by Lyndsay Ely
“Thanks.” Pity buried her nose in her mug of cocoa.
“Normally,” said Max, “you don’t see these two before the backside of noon. So what was it, boys?”
Garland smirked. “Some very dedicated faro players. One was convinced Duchess was his lucky charm.”
“Well, were you?” said Max.
“He lost his shirt,” Duchess replied. “And not in a good way.”
When they finished eating, they ferried their plates to a bin full of dirty dishes. Pity paused at the sight of it, one of the most familiar things she had so far encountered in Casimir.
“What?” said Max.
“It feels… weird.” She stared at the remains of the meal. “I can’t remember the last time I had a meal I didn’t help cook or clean up after. The room, the bath, the clothes—it all feels so… I don’t know.”
Yes, you do, said a nagging voice within. It feels kinda nice.
“Enjoy it.” Max smirked. “You’ll be earning your keep soon enough, trust me.”
The theatre was a whirlpool of seats, swirling down in a series of levels to the stage below. At the top were long, plain benches, followed by individual chairs, red and plush. Closest to the floor were tiers of sectioned boxes—some small, with room for only two or three people, others that could seat a dozen or more. Pity and Max passed through each section in turn, descending one of the stairways set at intervals.
“Normally we move around using the tunnels beneath the stage,” he explained as they reached a door that accessed the stage level, “but I thought you might like to see it from this angle.”
A tremor of nerves shook her. “I didn’t think it would be this big. Everyone on the commune could fit in here, easily.”
“Wait until you see it full.”
While the stands were deserted, the stage was a bustling hive of activity. Everywhere people were stretching, singing, flipping through the air. She and Max came upon a group of lithe youths—two boys and three girls—with pale skin and paler hair. None looked to be older than Pity. Five pairs of icy eyes stared at her as they passed.
“The Rousseau quintet,” Max said quietly. “Clare, Chrétien, Carine, Christophe, and Chloe. Acrobats and contortionists.” He pointed at a man and woman next. “Eva and Marius Zidane. Knife throwers.” As if by command, the pair raised their arms in unison. Two knives sliced through the air and embedded in a round target a dozen yards away.
“Not bad.” Pity had tried to sound impressed, but she had seen similar skill on the commune, usually on the heels of a few tumblers of home-still.
“That’s a warm-up. Their act is more… complicated.”
“There she is, there she is!” Halcyon’s voice cut through the noise. “Everyone, listen! Yes, listen, turn, pay attention!” He swept over to Pity. “Lovely to see you again, dear girl, and, my, don’t you look rested.” An arm stole around Pity’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Everyone, gather round! May I introduce to you our latest acquisition, Serendipity Jones!”
The performers gathered around them. Faces stared at her, curious but cool. One of the Rousseaus leaned to another and whispered something. They both giggled.
A woman with dark, cropped hair and olive skin broke away from the crowd. “Doesn’t look like much. What does she do?”
“Why, Scylla, you should be asking what doesn’t she do.”
Scylla rolled her eyes.
“No, no, wait,” Halcyon continued. “I would not withhold that satisfying morsel from you—it would be cruel, cruel! Serendipity here is a markswoman, finest ever trained on the CONA communes, now come to us to showcase her talents.”
“A commune?” Scylla snickered. “She gonna shoot jackrabbits for her act?”
The crowd tittered. Blood rushed to Pity’s face.
“Careful, Scylla,” said Eva Zidane. “We don’t have any jackrabbits, but we do have plenty of other creatures on hand.”
The remark earned Eva an acid look, but before Scylla could retort, Halcyon released Pity and clapped his hands together in rapid succession. “Enough, enough! Back to work, my lovelies. Tonight’s show draws ever closer! Go, go!” The crowd dispersed. “You, too, Max. Work to be done!”
“Sure, boss.” Max shot Pity a look of encouragement. “You’ll be okay.”
“Well, of course she will,” balked Halcyon. “We’ll have a little chat, talk about her act, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Go on.” Pity’s voice didn’t quite match the confidence of her words, but she managed a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Singh will take good care of me.”
“Please, my dear, call me Halcyon! Or boss, as some seem to prefer. Yes, either will do. Now come!”
It turned out that Halcyon’s taste in wardrobe extended to his office. The striped walls threatened the tranquility of Pity’s full stomach. Only slightly less unnerving were the orange carpet and the furniture upholstered in eggplant velvet. Halcyon plunked her onto a cushy chair before his desk, piled high with an unstable snarl of papers, ledgers, and toys. As Pity watched, a rubber ball rolled out of the mess and over to a wall plastered with maps. Pins were set in a dozen or more locations, all over the world.
“Plans,” Halcyon explained. “Or hopes, I should say. Why, if I had my way, the Theatre Vespertine would be touring constantly: Columbia, Sangui City, Johannesburg—no habitable corner of the globe would remain unvisited! Sadly, here we remain tethered, a beautiful bird kept caged, unable to even move about the continent because some aspects of my show are not deemed appropriate for the audiences of the east. And Selene’s no help, to boot. She doesn’t want to share her treasure with the world.”
Pity blinked. This is the genius I’m supposed to listen to? “To be honest, I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me, either.”
“What? Whyever would you say that?”
“Because I have no idea what you expect me to do,” she said. “And I’m no performer.”
“What does that matter? Performing is easy. You merely need to remember one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He leaned in, voice dropping low. “Give the crowd something they want to see.”
“Do you…” Pity hesitated. “Do you really think my shooting is something people would want to see?”
His eyes narrowed playfully. “It will be. Ah, you still have reservations. Don’t. When you step out in front of that audience for the first time, if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will. They’ll smell it, like sharks smell blood.”
And then you’ll be out on your backside. Pity didn’t need him to say it—Cessation didn’t seem like a place that offered second chances. Did she even want the first? But what was the alternative? With a night’s rest and a full stomach, clarity of thought had returned. Certainly she could play along for a few more days, then head east. But the prospect no longer carried the promise it once had. Finn wouldn’t be east, west, or anywhere else she went. And Cessation had served up an opportunity on a silver platter; she couldn’t expect the same good fortune a second time.
And isn’t this what you always wanted—the chance to show what you can do? Maybe the particulars weren’t exactly how she had imagined, but…
Safety. Shelter. Work.
Cessation—Selene—was offering her all of it. The only thing she had to do was be entertaining.
How hard could it be? she thought. It’s just shooting dressed up fancy. Finn would be tickled to see me show off for a thousand strangers.
Finn’s final moments seeped into her thoughts: the resigned, resilient look in her eyes; the nerve that came to Pity when it was already far too late.
Her breakfast curdled in her gut. The only steel in her is in those guns.
Beau’s barb had gotten under her skin, deeper than she wanted to admit. But maybe he had done her a favor by passing her over. Security could be life or death, and not only for her.
The Theatre?
The Theatre was just a show.
CHAPTER 10
&nb
sp; Late in the afternoon, a porter appeared at her bedroom door with a note.
Sorry, it read, a smudge of paint in one corner, busy with the sets. Will see you tonight before the show. —Max
P.S. REALLY sorry about Luster and the others—I told them to go easy on you.
Like the meeting with Halcyon—who had instructed her on when to return to the theatre and little else—the note left her with more questions than it answered. She pondered it as she dressed. At some point during her absence, the contents of her wardrobe had doubled. She chose an outfit from the new arrivals: a gray skirt and a black jacket that buttoned up the front, then brushed the braid out of her hair, letting it hang in waves around her shoulders.
There was a knock on the door. When she opened it, Luster, Garland, and Duchess swept into the room.
Pity didn’t bother with pleasantries. “What are you gonna do to me?” she said. “And is there any way I can avoid it?”
“Not. A. One,” Duchess said. “Aw, doesn’t she look like a cornered kitten? I love it.”
“Relaaaax,” Luster purred. “We’re here to help you get dressed for tonight.”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“Um, no.” Duchess scoffed. “While, admittedly, a night at the Theatre demands something a bit more conservative than what some of us are used to”—black pants and a glittering silver shirt had replaced his outfit from the evening before—“it doesn’t mean you dress like a schoolteacher on her day off.”
“I do not look like a schoolteacher!”
“Not yet.” Garland moved around behind her. She froze as he gathered her hair and twisted it into a bun on the top of her head. The touch sent shivers down the back of her neck. “But now you do. Oh, don’t scowl like that.”
Her face burned. She tried to protest, but being so close to Garland turned every objection sideways in her throat.
Luster came to her rescue. “Leave her be. Let’s see what else we can find.” She rooted through the wardrobe, pulling out bits of clothing and tossing them to the floor. “No, no, nope, hell nope, and bingo! Here we go!”
Pity’s stomach dropped. “That’s not really my—”
“No arguments.” Duchess snatched the dress from Luster and pressed it on her.
“Fine. I’ll try it on.” She clutched the frighteningly small wisp of fabric.
“Good,” said Luster. “Then we can get started on the rest of it.”
“The rest of what?” Pity squeaked.
Half an hour later, Luster dabbed on a last bit of powder. “There. What do you think?”
“I’m…” A doppelgänger stared at Pity from the bathroom mirror. When she ran a hand down the front of the dress, the reflection did the same. Evergreen in color, it hung to her knees and sparkled faintly. Silk, she thought. It would have taken me ages to save enough to buy a yard of fabric this nice. Pity was certain she wasn’t the first owner of the dress, but even if it had been torn and faded it would have been nicer than anything she had ever worn before. Around her bare shoulders her hair still hung loose, but now her eyes were rimmed with black, her lips stained berry-red. “I’m cold.”
“I can fix that.” Luster pranced out of the bathroom.
Pity wobbled as far as the doorframe before stopping, unsure she could take another step. Neither the heeled shoes she wore nor her resolve felt particularly steady. But it was too late. Garland and Duchess had seen her.
“Better,” admitted Duchess.
“Perfect,” said Garland. He grabbed her hands and pulled her back into the bedroom.
She stumbled forward. “I don’t know…”
“No, he’s right.”
For a moment, Pity didn’t recognize Max, leaning against the open door to the hall. His paint-splattered clothes had been swapped for a tailored black jacket with a gold collar and matching pants, an ensemble that fit him like a second skin. When he gave her a languorous smile, Pity’s stomach tightened. She forgot Garland was holding her hands until he released them, stepping away.
“See?” he said. “If Max can dress the part of the rich elite, so can you.”
Luster tossed her a gauzy strip of gold fabric. “Here, to keep you warm.”
“Uh, thanks.” She draped it around her shoulders.
“I’ve got some good news, kids,” Max said. “In honor of Pity seeing her first show, Halcyon reserved us a box.”
“A Finale and we don’t have to sit with the rabble?” Duchess looped an arm around Pity’s and led her toward the door. “I am suddenly so much fonder of you.”
Max didn’t move. “Sorry, Dutch, but if you don’t mind?”
“Oh, Maxxy, I knew you’d come around sooner or later.” Duchess released Pity and linked arms with Max instead, who rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right. She’s all yours.”
As Max led Pity into the hall, her embarrassment evaporated, chased away by a spark of excitement.
Whether it was for the show or her escort, in that moment she couldn’t have said.
It began with a faint hum of music, almost too low to make out. That hum grew, vibrating through Pity, weaving among the crowd’s hushed whispers and held breaths. It was impossible to tell where it came from in the dark theatre, lit only by red lights that cast everything in bloody shadows. She shifted anxiously in her seat, glancing at Max beside her. With his black suit and black hair, he seemed hardly more than a floating face. On her other side, Luster leaned against her shoulder, a huge grin on her face. Duchess and Garland were behind them, the box just spacious enough for five.
The theatre had been in a ruckus as they entered, its stands brimming with spectators. Pity had found herself assaulted by raucous laughter, colorful outfits, and scents of perfume, sweet cigar smoke, and too many bodies. But as soon as the lights dimmed, the crowd had settled, their anticipation thick and infectious.
The music continued its languid ascent. Her attention was drawn to the center of the stage, where a ring of purple and orange lights appeared, pulsing in time with the melody. Amid them, like a demon rising out of the depths of hell, Halcyon appeared.
“The sun has set, and the moon begins to rise.” His voice was everywhere, like the music. “Now is the early black. Now is the time of magic and mysteries, of darkness and devilry. I welcome all of you, new friends and old, to the greatest show on the continent, to the theatre to end all theatre! Welcome”—the music rose sharply, a trembling crescendo—“to the Theatre Vespertine!”
Halcyon threw up his arms. Huge jets of sparks exploded out of his sleeves and from the apex of the ceiling, flakes of light raining down on the audience like snow. The crowd erupted in cheers as the arena flooded with light. Halcyon was no longer alone. A dozen dancers—naked save for patches of multicolored silks cut to look like feathers—appeared. They circled around him like a flock of colorful vultures before back-flipping away, bending and twisting in the air, only to land as delicately as cats.
“Tonight you will be party to some of the greatest visual pleasures known to mankind. You will be excited and tantalized, terrified and electrified, and at times—never fear!—you will not believe your very eyes!” Halcyon weaved through the dancers along the perimeter of the stage, tipping his striped top hat at the onlookers. When he passed their box, he winked at Pity. Only then did she realize that she had slid forward to the edge of her seat. She felt a hand on her shoulder—Max guiding her backward, a knowing smiling on his face.
“So sit! Relax! And enjoy all the pleasures that the Theatre Vespertine has to offer!” He returned to his ring of lights. “Tonight we begin with an act to warm your blood… though warm or cold, it makes no difference to her. Everyone, blow a hiss—pardon me, a kiss—to Scylla!”
The room went black. A low drumming began, soon joined by a high, reedy flute. As Pity watched, Halcyon’s lights were replaced by a sour greenish glow. Fog billowed, tendrils curling into the darkness like a poisonous miasma. In the middle of the glow a body appeared, stretched supine. It rose from the fo
g on a rippling platform.
Rippling? She blinked, but the movement remained. Suddenly, projections of the stage appeared on the ceiling, illuminating the arena. Pity inhaled sharply.
The platform was covered with snakes.
Her vision was filled with them—big and little, striped and scaled, copperheads and rattlesnakes, and ones she didn’t recognize. And in the center of the reptilian nest, Scylla lay, still as death. Breasts bare, her skin shimmered like an oil slick. Pity shivered with a primal revulsion as the serpents slithered over Scylla’s limbs, her torso—even her face.
As the tempo of the music increased, Scylla began to move, arching her back slowly before rising. In a slow, upward drift, she got to her feet, dancing seductively, her body undulating like those of her pets. The air tasted of nervousness, excitement, and sensuality. When Scylla bent forward to pluck a pair of snakes from the mass and wrap them around her neck, the audience howled with appreciation.
Pity squirmed as Scylla’s eyes, ringed with green glitter, stared down at her from above. And yet she could not look away. She expected one of the snakes to strike at any moment. Instead, they slid up Scylla’s legs, wound over her hips, and slipped between her thighs. She continued to dance, raising her arms above her head as the serpents coiled around them. Soon they enveloped her so completely that Scylla resembled some ancient, horrible monster.
“How does she keep them from biting?” Pity breathed.
Luster leaned in close. “Scylla’s half witch,” she whispered. “And the other half is snake charmer.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Max said. “Illegal neural implants. Not that Scylla will admit it or breathe a word about where she got that done. There are some things you can’t get even in Cessation.”
The music stopped and Scylla froze. After a moment, it started again, lower and deeper. She began to unwind the serpents from her body, kissing each before placing it at her feet. When she plucked off the final one, a tiny black baby no longer than her forearm, Pity released the air arrested in her lungs.