She sees a thousand shards of her own reflection in the gemstone.

A million facets of her face, glittering and sparkling, like a hall of blood-red mirrors. The gem's intense color seems to radiate its own heat. Each angle glows where it catches the light, a sea of scarlet fireflies held quivering within the stone.

The jewel is linked to an elegant gold chain. It rests within a simple black box, the inside lined in white satin.

Saya runs her fingers over the necklace, hesitant. She doesn't move to take it out just yet.

"This is… for me?" she asks.

Solomon gives her a strange fond smile, as though she's said something very silly that he will nonetheless indulge in. "Of course it's for you, Saya. This and anything else that's in my power to give you."

The way he smiles at her, smooth, airy, makes her so self-conscious. His voice always strokes a languid trail along her spine, blooming goosebumps and blushes.

Saya struggles for something to say. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

"But… what's the occasion?"

His lips quirk. "Does there always have to be one?"

"Well, no. But—"

"You know, this shade really brings out the color in your eyes. Here, let me show you."

Gently, he sweeps her hair back from her shoulders, exposing her throat. Plucking the necklace from the box, he steps behind her, fastening it around her neck with an offhanded reverence, both gracious and intimate.

Saya shivers as the cold necklace meets her skin, quickly warming to body temperature.

"There we are." Solomon's breath fans warm across her cheek. "See? It looks absolutely perfect."

Saya is silent. The necklace feels heavy; unfamiliar on her skin. Facing the wide mirror in their hotel suite, she studies her reflection.

She is accustomed to bedecking herself in battle-scars, to perfuming herself in blood. Something as innocuous as jewelry still takes getting used to.

Behind her, the evening sun shines through heavy half-drawn drapes. She hears the muffled traffic from Recoleta's streets—imperceptible to human ears, but crystal-clear to her own. Distantly, she can even make out the roar of airplanes, even though Buenos Aires' airport is over nineteen miles off.

Solomon is sparing no expense for their honeymoon. Their hotel still suite staggers Saya with its splendor. The shining marble floors, the winding stairway banisters, the vast canopied beds with pillows like marshmallows and sheets like Chantilly, all hold her as spellbound as a child in a fairytale. Everything, from the furniture to the pearl-tiled bathroom, gleams as though a mirror has been melted and poured across each surface.

Despite spending almost two weeks here, Saya is still half-afraid to touch anything, convinced she will leave smudges.

The sparkling gemstone against her collarbone feels so congruent to this opulent suite. But her plain pink sweatshirt does not emphasize the jewel to its best advantage. The necklace is clearly meant as an accompaniment to eveningwear.

"It would look a lot better on a dress," Saya says, without moving her eyes from her reflection.

Solomon's lips curve in the mirror. "I'll arrange to take you shopping tomorrow. Shoes, handbags, anything you want. The Galerías Pacífico is particularly popular for good branded clothing."

"No, that's not what I meant!"

Solomon chuckles, taking her elbows as though they are about to begin a slow back-to-front dance. "Perhaps not. But all the same, Saya, I want you to enjoy yourself here. In this decade, the tourism industry in Buenos Aires is at its peak. We should make the most of it, shouldn't we, angel?"

She wants to tell him that it is all right. Wasteful shopping is something she can live without. But even as protests arise, she feels a frission of pleasure at the sound of his voice, his endearment.

Angel.

She can't think of anyone who has called her that.

To her guardian Joel, she was both his surrogate daughter and his prized guinea pig. To Red Shield, their greatest weapon and strongest ally. To outsiders, a bloodthirsty monster, a frightening enigma. To her friends and family, simply Saya.

But nothing is simple where Solomon is concerned.

"I guess a little shopping won't hurt," she says. "But I really don't want anything too excessive, Solomon. You know that."

"True. I just felt perhaps a change of wardrobe would suit you more."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you prefer to dress casually, and I appreciate that. Simplicity is its own reward. But can you really blame me for wanting to buy you a pretty dress or two? Something in white, perhaps. Do you know what a vision you look in white? It suits you to perfection."

The compliment makes her blush, even as she says, "Solomon, I appreciate the generosity, but I've told you already, I don't need trunkfuls of clothes and shoes. It's getting impossible to pack all these things. I like to travel light."

He offers a wistful smile. "You never really do seem to need anything I give you. That's the conundrum, isn't it?"

She flinches, starting to contradict. But he presses a light fingertip to her lips.

"Hush, no need to get defensive. I know how you used to live before this, but privation doesn't excuse pessimism. You deserve the very best, whether you think so or not, and I want you to have it. You've denied yourself even the simplest pleasures for so long, so why not indulge yourself a little now."

"I thought that's what I was doing all this time."

"I'm going to show you what a vast difference there is between happiness and simple self indulgence." Drawing back, he adds, "Later next week, we'll head out to Cariló. The beaches there are stunning; you'll love them. Plus, the area is very exclusive. It should be a good change of pace from the city."

"All right." Ruefully, she says, "I still can't believe Argentinahas one of the only unpolluted beaches anymore."

"Industrialization has taken its toll on nature, true. The only other untouched shores are at the Bahamas—the ones at Eleuthera are particularly lovely. Come spring, I promise to take you there."

"Why in spring?"

"Well, summer runs the risk of tropical storms, for one. And honestly, the sun there is intolerable." Solomon's right hand slides off her elbow, coming to rest across her belly. "Sunlight is good for the babies. But we can't risk your suffering heatstroke, can we?"

"I'm used to sunlight. It was always sunny in Okinawa."

"Okinawa sunny and Bahamas sunny are two very different things."

"Well…if you say so." She studies his hand in the mirror, spidered across her belly in that tender but strangely possessive gesture that is becoming habitual on his part. When she lifts her gaze back to his, he is looking straight at her, eyes soft and heavy-lidded, indelibly adoring.

Her cheeks turn fiery. She drops her gaze.

It is funny, that even though she's seen that expression so often during their muddled three-tangent courtship, and then all throughout their six months of marriage, yet it still embarrasses her, even as it fills her with this helpless vertigo, as though in a dream of flying.

Or as though standing at a very high cliff—and on the verge of crashing down.

Shaking it off, Saya touches the necklace again. "What is this, exactly? A ruby?"

"It's a red diamond. Very rare. Back in the twenty-first century, this was only one reported to exist, and it wasn't for sale. But during your long sleep, miners in Brazil discovered at least five more—and the Goldberg Corp made the original accessible on the market. I always knew it would look beautiful on you."

She bites her lip, flustered. Solomon gives every impression of carefree calculation, of easy and ordered thought and action—but in some ways he is nearly as impulsive as she.

"Thank you, but… you really shouldn't have. It must have been so expensive."

"It was within my price range, Saya. No worries." He smiles, boyish, refreshing. "Do you know that when this gem was originally cut, they called it the Red Shield? I always thought it was the uncanniest coincidence."

"Really?" Her eyes fix on the gem again, mesmerized by its flickering lights.

She can't understand why it holds her so…frozen. It is beautiful, granted, but there is something deeper that it awakens in her—almost a premonition.

Then it hits her.

The gem is the exact color of a crystallized Chiropteran.

How many nights had she seen this exact shade during the war? Shattered scarlet scabs, exploding all around, each roaring beast pinioned to death by her hand. The crystal pieces always gave off the stench of dried blood. The smell stayed with her for days after, evoking nausea and malaise.

Suddenly, Saya can smell it again.

Wincing, she drops her hand from the gem. Her flesh prickles, electric. But it is hard to tell whether it is the memory, or something more immediate. Since her pregnancy, her body seems to be constantly boiling, like a pot over a flame. She is often prone to dizzy spells and hot flushes.

Solomon seems to intuit the rise in her temperature. She is startled to feel his hand on her forehead.

Gently, he turns her to face him. "Are you all right, Saya?"

"I… yes. I'm fine."

"I hope I haven't overexerted you with today's sightseeing. It's been very hot the whole day, so it wasn't the best thing for you to be outdoors so long. But you seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"I was—I mean, I am."

And she means it too. The past week, she has gotten the chance to finally explore Buenos Aries—the city that has been on her wish-list since time immemorial.

Solomon whisked her all across the capital's sprawling barrios, through cutting-edge boutiques and baroque avenues, regaling her with the city's history, the origins of its belle époque architecture and its ports, with a surety that no doubt came from having spent over a century traveling worldwide.

She scuba dived at Puerto Madryn, floating through endless blue sea, surrounded by underwater flora and petting vibrantly-colored fish. She explored the lush emerald stretch of the Japanese Gardens, basking in sunlight and sloshing lakeside bridges. She explored the San Telmo neighborhood, whose ancient cobblestones put her in mind of those quaint Paris streets—

—Or no, not Paris—Paris took her back to the war, to a screaming Irene and drumming rainfall and gray skies, and she can't think about that—she won't.

She thinks, instead, of everything she read about Buenos Aires from her days in the Zoo. In the 1800s, the city was a nucleus for liberal ideas, typified by colonial buildings and bustling docklands, and home to the Teatro Colón, one of the grandest opera houses in the world. She'd yearned to walk its streets, to explore every square. Remembered chattering about it to Haji during their boating trips, making impractical plans about what they'd do there.

She'd planned to travel the world, sword at her side, and take him with her.

And now here she is, decades after, putting that plan to fruition. Except both Haji and her sword are glaringly absent.

Stop.

Stop thinking about that.

"Are you sure you're all right, Saya?" Solomon presses. "You're not feeling dizzy again, are you?"

Saya shakes her head. "I'm fine, Solomon. Really. Please don't worry about me."

"Surely you understand how out-of-the-question that would be." Smiling, he combs her hair back from her face. The whisper-light contact that sends a shiver through her.

Haji did this all the time too. But the simple gesture is startlingly different on both men. Haji's touch was always decorous, subtle—his fingertips were cool, tapering as velvet spiders. Solomon's hands are more squarish, with blunter fingers and elegant semi-circles of nails. Nimble yet more calloused, no doubt from his days as a soldier in the Great War.

His touch radiates an astonishing heat. He is much more proprietary, confident, in every way he handles her.

Then again, that has a great deal to do with the fact that he is her husband.

Husband.

Strange how, even now, that word sounds so foreign to her. It bears a peculiar weight, rather like her sparkling necklace.

Who knew she would live to survive the war, to get married and bear children? Who knew that she would share her life and her bed with a man who was a former enemy—and one of her sister's Chevaliers? Or that the arrangement would feel so natural, so… comfortable?

Existence is uncanny that way. Time seems prognostic in turning unrealities to truths, anomalies to liaisons.

What will be, will be, as Haji once said.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

Stop it.

She hasn't suffered these revisitings about her first Chevalier for quite a while now. She can't understand what is wrong with her. She's made her decision already; she loves Haji, it is true, but she's resolved herself to her ultimate choice, to marrying Solomon. There are too many reminders that Haji's presence awakens in her, too many remnants of her own twisted past.

All the things she has done wrong and can never take back—to him as well as to everyone else.

Everything she wants never to think about again.

Now that the war is over, she craves a fresh start to her life. And in Solomon, that possibility presents itself so beautifully.

With him, she just might be able to move on, to forget everything.

Their wedding marks a new chapter in her life, one without regret—and her mind has promptly blocked out anything preceding it.

Saya winces. Perhaps she really is tired. Maybe more tired than she's letting on, even to herself. That has to be the reason for her jitters.

She feels Solomon's hand on her waist. In the next instant, he sweeps her up in his arms.

"S-Solomon, what're you—?"

"It might be best if you lie down awhile."

"But I'm not sleepy—"

"Come now, Saya. Please don't be stubborn. You feel even warmer than usual. "

Saya hesitates, then concedes, giving in to the surety of his grip. But even through it, she senses an edge of anxiety. He is always so worried about her—worried by her silences, her withdrawals, by her slightest burst of ill health or weakness.

There is fear there—as if he thinks something might rip her away from him, as if he might still lose her to some mysterious force.

Even now, a part of Saya feels overwhelmed by the responsibility of having him in her life. The intensity of his feelings is almost frightening. It makes her feel as though she cannot possibly handle such an extravagant capacity, as though she constantly has something to measure up to, although she's unsure what. His presence can be peremptory at times, even demanding. He insists, often and without discussion, that he have his way in everything, that she trust him enough to agree to his methods and means.

But this inflexibility is always supplanted by the touching patience he exhibits with her, by the excesses of tenderness and attention he lavishes on her. Her each facet brings him an unmitigated delight—from every little change in her figure as the days go by, to the shape of her lips when she smiles, to the different shades in her eyes by twilight and nightfall.

What makes her laugh, what makes her cry, how she views the world around her, what she wants from her life and why.

She delights him just by being, just by allowing him the privilege to touch her.

So astonishing. She cannot remember when her existence ever delighted anyone. When it did anything except cause massacre and misery.

The only other man who did live and breathe for her… is not a part of her life now.

The soft mattress seems to rise up to greet her. Solomon sets her gently into it, hovering over her for a moment. His face fills her whole field of vision, blocking out the intricate hangings of the canopied bed. Blond hair falls in wispy curls over his eyes. Without quite meaning to, Saya reaches out and pushes a lock away from his face.

Smiling, Solomon leans into the contact. His bride's displays of affection are still rare enough to warrant delight on his part.

"I know I promised to show you every part of the city," he says. "But at the same time, I don't want you to push yourself."

Saya manages a smile. "I'm fine, Solomon. I'm not made of glass, you know."

"Perhaps not. But I want this to be a chance for you to relax. You've been through so much pain in the past, Saya. Give me a chance to make it up to you now. I've more than earned the privilege to spoil you."

Leaning in, his lips press to hers, softly at first, then lingering. Strange, how each time the touch sparks a hot, low-pitched hum throughout her extremities. Slides right down inside her like a bell of sweet bourbon. She responds before she even realizes it, threading an arm around his neck to keep him in place.

When he draws back at last, she sees his gratified smile. "I'm glad you aren't too tired, at any rate," he drawls.

"I wasn't tired to begin with, until you put me in bed—" She is cut off by a yawn that practically swallows her face.

His smile widens, all warmth, but with an edge of mischief. "You were saying?" He sobers. "What is it? Are you having another dizzy spell?"

"No, it's nothing. I'm just… a little winded, that's all. Don't worry about me."

Solomon smoothes her hair. "I'll order up room service for you. You can eat and take a nap for a little bit."

"No, please, that's fine, Solomon. Really. I'll be up in a little while. I want to have dinner out in town."

He straightens. "Then I'll make reservations at the reception. They're serving parrillada at one of restaurants closeby. I'm sure you'll enjoy a sampling."

"Parrillada?"

"It's this mixed grill of steak cuts, Saya. You'll like it."

"All right." For a man who rarely eats human food, Solomon's knowledge of worldwide cuisines startles her. It isn't as though Chevaliers need to eat, after all. And Diva, for the little knowledge Saya had of her sister's lifestyle, never seemed inclined toward human food.

Humans had been food, where her twin was concerned.

Saya shakes off her plummeting thoughts. "How do you know all this, exactly? I mean, I know you don't eat personally."

Solomon chuckles. "Perhaps not. But I have been doing business with humans for several decades now. And a majority of them do like to eat. It's easy to pick these things up during dinners and luncheons with associates."

"And breakfasts with them too?" Saya says, before she can stop herself.

"On occasion, yes."

"With female associates?"

Solomon's eyebrow lifts, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Do I detect a note of disapproval?"

Her cheeks go warm. "No. I was just…curious."

A half-lie. It always bothers her, the little reminders of his life before, as CEO of Cinq Flèches, on the enemy's side. The privileges allotted to him then, the bevies of anonymous beauties he no doubt courted, the shady operations he was often involved in. All owing to his allegiance to Diva, to Amshel Goldsmith—to embracing the values that she had struggled for decades to suppress.

It is not jealousy, so much as unease. It makes her realize there's so much about him she still doesn't know at all.

Reaching out, Solomon touches her chin, sweet and coaxing. "Saya, what's bothering you?"

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing."

"Of course. Except when a woman says 'nothing', she generally means the opposite." He smoothes her hair back. "Please don't go thinking morbid thoughts again, sweetheart. You know how much it bothers me when you get this way. I can't stand seeing you unhappy."

This rouses her from her lull. "But… I'm not."

"Aren't you?" He smiles, with a softer edge. "I hope so, Saya. I wouldn't want this to be a one-sided endeavor. In the brief time we've been married, I've… been granted something I never dared to imagine or hope for. So it's very important to me, that you be happy in turn. It's what I want most from you. The only thing I want from you."

His heavy gaze seeps through her, warming her inside-out. Blush deepening, Saya looks away. "Um…you know, you can stop complimenting me any time now."

"Oh? I wasn't aware I was." Leaning in, he presses a light kiss to her mouth. "I see no reason to make a secret of being happy. And with time, I hope that you'll come to feel the same way."

"I…I hope so too."

Solomon smiles, mouth descending to hers again. It is meant to be a brief kiss. But it quickly turns deep and hungry. Sighing, Saya melts under the contact. Relishing how it dissolves all thought, keeping her solely in the moment.

Sometimes she wonders if it isn't a malady, or pure madness: are other people like this, gripped by a near-constant fever that seems to rise from an even deeper place than desire? She feels like a symbol from a Caeretan vase, stark black silhouettes of mythological heroes poised to vanquish the Hydra: for every dark, slithering threat subdued, another replaces it.

But she's also never in her life had so much of this—solace, self-indulgence, satisfaction—and the dizzy-making reality of someone so well-suited to bestowing it.

The cellphone on the dresser emits a high beep.

Solomon exhales in mild frustration. Reluctantly, he draws away to answer the phone. Saya catches dribbles of conversation from the other end, and Solomon's calm replies. She can't grasp the gist of it, but intuits that a colleague wants to meet with him.

She sighs. Solomon has a vast network of associates—reliable but not intimate friends—and she finds herself disliking all of them. Fast-talking men with crisp designer suits and impeccably styled hair, who always behave as if their time is worth more than anyone else's, who are always caught up in cellphone conversations and last minute dictations, punctuating each sentence with manicured fingers and expensive cigarette smoke.

They defer to her with an almost patronizing courtesy, Madame Goldsmith this and Madame Goldsmith that, treating her like a cross between a diamond figurine and a slow-witted child. Something to be admired and handled with care, but not to be taken seriously.

When she remarks on this to Solomon, he simply chuckles and tells her not to take offense—it's just business.

Which, oddly, annoys her more.

When Solomon returns to her bedside, he looks suitably contrite. The expression puts her in mind of the Lycee ball, when he was forced to cut their dance short due to more pressing concerns. "Saya, I hope you don't mind. I have to see a few people downstairs."

"People?"

"A few associates in town would like to meet me. I specifically told my secretary to take any business-related calls on my behalf—I didn't want to be disturbed while I was with you. But it's perfectly disgusting how these details just slip her attention." Sighing, he pushes a cowlick of hair off his forehead. "I shouldn't be long, but it isn't a problem for you, is it?"

Saya tries to keep the disappointment from her voice. "No, it's… all right."

"Wonderful." Reaching out, he takes her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist with a casual intimacy. "Hopefully you'll feel better by the time I've returned. I'd hate the thought of cutting our tour short if you weren't feeling upto it."

"I'm fine, Solomon. Really. I'll be one my feet in a little bit."

"Wear the necklace, won't you? With that pink dress? Do you remember the party we went to last week? Schone's supposed wife had everyone gaping at her emerald choker. I hadn't the heart to tell her it wasn't real."

This makes Saya giggle, even as she chides, "Solomon, that's very unkind!"

"It isn't as long it makes you smile, Saya. That's all that matters to me." He touches her cheek. "Can you keep smiling this way until I get back?"

"Sorry, but that would be a little painful."

"Well then, consider it revenge for how I feel when you aren't smiling at all."

One last kiss, and he is gone before she can reply.

Left by herself, Saya listens to the murky drone of traffic outside. The suite is so vast it dwarfs her like an insect. Lying alone in the big bed, she is struck by how empty it feels without anyone to share it. Without anyone to talk to. She almost considers phoning her family, back in Okinawa—but she isn't sure of the time differences in Argentina and Japan.

They all might be asleep right now, and she doesn't think Kai would appreciate being roused from sleep to hear about food and shopping.

To distract herself, Saya studies the etchings on the canopy above, imagining shapes woven among them. Of course, it isn't long before one of the patterns takes the guise of a cello-case, the other of a bloody sword.

Wincing, Saya rolls to her side, drawing her knees to her stomach.

She hasn't told Solomon the whole truth; she really is very tired. Her whole body feels leaden—but as always, her mind whirs on overdrive, like an electrical device left plugged in too long. The sound of her own breathing, her heartbeat, are unbearably loud in the silence.

These days, falling asleep is almost impossible for her. Her whole cycle is askew: she attributes it in part to her pregnancy, and part to constantly traversing between different time-zones. The peak of nightfall always leaves her wide awake and agitated.

She doesn't want to recall that this is the hour when Chiropterans once prowled at their prime.

And she used to hunt them—flanked by her sword, and Haji.

Suddenly she can almost feel it—metal singing through the air as she slices her katana down. The spurt of hot blood, the insane bellow of each Chiropteran she hacks to shreds. Haji's silver daggers flying all around her, so close she can hear them whistle past her ears, striking at oncoming beasts, giving her leeway for the lethal deathblow.

Dodge, strike, decimate. Shattered stone and red splinters arcing the air, a visual fanfare to the battle's climax.

And all through it, her Chevalier's constant presence at her side. Bearing, as always, that inexplicable feeling of comfort, even amidst the carnage.

It isn't natural, is it, for her to compare those nightmarish decades to the superlative luxury of today, and to feel such a nostalgia for them?

Saya bites her lip. Without quite realizing it, she digs her hand into the pocket of her jeans, bringing out something wrapped in a white handkerchief. She unwraps it slowly. The dim light catches in the fine silver links of the necklace's chain, casting a dull white fleck on the attached stone.

Jade green, speckled in crimson dots so vivid they seem to jump out of the contrasting surface.

A bloodstone.

It was Haji's gift to her—a gift she is surprised to find herself carrying on her person, at all times, even though she never wears it.

As though she has begun to rely on her Chevalier so much that, without him, she is projecting her uncertainty onto the necklace now.

Which is, of course, ridiculous.

He said it was a talisman for health and protection, that's all.

He wanted you to have it, as a wedding gift.

It's nothing more serious than that.

Haji is no longer a fixed facet of her reality. Despite how long they've been together, their paths have diverged now.

Her life today is intertwined to Solomon's, to the babies she will soon have. She is free to travel, to live her dream and see the world. It thrills her to have this second chance, to breathe easy and do all the things she was so deprived of during the war. She can live however she wants.

But even as she tells herself this, Saya is surprised to feel her fingers tightening around the cool bloodstone. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine it is one of Haji's fingers.

Which too, is completely ridiculous.

But also the tiniest bit comforting.