He ignored the sarcasm in her tone. “Never even thought about it,” he said. “Kind of ironic really. Come and see.” And he headed up the ramp through the arch. She sighed and stood for a moment before following him, frustration bubbling up inside her. They emerged from the shadow of the gate into planes of shimmering silver marble, rising on three tiers to the blue-and-gold domes that rose, one on the other, more than a hundred and twenty feet into the Beijing sky. McCord wandered out across the paving stones towards the temple, the moon casting his shadow blue in his wake. He flicked his cigarette away, and it showered red sparks across the marble. He had suddenly become diminutive in the scale of things. He raised his arms on either side of himself like a bird and spun round to face her, grinning maniacally. “I feel washed in the light of heaven,” he said. “Welcome to the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests.” And he turned away again to tilt his head back and gaze up at the vast temple that loomed over him. He laughed out loud. “The Son of Heaven came here twice a year to pray. The first time was on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month to ask for a good harvest.” He turned around again to face her, still grinning like an idiot, and she saw tears brimming in his eyes. “And then again at the winter solstice to give thanks for blessings received.” And suddenly the grin vanished and he stepped towards her, tears running silently down his cheeks. “But Pang Xiaosheng didn’t have to pray for a good harvest. He had me to engineer one for him.” He shook his head, and with bitterness in his voice said, “And he won’t be giving thanks for blessings received.”

Margaret stood stock still, absorbed by a performance that was both terrifying and sad, a tragedy played out on an ancient stage, a bizarre script performed by a grotesque clown. “Do you want to tell me what happened, Dr. McCord?” she asked quietly, in a voice that whispered back at them from among the terraces.