ust after one o’clock Saturday afternoon, Aomame visited the Willow House. The grounds of the place were dominated by several large, old willow trees that towered over the surrounding stone wall and swayed soundlessly in the wind like lost souls. Quite naturally, the people of the neighborhood had long called the old, Western-style home “Willow House.” It stood atop a steep slope in the fashionable Azabu neighborhood. When Aomame reached the top of the slope, she noticed a flock of little birds in the willows’ uppermost branches, barely weighing them down. A big cat was napping on the sun-splashed roof, its eyes half closed. The streets up here were narrow and crooked, and few cars came this way. The tall trees gave the quarter a gloomy feel, and time seemed to slow when you stepped inside. Some embassies were located here, but few people visited them. Only in the summer would the atmosphere change dramatically, when the cries of cicadas pained the ears.

Aomame pressed the button at the gate and stated her name to the intercom. Then she aimed a tiny smile toward the overhead camera. The iron gate drew slowly open, and once she was inside it closed behind her. As always, she stepped through the garden and headed for the front door. Knowing that the security cameras were on her, she walked straight down the path, her back as erect as a fashion model’s, chin pulled back. She was dressed casually today in a navy-blue windbreaker over a gray parka and blue jeans, and white basketball shoes. She carried her regular shoulder bag, but without the ice pick, which rested quietly in her dresser drawer when she had no need for it.

Outside the front door stood a number of teak garden chairs, into one of which was squeezed a powerfully built man. He was not especially tall, but his upper body was startlingly well developed. Perhaps forty years of age, he kept his head shaved and wore a well-trimmed moustache. On his broad-shouldered frame was draped a gray suit. His stark white shirt contrasted with his deep gray silk tie and spotless black cordovans. Here was a man who would never be mistaken for a ward office cashier or a car insurance salesman. One glance told Aomame that he was a professional bodyguard, which was in fact his area of expertise, though at times he also served as a driver. A high-ranking karate expert, he could also use weapons effectively when the need arose. He could bare his fangs and be more vicious than anyone, but he was ordinarily calm, cool, and even intellectual. Looking deep into his eyes—if, that is, he allowed you to do so—you could find a warm glow.

In his private life, the man enjoyed toying with machines and gadgets. He collected progressive rock records from the sixties and seventies, and lived in another part of Azabu with his handsome young beautician boyfriend. His name was Tamaru. Aomame could not be sure if this was his family name or his given name or what characters he wrote it with. People just called him “Tamaru.”

Still seated in his teak garden chair, Tamaru nodded to Aomame, who took the chair opposite him and greeted him with a simple “Hello.”

“I heard a man died in a hotel in Shibuya,” Tamaru said, inspecting the shine of his cordovans.

“I didn’t know about that,” Aomame said.

“Well, it wasn’t worth putting in the papers. Just an ordinary heart attack, I guess. Sad case: he was in his early forties.”

“Gotta take care of your heart.”

Tamaru nodded. “Lifestyle is the important thing,” he said. “Irregular hours, stress, sleep deprivation: those things’ll kill you.”

“Of course, something’s gonna kill everybody sooner or later.”

“Stands to reason.”

“Think there’ll be an autopsy?”

Tamaru bent over and flicked a barely visible speck from the instep of his shoe. “Like anybody else, the cops have a million things to do, and they’ve got a limited budget to work with. They can’t start dissecting every corpse that comes to them without a mark on it. And the guy’s family probably doesn’t want him cut open for no reason after he’s quietly passed away.”

“His widow, especially.”

After a short silence, Tamaru extended his thick, glove-like right hand toward Aomame. She grasped it, and the two shared a firm handshake.

“You must be tired,” he said. “You ought to get some rest.”

Aomame widened the edges of her mouth somewhat, the way ordinary people do when they smile, but in fact she produced only the slightest suggestion of a smile.

“How’s Bun?” she asked.

“She’s fine,” Tamaru answered. Bun was the female German shepherd that lived in this house, a good-natured dog, and smart, despite a few odd habits.

“Is she still eating her spinach?” Aomame asked.

“As much as ever. And with the price of spinach as high as it’s been, that’s no small expense!”

“I’ve never seen a German shepherd that liked spinach before.”

“She doesn’t know she’s a dog.”

“What does she think she is?”

“Well, she seems to think she’s a special being that transcends classification.”

“Superdog?”

“Maybe so.”

“Which is why she likes spinach?”

“No, that’s another matter. She just likes spinach. Has since she was a pup.”

“But maybe that’s where she gets these dangerous thoughts of hers.”

“Maybe so,” Tamaru said. He glanced at his watch. “Say, your appointment today was for one thirty, right?”

Aomame nodded. “Right. There’s still some time.”

Tamaru eased out of his chair. “Wait here a minute, will you? Maybe we can get you in a little earlier.” He disappeared through the front door.

While she waited, Aomame let her eyes wander over the garden’s magnificent willow trees. Without a wind to stir them, their branches hung down toward the ground, as if they were people deep in thought.

Tamaru came back a short time later. “I’m going to have you go around to the back. She wants to see you in the hothouse today.”

The two of them circled the garden past the willows in the direction of the hothouse, which was behind the main house in a sunny area without trees. Tamaru carefully opened the glass door just far enough for Aomame to squeeze through without letting the butterflies escape. He slipped in after her, quickly shutting the door. This was not a motion that a big man would normally be good at, though he did it very efficiently. He simply didn’t think of it as a special accomplishment.

Spring had come inside the big, glass hothouse, completely and unreservedly. Flowers of all descriptions were blooming in profusion, but most of them were ordinary varieties that could be seen just about anywhere. Potted gladiolus, anemone, and daisies lined the shelves. Among them were plants that, to Aomame, could only be weeds. She saw not one that might be a prize specimen—no costly orchids, no rare roses, no primary-colored Polynesian blooms. Aomame had no special interest in plants, but the lack of affectation in this hothouse was something she rather liked.

Instead, the place was full of butterflies. The owner of this large glass enclosure seemed to be far more interested in raising unusual butterflies than rare plant specimens. Most of the flowers grown here were rich in the nectar preferred by the butterflies. To keep butterflies in a hothouse calls for a great deal of attention, knowledge, and effort, Aomame had heard, but she had absolutely no idea where such attention had been lavished here.

The dowager, the mistress of the house, would occasionally invite Aomame into the hothouse for private chats, though never at the height of summer. The glass enclosure was ideal to keep from being overheard. Their conversations were not the sort that could be held just anywhere at full volume, and the owner said it calmed her to be surrounded by flowers and butterflies. Aomame could see it on her face. The hothouse was a bit too warm for Aomame, but not unbearable.

The dowager was in her mid-seventies and slightly built. She kept her lovely white hair short. Today she wore a long-sleeved denim work shirt, cream-colored cotton pants, and dirty tennis shoes. With white cotton work gloves on her hands, she was using a large metal watering can to moisten the soil in one pot after another. Everything she wore seemed to be a size too large, but each piece hung on her body with comfortable familiarity. Whenever Aomame looked at her, she could not help but feel a kind of esteem for her natural, unaffected dignity.

Born into one of the fabulously wealthy families that dominated finance and industry prior to World War II, the dowager had married into the aristocracy, but there was nothing showy or pampered about her. When she lost her husband shortly after the war, she helped run a relative’s small investment company and displayed an outstanding talent for the stock market. Everyone recognized it as something for which she had a natural gift. Thanks to her efforts, the company developed rapidly, and the personal fortune left to her expanded enormously. With this money, she bought several first-class properties in the city that had been owned by former members of the aristocracy or the imperial family. She had retired ten years earlier, having increased her fortune yet again by well-timed sales of her holdings. Because she had always avoided appearing in public, her name was not widely known, though everyone in financial circles knew of her. It was also rumored that she had strong political connections. On a personal level, she was simply a bright, friendly woman who knew no fear, trusted her instincts, and stuck to her decisions.

When she saw Aomame come in, the dowager put down her watering can and motioned for her to sit in a small iron garden chair near the hothouse entrance. Aomame sat down, and the woman sat in the chair facing her. None of her movements made any sound. She was like a female fox cutting through the forest.

“Shall I bring drinks?” Tamaru asked.

“Some herbal tea for me,” the dowager said. “And for you …?” She looked at Aomame.

“I’ll have the same.”

Tamaru nodded and left the hothouse. After looking around to make sure there were no butterflies nearby, he opened the door a crack, slipped through, and closed the door again with the precision of a ballroom dancer.

The dowager took off her work gloves and set them on a table, carefully placing one on top of the other as she might with silk gloves she had worn to a soirée. Then she looked straight at Aomame with her lustrous black eyes. These were eyes that had witnessed much. Aomame returned her gaze as long as courtesy allowed.

“We seem to have lost a valuable member of society,” the dowager said. “Especially well known in oil circles, apparently. Still young, but quite the powerhouse, I hear.”

She always spoke softly. Her voice was easily drowned out by a slight gust of wind. People had to pay attention to what she was saying. Aomame often felt the urge to reach over and turn up the volume—if only there were a knob! She had no choice but to listen intently.

Aomame said, “But still, his sudden absence doesn’t seem to have inconvenienced anybody. The world just keeps moving along.”

The dowager smiled. “There is no one in this world who can’t be replaced. A person might have enormous knowledge or ability, but a successor can almost always be found. It would be terrible for us if the world were full of people who couldn’t be replaced. Though of course”—and here she raised her right index finger to make a point—“I can’t imagine finding anybody to take your place.”

“You might not find a person that easily, but you could probably find a way without too much trouble,” Aomame noted.

The dowager looked at Aomame calmly, her lips forming a satisfied smile. “That may be true,” she said, “but I almost surely could never find anything to take the place of what we are sharing here and now. You are you and only you. I’m very grateful for that. More grateful than I can say.”

She bent forward, stretched out her hand, and laid it on Aomame’s. She kept it there for a full ten seconds. Then, with a look of great satisfaction on her face, she withdrew her hand and twisted around to face the other way. A butterfly came fluttering along and landed on the shoulder of her blue work shirt. It was a small, white butterfly with a few crimson spots on its wings. The butterfly seemed to know no fear as it went to sleep on her shoulder.

“I’m sure you’ve never seen this kind of butterfly,” the dowager said, glancing toward her own shoulder. Her voice betrayed a touch of pride. “Even down in Okinawa, you’d have trouble finding one of these. It gets its nourishment from only one type of flower—a special flower that only grows in the mountains of Okinawa. You have to bring the flower here and grow it first if you want to keep this butterfly in Tokyo. It’s a lot of trouble. Not to mention the expense.”

“It seems to be very comfortable with you.”

“This little person thinks of me as a friend.”

“Is it possible to become friends with a butterfly?”

“It is if you first become a part of nature. You suppress your presence as a human being, stay very still, and convince yourself that you are a tree or grass or a flower. It takes time, but once the butterfly lets its guard down, you can become friends quite naturally.”

“Do you give them names?” Aomame asked, curious. “Like dogs or cats?”

The dowager gave her head a little shake. “No, I don’t give them names, but I can tell one from another by their shapes and patterns. And besides, there wouldn’t be much point in giving them names: they die so quickly. These people are your nameless friends for just a little while. I come here every day, say hello to the butterflies, and talk about things with them. When the time comes, though, they just quietly go off and disappear. I’m sure it means they’ve died, but I can never find their bodies. They don’t leave any trace behind. It’s as if they’ve been absorbed by the air. They’re dainty little creatures that hardly exist at all: they come out of nowhere, search quietly for a few, limited things, and disappear into nothingness again, perhaps to some other world.”

The hothouse air was warm and humid and thick with the smell of plants. Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end. Whenever she came in here, Aomame felt as if she had lost all sense of time.

Tamaru came back with a silver tray bearing a beautiful celadon teapot and two matching cups, cloth napkins, and a small dish of cookies. The aroma of herbal tea mingled with the fragrance of the surrounding flowers.

“Thank you, Tamaru. I’ll take over from here,” the dowager said.

Tamaru set the tray on the nearby table, gave the dowager a bow, and moved silently away, opening and closing the hothouse door, exiting with the same light steps as before. The woman lifted the teapot lid, inhaling the fragrance inside and checking the degree of openness of the leaves. Then she slowly filled their two cups, taking great care to ensure the equality of their strength.

“It’s none of my business, but why don’t you put a screen door on the entrance?” Aomame asked.

The dowager raised her head and looked at Aomame. “Screen door?”

“Yes, if you were to add a screen door inside the glass one, you wouldn’t have to be so careful every time to make sure no butterflies escaped.”

The dowager lifted her saucer with her left hand and, with her right hand, brought her cup to her mouth for a quiet sip of herbal tea. She savored its fragrance and gave a little nod. She returned the cup to the saucer and the saucer to the tray. After dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, she returned the cloth to her lap. At the very least, she took three times as long to accomplish these motions as the ordinary person. Aomame felt she was observing a fairy deep in the forest sipping a life-giving morning dew.

The woman lightly cleared her throat. “I don’t like screens,” she said.

Aomame waited for the dowager to continue, but she did not. Was her dislike of screens based on a general opposition to things that restricted freedom, or on aesthetic considerations, or on a mere visceral preference that had no special reason behind it? Not that it was an especially important problem. Aomame’s question about screens had simply popped into her head.

Like the dowager, Aomame picked up her cup and saucer together and silently sipped her tea. She was not that fond of herbal tea. She preferred coffee as hot and strong as a devil at midnight, but perhaps that was not a drink suited to a hothouse in the afternoon. And so she always ordered the same drink as the mistress of the house when they were in the hothouse. When offered a cookie, she ate one. A gingersnap. Just baked, it had the taste of fresh ginger. Aomame recalled that the dowager had spent some time after the war in England. The dowager also took a cookie and nibbled it in tiny bits, slowly and quietly so as not to wake the rare butterfly sleeping on her shoulder.

“Tamaru will give you the key when you leave,” the woman said. “Please mail it back when you’re through with it. As always.”

“Of course.”

A tranquil moment of silence followed. No sounds reached the sealed hothouse from the outside world. The butterfly went on sleeping.

“We haven’t done anything wrong,” the woman said, looking straight at Aomame.

Aomame lightly set her teeth against her lower lip and nodded. “I know.”

“Look at what’s in that envelope,” the woman said.

From an envelope lying on the table Aomame took seven Polaroid photographs and set them in a row, like unlucky tarot cards, beside the fine celadon teapot. They were close-up shots of a young woman’s body: her back, breasts, buttocks, thighs, even the soles of her feet. Only her face was missing. Each body part bore marks of violence in the form of lurid welts, raised, almost certainly, by a belt. Her pubic hair had been shaved, the skin marked with what looked like cigarette burns. Aomame found herself scowling. She had seen photos like this in the past, but none as bad.

“You haven’t seen these before, have you?”

Aomame shook her head in silence. “I had heard, but this is the first I’ve seen of them.”

“Our man did this,” the dowager said. “We’ve taken care of her three fractures, but one ear is exhibiting symptoms of hearing loss and may never be the same again.” She spoke as quietly as ever, but her voice took on a cold, hard edge that seemed to startle the butterfly on her shoulder. It spread its wings and fluttered away.

She continued, “We can’t let anyone get away with doing something like this. We simply can’t.”

Aomame gathered the photos and returned them to the envelope.

“Don’t you agree?” the dowager asked.

“I certainly do,” said Aomame.

“We did the right thing,” the dowager declared.

She left her chair and, perhaps to calm herself, picked up the watering can by her side as if taking in hand a sophisticated weapon. She was somewhat pale now, her eyes sharply focused on a corner of the hothouse. Aomame followed her gaze but saw nothing more unusual than a potted thistle.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” the dowager said, still holding the empty watering can. “I appreciate your efforts.” This seemed to signal the end of their interview.

Aomame stood and picked up her bag. “Thank you for the tea.”

“And let me thank you again,” the dowager said.

Aomame gave her a faint smile.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” the dowager said. Her voice had regained its gentle tone. A warm glow shone in her eyes. She touched Aomame’s arm. “We did the right thing, I’m telling you.”

Aomame nodded. The woman always ended their conversations this way. Perhaps she was saying the same thing to herself repeatedly, like a prayer or mantra. “You don’t have anything to worry about. We did the right thing, I’m telling you.”

After checking to be sure there were no butterflies nearby, Aomame opened the hothouse door just enough to squeeze through, and closed it again. The dowager stayed inside, the watering can in her hand. The air outside was chilling and fresh with the smell of trees and grass. This was the real world. Here time flowed in the normal manner. Aomame inhaled the real world’s air deep into her lungs.

She found Tamaru seated in the same teak chair by the front entrance, waiting for her. His task was to hand her a key to a post office box.

“Business finished?” he asked.

“I think so,” Aomame replied. She sat down next to him, took the key, and tucked it into a compartment of her shoulder bag.

For a time, instead of speaking, they watched the birds that were visiting the garden. There was still no wind, and the branches of the willows hung motionlessly. Several branches were nearly touching the ground.

“Is the woman doing okay?” Aomame asked.

“Which woman?”

“The wife of the man who suffered the heart attack in the Shibuya hotel.”

“Doing okay? Not really. Not yet,” Tamaru said with a scowl. “She’s still in shock. She can hardly speak. It’ll take time.”

“What’s she like?”

“Early thirties. No kids. Pretty. Seems like a nice person. Stylish. Unfortunately, she won’t be wearing bathing suits this summer. Maybe not next year, either. Did you see the Polaroids?”

“Yes, just now.”

“Horrible, no?”

“Really,” Aomame said.

Tamaru said, “It’s such a common pattern. Talented guy, well thought of, good family, impressive career, high social standing.”

“But he becomes a different person at home,” Aomame said, continuing his thought. “Especially when he drinks, he becomes violent. But only toward women. His wife is the only one he can knock around. To everyone else, he shows only his good side. Everybody thinks of him as a gentle, loving husband. The wife tries to tell people what terrible things he’s doing to her, but no one will believe her. The husband knows that, so when he’s violent he chooses parts of her body she can’t easily show to people, or he’s careful not to make bruises. Is this the ‘pattern’?”

Tamaru nodded. “Pretty much. Only this guy didn’t drink. He was stone-cold sober and out in the open about it. A really ugly case. She wanted a divorce, but he absolutely refused. Who knows? Maybe he loved her. Or maybe he didn’t want to let go of such a handy victim. Or maybe he just enjoyed raping his wife.”

Tamaru raised one foot, then the other, to check the shine on his shoes again. Then he continued, “Of course, you can usually get a divorce if you have proof of domestic violence, but it takes time and it takes money. If the husband hires a good lawyer, he can make it very unpleasant for you. The family courts are full, and there’s a shortage of judges. If, in spite of all that, you do get a divorce, and the judge awards a divorce settlement or alimony, the number of men who actually pay up is small. They can get out of it all kinds of ways. In Japan, ex-husbands almost never get put in jail for not paying. If they demonstrate a willingness to pay and cough up a little bit, the courts usually look the other way. Men still have the upper hand in Japanese society.”

Aomame said, “Maybe so, but as luck would have it, one of those violent husbands suffered a heart attack in a Shibuya hotel room a few days ago.”

“‘As luck would have it’ is a bit too direct for me,” Tamaru said with a click of the tongue. “I prefer ‘Due to heavenly dispensation.’ In any case, no doubts have been raised regarding the cause of death, and the amount of life insurance was not so high as to attract attention, so the insurance company won’t have any suspicions. They’ll probably pay without a hitch. Finally, it’s a decent amount of money, enough for her to begin a new life. Plus she’ll be saving all the time and money that would have been eaten up by suing for divorce. When it’s over, she will have avoided all the complicated, meaningless legal procedures and all the subsequent mental anguish.”

“Not to mention that that scummy bastard won’t be set loose on some new victim.”

“Heavenly dispensation,” Tamaru said. “Everything’s settled nicely thanks to one heart attack. All’s well that ends well.”

“Assuming there’s an end somewhere,” Aomame said.

Tamaru formed some short creases near his mouth that were faintly reminiscent of a smile. “There has to be an end somewhere. It’s just that nothing’s labeled ‘This is the end.’ Is the top rung of a ladder labeled ‘This is the last rung. Please don’t step higher than this’?”

Aomame shook her head.

“It’s the same thing,” Tamaru said.

Aomame said, “If you use your common sense and keep your eyes open, it becomes clear enough where the end is.”

Tamaru nodded. “And even if it doesn’t”—he made a falling gesture with his finger “—the end is right there.”

They were both quiet for a while as they listened to the birds singing. It was a calm April afternoon without a hint of ill will or violence.

“How many women are living here now?” Aomame asked.

“Four,” Tamaru answered, without hesitation.

“All in the same kind of situation?”

“More or less.” Tamaru pursed his lips. “But the other three cases are not as serious as hers. Their men are all nasty bastards, as usual, but none are as bad as the character we’ve been talking about. These guys are lightweights who like to come on strong, not worth bothering you about. We can take care of them ourselves.”

“Legally.”

“Pretty much—even if we have to lean on them a little. Of course, a heart attack is an entirely ‘legal’ cause of death.”

“Of course,” Aomame chimed in.

Tamaru went silent for a while, resting his hands on his knees and looking at the silent branches of the willow trees.

After some hesitation, Aomame decided to broach something with Tamaru. “You know,” she said, “there’s something I’d like you to tell me.”

“What’s that?”

“How many years ago did the police get new uniforms and guns?”

Tamaru wrinkled his brow almost imperceptibly. “Where did that come from all of a sudden?”

“Nowhere special. It just popped into my head.”

Tamaru looked her in the eye. His own eyes were entirely neutral, free of expression. He was leaving himself room to go in any direction with this.

“That big shootout near Lake Motosu between the Yamanashi Prefectural Police and the radical group took place in mid-October of 1981, and the police had their major reorganization the following year. Two years ago.”

Aomame nodded without changing her expression. She had absolutely no recollection of such an event, but all she could do now was play along with him.

“It was really bloody. Old-fashioned six-shooters against five Kalashnikov AK-47s. The cops were totally outgunned. Poor guys: three of them were torn up pretty badly. They looked as if they’d been stitched on a sewing machine. The Self-Defense Force got involved right away, sending in their special paratroopers. The cops totally lost face. Prime Minister Nakasone immediately got serious about strengthening police power. There was an overall restructuring, a special weapons force was instituted, and ordinary patrolmen were given high-powered automatic pistols to carry—Beretta Model 92s. Ever fired one?”

Aomame shook her head. Far from it. She had never even fired an air rifle.

“I have,” Tamaru said. “A fifteen-shot automatic. It uses 9mm Parabellum rounds. It’s one of the great pistols. The U.S. Army uses it. It’s not cheap, but its selling point is that it’s not as expensive as a SIG or a Glock. It’s not an easy gun to use, though, is definitely not for amateurs. The old revolvers only weighed 490 grams, but these weigh 850. They’re useless in the hands of an untrained Japanese policeman. Fire a high-powered gun like that in a crowded country like Japan, and you end up hurting innocent bystanders.”

“Where did you ever fire such a thing?”

“You know, the usual story. Once upon a time I was playing my harp by a spring when a fairy appeared out of nowhere, handed me a Beretta Model 92, and told me to shoot the white rabbit over there for target practice.”

“Get serious.”

The creases by Tamaru’s mouth deepened slightly. “I’m always serious,” he said. “In any case, the cops’ official guns and uniforms changed two years ago. In the spring. Just about this time of year. Does that answer your question?”

“Two years ago,” Aomame said.

Tamaru gave her another sharp look. “You know, if something’s bothering you, you’d better tell me. Are the cops involved in something?”

“No, that’s not it,” Aomame said, waving off his suspicions with both hands. “I was just wondering about their uniforms, like, when they changed.”

A period of silence followed, bringing the conversation to a natural end. Tamaru thrust out his right hand again. “Anyhow, I’m glad it all came off without a hitch.” Aomame took his hand in hers. He understands, she told herself. After a tough job where your life is on the line, what you need is the warm, quiet encouragement that accompanies the touch of human flesh.

“Take a break,” Tamaru said. “Sometimes you need to stop, take a deep breath, and empty your head. Go to Guam or someplace with a boyfriend.”

Aomame stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and adjusted the hood of her parka. Tamaru also got to his feet. He was by no means tall, but when he stood up it looked as if a stone wall had suddenly materialized. His solidity always took her by surprise.

Tamaru kept his eyes fixed on her back as she walked away. She could feel him looking at her the whole time. And so she kept her chin pulled in, her back straight, and walked with firm steps as if following a perfectly straight line. But inside, where she could not be seen, she was confused. In places of which she was totally unaware, things about which she was totally unaware were happening one after another. Until a short time before, she had had the world in her hand, without disruptions or inconsistencies. But now it was falling apart.

A shootout at Lake Motosu? Beretta Model 92?

What was happening to her? Aomame could never have missed such important news. This world’s system was getting out of whack. Her mind went on churning as she walked. Whatever might have happened, she would have to do something to make the world whole again, to make it logical again. And do it now. Otherwise, outlandish things could happen.

Tamaru could probably see the confusion inside her. He was a cautious man with superb intuition. He was also very dangerous. Tamaru had a profound respect for his employer, and was fiercely loyal to her. He would do anything to protect her. Aomame and Tamaru acknowledged each other’s abilities and liked each other—or so it seemed. But if he concluded that Aomame’s existence was not to his employer’s benefit, for whatever reason, then he would not hesitate to get rid of her. Aomame couldn’t blame him for that. It was his job, after all.

The gate opened as she reached the other side of the garden. She gave the friendliest smile she could manage to the security camera, and a little wave as if there were nothing bothering her. Once she was outside the wall, the gate slowly shut behind her. As she descended the steep Azabu slope, Aomame tried to organize her thoughts and make a detailed, comprehensive list of what she should do from this point forward.