by Lyndsay Ely
Back in her room, Pity wrapped her gifts in gauzy tissue paper and finished them off with bows. She stared at the pile proudly for a few seconds and then dressed for dinner. By the time she returned to the Gallery, the room was teeming with people, the air thick with body heat and spices and the delicious smells of food. She found the others, waiting patiently to start on the huge buffet that ran down the center of the room.
As the hour struck, the sound of a hundred bells rang out, and everyone got up to fill their plates. The commune had held dinners like this, too. If Pity closed her eyes, it was almost the same—same raucous laughter, same off-color jokes being told. Eyes open, it was a different story, with more color and more skin, but the feeling of community prevailed.
But she felt the voids, too. The puzzle of her new life lacked pieces that had never belonged to it but that could have fit. Her mother. Finn. It was easy, pleasant even, to slot in visions of them, to entwine the memory of Finn’s laughter with Duchess’s, or her mother’s tranquil smile with Max’s. But it was a fantasy.
Months ago that might have been sorrowful. Now it was bittersweet.
Everyone ate and drank until they were full, waited a bit, and ate and drank some more. By the time the plates were cleared away, the laughter was louder, the jokes even more bawdy. The Rousseaus did flips on the bar and walked the length of it on their hands. Olivia extinguished candles with her whip. Flossie flounced around passing out fluffy white bonbons, popping them into every waiting mouth.
In a nest of sofas and chairs, Pity lounged beside Luster, cradling a cup of mulled wine. Across a table scattered with glasses and cookie crumbs, Garland laughed as Kitty dangled a piece of mistletoe over Duchess’s head.
“You gotta give me a kiss. It’s tradition,” she teased, sloshing champagne from her glass.
“I don’t!” Duchess dodged both the splashes and the kisses.
“He’s no fun.” Garland snatched the sprig away from Kitty and jumped onto the couch next to Pity, grinning. “But I bet Pity is.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She kissed him on each side of his mouth.
“That doesn’t count!” Luster protested.
“It does where I come from. Two sweet kisses for one smutty one. Yeah, we played this game on the commune, too! Geez, y’all know we do figure out how to make babies eventually, right?”
Duchess shrugged. “I thought you grew them like crops.”
Garland waved the mistletoe. “Who wants a turn? Now’s the time—don’t be shy!”
Max stood abruptly. He’d been quiet all night, laughing when it was called for but offering little to the conversation. At times, Pity had caught him staring into the depths of his drink, as if reading a message there only he could see. She wondered if he was still thinking about his candle.
“I’m going to get some more punch,” he said. “Anyone else?”
But before he could depart, a horn sounded. A hush fell on the room.
Across the hall, Selene appeared on a raised dais, resplendent in a cascading silver-and-white dress. Beau stood in his usual place behind her, Adora and Halcyon off to one side. Halcyon wore a suit as white as fresh snow but with a purple top hat. Pity stifled a grin. He looked like a skinny snowman.
Selene clapped her hands together a few times, but every eye in the room was already on her.
“I cannot imagine,” she began, voice warm, “that anyone in the world is looking out now and seeing a better family than I see here. Some of you have been here only months, others for years, but all of you bring your own brand of brightness to Casimir, to our home.”
Pity leaned back in her seat, smiling. She liked that word and the feeling it carried. She looked around at the people who, not long ago, she would not have imagined turning into a motley sort of family. Her father’s face floated to the surface of her mind, but she banished it. She wouldn’t think about him today, not when she was enjoying herself so much.
“I don’t want to take you away from your celebrations,” Selene continued. “But for all our beliefs—those shared and those not—for all our pasts and for all our futures, Casimir is a paradise of prosperity because of all of you. You are the soul of our home. Thank you all.”
The cheers that followed were as loud as any Pity had heard in the theatre. As Selene descended the dais, Scylla wandered over, a red-and-white-striped snake coiled around her neck.
“Festive accessory,” said Pity.
“Don’t you think?” Scylla ran a finger across the serpent’s scales. “He waits all year long to be this fashionable.” She gestured at the dais. “Pay attention, the boss has a present for us.”
Halcyon was calling for quiet again, waving his purple top hat emphatically.
“I wanted to take this opportunity to make a little announcement,” he called out, replacing the hat on his head. “On the eve of the New Year, the Theatre Vespertine will hold its next performance.” He paused dramatically. “One that will include a Finale!”
Pity sucked in a breath as the room erupted in ferocious applause.
“Who?” said Luster over the din. “Is he going to say who?”
But Pity already knew. The blood in her veins chilled. “The assassin.”
“Yup,” Scylla confirmed. “Your friend is coming back out to play, Miss Pity.”
“They kept him locked up all this time?” Max’s brow furled with revulsion. “It’s been months! I assumed he was long dead.”
“We all did.” Scylla petted her snake again. “But he’s not, and now we get to have some fun.”
Casimir had never been so silent as when Pity woke on Christmas morning. Like the morning after a hard snow, the quiet enveloped the whole building; even the swish of her slippered feet against the carpet seemed a harsh trespass. She had been the first to abandon the party the evening before, sarcastic booing ushering her out of the Gallery. But she had wanted to wake early. Everyone had agreed to exchange presents after breakfast—or lunch or dinner, whatever ended up being the first meal of the day—but Pity wanted to leave her gifts as her mother had done, outside each person’s door.
She visited each room in turn until only Max’s present was left. Turning the gift over and over in her hands, she considered it, the paintbrushes within clacking against each other. A porter might know where Max’s room was, but she still didn’t. She could wait, but it hardly seemed fair, now that she had delivered the others.
The basement, Max had said. It wasn’t much of a clue. Casimir was huge—it could take her hours to explore its tunnels. But the night he had found her on the stairs, he might have been coming up. Though her memories were hazy, she found the stairwell and descended. When she opened the door at the very bottom, cool air carried the scent of iron and damp stone to her nostrils. Surrounded by drab concrete, she made her way through the bowels of Casimir, searching for anywhere habitable. She found nothing—only utility closets and storage rooms. Once a brown mouse scampered across her path.
As she was ready to give up, she came to a junction of halls. To her left, the passage ended abruptly at a large metal door spotted with rivets. Drippy letters were scrawled across its surface: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PAINTED.
Pity smirked. At least I know I’m in the right place.
She went to deposit the present. The door was ajar, allowing a dim ochre glow to escape. She listened for a moment but heard no movement within.
“Max?” There was no response. She peered closer.
Even in the low light, Pity could see how spectacular the room was. Murals covered every inch of the walls, bleeding onto the floor and up to the ceiling. Mesmerized by the vortex of colors, she took a few steps inside, the door creaking feebly as she pushed it. She couldn’t even begin to pick apart the layers of imagery: spindly trees and bizarre animals mixed in with pure abstract strokes and splatters; a skyline of buildings half covered by a spray of fireworks; a pair of alien eyes looking out from beneath a field of poppy flowers.
As she reached out t
o touch a bloody sunset, a bell tinkled.
Behind her, on a thick mattress set against the wall, was Max. The only parts of him visible in the mess of blankets were his hair and one hand, hanging limply over the edge of the bed. Beyond the wilted fingers sat a bottle, an inch of liquor left in the bottom.
Pity grimaced. She’d seen Max drink plenty, but there was always a measure of control to his merriment, an easygoing restraint.
This… this was new.
It was a party, she told herself. He let some of his care fall away and he drank too much, that’s all.
But she knew a sad drunk when she saw one.
Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, Pity began to retreat. Her foot caught a jar full of brushes as she did. It overturned, glass and wood clinking against the cement floor.
Max stirred, his head and shoulders emerging from the nest of bedding. “Pity?” Her name came out thick. “What are you… doing here?”
She held out the package. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
His features pinched with confusion as his gaze moved from her to the gift to the bottle near the bed. “What happened to the rest of that?”
Pity sighed and went to the mattress. She sat down on its edge. “I have a pretty good idea.” She overturned the bottle, letting the remaining liquor trickle out. “I think you’ve had enough of that.”
Max tried to rise, groaned, and fell back onto the bed. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Max… are you okay?”
He blinked at her, eyes fluttering in an effort to stay open. “I’m…” His eyelids gave in and he put his head down. “I’m just tired.”
The words carried a weight she had never heard from him before, as if there were anchors attached to them, dragging Max into some unseen depths. All around, the murals drew closer, condensing the dimly lit room until there was barely enough space for the two of them. Powerlessness bloomed in Pity’s chest. You can’t fight someone else’s demons, she thought, reaching out to pluck a stray bit of tinsel from his hair. You know that. But that kernel of knowledge didn’t bring any relief.
Slow, even breaths passed between Max’s parted lips. Pity started to go, but he roused again at her movement.
“Stay.” His eyes remained closed. “For a little bit… just until I fall…”
“Shhh.” Pity clutched the gift to her chest, as if it could smother the ache ignited there. “I’ll be right here, Max. You go ahead and rest.”
She remained like that, surrounded by the manifestations of Max’s dreams—or nightmares—until he was asleep.
CHAPTER 25
The following days found the arena engulfed in barely ordered pandemonium. Acts needed polishing, new sets needed constructing, and as a result, Pity found her practice delayed. She waited in the stands, watching the Rousseaus swoop back and forth in the new firebird costumes Max had created for them. It was a scene wildly out of sync with the sounds of hammers and saws and the brassy carnival music being played. The only thing missing from the chaos was Halcyon, normally in the thick of it all, tossing orders around.
Not for the first time, Pity was grateful for the solitary nature of her act and the pragmatic element that called for the arena to be hers alone when she was practicing. But the approaching Finale marred her thoughts. In too few days, the stands would be filled with an audience eager to decide the fate of the assassin. Offered as executioner for the first time, an undercurrent of unease gripped her.
They want a show, she reminded herself. Not the quick, bland execution she could offer.
“Serendipity! Good, there you are!” Halcyon bounded up the stairs, his long legs taking two at a time.
She stood to meet him. “What’s up, boss?”
“Come, come. We have business to attend to.”
“What about practice?”
He waved a gloved hand. “It will wait. Selene wishes to see us.”
“Why?”
“A mystery we shall solve presently.”
Instead of traveling through the Gallery, Halcyon led her to a secluded hallway, then through a trio of doors, each with a keypad lock. In the chamber beyond the last door were an elevator and two rather bored-looking Tin Men, who waved them through without question. A brief ride delivered them into a sprawling suite. It took only a glance for Pity to surmise that they were in Selene’s personal living space. Unlike her sparse office, the décor was busier, with an overlapping patchwork of carpets and curved walls speckled with gold-framed paintings. The floor was partially sunken, with a comfortable cluster of sofas at its center.
“Please, have a seat.” Selene’s words entered before she did, appearing in a doorway, Beau on her heels. “How is the show preparation coming?”
“Splendid, of course!” said Halcyon.
Pity followed him down the steps and sat on one of the couches.
Though Beau remained on the upper level, Selene joined them there. “I’m glad to hear it. We’re expecting some important guests, so try to dazzle, won’t you?”
Halcyon balked. “I’m offended you’d expect anything less from our sublime syndicate of talent.”
“I wouldn’t, and I don’t.” Selene turned to Pity. “Looking forward to the show?”
Pity examined Selene, searching for clues as to why they were there, but the woman was as inscrutable as a blank page. “Of course, ma’am.”
“Good, because I have a special request of you.” Selene reclined, tranquil as she draped one elegant arm across the back of the sofa. “I want you to perform the Finale.”
The placid tone of the request belied the meaning of the words. “But I…” Confusion twisted Pity’s tongue. “I thought the audience decided who—”
“These are special circumstances.” Selene locked her with a lioness’s stare. “After Daneko’s betrayal, we sent a message. One that isn’t finished yet. This is the next piece.”
“But…”
“He won’t be armed. It’s a simple enough task.”
Too simple—nothing more than the pull of a trigger. And yet…
“I want you to do it”—Selene’s voice softened—“because you were there, and everyone knows that. You’ve been here for months now, Pity. Understand that Cessation is an act of its own, one that requires no small amount of balance. We need to make it clear that those who would upset it will not be tolerated. That they will be made an example of.”
An example. Pity fought a feeling of being dragged down, the gun belt around her hips ten times the weight it was moments ago. Selene was asking her to kill in cold blood.
No, not asking.
“Selene.” Nearly forgotten, Halcyon leaned forward, his voice imploring. “Perhaps it’s not yet the right time to—”
“It’s exactly the right time.” Selene’s attention remained on Pity. “Can I count on you?”
Was there any other answer she could give? This is what you signed up for, she reminded herself. You were bound to have come up against a Finale eventually. It had simply happened sooner rather than later.
Too soon. Pity clenched her teeth, desperate to say no—the one thing she couldn’t say to Selene.
“Yes,” she exhaled. “I’ll do it.”
Selene smiled, satisfied. “Thank you. Together we’ll finish another chapter of this nasty business.”
But not the last one. Daneko still eluded capture. There were whisperings of where he might be—in one of the CONA cities, under the protection of a warlord in a South American jungle, even that he was dead—but nothing definitive. And Pity was positive Selene wasn’t the sort to give up the hunt over rumors. That reckoning was still to come.
She stood reflexively when Selene did, their audience with her apparently over. “Halcyon, stay, would you? I would like to discuss the Finale details.”
“Of course.” Halcyon touched her shoulder as he passed. “Pity… take the rest of the day off.”
“What about—?”
“Practice can wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t overthink it.” He spoke so that only she could hear. “It’s nothing you haven’t done before.”
“I know.”
“And nothing that needs to hang on you after, either.”
She glanced at him, finding less ice in his eyes than usual. Somehow that made her feel worse.
“I’ll do what I need to do,” Pity said as the doors closed her in.
Despite that bravado, the moment the elevator began to drop, her stomach went with it. She braced herself against the wall as the muscles in her legs trembled.
If the agreement had been in ink, it wouldn’t have been dry yet, and already she was searching for a way out of it. The options cascaded through her mind as she descended: she could beg to be released or, at the very least, for fate and the fickle whim of the audience to decide who in the Theatre would do the deed.
But she knew the time to plead had passed.
There was no law but Selene’s law. And when the Finale arrived, Pity would be her cat’s-paw. But, she reminded herself, the man she’d be killing was a murderer. Someone who had killed not for survival or for principle but for money. He was no better than the men who’d slain Finn or the admirer who’d maimed Duchess.
And Pity knew, given the chance, he would kill her, too.
Justice, she thought. Ugly as it is, this is justice.
The idea had once soothed her hesitation. But now, propped up before the blaze of the approaching spectacle, the meaning of the word suddenly seemed translucent. Hollow. A definition molded by circumstance.