Meng hesitated, cocking her head toward a clip-clop sound at the main gate. An old woman was progressing along the path in traditional prostrations, rising, advancing a step then dropping her body to full length on the ground. The sound came from the worn wooden blocks strapped to her hands to protect them.

“The two-legged horse, some of the old Tibetans call it,” Shan said of the rhythmic sound made by the wooden blocks. “I was in a cell once with some old monks. It had a narrow window near the ceiling that allowed in a little light and sound. There was a shrine nearby, and every few days their faces would light up with joy when they heard that sound. Clip-clop, clip-clop. Some pilgrims travel like that for weeks, even months. Good for the soul, terrible for the knees.”

Meng gazed at the ragged, stick-thin woman. For a moment Shan thought he saw envy in her eyes.

They walked along images of deer and dharma wheels that adorned the outer wall then reached the long line of prayer wheels mounted along the kora path, huge brass drums embossed with auspicious signs and the mani mantra, which was offered to the gods with each spin of the wheel. Shan showed Meng the best grip for spinning the wheels, and they advanced down the line like eager pilgrims, setting each one in motion. Meng laughed as they spun the first one, Shan’s hand on hers, but her smile faded, and as they reached the last one it was replaced with a somber, almost desperate expression.

In the shadows behind the temple they sat on a bench and watched in silence as the old woman caught up and passed them, her passage marked by the fading, hollow sound of her wooden blocks.

When Meng’s eyes came back to him Shan turned over her hand and dropped something in it.

“What’s this?” she asked as she lifted her hand.

“My rosary, my mala. The beads are carved sandalwood. Lokesh thinks it may be two or three hundred years old, making it saturated with spiritual power.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I want you to use it, not one of the cheap plastic ones I expect you bought here.”

Meng stared at the old beads. “Why would I need beads?” she asked in a tight voice.

“For your mantra. There’s more than one for the Medicine Buddhas. Om bhaisajy bhaisajye bhaisajye samugate svaha, that’s probably the one you were taught in their chapel. Once you start you need to finish all the beads, all one hundred eight.”

Meng seemed to sag. “Can’t we just pretend for a while longer?” she whispered. “Not everything in life has to be investigated.”

“Pretend?”

“Pretend that we would raise a beautiful young woman together.” Meng’s voice cracked as she spoke. “Pretend you and I would sit in her university graduation and laugh about being taken for her grandparents.”