delicate vines tipped in lotus flowers. A set of them commissioned by the head scholar at Sungkyunkwan.
A bronze fox leered at her from across the room. Miyoung wasn’t sure who’d given her mother this artifact, though she liked to think they had a good sense of humor and a strong constitution. They had to if they had the gumption to gift Yena with such a symbol.
Sometimes Miyoung felt like one of those antiques, something Yena had collected over her centuries of life. And that was Miyoung’s problem. How could she compete with thieves and princes and royal scholars?
She felt like she had to be stronger than the terra-cotta, more regal than the gold, and more beautiful than the jade. If she wasn’t, would she be relegated to a glass case of her own? Packed away where Yena could remember her fondly from a distance?
Miyoung stuck her hand into her pocket and wrapped her hand around the yeowu guseul nestled there. A new habit she’d already formed.
She made her way to her room. A poster of IU, Miyoung’s favorite singer, hung over her bed. Something Yena originally protested. Why idolize singers when there existed real gods and demons? Miyoung had insisted and her mother gave in, one of the only times Miyoung had ever won an argument.
She clicked on the large TV in the corner. The sound of it in the background always helped calm Miyoung’s nerves, drowning out the anxious thoughts that swam through her brain. The drama playing was popular right now and halfway through its run. That meant there would be fewer long, angsty looks between the main leads and more confessions of love. The middle of a drama was Miyoung’s favorite part.
She’d barely had time to settle on her bed when there came a knock on her door. Without waiting for an answer, it swung open. Miyoung stood and gave a bow of greeting. “Hello, Mother.”
“You took a long time getting home.”
“I’m sorry,” Miyoung said.
“Don’t be sorry. Be better.”
Miyoung nodded and gripped the hem of her shirt to keep her fingers still. A piece of tissue was still stuck to the side of her knuckle, reminding her of Jihoon carefully wrapping her cuts. She clamped her hands together, hiding the bloodstained tissue between them. She didn’t want Yena to find out about Jihoon. Not yet.
Yena leaned forward, peering into Miyoung’s lowered eyes.
For a minute, she worried her mother saw through her skull to the secrets she hid. But Miyoung knew that, despite the myths, gumiho who read minds were long extinct.
“Miyoung, who are you?”
Miyoung almost gave a sigh of relief, but instead exhaled deliberately slow. “Gu Yena’s daughter,” she replied to the familiar question.
“And what does that make you?”
“Smart.”
“And?”
“Beautiful.”
“And?”
“Strong.”
“Good.” Yena nodded, satisfied. “You should not let the mortals affect you. My daughter is better than that. And I expect better things from you than getting into petty scuffles with your classmates.”
It was said as more of a command than a comfort, but still gave Miyoung strength.
“I’m sorry for causing problems today, Mother.”
“I know,” Yena said, and left Miyoung alone with only the sound of her drama as company.
11
IF JIHOON EXPECTED Miyoung to act differently toward him at school, he was wrong. She ignored him all morning.
It was an uneventful day, if you didn’t count the many times he was distracted by the mere presence of the gumiho. She didn’t acknowledge their conversation from the night before. Jihoon found himself wondering whether she’d forgotten all about it. Then he realized that he was acting the same way a lovesick fool would and decided it best to carry on as he normally would, which meant napping through English class and skipping out to play video games. But he’d continued to sit watching the back of Miyoung’s head as she scratched out furious notes.
“Don’t you think quiet girls are so cool?” Changwan mused at lunch.
Jihoon glanced over to see what his friend was staring at. He shouldn’t have bothered. Changwan was looking at a lone Miyoung, sitting in the corner of the lunchroom and resolutely ignoring all the students who tried to approach her. Well, at least Jihoon wasn’t the only one she wouldn’t talk to.
If loneliness were a flavor, Jihoon could taste Miyoung’s like a bitter aftertaste that sat on his tongue. It wasn’t just that she refused to engage other students in conversation; it was the way her shoulders hunched. How her face pinched and her hands clenched. As if the very act of socializing caused her physical