ᴀʙᴅɪᴛᴏʀʏ || baek kyung

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ɪɪ: Jia in Trumpet Creeper-Land

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ ɪɪ: Jia in Trumpet Creeper-Land

The multiple layers of fabric made it difficult to move. Her legs itched. Her thighs were sweaty. The idea of hiking up her skirt all the way to her waist just to feel a bit of breeze felt like a sweet dream. But Jia, or Heiran, as she was now known as, would get another whacking from the madam if she attempted to do such an uncouth thing again. She was already in trouble for sneaking out of the gibang with Aeil, almost getting murdered, dirtying and ripping one of her silk dresses, and for talking back.

It had been two weeks since Kang Jia found herself involuntarily inhabiting Song Heiran's body. All of Song Heiran's duties, debts, and other baggage as an entertainer for court ceremonies had fallen onto her.

The officer-in-charge and the madam of the gibang had given her a verbal lashing upon their return, refraining from physical punishment only because of Jia's head injury. She had been granted two days of rest before they sent her back to classes. The instructor and her fellow courtesans were baffled when she repeatedly played the instruments wrong, miswrote or failed to understand most of what was written in Chinese characters, and couldn't remember any of their usual songs or dances.

Fortunately, and she couldn't believe she was admitting to it, this world was under the Writer's control. All of her shortcomings were forgotten within an hour. And soon, the more comfortable Jia grew in Song Heiran's body, the more she began to remember her lessons and talents.

But everything got onto Jia's nerves. The job. The clothes. The hair. The people. The manner of speech. The narrow, brightly painted corridors of the gibang that oozed perfume from its walls. The food. The rooms. The beddings. The classes. The damned weather. The hierarchy. Everything. The only saving graces were her friends. Aeil, Aesam, and Aeri were with her despite their personalities being the polar opposites of their Secret versions.

Aeri was pious and god-fearing, as opposed to her crass, perverted self. Aesam was ignorant of nearly everything around her. And Aeil kept to herself, rarely making her voice heard. Nevertheless, Jia was glad to see them.

"They're throwing a banquet," Aeri entered the small room the four of them shared, "In honour of the princes and their bravery."

Jia rolled over her bedding, making Aeil crinkle her nose in distaste, and said, "What's the point of a banquet when they won't let us eat?" Because, so far, all their meals had been too simple and too little, for Jia's liking.

"They saved us," Aeil reached over to fix Jia's clothes and cover her legs, "so the banquet is being organized out of gratitude, Heiran."

Heiran. Jia made a face, "Why should we be grateful for them for doing their duty? I don't see the king throwing feasts for the farmers who grow his food."

The girls shushed her at once, as if she had said something so vile. "That's sacrilegious, Heiran," Aeri scolded her, "The king is equivalent to the gods."

"Is it the head injury?" Aesam asked, sliding the door a little to peep out for any eavesdroppers, "I thought she was getting better."

Jia touched the back of her head. The wound was healing at a miraculous rate. She didn't know if the Writer was at work here but boy, was she glad that she didn't have to wear bandages over her hair and ruin it.

Perhaps the only thing Jia appreciated in this world was her hair. Her wild, curly hair was gone, replaced by long tresses of black silk. Jia had sat in a corner of the bathing area, giggling maniacally over her soft hair, scaring Aeri who had proposed an exorcism on the spot. The only downside was how sweaty the back of her neck got but she didn't mind it much. Her eyesight was perfect, too. Aeil had walked in on Jia poking at her eyes, trying to see if her contact lenses had gotten glued to her eyeballs. Declaring that she had lost her mind because of the head injury, Aeil had hurried to find the physician.