"Steward at ten. Signatures, inventory, witness," Seo‑yeon said, folding the manifest without fuss. "Master Ruan's house takes them as wards. Hana goes as attendant on paper."
"You sure about Seoul?" Derrigan asked, hefting a trunk. "Far enough?"
"Far from the Quays and the readers who hum shore names," Seo‑yeon replied. "That's the point. Weekly letters, fortnightly parcels, two visits a season."
Hana tightened the strap on her satchel. "I go with them," she said. "I sign as attendant, sleep near them in the merchant wing, and write every night. If anything smells wrong, I come home."
Minji clutched the knitted pouch. "You'll bring back stew?" she asked.
"Every time," Derrigan promised. "And worse jokes."
Seo‑yeon handed Hana a sealed envelope. "This is the steward's receipt and visiting schedule. Don't speak the children's origins beyond what's written. If anyone asks, direct them to Master Ruan's steward."
—at the steward's table—
"Names, ages, origin," the steward read, pen ready. "Attendant's name?"
"Hana Park," Hana said and signed. Her hand was steady.
"And a witness?" the steward asked.
Derrigan put down his name. The steward stamped the folio, pressed cedar oil into the seal, and slid the receipt back. "They will be received tomorrow. Discretion expected."
—outside, by the lane—
"We leave at dawn," Hana told the children, kneeling so she could be level with them. "One stitch for sleep, one for roads, one so the ward listens only to kind hands." She finished the stitch on each collar with a practiced knot.
"Will you stay?" Haeun asked.
"Only until it's safe," Hana said. "I will write every night. I will send ribbons and stories. I will come back if it smells wrong."
Derrigan hugged them both once, awkward and quick. "I'll bring the horse new paint when I can," he said. "Promise."
"Promise?" Haeun asked.
"Promise," he said.
—later that morning, carriage packed—
Tobin handed Hana a small purse. "Merchant escort arranged. Quiet coach. I'll keep the lane under watch."
Anja folded her hands over the children's caps. "We'll log any odd questions. You go with a name that can shout for you."
Hana nodded, slid the dog‑eared copy's sealed packet into a hidden pocket, and climbed into the carriage with the children. Seo‑yeon and Derrigan watched until the dust settled.
Seo‑yeon set the steward's receipt among her manifests. "We keep our rhythms. Letters weekly. Parcels fortnightly. Two visits a season. Tobin watches buyers who ask about phrases."
Derrigan rubbed his palms together. "We'll listen for the Quiet Spoon and other tea houses on the southern route," he said. "But right now—" He looked at the empty lane where the children had been. "We do the work here."
—few days after Hana leaves—
A thin letter arrived on silk paper: Hana's first report. It read only a few lines—about a steward who hummed off‑key, a fountain Haeun liked, and a tea house on the southern route where a young reader favored shore names. Seo‑yeon read it twice and folded it into her manifest.
"Quiet Spoon," she said. "It's a lead we can follow without dragging the children back in."
"We listen," Derrigan said. "No more private recitals. We don't say the line." He rubbed his thumb over the dog‑eared copy wrapped under a cloth on his bench.
Seo‑yeon nodded. "I'll file a registry flag on merchant itineraries along that route. If a pattern shows, we act. If not, we keep our ears open and our mouths shut."
—later, by the old river arch—
"We go together," Seo‑yeon said, shouldering a pack and folding the manifest under her arm. "If papers are needed, I'm the face they answer to."
"You coming?" Derrigan asked.
"Yes," she said. "I'm not idle while you run toward trouble."
They walked the quay in plain cloaks. At the mouth of an old dredge tunnel the stone smelled of damp and iron. Hana was gone; two small breaths less in the house, but the ledger and the plan remained.
"Old gates keep old things," Seo‑yeon said, touching the arch.
"We clear it," Derrigan answered.
They entered together. The tunnel swallowed their steps. In the low chamber a seam breathed—a folded, shimmering place that was not the market and not the city. Runic cuts lined the stone; Hana's stitch‑chants were the kind of things only she now knew. Derrigan looked at Seo‑yeon.
"We do it clean," she said.
"One gate at a time," he answered.
Seo‑yeon half‑smiled. "Together."
They crossed the seam into a dark that smelled of salt and foreign wind. The next gate waited on the other side—another task, another world. They had sent the children away, wrapped them in distance and an attendant's promise, and now—without Hana, with the ledger safe and the steward's receipt folded in a manifest—Seo‑yeon and Derrigan stepped forward to clear whatever lay beyond.