Loveboat in 서울

𝟚𝟙

"Kang, what are you doing?"

He spins. The short sword glitters in an arc and firelight illuminates his face.

"Suzy." He lowers the tanto to his side. "I—I couldn't sleep." His eyes rake over me and I send a silent thanks toward Aunty Yumi for this robe that hides my thin nightgown. I want to turn and run in the opposite direction, but instead my feet carry me into the room.

"I couldn't sleep either." The thick tatami rush-grass mats, imported from Japan, tickle my feet. The sword gleams again, then firelight illuminates a dark line welling from Kang's palm.

"You're bleeding." I wave of queasiness washes over me. I should have fled while I had the chance. The sword is ancient. Not the thing anyone should be using to become blood brothers. "That blade could give you gangrene."

Kang lifts his hand, as if surprised.

"Were you trying to take your hand off?" Fighting nausea, I grab his fingers, examining the fast-flowing cut. Years of helping Appa treat cuts and scrapes at church picnics means I at least know what to do in principle.

I cast about the room, but unlike my home, which is littered with boxes of tissues for Appa's hay fever, not a single box is in sight. I unknot the sash of my robe and yank it free, hoping Aunty Yumi won't find out I destroyed her present—and then wonder why her good opinion matters so much to me.

Kang's stillness as I wrap his hand with my sash makes me more nervous than his sketches—even in the darkness, I feel the weight of his eyes.

"I saw a first aid kit by the pool," I say. "Wait a sec?"

When I return, plastic box in hand, he's stretched up on his toes, returning the sword to its hooks. His eyes met mine. I flush and draw the open flaps of my robe together.

"I got it," I say unnecessarily. Taking a deep breath, I begin to unwrap his hand. Every layer of the silk sash is soaked through with a Saturn-shaped stain. Blood. Blood. Blood. A wave of vertigo crashes over me and I sway on my feet. Yes, I drank the snake-blood sake, but this blood is human.

Forcing myself steady, I swab his cut with antiseptic, then swiftly bind it with gauze and tape. Only when it's humanely bound do I breathe again.

"I can't stand blood," I confess.

His expression flickers. "I couldn't tell."

My knees wobble. I sway again and he takes the kit from me, and I drop onto the mat, put my head on my knees, and close my eyes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, give me a minute."

He hands me a bottle of wine left over from tonight's festivities. A French wine with a white label. I fit its glass top to my glass top to my lips and take a long pull. Dark cherry, rich and strong. I take a second pull, a third, letting its smoothness warm my body and drive those bloody Saturns from my mind.

I only look back up again when he says, low, "Thank you."

A familiar shame follows. And fear. Even if I manage to cram all the book knowledge of medical school into my sieve-like memory, this is what I'll have to face, every day. Torture.

"Sorry," I croak.

He expels a breath. "I'm the stupid one who cut myself. You all right?"

His reaction surprises me, maybe because it's so—human. "Yeah, I'm fine." And I did it, didn't I? I bound his blood-oozing cut. With a bit more courage, I help him pack up the box. "You've had your tetanus shot, right?"