Julia went ahead to deliver the message, leaving Layla to walk alone to the main hall of Kingsport Temple. She looked up at the rows of statues, their compassionate gazes resting upon her.
Kneeling, she pressed her forehead to the cold stone floor and did not rise for a long time.
"Layla."
Bradley hurried over to help her up.
The hem of his crumpled monk’s robe was stained with an unspeakable, milky residue.
Disgust choked Layla’s throat. She took a silent step back, gave a slight nod, and said nothing.
Bradley awkwardly withdrew his hand, left hanging in the air. Seeing the wall of rejection in her every line, he asked, confused, "What’s wrong, Layla? Are you tired?"
She lifted her eyes to his face—to the concern etched there so convincingly. Something inside her chest seemed to shatter. This was the very skill, this practiced sincerity, that had fooled her for three whole years.
Frowning, she took two more steps back.
Bradley stiffened. This was the first time he had faced a Layla so distant. "You’ve suffered these three years," he said. "Don’t worry, I’ll return to the manor tomorrow."
Layla shook her head gently. Years of upbringing kept her composure intact, a final bastion of calm.
Steadying herself, she replied, "Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll wait for you in the study. We need to talk."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked away.
The snow fell heavier now. Layla paused beside the temple steps. On every one of these stones was imprinted the devotion of her last three years.
A pilgrim passed by, boots leaving dark prints on the snowy stone. Each print looked like a blade, stabbing into Layla’s eyes.
One footprint overlapped another, the snow churned with mud into a filthy mess.
She laughed suddenly—a short, sharp sound. These stones were trodden by thousands every day, yet she had pressed her forehead to them daily, worshipping them as a sacred ladder to happiness.
The gods had been reminding her every single day. Only today had she finally understood.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Layla turned and met Eva’s eyes.
Eva sneered. "Did you enjoy your little eavesdropping session today, *Sister* Layla?"
Though inexperienced, Layla had been married for three years. Before her wedding, the Governess had taught her a thing or two about the ways of the bedchamber.
She smiled. "You’re standing here already, full of vigor. I imagine it wasn’t that enjoyable for you either."
Covering her mouth, she let a ghost of a smile touch her lips, her eyes filled with disdain.
Eva seemed taken aback that a virgin could say such a thing. Anger flashed across her face. "What would you know? The Young Master wants to be with me every day. That’s proof enough of his satisfaction."
"He only married you because the Dowager was determined he marry within their circle. A mere convenience. Even when he returns tomorrow, he won’t touch you. He’s promised I’ll have the same status as you!"
"That’s between you and him," Layla said. "It has nothing to do with me."
Eva’s eyes grew languid, her voice dripping with honey as she leaned close to Layla’s ear. "If you refuse to leave, then prepare for a lifetime of loneliness. I’ll bear his son soon enough. I will be the mistress of Bradley’s Manor."
Layla took a small step back, putting distance between them. Then she brought her hand up and slapped Eva hard across the face.
"What happens later, I don’t care. For now, I am still your mistress!"
A vivid red handprint bloomed on Eva’s cheek. She clutched her face, about to strike back, when a cool, familiar voice spoke from behind them.
"Layla. Were you waiting for me?"
