The gods and Buddhas remain silent, but they see the spring breeze

Chapter 1 Everyone in the capital knew Lord Bradley Sterling, heir to the Sterling estate, was hopelessly in love with Miss Layla Cunningham, the minister’s daughter. Then, after Layla inadvertently drew a divination slip at Kingsport Monastery that read “fated to bear no children,” not a soul dared propose. So Bradley declared he had drawn the same ill-fated lot. He knelt in the ancestral hall for three days and nights, endured thirty-three lashes, and nearly gave his life to secure her hand. On their wedding night, the man who claimed no religious belief summoned the abbot to seek a remedy. Willingly taking vows, he donned monastic robes and entered seclusion at Kingsport Monastery for three years, chanting prayers and striking the ritual block. All that time, Layla lived as a wife in name only. Yet she never complained, steadfastly awaiting their reunion. For nine hundred and ninety-nine days, without fail, through rain or shine, Layla would climb the mountain path to the monastery, kneeling and bowing low with every third step. At the summit, she copied a volume of the Diamond Sutra in her own blood and burned it as an offering. The abbot said sincerity would move the heavens. Today was the final day. Layla had come especially early. It was the dead of winter. The rain had frozen into stinging pellets that turned to ice upon the ground. “May my husband, Bradley Sterling, find joy and health, and live a long life.” With devout reverence, Layla bowed her head, performing ritual prostrations every few steps as she climbed, the prayer a constant whisper on her lips. Her maid, Julia, held an umbrella to little avail. Icy pellets dusted Layla’s fox-fur cloak. She shivered, her breath misting the air, yet the relentless rhythm of her ascent never faltered. The staircase seemed endless. A single misstep would send her tumbling to her death. Reaching the monastery gate, she stumbled and fell, striking her forehead hard enough to raise a lump. Her cloak was smeared with dark mud. Layla scrambled to her feet. To approach the sacred task in such a state felt disrespectful. So Julia found her a warm cell in which to change. One final volume, copied in blood, and the curse of their “childless fate” would be broken. Bradley could return to her. They would raise a family and grow old together. At the thought, a smile warmed Layla’s face. The familiar, sharp pain returned as the dagger sliced her wrist. She dipped the brush into the welling blood—but before it could touch the paper, indecent sounds drifted from the adjoining cell. “My lord, you spend every day here entangled with me. What if your wife discovers us?” “She’s too busy with her prostrations and her bloody scriptures. Now, be good. Turn over.” “But today is the last day. What will become of me after this, Eva?” “To make a place for you as my mistress, I arranged for her to draw that barren lot. Yet on the day she entered my house, she still looked down on you, humiliated you. Three years have passed. That pride of hers must be worn away. Does it not reassure you, watching her pitiful decline with me here every day?” Eva had been his mistress—the concubine his mother had selected to secure the succession. On the day Layla wed Bradley, he had presented the girl to her. “This is the woman Mother chose to bear me an heir…” Layla had immediately thought of her own fate and frowned uneasily. Unable to bear her distress, Bradley sent Eva away at once, holding and comforting Layla for a long time. But Eva appeared on a chair outside their bridal chamber, a white silk cord in hand, weeping bitterly. “If my lady cannot abide me, then grant me this cord. Let me hang myself and be done with it.” Fearing a scandal would displease his mother, Bradley spent the entire night coaxing Eva in a side chamber. He never came to the bridal suite, never consummated the marriage. He had said, “Layla, my love, our wedding day should not be tainted by such ill omens.” Yet the very next day, he produced a divination slip from Kingsport Monastery, marked with the worst fortune. “The abbot says a childless fate is our divine will. But if the one I love kneels in prayer for nine hundred and ninety-nine days and copies the sacred texts in her own blood, the curse can be broken. Layla, are you willing?” In their childhood, Layla had fallen into the water. Bradley risked his life to save her. Since that day, her heart had been his. Later, it was Bradley who fabricated the lie about his own barren fate and insisted on marrying her. Disregarding her parents’ objections, Layla began her devotions for him the day after the wedding, becoming the capital’s notorious, love-mad fool. To show his sincerity, Bradley waited for her at the monastery each day. He said, “Dearest, you do so much for me. I will never fail you!”