She had found Seokga with his sword pointed at a frightened Nam Somi’s throat. Not quite the scene she had been hoping to stumble into. In her mind, Kisa would have plucked a flute of champagne from one of the servants, winding through the sweet plants and milling guests with a soft, apologetic smile until she found him.

I’m so sorry for my callous insensitivity, she would have said, polite enough that she wouldn’t appear desperate, but empathetic enough that she wouldn’t appear too polite. He would have forgiven her, and they could start over. Instead, she’s watching him drop the sword, the sword that had been pointed at Somi’s throat, and she is hearing…

She is hearing his voice in her head.

She is—could it be that she is hearing his thoughts?

—Kisa—Kisa—Kisa—

Kisa stares up at him, slowly beginning to register that they are experiencing a sort of…cerebration transference. At least, she reasons, that is the only way she is able to explain the thoughts that are most decidedly not hers echoing through her mind in short, clipped fragments:

—Kisa—here—thoughts—she—hear—too—

His thoughts are like serpents, she thinks, sleek and strong and fast. Kisa slowly moves her gaze down to the thread, the thread that must act as the wire carrying their messages from mind to mind. What possible material could it be composed of? She is completely fascinated, and it is only with extreme effort that she manages to refocus on the events around her.

During some point in time, a silver-haired man has restrained Seokga, while an older woman in an interesting rubber-duck dress fills the air with a lecture on anger management. Kisa stares at the man with silver hair and realizes—with a surge of excitement—that his description, down to his regal, traditional hanbok of dark blue—perfectly matches that of Okhwang’s emperor Hwanin.

“What,” the emperor is demanding, “did I tell you about murdering innocents?”

—not innocent—killed—Scarlet—how could—forget—

Chaos erupts as Kisa watches, utterly unsure of what to do. Somi is shouting something, finger pointed at Seokga, and the other guests in the greenhouse are watching in shocked fascination. Kisa stumbles as Soo-min, having run over in a panic, shoves her aside.

“What is going on here!” the cruise director cries, Officer Shin Korain hot on her heels. The young haetae’s eyes are wide, but he hovers back, as if unsure whether inserting himself into a fight between two gods, a gumiho, and an elderly rubber-duck-loving woman is a good idea. “Stop it!” screams Soo-min. “All of you!”

“Hey, Kisa,” Korain pants, propping his hands on his hips. A lock of black hair falls into his golden eyes.