You certainly do love to argue.” There was a pause. “And you have quite the overinflated view of your own importance. The last I checked, we all bow to the British and their queen. You had best brush up on your English.”

Sehun swallowed the sour taste in his mouth and grabbed for the glass of wine his mother had given him. He wouldn’t let it happen. Even if his father bowed to the British, he wouldn’t.

I won’t bow to anyone.

The tension had been thick enough to cut with a knife. Kyungsoo had been uncomfortable from start to finish, waiting for Lord Oh to say what he’d invited him here to say. He knew it was not because he had been at Oxford. He would not have invited the Lord Great Chamberlain just to hear of Kyungsoo’s exploits.

The Lord Great Chamberlain was older than him, but not by much. That meant he’d inherited the title. Was he one of Lord Oh’s henchmen? Or a rival? He didn’t have much time to think on the matter as they settled on the large chairs in Lord Oh’s study, surrounded on all sides by bookshelves and the heat of a blazing fireplace.

The servant had placed the wine on the table in the middle of the study and left as quietly as he’d come in.

“Cigar?” Lord Oh motioned to the small box on the edge of his desk.

“No thank you.” Kyungsoo declined, though he noticed that the Lord Great Chamberlain accepted one. The sweet smoke wafted around him, noxious and stifling.

“I really am glad you accepted my invitation.” Lord Oh issued forth a long, steady stream of smoke. “Sungkyunkwan was in need of new blood.”

Kyungsoo knew full well that he’d been invited to teach at Lord Oh’s insistence. What was Lord Oh trying to do? That was the real question. What was he getting at?

“I wanted to thank you very much for your assistance. Without your recommendation I would surely have been jobless.” I would have stayed in London and continued my work.

“Your father was a doctor as well, wasn’t he?”

            A pause. “Yes.” You know that. Of course you know that. What are you trying to prove?

            Lord Oh’s smile widened. “Do you remember much?”

            “No.” Kyungsoo tried his own smile and it wasn’t as smooth. “My father was a very troubled individual, Lord Oh. I have tried to forget that part of my childhood.” It wasn’t a lie, not at all. But the way he had twisted his own words to save himself felt like one. Was Lord Oh trying to get him to slip?

            “I see,” Lord Oh seemed pleased. “I was afraid you would have some resentment.”

            “The government sent me to school so I could make up for my father’s mistakes. I will be forever grateful.” It was harder to get that out, there was less truth in it, but he managed.

            Lord Oh nodded. “Good, good. My son is in your lecture I believe?”

            “Yes.” A change of topic. He tried not to look as relieved as he felt. “He’s quite bright.”

            Lord Oh laughed. “I know he isn’t very passionate about medicine. I hope you’ll understand.”

            “Medicine isn’t for everyone. Very few find it noteworthy enough to study. And even fewer understand it.” And even more fear it. You, and the rest of them, don’t think I will ever forget. Resentment? I have plenty of it. I’ve never forgotten.

            Lord Oh’s eyes met his own, and they seemed to swallow him whole. They were pitch black, and nothing reflected in them but the flickering of the firelight. The flames danced in his eyes but there was no warmth to them.

            There were people that Kyungsoo disliked, even people that he hated. There were good people and bad people but he had thought he’d never met someone entirely evil. As his grip tightened on his wine glass he wondered now if he’d been wrong.

            Perhaps there were real monsters within the walls and not just outside them.

            “Seeing that Doctor Do is lecturing at Sungkyunkwan are you disappointed you had to leave?” The question was directed at Lord Kim, and Kyungsoo glanced at him sidelong as he took a sip of wine.

            “Ah, yes.” Joonmyun gave a small smile. “I am a bit jealous that your son gets to hear him lecture. But I had to do my duty.”

            “Yes, we’re all very conscious of our duty, are we not?” Lord Oh nodded. “It’s good to see that you of the younger generation know how important duty is.”

            His stomach was tying itself in knots. Coiling, twisting, wrought iron snakes heated till they smoldered. He wanted to throw his wine in Lord Oh’s face.

            “Don’t look boy.”

            No. This man may have ordered it all but it was another that did the deed. Another betrayal. I won’t forget.

            “I’m afraid I must be going.” Joonmyun had stood with a regal nod of his head in Lord Oh’s direction. “I have much I still need to plan for the Gala.”

            “I heard that you still have not secured a partner for the event.” Lord Oh smiled cheerfully, “I will keep my eyes open.”

            “Thank you.” Joonmyun gave another nod. “It was good to meet you, Doctor Do.”

            “I hope you enjoyed yourself.” Lord Oh’s voice was calm, the tranquil waters hiding a vicious snake. The venom reached him quick enough.

            “Of course.”

Joonmyun knew very few things for certain, but one of them was that he’d just been threatened. Lord Oh had invited him to teach him a lesson and Dr. Do had been the example. Dr. Do’s father had crossed Lord Oh somehow and had met a foul end. Lord Oh was reminding him that despite the spectacle with Lord Kim he was still powerful and in charge. Only a fool would think otherwise.

Financially Joonmyun was Lord Oh’s equal. In terms of political power and influence he was sadly lacking. His father had stood on the fence for most of his career, too afraid of the consequences of choosing a side. It was only his late decision to support Lord Oh’s faction that had secured Joonmyun’s position. He and Dr. Do were the same—both puppets of Lord Oh’s creation. Their fate was in his hands. He could move them as he wished and it they resisted they would find their strings cut. 

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Candle to the Devil / Chapter 6

Chapter 6

While the cloistered cities of Joseon—and the rest of the world—protected their inhabitants from the Afflicted that roamed the aptly named Deadlands, they posed their own problems. The smaller area needed to hold both cities and farmland to provide food for the residents. The port cities fared far better in this aspect than their inland brethren. 

The largest problem came, however, in their isolation from one another. The rapid transfer of news between the cities was of paramount importance. This lack of coordination had been the downfall of many of the early walled cities, such as Jeonju and Hamheung. A solution to the problem began with the adoption of the railroad systems brought by the West.

Railroads were the safest form of transportation through the Deadlands but were prone to breaks and derailing. With the slow process of repairing Deadland tracks the use of trains to relay mail became problematic and faulty. Telegrams worked for small messages, but in a world so reliant on the swift information between walled cities, a new form of carrier was needed. Telegraph lines were difficult to maintain outside of the cities, posing the same problem as the railroad mail system.

It was the innovation of a group of doctors and engineers that bore the fruit that became the Crow Carriers. Birds made of metal and steam carried parcels of letters faster than ship and train. The bird-like machines were named Crows for the blackened color that their wings took on from the black steam they issued as they flew.

Early Crow Carrier design. London Museum of Natural History

While seemingly impractical in this day and age it was the innovation of the century and kept the isolated cities afloat. The trick to their invention was their programming. The ability to program the delivery routes for the seemingly insentient creations is a mystery to this day, a lost art of desperate times.

Sungkyunkwan University, Hanseong

Wednesday, 10:00pm, March 30^th, 1858

Kyungsoo’s back ached. It had been quite a while since he’d had to stand all day. He’d given his opening lecture five times—the entirety of Sungkyunkwan. By the third lecture he’d lost all nervousness. By the fourth he’d recited the entire thing from memory. He felt a bit bad for the first two groups of students. They’d hardly gotten the best experience. The next day would be better, he promised himself.

He reached his quarters with a longing for good and a bath and the knowledge that he would need to go over his lecture for the next day as well. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about his meals. The kitchen staff seemed accommodating, and had shown him where the professors ate. He wasn’t sure he’d be welcome there. He was young and British taught. To them he was an eyesore. On the surface they were all praise and flattery, but he knew that the moment he turned his back those smiles became mocking sneers. As much of an “honor” as a Western education was, it was also the sign of a turncoat to the Asian taught educators.

Maybe he’d be able to have his meals brought up…once he managed to buy his own home he’d have no more worries on that account. That’s right, another thing to worry about. He needed to find out of there were any homes available in the city. They had been abundant at the beginning of the outbreak, but were much more scarce now that everyone had taken refuge in the cloistered cities.

He loosened his cravat and gave a tired sigh. He placed his box of lecture material on the table in the small sitting room that adjoined to his bedchamber and paused at the stack of letters placed neatly on the corner. So his mail had arrived, it seemed.

He recognized the handwriting on the first letter immediately—his own name in tight, messy English. He gave a small smile, a bit of his tiredness slipping away as he grabbed his letter opener and popped the elegant wax seal. Several sheets of folded paper awaited him, covered from top to bottom in the same cramped scrawl. Even the margins were filled with hastily written afterthoughts.

He settled comfortably in his armchair and began to read.

Kyungsoo,

I hope that this letter comes to you in a timely fashion and that your journey to Hanseong was comfortable. I have heard that the railways between the walled cities in the East are badly made and prone to accidents. It’s a well-known fact that all the old steam engines are shipped to be used in Asia.

The new semester at Oxford began three days ago. None of my new students are half as promising as you, I’m afraid. There is no one here I could possibly trust with my delicate work. It is a pity, a terrible pity.

I still cannot comprehend why you accepted the offer to teach at that Korean school of yours. There is nothing for you in Joseon but death. If you had stayed here I could have put you up with a prominent official, you know they are all looking for private physicians and some more open-minded ones would look past your Korean background. It would have made things much easier for the two of us and our ongoing research.

Truly Kyungsoo I can’t trust anyone here with it. They’ll bugger the whole thing. I pray that you will rethink your choice of patronage and return to London forthwith. I cannot send you the details within this letter for fear of them being discovered, but I have stumbled across something big. Something important.

Our work is not nearly complete, Kyungsoo. I need you to return. I’ve sent a few formulas I would like you to go over. I cannot send samples. These blasted crows are only good for carrying letters.

My granddaughter continuously asks when you will be returning. I believe she visits me only to inquire of your whereabouts. She is to be betrothed and soon and will be unable to meet a young man such as yourself so easily once she has been married. She will be much too busy with her own household and children. As her friend, I hope you will see the urgency of your return and comply.

We are almost there Kyungsoo, almost! Soon we shall be written in the history books, you and I. It is a pity your father was unable to see live to see our breakthrough. Until you return I will continue my research. I suggest you do the same.

Doctor James Octavian Boulstridge

            The rest of the letter contained the formulas he wished for Kyungsoo to review and an extensive discussion of his crossbreeding experiments with begonias, which Kyungsoo decided could be read in full in the morning.

James Octavian Boulstridge had been his mentor since he’d begun his studies; a family friend who had seen his potential and been his only ally in a world of bigotry and hatred. It would be too generous to say he was free of prejudice. Whether he thought the color of one’s skin was a sign of inferiority was questionable. To Dr. Boulstridge, the mind was what mattered. He saw Kyungsoo’s eastern lineage as a regretful circumstance because it presented limitations in a white-washed society. Sometimes, words slipped, things were said, and Kyungsoo would be reminded that they were different—that Dr. Boulstridge had grown up in a world that announced white supremacy and that even he could not escape it completely.

            But he was as close to a friend as Kyungsoo had in London, he and his granddaughter Olivia.

            He remembered meeting Boulstridge for the first time at the age of 6. They’d traveled to Hong Kong—he, his father and his mother. A bright child, Boulstridge had called him. He’d seemed fascinated by the wide-eyed Korean boy with the photographic memory. He remembered being sent out of the room so that Boulstridge could change something—move a book on the bookshelf or add a fold to the tablecloth—and then see if Kyungsoo could point out what he’d changed. To Kyungsoo it had been a delightful little game. He liked games—but mostly he liked being praised and given a piece of peppermint candy every time he succeeded.

            It had been a happy memory. It had also been his only trip to China. Boulstridge had pleaded with his father to go to London with him. He had refused…and it had later cost him his life.

            Kyungsoo rubbed his temples. Too many depressing thoughts for the evening…he’d need a drink of brandy before he went to bed. It helped with the nightmares.

            The second letter was a telegram from Jongdae telling him that Baekhyun’s wound had reopened but the bleeding had been minimal and he was taking to the physical therapy as well as could be expected. Kyungsoo made another mental note to write him back with a few questions and more instructions. He wasn’t sure how far he could trust Jongdae, but he knew that he could count on Chanyeol.

            The third and fourth were notices from the University about his room and board and a request for a special seminar for the medical professors. That would be a headache in and of itself. It was one thing to teach a course on medical biomechanics to a group of students. It was something entirely different to tell a group of professors twice his age that he knew better and more advanced techniques than they did.

            He was sincerely beginning to regret his decision to teach here. It would have been better to be belittled by the British than his own countrymen. If he hadn’t been in a foul mood by then, the last letter certainly did the trick.

            It was embossed, thick parchment in an elegant looping script. His stomach began to sink as he read, twisting into a coil of uneasy knots by the end.

            Doctor Do Kyungsoo,

I would like to be the first to welcome you back to Joseon. I have been following your progress at Oxford with rapt attention. You have represented your countrymen well during your time there, but I can confidently say that I am most relieved that you have returned to us to impart your newly found knowledge on the young minds of Joseon.

I cordially invite you to dinner at my home this Saturday to recount of your time in London.

Lord Oh, Lord High Chancellor of the House of Lords of Joseon

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Wednesday, 5:00pm, March 30^th, 1858

            Jongdae could hear Baekhyun lumbering around upstairs, clumsy and slow. Every once and a while he’d hear the creak of the bed as Baekhyun braced himself on the headboard to stand and then moments later, a loud curse and a “thump” as he hit the ground.

            He knew better than to go upstairs and see if he was alright. Baekhyun did not want his pity. Besides, he had too much to do to waste time on a boy that wasn’t listening. Baekhyun’s problem was his mindset that his knee was still shattered. Because of it he treated his new knee like it was made of glass and refused to put proper pressure on it for than a few moments. Aside from that, he had associated any movement with pain and it was taking forever to get him past the initial steps.

            If he didn’t do his physical therapy diligently then it was going to be harder in the future to adjust to his new knee. Jongdae didn’t have personal experience with metal limbs but his uncle had replaced a weak ankle with a stronger metal one and he’d described the process in detail.

            Still, Baekhyun’s stubbornness to accept help and his unwillingness to listen was irritating. Baekhyun was right in that Jongdae didn’t have money to waste on cripples. He needed to hurry and get over his slump. If he wallowed in self-pity for much longer Jongdae was going to through him on the street and see how long it took for him to learn a little humility.

            Maybe he just needed a nudge…a solid promise of some sort to prompt him to work harder at getting stronger. With only Chanyeol working for him, he could certainly use an extra hand, especially since Kyungsoo would be taking the two Chinese brothers to work for him in the near future. Jongdae had gotten used to having them around. They were good workers, and they didn’t complain. And speaking of Kyungsoo…Jongdae didn’t like to be shown up by others, and the doctor had made it clear he was the epitome of philanthropy. Well, Jongdae could do that much.

            Jongdae still didn’t know what to think of Do Kyungsoo. People were two-faced. Everyone had some kind of hidden agenda. The trick was to find out what it was and exploit it. Jongdae had always been good at digging up the truth.

            There were very few people that were genuinely honest. Chanyeol was one of them, though Jongdae wasn’t certain if stupidity counted as honesty.

            Do Kyungsoo was the type of person he hated the most. The kind of person that was too good to be true. An honest, noble noble? Those didn’t exist. There were only apathetic nobles and crooked ones. So either Kyungsoo was an entirely new breed altogether or he was the best actor Jongdae had met.

            What made Kyungsoo tick? Was he a clock—ordered and predictable—or was he the counter on a dynamite keg waiting to explode?

            The bell to the front door rang and Jongdae sighed. That would be Chanyeol, Zitao, and Yixing with his supplies. He pushed away from his desk and walked out of his office to greet them. “I hope you got the right size paper this time.”

Baggerby and Green, Haeju

Wednesday, 7:03pm, March 30^th, 1858

Wu Fan was the type of person that did his job. Nothing less, nothing more. People that stood out always brought trouble. The Chinese that stood out were targets. He did his job efficiently but not enough to garner any unwanted recognition.

So now he had a dilemma. Two men who should be dead were alive and walking the streets of Haeju. Two men that were supposed to have died on his watch. That meant he would be held responsible if they were discovered. Not Ramsay or Hwang Jaerim. Him. The Chinese were his responsibility and even if they hadn’t been, he was the scapegoat. That meant he needed to cover his tracks.

The problem came in deciding whether to report this to the head foreman. If he told, there was a good chance he would be blamed and fired. If he didn’t say anything and they were somehow recognized and traced back to the company…there would be no warnings, no threats of unemployment, just a gunshot to the back of the head. What if they talked? Suddenly the baseless rumors he’d heard in the tea houses weren’t so groundless.

What was he going to do?

He couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around how the two had survived the Deadlands and made it back into the city. They were immigrants, friendless, clueless—how did they make it past the gate?

They had inside help, that was the only explanation. But who would help two poor Chinese railway workers? It all went back to the tall man he’d seen with them. If he found out who he was he’d have his answer.

The best course of action seemed to be patience. If the boys were caught and he was interrogated he could say he was using them as bait for immigrant sympathizers within Haeju. They needed to find the source of the problem. Yes, that was his best option.

He’d just entered the company compound when he spotted a group of foremen and Korean workers gathered near the mess hall. They were laughing about something.

Foreman Ha Ung glanced over and spotted him. He waved him other with a greeting, “Kris, where were you?”

Wu Fan walked over hesitantly. The gathered crowd eased a bit so he could see what the commotion was about. A small, crumpled form lay in the middle of the circle, fur matted with blood and dust.

“Stupid thing. It was trying to fight off Jack—you know how Jack likes to play with kittens.” The way foreman Dongju said play made the others laugh. Wu Fan’s jaw tightened. The man continued. “This one didn’t want her babies to play.” He kicked the limp animal with the tip of his boot.

“…and the kittens?”

“Jack got ‘em all, what do you think? There was blood all over the Mess, you should’ve seen the cook howling, beating the dog with his ladle.”

The others continued laughing. Wu Fan felt his stomach clench. He turned and walked away briskly, not liking how his eyes burned. Stupid cat, I told you to go. Trying to protect others will get you killed.

House of Lords, Hanseong

Wednesday, 4:12pm, March 30^th, 1858

Joonmyun had five days until the gala in celebration of British-Korean relations, three days to fix the seating for the head table, and two to find the specialty soju that Lord Bruce wanted served. He had spent the entire night before going over letter after letter from the Korean nobility, all of whom were inquiring about the seating order for the gala and how close they would be sitting to Lord Bruce. Several had come with hefty bribes that he’d wearily accepted. He’d been too tired to even feel guilty about it.

Between chauffeuring Lord Bruce around and writing out letters he’d hardly had time to think over his mother’s proposal. He’d been lectured harshly the night before because of it and he was in a foul mood.

It had not helped that while showing Lord Bruce around the city they had been accompanied by both Lord Oh and Lord Kim and the tense rivalry between the two had been almost palpable. Whether Lord Bruce noticed or not he gave no sign. He seemed more intent on enjoying “the exotic east” to the fight between the two.

It was a sad day when his only moment of reprieve was in the House of Lords meetings. He could lose himself in the droning of the lower lords as they argued over petty land disputes and new laws with the British while he pretended to look invested. He’d gotten quite good at it as of late.

Now if only he could learn to sleep with his eyes open…

Somewhere down the hall a grandfather clock chimed. The current debate in the center of the room lulled, and Joonmyun blinked. Time for lunch. If there was one thing that never changed no matter the circumstances or problems facing their country, it was lunch. He watched as everyone began filing out of the chamber, talking among themselves. Those that had been debating were collecting their notes.

Joonmyun stood and left the room, hoping to return home for a nice meal. He also needed to apologize to his mother and pick someone for the gala. His mother would choose a proper wife for him, he could trust that. She knew that his job was important, she would pick a woman that wouldn’t get in the way.

“Lord Kim,”

Joonmyun paused in the middle of the hallway, jaw clenching. The last person he wished to see had just spoken to him. He plastered a polite smile on his face and turned. “Lord Oh.”

Lord Oh looked resplendent as ever in his tailored western greatcoat. He was tucking a cane into the crook of his elbow, making sure the decorated top was visible. A lotus flower carved of jade and inlaid with mother of pearl and gold leaf, it was truly a thing to behold. Joonmyun was reminded of the simplicity of his own onyx capped cane.

Lord Oh’s smile was slick, his lips stretching easily. He looked quite content with himself, despite having lost his and Lord Kim’s latest duel of words. “I’m having a dinner at the end of the week. The graduate from Oxford accepted my invitation to dine. I wondered if you would be interested in hearing of his stay in London.”

Joonmyun gave a stale smile. “It sounds quite interesting. I will look over my schedule and send you my answer by the end of the week.” He knew it wasn’t an invitation. Lord Oh did not suggest, he ordered. Joonmyun would clear his schedule for that day, he had no doubt.

Lord Oh wanted him to see something. Joonmyun didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was not positive. It was, however, inevitable. He nodded in farewell as Lord Oh headed down the hallway and out of sight.

Joonmyun stayed where he was for a few moments. He breathed in cigar smoke and old parchment before he placed his top hat on his head and walked to the door. There was much to be done before Saturday.

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Wednesday, 7:18pm, March 30^th, 1858

            Baekhyun lowered himself gingerly back onto the bed and took a few deep breaths. His legs ached, a residual soreness beneath the stabbing pain of overexerting himself. He could feel the sweat collecting at the back of his neck, sticking his hair to his shirt collar.

            Dammit, this wasn’t going to work. No matter what Kyungsoo or Chanyeol said this wasn’t working. He wasn’t feeling stronger at all, and his leg couldn’t hold him up. He swallowed back a curse as another wave of pain surface.

            Bending his knee in any way was impossible. The pain was so blinding he’d freeze the moment he tried and more often than not found himself collapsed on the floor out of breath. A part of him yearned for the pain medication that Kyungsoo had given him at the beginning. What had he called it…? It had been strong, he’d almost not felt the pain at all. If Kyungsoo had continued giving him that he’d be able to walk in no time.

            But it was highly addicting, or so he said. Baekhyun didn’t care. Baekhyun just wanted to walk again.

            He heard calls from downstairs—Chanyeol must have come back with the two Chinese. Baekhyun hadn’t seen them since he’d arrived here and he couldn’t say that he minded it that way. He didn’t know what he’d say if he did see them. He was ashamed that he’d been saved and ashamed that it had been them that had done the saving.

            He didn’t need to be indebted to anyone else. He had enough on his plate.

            Boot clad footsteps thundered up the stairs and his door opened to a bright cheerful smile and a mop of curls. “Did you sleep well?”

            Baekhyun gave a noncommittal grunt and busied himself by staring at his legs. He knew why Chanyeol was here. He was going to look over Baekhyun’s leg and add more of that damn poultice.

            Instead of staring right away, however, Chanyeol lowered himself into the chair beside Baekhyun’s bed. “In a few weeks you should be able to walk down the stairs and eat dinner with the rest of us.”

            Baekhyun scoffed. “I doubt I’ll be able to do more than limp.”

            Chanyeol frowned, “Kyungsoo fixed you. If you work harder you’ll be able to walk just fine—”

            Kyungsoo this, Kyungsoo that, you’d think that Kyungsoo had the power to raise the dead with the way Chanyeol went on about him. It irked him. Kyungsoo was just a doctor and that was it. There was nothing special about him at all, and if he’d done such a great job than why couldn’t Baekhyun walk? It wasn’t Baekhyun’s fault it hurt so badly!

 “You’re lucky it was Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol grunted, stretching his legs. “Most doctors are picky. They’re noble born, half of full, so they’re always complaining about getting paid.” The two shared a glance and a shrug. Nobles were too hard to comprehend.

            “How do the two of you know each other?” It didn’t seem likely, a nobleman’s son befriending a commoner. Baekhyun shifted, trying not to think about the pain in his leg and the soft buzzing beneath the bandages as he lifted his legs enough that they were lying flat on the sheets instead of hanging off the edge of the mattress.  

            “My mother was a seamstress. She made all his family’s clothes. And my father was his father’s head stablehand.” Chanyeol grabbed for the fabric of Baekhyun’s pants. “I’m supposed to change the bandages, remember?”

            Baekhyun looked away, cheeks flushed. He hated feeling so helpless. But his legs were useless right now. He’d spent the entire afternoon doing those infuriating stretches that Kyungsoo had prescribed. “He had horses?” Most people didn’t deal with them; too expensive to feed and house in the walled cities. Only the stagecoach company and Baggerby and Green had horses in large enough numbers to need stablehands.

            Chanyeol tugged Baekhyun’s pants down, the fabric catching on the swath of bandages surrounding his knee. “His mom was crazy about horses. She spent all her free time on a horse.” The bandages came off easier than the pants, and Baekhyun was glad to see that the skin was less swollen. He still couldn’t stand the sight of the wires going into his skin.

            “She was the best rider I ever saw.” Chanyeol continued, and as he talked and worked his voice became less elegant. It was the type of voice that Baekhyun was used to. Rugged and common. “She could do all those fancy jumps. She’d make ’em prance and trot in the courtyard and sometimes she’d let me groom ‘em.” Another slather of the noxious poultice Kyungsoo had made and then Chanyeol was wrapping his leg again.

            Baekhyun liked Chanyeol’s voice. He liked it when he didn’t talk like he was educated. Chanyeol was a commoner just like him. He should speak like one, not like a noble or a merchant.

“She liked to take ‘em outside the walls. Everyone says she was too reckless, that’s why—”

            “Park Chanyeol I am not paying you to be a sickbed companion! We have a newspaper to run!”

            Chanyeol winced at Jongdae’s yell and muttered, “You don’t pay me anyway. All my money goes to room and board.” He grinned at Baekhyun, “I’ll come up later with your dinner. Can you get your pants by yourself?”

“Yes!” Baekhyun snapped, angrily bending forward to grab them. He heard the door close and was glad for it, because he found himself gasping for breath as he struggled with the cloth around his ankles.

What had Chanyeol been about to say?

At dinner Chanyeol would say no more about Kyungsoo or his parents. He seemed to have realized he’d said too much.

Auntie Fong brought him from the nursery to see her. 

“Your mother wants to tell you something.”

            His mother was having a baby. What did she need to tell him?

            She looked too white. She was the color of washed rice, with bloodshot eyes and damp hair. It was plastered to her forehead with a sheen of sweat. His mother’s hair was usually perfect. She never let it get so untidy. A woman's hair was a sign of wealth, she always said.

The room smelled wrong. Beneath his mother was a puddle of blood. It ran down her legs and settled between her toes. Two servants held her up, her arms hanging vainly onto the straps that were meant to keep her upright as she pushed.

“Yixing,” She whispered weakly, sounding out of breath. Her smile was strained. “My darling son, come here.”

“Is the baby here?”

She gave a laugh that ended in a sob. “Soon, soon,” She chanted it like a prayer. “Soon, soon.”

“I want a brother.” Yixing replied. “Then we can play army.”

A spasm ran through his mother and she gave a harsh cry, knees buckling. The two servants braced her on their knees. A fresh trickle of blood followed. The midwife said something he didn’t catch. Why was his mother bleeding so much? It was like the pigs on the day before the lunar festival, when the servants took them behind the house to ready the meat for the pork baozi.

“Little Xing,” His mother crooned, “Little Xing come here.”

He walked a few more steps, nose wrinkling. He didn’t like the smell. His mother lifted a hand and touched the top of his head. “Little Xing, I hope you get a brother. Will you love the baby if it’s a girl?”

“Sisters can be cute.” He acknowledged. But he already had one of those. She was a nuisance now that she was going to be married. She didn’t play with him anymore and complained about him being too rough.

“No matter what,” his mother licked her cracked lips, “Protect the baby. Protect the baby—ah!” She threw her head back and screamed.

He didn’t like the sound. “I promise! I don’t care if it’s a girl. I’ll be a good big brother.”

“Always…hold his hand…keep the baby safe…”

“I promise mother, I promise.”

Yixing’s eyes flickered open. He could feel tears burning at the corners as he stared up into the darkness. He felt his brother’s hand held securely in his own and let out a shaky exhalation. He’d broken that promise. He’d let go of that hand once. He’d let go because once, long ago, he had hated Zitao.

“…ge…?”

“…go to sleep.” Yixing whispered hoarsely, burying his face in Zitao’s neck. He breathed in his younger brother’s scent. Never again. Never again would he let go of Zitao’s hand. 

[A/N: A bit of a filler chapter, I think, but those have to happen sooner or later. The next one should be infinitely more interesting.]

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