Chapter 3

After taking a few steps, he turned back.

“Daoist Liu, the eternal lamp in the First Madam’s Buddhist shrine went out today. She says she wants someone to take a look. If you have time, you could go.”

It sounded like a kind offer.

But his eyes didn’t look helpful. It was as if he were nudging me in a particular direction.

I put the book back on the shelf and memorized the spot where “Song of Gathering Water Lilies” was folded.

The Grand Preceptor’s wife kept her Buddhist shrine in a room off the eastern side of the main courtyard.

Two maids stood guard outside.

When they saw me, they neither smiled nor stepped aside. They only said, “Madam is reciting sutras inside. The Daoist will have to wait.”

I waited a quarter of an hour.

The shrine in the Grand Preceptor’s residence was far grander than any abandoned temple outside the city. Thick incense stung my nose. The bronze Buddha on the altar had been polished until it shone, and fresh fruit and flowers had been arranged on the offering table.

The door opened, and the Grand Preceptor’s wife stepped out.

She looked much older and frailer than she had when I saw her by the side hall the day before.

Or rather, the dim light of the shrine made the lines on her face look deeper.

“Daoist Liu.”

“Madam.”

“I heard you’re a Taoist.”

“I am. My father was one. I learned from him.”

“Then why come to a Buddhist shrine instead of a Taoist temple?”

“Buddhism and Taoism are one family.” I grinned. “Besides, your eternal lamp went out. Whether it’s a Bodhisattva’s matter or Lord Lao’s, it still concerns the powers above. I’ve come to take a look.”

The Grand Preceptor’s wife said nothing more.

She led me into the shrine.

An eternal lamp before the altar had indeed gone out. The oil bowl was still half full, and the wick hadn’t burned down.

It hadn’t gone out on its own.

The wind must have blown it out—but the shrine’s windows were tightly shut. There wasn’t a breath of air.

I circled the altar, observing my surroundings without changing expression.

The altar was carved from a single piece of wood. Beneath its lotus pedestal was a hidden compartment for scriptures and offerings.

The compartment had a louvered panel, invisible from the outside, but the wood grain along its seam was worn. It had been opened and closed often.

I reached to feel inside.

The Grand Preceptor’s wife’s voice suddenly changed. “Don’t touch that.”

I looked up at her.

Her expression remained bland, but the fingers gripping her prayer beads had turned white.

“Daoist Liu, you needn’t trouble yourself with the eternal lamp. I’ll have a maid relight it.”

“Madam, now that I’ve come, I should finish what I came to do.”

I smiled and reached into the compartment.

My fingertips touched something.

It was cold and smooth—a bracelet.

I took it out.

A jade bangle, deep green, with a beautiful luster.

Two characters had been engraved on its inner surface.

I bent down to read them.

Ling song.

My hand trembled.

Not from fear.

I had seen this bracelet in Father’s divination book.

Between the thirty-seventh and thirty-eighth pages, there had once been a very thin scrap of paper. When I was little, I used it to wipe my nose, and Father chased me three streets before catching up. The scrap showed the profile of a young woman wearing a bracelet.

After he caught me, the first thing Father did wasn’t to beat me. His hands shaking, he carefully smoothed out the paper and held it up to the sunlight again and again, making sure it wasn’t torn before he finally let out a breath.

It was the first time I had ever seen Father’s eyes go red.

Now the bracelet from that drawing was in my hand.

Real. Tangible.

The Grand Preceptor’s wife’s expression changed.

Not anger. Not surprise.

Fear.

She snatched the bracelet from me so forcefully that its edge cut a line across the web of my hand.

Blood welled up and dripped onto the green brick floor of the shrine.

“Who are you, really?”

Her voice was low, yet it echoed through the shrine. Each word seemed to bounce off the Buddha’s bronze walls.

I stopped smiling.

All trace of my usual flippancy vanished. I spoke softly.

“I’m that woman’s daughter.”

The Grand Preceptor’s wife stepped back.

Her prayer beads slipped from her hand and scattered across the floor, the beads rolling in every direction.

One rolled beneath the eternal lamp.

The lamp did not relight.

The shrine was very dark.

Her face was lost in shadow, but I could hear her trembling voice.

“She died… Hadn’t she been dead for years?”

“She’s dead.” I hid my bleeding hand behind my back. “That’s why I’m here to ask you for an explanation.”

The Grand Preceptor’s wife didn’t answer.

She bent down to pick up the prayer beads, one by one. Her fingers shook violently; several beads slipped through them, and she had to pick them up again.

She repeated the motion over and over.

I stood there and watched her.

I didn’t hurry her. I didn’t ask anything. I didn’t leave.

Only when she had gathered every bead into her palm and straightened her back did she speak.

“Leave.”

“I still haven’t gotten my answer—”

“Leave.”

This time it wasn’t a request. It was an order.

The Grand Preceptor’s wife’s voice sank so low that it barely sounded like a woman’s.