Prologue

            Gyeongju, Korea 1846

            Not much happened in the city of Gyeongju.  Yerim Kim blossomed in an era that she contrasted in every way.  She was lively in the darkest of alleys, drowsy in the midst of riveting plays, and insatiably energized in the folds of her blanket.  It wasn’t particularly her fault, no, the town itself seemed to cling to its people and beat them into shades of grey, so being stupidly bright kept her sane.  It was hard to believe that Gyeongju was famous in its prime—full of hustle and bustle.  Though as the Joseon Dynasty whittled way, as did the essence of the city.  The cold, rotting skeleton was where Yerim built her empire.

            “Did you hear about the minister?” Jisoo, her neighbor, asked.

            Yerim whipped her head back, a hush at her lips and anxiety permeating her veins.  The growing Christian faith was a taboo subject, though, as was anything that had to do with Europe.  That was how the Western world was discussed: in barred rooms and in careful whispers.  “You know better than to mention that out here in the open.  They’ll execute you just like they did to him!”

            Jisoo scoffed, bending over to hoist her buckets of water onto her shoulders, “That never stopped you before.”

            Water sloshed onto the collar of Yerim’s gown and mud caked her elbows as she trudged through the tall grass back to her home.  It was the fickle season between fall and winter, where the chill was biting, but the earth was warm.  The fields grew stale and almost unbearable to march through, swarmed with remaining mosquitos pints before they froze under the seasonal snow.

            As Yerim stopped to drive her heel into an itchy calf, Jisoo continued in a sing-song voice, “Well, are you going to the Circus?”

            A chill danced down her arm.  The Circus appeared out of nowhere.  In the lot by the apothecary, mountains of tents erected in the blink of an eye.  Of course, no one saw this happen, not the sweepers, who worked well into the evening, or the farmers, who woke at the crack of dawn.  From the wells Yerim could see the sharp stripes that cut through the grey sky.  No words preceded it, no announcements were made, it was simply there, and seemingly empty.  The wind shook its silent tents and wisps of painted grass.  It came with an air of mystery that seemed to scare even the bravest of civilians.

            Yerim fell behind Jisoo when she caught the twinkle of a single light on the edge of a tent.  But when she blinked, it was gone.

            She shook her head in disbelief; perhaps it was an illusion.