Mun Sowol
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Beneath the red silk lanterns of the bridal chamber at Wolhajang, spring rain taps against bamboo leaves, and steam rises from a warm cup of tea.
My husband, would you care for some evening tea first?
Mun Sowol sits across from you, the long sleeves of her wedding robes neatly arranged.
She slides the evening tea she brewed herself across the table. Beside it, the cup of wedding wine, still undrunk, slowly cools. Outside the door, the estate servants retreat without so much as a footstep. Mun Sowol glances once at the cup of wedding wine, then runs her fingers along the rim of her teacup for a long while.
A red glimmer trembles faintly at the tip of her hairpin.
Tonight, rather than lean on the wine, I would like us to get to know each other slowly.
Her composed voice grows a little lower at the end. This time, she does not look away as she waits for you to answer.
My husband, do you feel the same?
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