by Lyndsay Ely
“Champagne?”
Sheridan served it himself, pouring until the honey-colored liquid nearly reached the brim of the glass. Pity kept her hands in her lap, fingers entwined, and watched the bubbles race to the surface. The festive buzz of the Gallery surrounded the booth they occupied. Its location was discreet enough that they wouldn’t be overheard, but it did little to shield them from the stares. Pity felt simmered by hundreds of tiny flames as all around the room people looked without looking, a skill widely mastered in Casimir. It was not unlike her first night in the Theatre, when the audience had been waiting for her show to start. Then, she had been terrified; now, she was irritated. She wasn’t doing any more than what half of them did—less, in fact—and it was at Selene’s order.
You knew there’d be curiosity. On the heels of her conversation with Selene, an invitation had arrived from Sheridan, asking her to join him that evening for dinner in the Gallery. She tugged the skirt of her dress over her knees, feeling foolish in it.
It’s only another costume, she told herself, the same way this is just another act.
“How many bottles?” said Sheridan.
“Hmm?” Pity roused to find him beaming a smile at her.
“How many bottles do you think I need to order to make it look like I’m trying to forget a floundering campaign?”
Pity took a bracing sip of her champagne. “If that’s the idea, you might consider switching to something stronger, Mr. Sheridan.”
He gave her a disheartened look. “This isn’t going to work unless you start calling me Patrick.”
“I’m sorry… Patrick.” Pity tried to force herself to be as relaxed as Sheridan looked. Despite his rapid departure from Cessation after the attack, nothing in his manner suggested a man worried about his surroundings. But that was likely owing to the extra Tin Men in the Gallery, as well as Sheridan’s austere mountain of a bodyguard stationed nearby, glaring at anyone who strayed too close.
This is part of the act, she reminded herself. You need to learn to play this part, same as you did the first time Eva worked with you in the arena. Unlike in the Theatre, however, where she gave no thought to the specifics of her audience, Pity found her attention continually drawn to the crowded Gallery, anxious to know who was observing them. Selene’s orders meant she couldn’t tell anyone the truth behind her actions. Not Luster or Garland or Duchess.
Not even Max.
Their argument about the Finales had left Pity with a persistent bee-stung feeling, one that mixed unpleasantly with her current situation. But she hadn’t seen him anywhere when she and Sheridan arrived. She silently hoped he wouldn’t visit the Gallery at all tonight.
“I want you to know,” said Sheridan, as if sensing her troubled thoughts, “that this isn’t some kind of ruse; I have no ulterior motives toward you.”
“Thank you.” Chastened by his contrite tone, she forced a smile onto her face, as if he had just said something incredibly charming. “But what your intentions are and what people are thinking right now are two different things.”
“Does that matter to you?”
“I guess not.” Even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. Your pride isn’t what’s important, she reminded herself. Satisfying Selene and avoiding the Finales was. “But why me? There are plenty of better choices here.”
“None that have saved my life.”
“I was saving my life, too. Doesn’t seem like enough to hang your trust on.”
Sheridan chuckled. “It’s more than that, of course. No matter where you call home now, you grew up under CONA, unlike most of Selene’s people. And I think you know what it can be like there for a former Patriot.”
“I do. At least I know how it was for my mother.”
“Do you mind if I ask what happened to her?”
Pity shook her head. “After the war, she cut a deal to keep her neck out of the noose. But like you said before, some people never forget the past. My father included. He hated my mother and he hated me. I left when he tried to ship me off to another commune that needed fertile women.”
Sheridan’s expression soured. “Is that a regular occurrence on the communes?”
“Regular enough.”
“Well, when I’m in control of CONA,” he said with a wink, “I’ll make sure to put a stop to that.”
She eyed him. “Really?”
“You look so skeptical. Of course. It’s a small enough thing.” Sheridan beckoned a porter. “A bottle—no, two, of the best whiskey in the house. And then champagne for everyone here.” He slurred his words slightly, as if already half drunk. “If I can’t celebrate success, I’ll celebrate failure instead.”
“Yes, sir.” The porter set off.
He’s a better actor than you are. But something in her brightened. Back east, Sheridan’s past made him a pariah. Yet in Cessation, home to those who refused to live under CONA’s stringent rules, it made him an ally, even a friend. Maybe protecting the city wasn’t the only thing he could do. “That’s not the worst that goes on, unfortunately. Like the dissident settlements that CONA’s been destroying.”
“I’ve heard.” His articulateness returned. “It seems unnecessarily brutal to me.”
“Most of them were Patriots, too. If you’re president, you could put a stop to it.”
“So I could.” He sighed, but it was one accompanied by a confident smile. “There are many, many matters that will need attention once I’m president. With the combined power of Columbia and Cessation, well, what can’t be accomplished?”
“So you really think Selene can deliver what she says she can?” said Pity.
“Maybe.” Sheridan swirled his glass so that the champagne glittered like liquid gold. “What I know is that doubt won’t get me what I want. And I wouldn’t be here unless I thought Cessation could.”
It was a relief when Pity was finally able to leave behind the stares and whispers of the Gallery, though not as much as she would have expected at the start of the evening. Despite the unpleasantness of her task, there was an agreeable earthiness to Sheridan. He seemed like a man who didn’t take for granted the wealth and power he had gained. As she punched in the code to her door, she realized she even liked the way he navigated Cessation with easy self-control, unlike so many of the other patrons who treated the city like something to be consumed when it suited them and discarded afterward.
“About time.”
Pity froze.
Adora lounged on the love seat, Pity’s revolver in hand. “I’d begun to wonder exactly how much you were dedicating yourself to your assignment.”
“Put that down.”
Adora’s eyes went wide with false innocence. “I was only looking.” She held up the gun, not quite pointing it at Pity but not putting it down, either. “Very pretty.”
“Put. It. Down.” Pity gauged the distance between her and the weapon’s twin, still in its holster.
Too slowly, Adora’s arm lowered. She deposited the gun next to her on the couch. “You’re wound awfully tight, you know. I unloaded it first. I’m not stupid.”
Pity crossed the room and snatched the revolver away. She checked the chambers. They were empty. “What do you want?”
“Everything.” Adora sat forward so that her elbows rested on her thighs, her chin cupped in her hands. “What you ate, what you talked about—spill.”
Of course. Not only did Selene want Pity to pretend with Sheridan; she wanted her to inform on him as well. Did she see Sheridan as anything more than a game piece, being moved around on a board of her own devising? Or Pity, for that matter?
Who cares? she told herself. So long as Selene kept her promise about the Finales, she was welcome to the information. Pity returned the gun to the holster beside its mate, making sure to remain between them and Adora, just in case.
Then she began to talk.
CHAPTER 29
The dining room at midmorning was a jolting clockwork of bodies. Some were winding down after a long night, oth
ers gearing up for the new day. Pity felt stuck somewhere in the middle. Even after Adora left, her thoughts had kept her awake. An early morning practice, rescheduled to accommodate her new responsibilities, had left her in a state of exhaustion rivaled only by her hunger. The night before, she’d been too unnerved to do more than pick at her food.
As she looked for somewhere to sit, she spotted Max and the others, along with Chloe and Carine, two of the Rousseau girls. She stopped, wondering if it was too late to turn around. But Luster had already seen her and was beckoning.
You can’t put this off forever. “Mornin’.”
She took the seat between Garland and Duchess, who eyed her as she sat. Across the table, Max looked up long enough to give her a half smile that fell somewhere between polite and unsure, then returned to the paper before him, filled with swirls and patterns. When Chloe tapped decisively at one of the designs, he discarded the paper for a fresh piece and started re-creating it.
“Really? That’s all we get?” Duchess said. “Half of a ‘Good morning’?”
“What were you expecting?” Pity buried her nose in her coffee mug, the last shred of hope that last night’s events would be overlooked gone.
“I don’t know, maybe something about how cozy you suddenly seem to be with Patrick Sheridan.”
When Max looked up sharply, Pity’s stomach tightened. Apparently, he wasn’t caught up on Casimir’s latest gossip. Remember what Selene said: play your part well. “There’s not much to say. He asked me to dinner. I said yes.”
“Leave her be,” said Luster. “It’s none of our business if Pity wants to share a meal with a patron. Especially Mr. Sheridan. He seems like a real gentleman.”
“He seems,” Max grumbled, “like a politician.”
The vinegar edge to his voice cast a pall over the table. On either side of him, the near-mirror images of Chloe and Carine traded a glance and got to their feet, departing with only the sounds of rustling cutlery. The others looked as if they were considering doing the same.
“I thought he was done with Cessation,” Max continued. “Or does he still think Selene can make him president?”
“No,” Pity lied, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “He’s here blowing off steam because his campaign isn’t doing well.”
“Is that the only reason? Does he want to see you again?”
The air seemed to thicken around them. Pity ached to blurt out the truth. At the same time, his flagrant disapproval grated on her. Luster was right. It wasn’t anyone else’s business who she spent her time with. Especially Max’s. So what did the truth matter?
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She fought to keep her voice calm. “He’s invited me to dinner again tonight. And he wants to see the city. We’re going on a tour of it tomorrow.” She prodded her food with her fork. “He’s not so bad, y’know. You might even like him.”
“I doubt it.”
Frustration churned within her. “Easy to say when you don’t know the first thing about him. Sheridan fought in the war as a Patriot. That’s why he’s doing so poorly. And unlike most of the CONA folks who come here, he wants to improve things between the east and the west. Not just have some fun and go home.”
Max scoffed. “Are you sure about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he can say anything if he knows he’s not going to win. Did you ever think that maybe he’s just telling you what you want to hear?”
The bitterness in his tone hit her like ice water. “It wasn’t like that at all!”
“Maybe.” Max’s mouth twisted into a humorless smirk. “But if he were elected, he would do what he was told, by Selene or whatever corporate puppeteers were tugging on his strings. He’d be lucky to be allowed to pick the color of his tie.”
Pity bristled. “For someone whose tune was all about getting me to give Cessation a chance, you’re awful quick to dismiss Sheridan.”
“Because I know people like him and where they come from.”
“Really?” She stood up. “Because it seems like you’ve forgotten that it’s where I come from, too.”
Garland put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” she snapped, and stalked out of the dining hall.
So much for worrying about whether anyone is fooled.
As much as the new, unwanted attention needled her, it wasn’t as vexing as her quarrels with Max. First the Finales and now Sheridan.
And one of them isn’t even real.
The thought hung on Pity all through the day and night, though she tried to put it out of her mind. If Max knew the truth, he’d understand, she reminded herself over and over. This was her chance to escape the Finales, to never have to play executioner again. And this isn’t going to last forever. Sheridan would be gone eventually, and if Selene did work her magic, he’d be able to help protect one thing Pity knew Max genuinely cared about: Cessation.
But nothing she told herself stopped the lingering frustration.
This time, she decided, she wasn’t going to let the divide grow between them. And while she couldn’t tell him the truth, there were other options.
She found him in the theatre, touching up the paint on some faded sets.
“Get up,” she ordered.
“Excuse me?” He stood and wiped his hands on his pants, adding to the existing kaleidoscope of stains.
“You’re coming with me.”
He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Where? I’m in the middle of—”
“No questions.” She crossed her arms. “The sets will wait.”
“But Halcyon—”
“You trust me, right?”
His brow furled with confusion. “Of course I do.”
“Then come with me.”
Pity led him into the Gallery, up the stairs, and to the front entrance.
“Pity, really, where are we—oh.”
Max stopped as he spotted Sheridan, limned by the midday sun streaming through Casimir’s exterior glass doors. Santino and the bodyguard stood on either side of him while, outside, a sleek black vehicle idled.
“Well…” Sheridan looked equally surprised, though he hid it quickly. “Good morning.”
“You remember Max, right?” Pity said quickly. “He was the one who showed me around the city when I first arrived. I thought he could come with us.”
Beside her, Max tensed. “No, I shouldn’t. I’d only be in the—”
“Of course.” Sheridan’s face lit up with a smile. “Please join us. I’d be delighted to get to know one of Pity’s friends better.” Bodyguard in the lead, he headed for the waiting vehicle.
But Max didn’t move.
“This isn’t funny,” he said so only she could hear. “I don’t want to go with… with the two of you.”
“One hour,” she said. “That’s all I’m asking. Get to know him a little. Is that asking so much?”
He frowned and stared after Sheridan, teeth tugging at one of the rings in his lower lip.
The gesture weakened something in Pity’s gut. “Please?”
Aversion filled his gray eyes, but he nodded. “Fine. I’ll try.”
Outside, Pity slid into the vehicle’s sprawling backseat, beside Sheridan. Max unenthusiastically joined them, while Santino took the front passenger seat. Sheridan’s bodyguard drove. His name was Elgin, but Pity had privately nicknamed him Hook, for the shape of the thick pink scar on the back of his head. He steered them away from Casimir and onto Cessation’s main avenue.
The city, awash in the bone-dry daylight, encompassed them. It was only the second time Pity had seen Cessation from a wheeled vantage point, but she could still recall the concurrent feelings of her awe and Max’s enthusiasm when she’d first arrived. That moment stuck out in stark contrast to the current one. Next to her, hands knotted in his lap, Max looked like he’d bitten into something sour.
“Where to first?” Santino called back. Unlike Max, there was a plea
sant set to his features, as if he was enjoying the outing as a guest, not charged with Sheridan’s protection. Pity felt a flutter of jealousy at his ability to keeps his emotions sorted. Any interrogation—no, torture—Daneko was being subjected to was his duty, yet he appeared his usual temperate self. “A loop of the city, yeah?”
“An excellent idea,” Sheridan agreed.
They made their way to Cessation’s main entrance, where Hook turned onto an avenue that ran between the Reformationist settlement and the city’s boundary. As they passed, the group’s members dutifully fell to their knees in prayer.
“Ever persistent,” said Sheridan with a hint of amusement.
“Has the camp gotten bigger?” Pity eyed the tents. They seemed more numerous since the last time she’d seen them, sprawling further into the desert. She turned to Max, but he only shrugged halfheartedly in answer.
“They come and go like the tide,” Santino said. “When the heat comes back, they’ll recede again.”
As they traveled around the perimeter of the city, a heavy silence fell. Trapped between Sheridan and Max, Pity searched for a way to break it but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, she thought. Discomfort hung in the air like incense.
“So,” Sheridan said finally, “you’re with the Theatre, too, Max?”
“Yes.” Pity jumped on the opening. “Max makes the costumes and sets. He’s very talented.”
“As I’ve seen. I know Pity is a relatively new addition, but how long have you been in Cessation?”
At first, Max didn’t say anything, his gaze locked on the window. He sat on the side away from the city, and beyond him, the desert stretched relentlessly toward a pale horizon.
When he did reply, his voice was cool. “A while.”
“I remember when he first came to Casimir,” Santino rumbled. Hook turned again, and they reentered Cessation from another side, plunging back into the jungle of concrete and color. “Even skinnier than he is now. Hard to believe he’d survived the streets on his own.”