I should have begged.
I should have cried, screamed, rolled on the dirt and denied it with everything I had.
That's what the others said. That if I had wept loudly enough—if I had made a scene, clung to their legs and sworn innocence like a desperate fool—maybe they would have gone easy on me. Maybe the Cane Master would have hesitated. Maybe the magistrate would have spared me.
But I didn't.
I just stood there, with my hands in front of me, voice level, and said I didn't steal it. Once.
No tears. No trembling. No theatrics.
And in the eyes of this town, that made me guilty.
Now, I'm kneeling in the market square, the packed dirt beneath me still damp from morning washing. My wrists are bound tightly behind my back with a coarse hemp rope, cutting into the skin. The sun is high above, unkind and blinding. I don't squint.
They say the innocent flinch. I don't.
The Cane Master stands a few paces away, testing the weight of the polished stick he holds. Thick enough to bruise, thin enough to break skin. I know this because I've seen him use it before—on boys who stole from the fruit stalls, on girls who talked back to their mistresses. Always the same posture. The same silence before the first strike.
Around us, the crowd murmurs. Market women pause from selling radishes and salted fish. A few children sit cross-legged on the stone ledge, licking honey from their fingers and watching like it's a game. Some whisper that I must have taken it—the norigae pendant, a cheap thing, but important enough to someone.
A servant girl who doesn't cry out must be guilty.
A girl who looks calm must be lying.
They want a show. I won't give it to them.
"Thief."
That word cuts through the heat, spat like rotting fruit. I don't turn to see who said it. I don't give them the satisfaction.
The Cane Master steps forward. He raises the stick.
And then, a new voice floats across the square—silk against stone.
"You know, if she just admitted it, this could all be over."
The murmurs hush. Heads turn.
A woman steps into view. She wears silk robes dyed a deep plum, embroidered with gold threads that catch the sunlight. Her hair is styled high, adorned with jeweled pins. Even from where I kneel, I can smell her perfume—a soft blend of cherry blossom and powder.
She is a gisaeng.
And not just any gisaeng. One of the high ones.
She walks with measured steps, like she owns the ground. As she reaches the edge of the circle, her lips curl into something between a smile and mockery.
"You could spare yourself," she says, eyes on me now. "Say you did it. Cry a little. People forgive pretty tears."
I stare at her. Then at the dust.
"I didn't take it," I say again. Quiet. Steady.
Her brows rise. She tilts her head, amused. "Then I suppose that's that."
The Cane Master doesn't wait. The first strike lands hard—an explosion of pain across my back. I hear a child gasp. A woman flinches. Someone murmurs a prayer.
The second strike is worse. It lands on the same spot.
I grit my teeth, eyes locked on the ground.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I lose count after that. The world begins to blur. My ears ring. Heat swells in my throat, not from pain but from something like shame. Not because I stole—but because no one believes I didn't.
When I wake, it's to the scent of clean cloth and bitter herbs.
The ceiling above me is painted with shadows. It's not the servant dormitory. Not the dirty back alley where they might've tossed me. It's quiet.
A figure moves by the window. A young girl, maybe a little younger than me. She notices me stir.
"She's awake," she says softly, before slipping through the wooden door.
Moments later, the gisaeng enters.
She doesn't wear the same robes as before, but she still walks like a queen. Her face is painted, lips a soft red, eyes lined with charcoal. But her expression is unreadable.
"You have good bones," she says, sitting beside the mat. "Most girls don't survive that kind of beating."
I say nothing. My back burns like fire. Every breath makes it worse.
She pours water into a small cup and hands it to me. I take it, slowly, with shaking fingers.
"I visited your parents," she says.
My eyes flick up.
She continues, calm and casual, like she's discussing weather. "They were very grateful you were still breathing. Didn't ask much. Just wanted the money."
My grip tightens on the cup.
"I bought you," she says plainly. "From your family. You're mine now."
There's a long silence.
"Why?"
She smiles faintly. "Because you didn't cry."
Her house is in the upper quarter, near the stream. It's quiet here—no children running, no shouting merchants, no flies buzzing around rotten fish.
The floors are clean. The air smells like jasmine and ink.
There are rules. No shoes past the gate. No talking loudly. No eating unless offered. I follow them all without being told. No one speaks to me unless necessary. The servants glance at me with a mixture of pity and curiosity. I don't care.
That night, I lie on the mat in the corner of the room she gave me. It's small, but it's clean. A basin of water sits by the door. My clothes have been replaced with a plain cotton robe.
The bruises on my back throb, pulsing with every breath. I lie still, arms folded, staring up at the beams above. They creak gently with the wind.
I don't cry.
The next morning, she wakes me before the sun rises.
"You'll train now," she says, not bothering to ask if I can walk.
I can. Barely.
"Train for what?"
She doesn't answer.
But I know.
The lessons are hard. My knees ache from kneeling on the polished floor. My brush slips on the paper. The poetry tutor tuts and tells me I have the handwriting of a child.
They try to teach me how to pour tea with grace. I spill it twice.
The music teacher says I have the hands of a kitchen girl. I say nothing.
Still, I keep going. I copy the poems. I memorize the tones. I practice the walk. I bow when I'm told, eat what I'm given, speak only when spoken to.
By the end of the first week, my knees are raw and my fingers swollen.
One evening, the gisaeng watches me from the veranda as I practice bowing.
"You hate this," she says.
I keep bowing.
"Why not run?" she asks. "I don't keep chains."
I straighten slowly. "Where would I run to?"
She nods, satisfied.
They called me wrong. A liar. A thief. A girl who took what she didn't earn.
No one ever found the norigae. No one looked very hard.
But I remember clearly:
The girl who blamed me.
The way her hands trembled.
The way she couldn't meet my eyes.
One day, I will return the favor.
Not with fire.
Not with poison.
But with a smile. A bow. A poem.
And no one will see it coming.