They began to travel immediately after the wedding.

Solomon handled all the arrangements and expenses. Saya offered to chip in, but to him, the concept seemed outlandish and unheard of. He wanted this to be a chance for her to rest; he insisted on managing all the details of their trip and gently but firmly forbade her from lifting a finger.

For Saya, who more or less managed all her own affairs since her mission against Diva, who always took charge of her own welfare, this sudden relinquishing of control was a bit disconcerting.

But also a relief—an opportunity to not have to think, to organize something for once in her life.

Almost…freeing.

She bids Kai and her family goodbye at Naha airport, amid much laughter and chatter. Haji is not present, but she has expected that. Seeing him there, so alone and abject in a smiling crowd of well-wishers… she cannot face it. Better for him to stay apart. Better for both of them to keep their distance, at least until the sting has faded.

If it ever will.

There is no time for her to wonder what he is doing, or to think about him at all—three hours later, she and Solomon are on their way to Bangkok.

Solomon settles her provisionally at the Peninsula hotel's honeymoon suite, and gets to work making arrangements for the tour they will be taking until the babies arrive.

From the glittering monolith of their hotel room, Saya watches Bangkok's cityscape sparkle and flash all around her, feeling as if it isn't a reality, but an abstraction. She almost hesitates in venturing outdoors, meshing into the human tumult, because she is afraid the city will vanish like mist.

Here she is at last, the war over, free to travel the world—and the sensation holds a gravity that is both enchanting and frightening.

I'm so glad I have you all to myself now, Solomon murmurs to her. You can be free of all that pain you put yourself through. You can learn to be happy. I'll spend every moment of my life ensuring it.

She notices that he seems to be caught in a private whirlwind, an elated verve of motion and speech. His words come more quickly than usual and his eyes always shine. Part of him wants to show Saya every sight and sound on the planet there is worth seeing—the other part of him wants to cosset her behind high-security suites and layers of curtain like a fragile and priceless artwork not meant for the vulgar eye.

At times she catches him looking at her, feels him reaching out to touch her, as though to reassure himself she is not an illusion.

In his eyes, she sees reflected the same incredulous wonder she feels at finally being able to travel the world, at finally being free to live.

The first few weeks, the initial lethargy and morning-sickness have yet to take their toll. Solomon suggests they make use of it by exploring the city together.

The days are a fascinating blur to Saya, consisting of wandering through crowded bazaars huddled shyly beside Solomon, exploring shimmering golden temples and marketplaces rife with exotic scents and colorful clothes, riding sleek skytrains across the glittering riverside, wandering vast towering galleries—all the while avoiding pickpockets in crowds.

They dine at restaurants of pristine white tablecloths and silver cutlery, where the staff defers to them like royalty and platters of food unfurl in an endless delectable procession. Saya's appetite is sustained on lobster au gratin and freshwater eel, on unsweetened pineapple juice and jasmine tea, boxes of champagne truffles and forkfuls of pastry that Solomon feeds directly to her mouth.

She tries not to dwell on her thorny past, on all the bloodshed that looms like a shadow over her head. Indeed, she avoids thinking about the war at all. Bitter recollections creep up on her once in a while—but she is quick to ward them off.

There is no point in remembering something that can never be changed, she tells herself. Staying in the present keeps one sane and strong.

Hindsight only shatters your psyche beyond repair.

Solomon seems ready to oblige to her decision—indeed, he is eager to accommodate to her every whim, cater to her every need. He takes an unabashed delight in showing Saya a different world, a world of obsequious chauffeurs and Argentine strawberries, of operas and éclairs, pristine white islands and rainbow-petaled roses.

He wants her to feel at home in these settings and venues—he wants to mold her to this new environment, both inside and out. Laughter is the new language he wants her to speak.

Saya tries not to feel embarrassed when he buys her wardrobes of dresses, posh little handbags and glittery chokers with matching earrings. She can barely stand on the high-heeled shoes he gets her; the perfumes he gives her are so aromatic she is almost afraid to sprintz them on—and she still goes beet-red recalling that one instance he points out some daringly risqué lingerie for her, asking her if she'd like to buy it.

She can't say she is used to pampering herself to such extremes. Her needs during the war were stringently minimalist. She has long grown past her days of vanity during the Zoo.

This sudden indulgence … is a little overwhelming.

The time when you had to deprive yourself is long gone, Saya, Solomon tells her with a gentle smile. I want you to be happy. I want to make up for every deprivation you suffered during the war. Didn't I promise to fulfill your every wish?

And Saya doesn't know what to say to that.

Indeed, Solomon's constant presence overwhelms her on many levels. She hasn't realized, until now, how accustomed she is to silences, to relative stillness and solitude. It is an unavoidable upshot of Haji's company, to all the decades she has spent with him. There was always an innate hush between them; they rarely relied on words or gestures to get any message across.

Everything was conducted in a pantomime, without a second thought or word.

Now, in this idyllic new epoch, she is overcome with an awkwardness that often makes her shy. In many ways, she and Solomon really are practical strangers. She has no knowledge of his childhood, what foods he liked to eat or where he studied. Solomon knows nothing of her life in Okinawa, or of her bygone days at the Zoo.

But he answers any question she puts forth to him; he is eager to talk to her for hours if she wishes it, to offer any personal revelations she cares to hear about, to encourage her to share her own. He takes a rapt inventory of her in every spare moment, seems to enjoy breaking down every portico of her words to their most straightforward components.

Which was frightening, unnerving, when he was on Diva's side—but which is, in these new and titillating circumstances, a flustering boon.

And in the moments where he takes her hand, touches her, all Saya's uncertainty melts into delicious consolation. Each night she lies twined with him in bed, cool bedsheets and whorls of blond hair knotted between her trembling fingers, each fervid interchanged kiss as eloquent as verbal discourses—all the awkwardness dissolves, yielding to the mesmeric candor of sheer sensation.

She's always been better at handling action than at dissecting emotion.

Indeed, it is startling, how easy it is to accept him in her bed. Her life. She half-expects sex to change everything. Make the world seem different. More... grown-up, maybe. In a way, it does, and doesn't. Sex makes colors seem brighter, makes her blood run hotter. It atrophies her sour rush of regrets, even as it fills her with fluttery new feelings she can't define.

As their physical relationship deepens, Solomon's attention becomes a daily tonic. Something that stirs her to the breaking point, yet leaves her afterwards so blissfully replete.

Day by day, they carve a niche for themselves, in which they shunt past and future alike and settle into a multicolored present. Shifting circadian rhythms from night to day, Saya allows herself a taste of the lushness of Solomon's realm. They build a loose routine, the first in her disjointed years since she'd been a carefree teenager at Omoro. Festivals, floating markets and dance-halls by night; quiet promenades across shorelines and the tops of skyscrapers by dawn. In afternoons, after sharing a languid hot soak together in the tub, Solomon watches her devour heaps of piping-hot room-service. Trays of sticky-sweet rice with diced mangoes, and seafood-topped pancakes slathered in tart chili-sauce, and icy glasses of blood-laced passionfruit punch that he sips straight from her mouth. Evenings find her sprawled heavy-limbed and senseless in bed. Exhausted by the night's excitement, and by the delicious coup de foudre of Solomon's tender ravishings.

There is an imperfect perfection in their lovemaking. She's never felt so appreciated—so worshiped—as she does in Solomon's regard.

Nor so afraid.

The war has molded her to a world of severity and self-denial. But in this satisfying new partnership, even the most mundane aspects disquiet her.

Eating dinner with him; twining their fingers under the table as she forks food off her plate, and letting him taste each flavor off her lips afterward. Racing with him—Chiropteran speed and strength a veritable match for hers, whetting her preternatural abilities under his bright regard, as if he is watching a rare, poisonous orchid in bloom. Sharing a bed with him—lying spooned against his warmth in boneless languor after their fierce couplings, each overlapping the next, as if they are starving for each other. Feeling him memorize her expression each time they are finished—sloe-eyed and flushed with satisfaction, her swollen lips parted on gasps—the sight seeming to fill him with both bliss and ever-recurring greed.

And sensing, through it all, his anxiety. That she will disappear, that some unforeseen disaster will strike, and this grace period will end.

She fears the same thing.

But differently.

Like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, she feels caught in an enchanted castle. Surrounded by sumptuous luxury, but wary of its dark nature. There is a duality too, in her view of Solomon. Often, his desire frightens her in its enormity. Makes her shudder to imagine what damage it could cause if misused. Touchingly kind as he is, he can also be demanding, impatient, autocratic and possessive.

In love, he is more a Peter Pan than a Prince Charming.

Not Haji at all.

But the more time she spends with him, the deeper her fondness grows. It isn't just the blood-based alchemy between them. Isn't that he is helping her discover needs, sensations, that she'd brutally repressed in the war—and so avidly satisfying them. His very presence is a novelty, unlooked-for, unexpected. She'd Awakened as if from a dimension of Hell. A past so horrific it tore her apart. Solomon's presence now is a gentle healing-over.

The magician whose elixir erases old ills, if not cures them.

Out of sight, out of mind—isn't that the saying?

From Bangkok, she and Solomon take a tour by sea, coasting across the hem of the Philippines to dock at Manila. The first few days aboard the luxury cruiseliner, Saya is too seasick to venture any further than their cabin. Solomon tends to her with cold compresses and orange juice, propping her head on his shoulder to keep her vision balanced and applying firm pressure to her wrists (it staves off nausea, angel), soothing her with an open view to the glittering high sea sunset, and plans of where they will be traveling next.

Saya finds herself drowning in a dazzling kaleidoscope of new locations, an intoxicating phantasmagoria of sight and sound. Each more incredible than the last, but constantly altering, shifting in shape and setting. Vivid blue expanses of ocean and mysterious green stretches of jungle, gold pyramids and majestic Colosseums. Poland, Casablanca, Kiev, Budapest. Sunny Spain and breezy Switzerland. Sailing gondolas and shimmering rainfall in Venice; late lazy suppers and brimming wine goblets in Vienna.

She tries to adapt to the lavishness of her new lifestyle, tries hard not to feel guilty over how much she is enjoying herself. The world is no longer imposing or sinister. Suddenly it is an enchanting cocoon, within which she can hide from the remorse of her past, from all the things that still need to be rectified and gainsaid.

She yearns to shut out all the precedent agonies of the war. Solomon is her doorway to that, and in his power, she entrusts the key to her self-willed oblivion.

She tries not to think about Haji too much. Doesn't like to imagine what life might be for him, what he might be doing while she is traveling the world. Part of her hopes that he will try to be happy. For his own sake, and for hers. Part of her hopes he will try his best to move on, forget her.

Except everytime she thinks about him with anyone else, she feels physically sick.

She has been in his company a long time—too long, Solomon mutters when he thinks she can't hear him—and in her mind, she still regards Haji as hers, like her sword or her fingertips. He is always an inextricable part of her life, something constantly felt if not always seen—and the idea of him with someone else is like a blade slashing at her guts.

But it isn't her place, nor her right, to object if it does happen.

But her moments to reflect this are rare. At Solomon's side, she has little opportunity for sadness—her husband seems to bear a trayload of earthly sweets in his hands, dropping them one by one into her mouth, luring her into the delicious vortex of another existence.

To a life where everything glows and shimmers. Where every need, no sooner voiced, is seen to and satisfied.

Where there is no looking back or apologizing—for herself or for anything else.

It is delightful, breathtaking—it goes beyond anything she has ever allowed herself to dream for. In this new dimension of textured satin and baroque lace, gleaming lobbies and Baltic caviar, her old life seems so separate, so…abstract.

Spilling blood, icy blades and unending insomnia, cannot mesh with the superlative luxury that surrounds her.

And nor too, can Haji.

Which is precisely why it baffles Saya, whenever she finds herself thrashing awake in the middle of the night, to find hot tears spilling down her cheeks, and her Chevalier's name tumbling from her lips like a gasp of fresh air between drugged gulps of opium.