My heart hammered as I watched the queen. Min Ja sat rigid-backed, tense as a cornered hare.

I remembered the last time I had felt that way: when Sanjeet had stumbled upon me at Enitawa’s Quiver, with my hands drenched in Dayo’s blood.

“Like I said,” I told Min Ja, pouring her another glass of punch. “It’s my turn to ask questions. What happened in Songland, Your Majesty?”

Min Ja paused, then tossed back her spiked punch in a single gulp. After glancing at Da Seo for courage, she said stiffly, “I was one of fourteen spoiled children,” she said at last. “Born to eight royal wives and concubines. My sisters were all betrothed or married before I turned ten. The same would have happened to me, I suppose . . . if it weren’t for my father’s twisted sense of humor.” She popped a piece of fried chin chin into her mouth, chewing with a tight-lipped smile. “He hated my oldest brother, and so decided to insult him in the cruelest way possible. On his deathbed, Father ordered Mother to pass over seven sons to name me her successor instead. Before then, Father had barely noticed I existed, except when I bothered him to protect Woo In.” She played with the trailing silk ties of the pale jacket she wore over her skirt. “My succession was Father’s idea of a joke.”

“Funny,” I quipped. “Mine was my uncle’s nightmare.” We exchanged a rueful smile. For a moment, the pain of understanding echoed between us.

“Anyway,” she continued. “My brother Sungho was livid. He united my other brothers against me—all but Woo In. But you only get one family. I loved them, and I wanted to trust them—” Her voice caught. “So I begged Mother to keep them at court. Allowed them access to my rooms and parties. Then . . .” She trailed off, unable to continue.

Da Seo leaned forward, offering me her brow. “Lady Empress—you can take memories, yes? I will finish the story.”

I nodded and touched Da Seo’s smooth tan brow.

I am in the heart of Eunsan-do Palace, standing on paper one hundred feet long. My feet are bare. I inhale, letting the soft mulberry bark pulp of my canvas press into my heels. Dozens of courtiers fill the palace courtyard, but I have eyes for only one person: the princess, enthroned on her sheltered dais at the head of the tiled yard, resplendent in her pale blue birthday silks.

I grip my brush with tan, strong-fingered hands. The handle is as tall as I am, and the brush as thick as a horse’s tail. But I wield it like a third limb, veins coursing with the sheer joy of my calling—my craft. I am handmaiden to Crown Princess Min Ja, and I am the youngest dalpil-mu—master calligraphy dancer—in Eunsan-do memory.

I dip my brush in a large vat of pine-soot ink. All the courtiers inhale, breathless in wait for my performance. But I don’t move, taking time to perfect my blessing. One wrong stroke, one inauspicious word, and I could curse Min Ja with bad luck for the rest of the year. So I wait until I am ready . . . then I grip the brush with both hands and hurl ink onto the paper with a satisfying slap. Black droplets scatter across the creamy expanse, but only in the way I wish it to. My white clothes remain pristine, a symbol of my mastery.