Page 45 of Gunslinger Girl
“It’s a gift.”
“No. It’s too much.”
“It’s not,” he insisted. “I don’t like having too much money in my pocket anyway. Keeps me honest.” He paused. “And after all, we can’t have you doing your act looking like a beat-up old drifter.”
“I wasn’t aware that I looked like a beat-up old drifter.”
“Hmm, I suppose I should hush up,” he said with a smile, “before you decide to test out that thing.”
During their return to Casimir, Pity walked a little taller, her spirits lifted by the new gun belt. At first, she thought Max’s mood had improved as well. But he seemed to withdraw again as they strolled, a troubled, distant look in his eyes, as if he were seeing somewhere else entirely.
CHAPTER 14
“The first thing—the most important thing—you need to remember,” Eva Zidane said, “is to never lose the crowd. If you lose the crowd, you lose the act.”
Pity shifted from foot to foot, nervous for her first real training session. As promised, Halcyon had arranged for Eva to work with her, but Pity still had little idea what to expect.
The woman pointed to the opposite end of the ring, where a glass bottle balanced atop a stool. “Now—shoot that for me, please.”
Pity drew and fired. The bottle shattered.
“Terrible!” Eva said.
“Why? I hit it, didn’t I?”
Eva tipped her delicate chin up. She had striking, earthy features, with olive skin and long-lashed green eyes. When she spoke, there was a hint of an unfamiliar accent, as faded as an old scar. “Is that what you think the Theatre Vespertine’s audience comes all the way to Cessation to see?”
Pity crossed her arms. “I aim. I shoot. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Give them a show.”
“Yeah, well, it is more exciting when my targets aren’t sitting still.”
“That’s not the point,” said Eva. “You must find the dramatic in the mundane, capture the attention of the crowd.” She pulled a thin blade from her sleeve, turned toward the outside of the ring, and threw. The knife embedded in the wall. “How exciting was that, pray tell?”
Before Pity could reply, Eva twisted in a sudden pirouette. Another blade flew, hitting above the first. She danced forward, her brown skirt spinning as a third and fourth knife landed to each side of it. Finally, she cartwheeled, legs slicing through the air. As she righted, a fifth blade soared. She turned back to Pity, eyes as bright as emeralds. “The skill and the show are not the same thing.”
Pity eyed the cross of blades. “I see what you mean, but I don’t think I can do a cartwheel with my guns.”
“Then we will find you your own steps. Do you dance?”
“Like a spooked mule.”
“You will learn,” said Eva. “The act is like a dance. You are one partner, the audience is the other. You must always lead. The audience must always follow. Do you understand?”
“How am I supposed to lead when I need to concentrate on shooting?”
“For you, it should be simple. Your targets are the steps; your bullets are the music. The Theatre will add its own touches, but the most important flourishes will have to come from you. Let’s practice. Empty your guns.”
“Empty them?” said Pity.
“Please. If we are going to dance, I’d rather avoid unintentional injury. I contend with that enough in my own act.”
Spin and point, point and spin. Pity obeyed as Eva led her through a strange choreography. She didn’t simply aim, she arced her arm in a wide circle, leading with her hips as she moved. Eva showed her how to add grace to every step, embellish every movement. A glide, a step, a hop, a spin—no matter what Eva did, she was the embodiment of elegance.
Pity, however, was not. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Well, that is apt, since you look ridiculous.” But her tone was patient. “It will come to you eventually.”
