Alys
Seoul, present day
The text, when it finally comes, arrives at three twenty-three a.m. Wanting to be kept in the loop, I'd provided one of the hospital nurses with a burner phone and a large wad of cash a week ago. And then I'd waited.
X
This one simple letter tells me all I need to know. Mr. Yoon is dead.
Hours on from that text, as I sit on a hard subway seat on my way to visit a client, I wait again. My heart beats out the theme tune of anxiety in my chest, as it's done since the early hours of the morning. Now I wait for another message, this one from Mrs. Yoon's solicitor.
The first in a long line of dominoes is teetering.
Feeling nauseous, I pop a ginger chew into my mouth and check my phone for what must be the hundredth time today. Still nothing.
I'm about to tuck it back into my satchel when the hairs on my arms rise.
A man, somewhere in this carriage, is watching me. I'm sure of it.
With my silvery violet pixie cut, my tattoo-dotted arms and the tank top I'm wearing on this hot summer's day, I'd expected a few stares. I know I'm an outlier. An oddity. Other. What was I thinking, attracting attention to myself? But I knew the truth of it. It wasn't other people's attention I was attempting to attract. It was my own. My new look was a deal. A deal I had made with myself. The hair, the tattoos-I was readying myself to become someone new. Someone different. Someone who . . . could. Or at least was going to. Once I'd signed the paperwork Mrs. Yoon's solicitor would provide, there would be no turning back for me.
Still, I must admit, now that I'm on full display in the subway, I regret not taking up my client's offer of sending a car.
Why, just once, couldn't I have said yes?
I don't know Seoul. I've never been to Hannam-dong before. I'm carrying something precious.
But I was never going to agree to that car, was I? I didn't want to owe anyone any favors.
Ugh. I can still feel his eyes on me.
It's nothing, I tell myself. Nothing.
Unable to concentrate, I shove my phone into my satchel and my gaze falls upon my upturned wrist and my latest ink-a likeness of a brooch I'd sold months back and couldn't seem to get out of my mind. Victorian, 1864. I let my finger trace the circular frame of the outside-pearls and gold-and then the woven crisscross of flaxen hair encased in the center. I hadn't thought I'd grown attached-until it was gone.
This happened now and again. Sometimes I'd dream about pieces after I sold them. Sometimes I'd dream about them while they were still in my care. Sometimes they gave me nightmares. There had once been a necklace of bog oak that I couldn't rid myself of fast enough.
My finger starts to move up to the tattoo above this one, a twist of braided hair open at one end. This one is a permanent mark not only on my skin but in my heart. Just as I'm about to settle my attention upon it, I feel that gaze once more.
I look up.
There he is. Standing. Leaning. He's younger than I'd expected, though I'm not entirely sure what I'd expected. Something middle-aged and leering in an ill-fitting suit, perhaps. When our eyes meet, he startles, his attention darting to the phone in his hand. There is no challenge here. I have stepped on a twig in the forest, and he has bolted.
I'm about to glance away when a small flicker of a smile crosses his face.
He stretches. Shrugs. The sleeve of his T-shirt lifts.
And a tattoo peeks out from under the hem.
Oh.
I see then that I've read this whole thing wrong.
He doesn't think I'm an oddity. He was-is-sharing.
And this I don't know what to do with.
I am never comfortable around men. I am always wary. Fearful of what might happen. What I might do. Being looked at is never good. But being seen is worse.
I move my gaze to the floor and try to pull myself together. I think of my therapist. What would she say about this? I still can't believe I have one (a friend made me find one), but I have to admit that she's been . . . helpful. Which is surprising, considering the lies I've told her about myself. The half-truths. The fabrications.
As the train rocks along, I return to a talk the two of us had a while ago, about control. About feeling like I have control of my life, and things do not just happen to me. I am capable and have agency. I am the mistress of my own fate.
Her words resonated with me that day.
The mistress of my own fate.
I'd repeated the phrase for weeks. Could I ever be the mistress of my own fate? Whenever I thought back, I couldn't remember a time when any sort of control was my reality. A time when I called the shots.
Not that I think back often. I've learned the hard way that there is nothing to be gained by revisiting what can never be changed.
But once Mrs. Yoon signs that paperwork, it will all be up to me. The choices . . . mine.
That's what I need to focus on now.
The train stops. I don't look up, but I see his feet move. He departs.
See? There was no need to panic. He was simply a walk-on part. The smallest of characters in my story. There was never any threat.
The subway carriage moves forward with a lurch, and I look down at a different tattoo on my arm, a simple phrase in a fine, sloping hand.
I am the mistress of my own fate.
The domino continues to teeter, and I hold my breath, waiting for it to fall.
I follow the directions on my phone; they lead me up a long, steep hill. On my way, I stop at a café and order two matcha lattes before continuing.
When I get to the house with one window, I halt. Veronique had told me I'd know it when I saw it.
She was right.
A double garage at the bottom, the house looms above, an austere concrete tower with one small square window.
Veronique's partner is an architect.
I press the buzzer next to the glass front door.
There's a pause, and then I see movement inside. Veronique is coming down the glass-sided stairs. She wrenches the door open.
"You're here! Come in. It's so good to have you visit."
We usually meet when we're both in London.
I step inside, onto the polished concrete floor, and take my sandals off. "Well, I have to see this room of yours I've heard so much about. I brought you a matcha latte. I know it's your favorite."
"You're an angel. Let's go upstairs." Veronique's eyes move to my satchel.
I'm not offended by the absence of small talk. My clients usually eschew unnecessary conversation-a reflection of their gnawing hunger for whatever object of mine they're looking to acquire.
The door snaps closed behind us, and we head up some wide wooden stairs. We exit the concrete tower and enter the building proper, walking into a room that is vast and open-plan and . . . sparse.
"I know," Veronique says. "It looks like a morgue."
"Not a morgue," I reply. I look around, further taking in the polished concrete floor, the huge slab-of-marble bench in the kitchen. "A mortuary, maybe. A nice one. Expensive." Then I laugh. "Not really. The wood saves it."
Veronique rolls her eyes. "That's exactly what Richard says. It 'adds warmth.'"
"Perhaps that's the attraction between you two? He designs places that look like expensive mortuaries, and you fill them with your beloved collection of . . ." I don't how to put it. I probably should have just stopped at "beloved collection."
"Dead people's hair and eyes?" Veronique tries.
"I was searching for a slightly more eloquent turn of phrase."
"I'm not sure there is one."
I walk over to the marble bench and place my satchel gently on top. The bag with the matcha lattes, I set down beside it. I lift one out and pass it to Veronique.
"Thanks. I adore that café."
She pulls out two stools that were tucked out of sight under the bench.
We both sit.
I don't waste any more time. I grab my satchel and bring out a small metal case. I flick the latches on it.
Veronique leans in and I open the case.
Her breath catches. "Oh, Alys, it's even more exquisite than I thought."
"It really is lovely," I agree. And it is. The Georgian brooch is surrounded by twelve cranberry-colored flat-cut garnets and a ring of tiny seed pearls, which set off the dark chestnut hair swirled in its center.
"I had to have it." Veronique's eyes never leave the piece.
"I can see why," I say. But I don't ask her exactly why. I never ask why. With this kind of person-a person like me, like Veronique-there is always a why. And the truth is, you're better off not knowing. Why would someone alive be so fascinated with death? I've found that if you dig deep enough, there is always a reason. But it doesn't really matter. Veronique wants the brooch. I want to sell her the brooch. That's all either of us needs to know.
Veronique looks to me and I nod. She brings the brooch out to cradle it in the palm of her hand.
"Oh, you lovely thing," she croons.
I give her a moment. When she finally glances at me again, it's with narrowed eyes. "Wait. Why come all this way to deliver it? I'll be in London again in just a few weeks. Do you have something else to tempt me with? Something . . . better?"
"Well, that was quick. So you're not happy with the brooch now? Because I have someone else who's looking for-"
"Stop it. I love the brooch. You know I do."
I smile. "Sorry. I don't have anything else for you. Not today."
There's a pause. Veronique's eyes remain narrowed. "So why Seoul, then? Are you delivering to someone else? Or are you buying?"
"It's just a work trip," I reply coolly.
A longer pause.
Veronique stills. "No. It's true? One of the Venuses is really here? I heard a rumor, but I thought it was just ridiculous gossip."
I don't answer.
"Is one of them for sale?" Her breath catches. "Is it Elizabeth? I've seen photos of her. She's absolutely stunning."
I get off my stool.
"Sorry." Veronique holds up her hands. "Stupid of me. I totally forgot. You're related to one of the Venuses, aren't you? The original models, I mean. It's personal for you."
Again, I don't answer. I don't discuss the Venuses. Ever. And I would especially not discuss them with someone as indiscreet as Veronique.
"I might not have much time." I move the conversation along. "Do you mind if we . . ."
"Of course! This way." Veronique almost tips her stool over in her haste to round the bench. "I hope you don't think I meant anything by it. It's just that the Venuses are so fascinating. You know, I did a Jack the Ripper tour once, and the whole time I was on it, I thought the tour company should offer one based on the Venuses."
I force myself not to grimace. Those Jack the Ripper tours make me sick to my stomach. I think it's abhorrent how people relish the tale of the throat slitting and gutting of five poverty-stricken, vulnerable women stuck in horribly grim existences. Even now they're seen as "just prostitutes," these human beings who deserved so much better in life and in death. It truly amazes me how they continue to be served up on a platter for our entertainment. But this is neither the time nor the place to get into that. "It's fine," I tell Veronique. "We're fine."
I follow her past the kitchen and down a short corridor. She slides open a door and flicks on some lights. "Here we are," she says.
"Oh." I exhale, taking in the room, which is far more impressive in actuality than in the pictures I've seen. "It's really something."
Veronique's collection is encased in custom-built floor-to-ceiling recessed glass cases with overhead lighting. The pieces have been thoughtfully and carefully mounted on a backdrop of black slubbed silk. I walk over to the closest wall, dotted with eye miniatures. At least a hundred single eyes stare back at me-painted likenesses of eyes that were once alive but now exist only in this form, forever unblinking. The eyes are surrounded by heavenly clouds and have been fashioned into brooches and snuffboxes, pendants and toothpick cases, cherished reminders of loved ones who have passed away. A bit of a fad, they were made for only around one hundred years, from the 1770s onward. When I get to the very bottom row, I spot something and laugh. A real false eye sits, unblinking, set in a gold ring.
"Veronique, that's macabre, even for you."
"I know. I couldn't help myself, though. Who would do that? Do you think someone actually wore it?"
"Unfortunately, yes." I resume moving, wanting to take in the delicious room. Necklaces of heavy jet, some polished to a high sheen, some matte, call to me. And then, of course, there is the hair. So. Much. Hair. Braided, woven. Fashioned into rings and bracelets, watch fobs and brooches. Simple strands tied with a ribbon and encased in glass, or intricately weaved into fancy wreaths and lace. White. Gray. Black. Lush waves. Wiry strands. Wisps of baby curls. So much love. So much pain. So many memories. This is the answer to Why?
Mourning jewelry is my specialty-hairwork in particular.
I hover over one piece I know intimately. An oval locket made of gold, it is commonplace. Not an expensive or rare piece. Not at all. But there is something about the finely woven hair encased inside it, two shades bound together for all eternity-one fair, one dark. There is love there. Longing. Regret. I know it. Can feel it. I might not have known the deceased but there's no denying it. Some pieces stand out. Some pieces hold an energy that others do not.
I look down at a spot on my forearm, and there is the locket, tattooed upon me.
"If you ever want to buy it back . . ." Veronique says.
Copyright © 2025 by A. Rushby. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
