Page 76 of Gunslinger Girl
“Do you think Duchess would like anything here?” Luster rifled through a pile of goods. She tossed aside a stuffed bear and a pair of glittery pants that seemed to be missing their seat. “He’s so hard to shop for.”
“What about those bracelets over there?” Wedged into a narrow canyon between booths, Pity adjusted the gift-filled satchel on her shoulder. On the commune, some small trinket for Finn had meant saving for months. It was enlivening, handing over money and not feeling a hole in her gut. But one present was still missing. She fingered a set of paintbrushes with dark wood handles.
“Badger hair,” said the booth’s proprietor. “The best.”
She haggled a fair price and tucked them into her bag, hoping Max would like them.
Beside her, Luster crowed with triumph. She held up a book with a bespectacled boy and a train on the cover. “He loves these stories! Thank goodness, because we need to go or we’ll be late. Got everything you wanted?”
“I think so.”
They pushed their way through the crowd. Despite the press, everyone seemed to be in a jovial mood, and the entire market smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. Somewhere a group of young women were singing songs Pity didn’t know but that made her want to join in anyway.
On their way out, Luster bought a bottle of spiced wine. Pity took a long swig, nearly dropping it when a hand grabbed her shoulder.
“What’s in the bag?”
She spun, one gun halfway drawn before she realized it was Duchess. Max and Garland trailed behind him.
Duchess raised his hands into the air. “Whoa, it’s only us!”
“Shoot him,” said Garland dryly. “It’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Just leave me a pretty corpse!” Duchess begged. “And give me one last drink before I die.”
Pity handed him the bottle. “Happy holidays, jackass.”
He took it. “And a blissful New Year, bitch.”
It was the chilliest day so far, but the sky above was a bright, cloudless cyan as they wandered through a part of the city Pity had never visited.
She slowed her step, falling in with Max, who trailed the pack. “Something wrong?”
Max buried his hands in his pockets. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t look very festive.”
“I thought I did.” The tips of his hair were dyed red and green, and a tiny gold bell hung from one of his piercings. It jingled when he moved. He nodded at her bag. “Successful outing?”
“No peeking.” Pity pulled it closer. “It’s no fun if it’s not a surprise.”
That earned her a faint smile. “Sorry, I’m not much for the holidays. You seem to like them, though. Good times on the commune?”
“Good enough,” she said. “When my mother was alive, anyway. On Christmas morning she used to leave her gift to me outside my door, so it was the first thing I found when I woke up. After she died… well, usually I’d hide out with Finn.” The pain of memory came as a pinch—sharp but receding quickly. “What about you? What were they like where you grew up?”
Max kept his gaze straight ahead. “Holidays were…” He thought. “Mostly a reminder of what we were missing.”
They came to an intersection of streets. At the center sat a huge dry fountain covered in thousands of candles. The sight was captivating: uncountable hues dripping over the tiers of stone, waxy water frozen in the act of flowing.
“What’s this?”
“Memories,” said Max. “It’s set up every year. Each candle is for a loved one gone.”
People were gathered around the makeshift shrine. Many prayed—hands folded, on their knees, with foreheads pressed to the dusty asphalt. A pair of Reformationists stood at a respectful distance, reading scripture to the passersby. As they drew closer, a girl carrying a box of white candles ran up to them.
“Do you want to buy some?” she chirped.
“Miss Selene passes them out to the kids,” Max explained. “They get to keep everything they earn.”
