Yeon quietly studied the Master’s face for the first time.

Although he had noticed her looking at him, he said nothing.

He simply looked back at her with the same shadowed expression.

Then, without a word, he pushed a piece of gyehwa rice cake towards her with the back of his hand.

Yeon shook her head slightly, but the man only said.

“Eat it.”

Reluctantly, she picked up one of the yellow rice cakes.

Gyehwa-tteok was Suin’s favourite snack.

Yeon remembered how the young girl used to cry all day, refusing proper meals and demanding only that snack.

She could still picture Suin’s small, red lips nibbling on the cake, and she could still remember how just watching her used to make her mouth water.

“Thank you, Master.”

The soft texture and delicate fragrance of gyehwa blossom filled her mouth.

As she chewed the tender rice cake, it felt as if it were rolling gently around inside her mouth, and a broad smile spread across her face naturally.

The man watched her quietly, then finally spoke.

“How is your mother doing?”

“Pardon?”

“Your mother.”

“Yes.”

In truth, she wasn’t doing well.

All she could do was hold her mother’s small, withered hand, which felt as dry and papery as a fallen leaf. Her mother had fallen ill two years ago and never recovered.

Unlike other households that sold off sick or useless servants, the noble Gyeong family of the Western State would never resort to such cruelty.

She had been told that even if a servant became unfit for work, they wouldn’t be discarded.

It was a blessing.

Furthermore, the master had sent physicians to treat her mother several times.

The madam seemed unaware of this, but Yeon knew that the physician was actually the Western Duke’s personal doctor.

How could she not be grateful for that?

Her eyes welled up with tears.

“Your mother is a foolish woman.”

The Western Duke suddenly spoke.

Yeon looked up and saw his handsome brow knitted in displeasure.

She couldn’t understand what he meant.

She fidgeted with her fingers, uncertain of his intentions.

He studied her quietly, as if trying to read something deep within her, before lowering his gaze.

“Isn’t that so?”

“I—I don’t quite understand. My mother has always been loyal to the lady of the house…”

“Is it reasonable that she’s still bedridden simply from losing your sister?”

“What?”

He said something that Yeon had never expected to hear. Staring at him blankly, she found her mind drifting back to what had happened two years ago.

That was when her mother had become pregnant. No one knew who the father was.

Yeon had never dared to ask her mother about the child’s father — after all, her mother had always said that her first husband had died a long time ago.

He supposedly died before Yeon was born. She had never remarried, and no man had come close to her since.

Many men had shown interest, but few had ever treated her and her mother with true kindness.

Haeng-a, the maid who had served the lady of the house since before her marriage, was no exception. She never welcomed them kindly, either.

The only people who showed them any warmth at all were a few of the duke’s personal attendants, such as Gadeok and Yangtae.

Nevertheless, Yeon couldn’t bring herself to ask any of them who the child’s father might be. There were no clues, and her mother had never shown the slightest intention of speaking about it.

But Yeon didn’t think it mattered. That child was her sibling, and that was enough to make them precious.

Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t want to leave anything behind for your mother.”

The coarse, low voice echoed in her ears.

Yeon blinked.

“Do you know Princess Sukon?”

“Pardon?”

“She’s His Majesty’s aunt.”

“Oh…”

Yeon looked at the man, confused.

Then she remembered the woman she had once seen from a distance.

She was a woman with sharp, commanding eyes beneath slender brows — more upright than beautiful.

She was known more for her dignity than her looks. She was the Emperor’s aunt and the daughter of the Grand Empress Dowager.

Suddenly, Yeon recalled that Suin was the Emperor’s young betrothed.

While the Duke of the Western State might not have cherished his daughter personally, he certainly took an interest in the status she would attain.

Yeon thought of the young girl destined to become Empress.

Sensitive and frail, Suin was difficult to manage — even the experienced Yuwon had struggled to calm her down.

Yeon had a hard time at first, too.

Suin would often vomit the little food she ate or cry herself into a fever if things didn’t go her way.

Even her birth mother, the lady of the house, eventually gave up in frustration.

Yuwon, too, had broken out in a cold sweat trying to comfort her.

But there had been one small blessing.

Suin would stop crying in Yeon’s arms.

This didn’t mean that she never cried; it just meant that, when she did, it wouldn’t last long.

Yeon cradled the small, delicate child with great care.

Suin’s tantrums and forced sobs weren’t exactly endearing, but Yeon didn’t hold them against her.

Her mother had always said that babies cry for a reason.

Even when the lady glared at Suin in exasperation, Yeon would quietly hold her and sing.

Suin would scratch, hit and kick her, but she would eventually tire herself out and fall asleep in Yeon’s arms.

After repeating this routine several times, Suin cried less and less when held by Yeon.

Even when she wanted something, she learned to ask for it more calmly.

Even the lady of the house, who disliked Yeon, recognised this and appointed her as Suin’s personal maid.

But what about the emperor’s aunt? That made Yeon uneasy.

“The princess will visit the Western House in two days. She said she wants to see you then.”

“What for?”

Yeon’s lips parted slightly in hesitation. A sense of dread crept in through the silence that followed.

He simply nodded as if that were all she needed to know and told her she could leave.

Yeon backed away reluctantly.

It was just past Shinski (around 3–5 p.m.).

Having spent the evening trying to calm Suin down after she threw a tantrum and refused her dinner, Yeon finally returned to her room just as Gadeok arrived.

In her rough hands, she carried a white cloth bundle.

“Ajumoni.”

“You’ve had a tough day again, haven’t you?”

Gadeok gave a faint, bitter smile.

Yeon followed her gaze. There was a small stain on her clothes — Suin had pretended to vomit just before dinner again.

It was something she often did when she didn’t get her own way.

Yeon recalled how the late Grand Madam used to click her tongue and call it a terrible habit.

Nevertheless, everyone was too afraid that Suin might actually get hurt, so no one dared to stop her.

Even Yeon, who was good at dealing with the girl, could only respond with quiet patience.

Lowering her eyes in exhaustion, Yeon asked.

“What brings you here?”

“This.”

“Oh…”

“The master told me to give this to you.”

Yeon slowly unwrapped the cloth that Gadeok held out to her.

Inside was a generous bundle of gyehwa-tteok.

She looked up at Gadeok, unsure what to say.

“The master really does care about you, doesn’t he?”

The older woman smiled slightly.

Yeon couldn’t nod. Part of her wondered if it was true, but another part of her thought it was no big deal. After all, it was just rice cakes given to a servant girl who looked after his child.

“Oh, right. How is Soso?”

Soso was Yeon’s mother — a woman who, despite being just a maid, behaved as if she were the lady of the house. She lay in bed with her legs stretched out.

Yeon shook her head. Her mother had been bedridden ever since she lost the baby. It had been a late miscarriage, close to full term, so the grief had been immense.

The master had visited her around that time, too. Not during the day, though — he had come at dawn.

Yeon lowered her gaze, her mind returning to that early morning.

The room was small, and no matter how quietly they tried to move, she could hear everything: their breathing, their voices, and the sound of their sleeves brushing against fabric.

Though still half-asleep, she listened to their entire conversation.

At first, Yeon hadn’t realised that it was the Master. She’d simply thought the voice sounded familiar — a deep tone that she recognised.

After all, there was no reason for the Master to come all the way here.

And yet…

“You can have another child.”

“Please, just go.”

“I can’t believe you’re this upset over something like this.”

“Please, just leave.”

“We already have lots of children together.”

Not just a few — four, he said.

Yeon held her breath, not understanding what he meant.

Her mother’s faint sobs rustled in her ears.

The large, imposing man pulled her fragile mother into his arms.

She was crushed against his chest, trembling and crumpled.

“Soso.”

“All I had was that baby.”

“…”

“Did you forget that the only thing you left me with was that child?”

“Sisi” — that was what her mother had called her.

Only her mother used that name. No one else did.

Occasionally, Young Master Yongwoo would call her ‘Sisi’ too, but only when they were alone.

When the lady of the house or Miss Suin were around, however, he would call her ‘you girl’, a cold and dismissive term.

Yeon didn’t mind. It didn’t matter what they called her.

To her, ‘Sisi’ felt like a nickname — something special, like a term of endearment from her mother.

“You chose this life. You forced a child on me that I never wanted.”

“Soso…”

“What choice did I have?”

“…”

“I can’t forgive you.”

Her mother glared at him with reddened eyes.

Her hair was undone and she wore sheer white linen, revealing the pale curve of her skin. She was strikingly beautiful, but there was an air of chill about her.

Bathed in the dim light of dawn, she met his gaze, her lips pressed tightly together in anger, her eyes sharp and unwavering.