What dreams or phantasms disturbed me the previous night I did not let them follow me into the daytime. Though my appearance down at breakfast showed how I slept—little, if at all—I gave some effort to reveal nothing of my bedtime travails. The dining area was empty of the household help but a place at the head of the table was already set with an arrangement of plates, cutlery, and food that would have not seemed out of place in turn of the century Victorian England.

With a shake of my head, I sat down and partook of a breakfast of honeyed toast, soft-boiled eggs, slivers of expensive ham, marmalade jam, and a pot of brewed coffee, all served in bone china painted with pink carnations and blue filigree. The cutlery was just as exquisite and in my estimation, highly likely real, polished silver. I would have been fine with buttered toast and a fried egg but I guess guests to the house—or its owner at least—were served like royalty here.

When I was done with breakfast, I was suddenly at a loss. What else was I supposed to do for the day?

The real estate agent called to tell me he was not going to be able to come today but that I was free to explore the estate. With no one to at least guide my way, I decided to return to the library and get back to the estate diary. There was not much to say about its contents but for the descriptive paragraphs of estate life in Korea, or Joseon, of the late 19th century. The handwriting was primarily of a masculine hand though in some parts a feminine touch had obviously set down the words. Much of the pages I’d read were in Hangul but those of the feminine writing were in the Japanese hiragana. Not surprising as upon research a few days ago, the wife of the Korean aristocrat who owned the estate had been from Japan.

Twenty or so pages in and I became bored. With what I learned of the various parts of the estate complex, I set out of the manor and towards the back, the portion hidden from public view. I followed a walkway flanked by implanted bamboo plants and came to a stop when someone blocked my way.

It was one of the help, a young man, possibly in his late teens, whose name escaped me. I gave him a tentative smile and he smiled back, though cautiously.

“Er, hello,” I said in English. Then remembering where I was, I reverted to Korean and included a bow. “Is this still the way to the hanok, the first house?”

“Yes, but you must not go there, sir.”

I knew I frowned a little at that. “Why not?”

Before he could answer though, the old woman, the actual housekeeper, called out to him.

Ah, so they do talk.

“Bum Tae! Let the master pass!”

“But…”

“Help out in the garden! Now!”

With a bow and an apologetic smile, the boy Bum Tae dashed off towards where the garden presumably was. I turned to look at the old woman and she bowed so low I was afraid she’d never straighten back up again, which she did perfectly, her expression one of unfeeling calm.

“My apologies, sir…”

“Really, um, there’s no need for that and he did no harm.”

She began to incline her head down and not wanting another 90-degree bow from a woman old enough to be my grandmother, I said, “Right! I better head off to the hanok! That way, huh? Good day, um…” Why couldn’t I remember their names? “…yeah. Uh, good day.”

She unnerved me, simple as that. And I don’t know whether it was real or a carryover from those strange, broken dreams I’ve been having the past few nights but I could have sworn she and the boy called me the archaic form of “sir”.

She called me “nari”.

My lord.

The hanok was a ten-minute walk from the manor, set within a fenced-in area that also had a well, a low and wide square wooden platform at the front called pyeong sang, a few potted flowering shrubs at the corners, and several clay jars huge enough for a child to fit into. I walked a little to the side of the house and saw what was probably the outhouse and further to the back was another well fronting the separate kitchen. An old-fashioned clay stove was set into the wall, a small mountain of chopped firewood to the side. Clay pots, metal pans, and various cooking implements either arranged on a wicker table or hung on iron pegs on the wall.

I backed away when I saw that a giant covered pot used for cooking rice was currently steaming on that stove. Nobody told me the hanok was occupied, with the household staff sleeping back in their own homes or staying in the servants’ quarters to the far back of the manor. From what history I gleaned from the diary and other documents the agent gave me, the hanok was the original and lone building in the area until by some of luck, the owners became associated with the affluent during the wars and by marriage.

And even if I had no idea of its history, a map and topographical study would have been enough to tell me this particular land was prosperous and had high real estate value. While it was somehow isolated from urbanity, it was protected in the shadow of the mountain, with a wide stream just a mile from the manor, lush forest area, and two wells, which in the old days was quite a luxury.

The manor and its immediate surroundings were self-sufficient and I gave little wonder why the commonfolk that originally inhabited this hanok were suddenly worth attaching to by the wealthy.

Perhaps one of the silent and invisible househelp prepared the hanok for a demonstration of rural Korean life, I thought, moving back to the front. I had barely passed the pyeong sang when I saw a young woman standing on the threshold to the house, an ancient-looking broomstick in her hands. Had she been dressed in those gray workwomen’s clothes in sageuk dramas, she would have belonged to the peasantry of Joseon.

Moon-faced and with the tan of someone used to working under the sun, she did look like someone from a historical movie set. I began to wonder if I had somehow interrupted a film shoot when she left the broom, wore her straw footwear, and approached me.

“You must be the one from America,” she said in perfect English. Queen’s English, I must say.

I blinked, probably looked confused, which made her laugh. “You must think I came from Joseon,” she said, raising a hand. I shook it and gave her an embarrassed smile.

“Yeah, well, the outfit didn’t help,” I said teasingly. “But I am more surprised you can speak English.”

She shrugged. “Learned it from a Christian-run school in Seoul and had to learn it to go to England for my Masters.”

“Oxford?”

“That one,” she said, with a proud grin. “My name’s Shin Aeri but you can call me Ellie.”

I gave her my name and told her I was fine with Aeri since we’re in Korea now.

“What did you study all the way there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A Masters in Oriental Studies and a Postgrad in Theology and Religion,” was her answer.

Again, my shocked brain failed to r