Page 93 of Gunslinger Girl
Pity’s jaw tightened. This was a terrible idea. “That’s not Patrick’s fault.”
“Maybe not,” said Max, any trace of politeness gone, “but I’m guessing he hasn’t done anything to help the people there, either.”
She started to scold him again, but Sheridan took her hand, cutting her off.
“He’s right,” said Sheridan. “Columbia is no utopia. And I haven’t done as much as I could.” He paused. “Tell me, Max, if you were in my position, what would you do?”
The air seemed to chill. Max’s mouth thinned. Rueful eyes glared at Sheridan, then flickered down to where Sheridan’s hand overlapped Pity’s. “Please stop. I’ll walk back from here.”
“Sir?” said Hook.
“Stop the vehicle,” Max ordered again.
“It’s okay,” said Sheridan. “Do it.”
He was out the door the moment they stopped. Pity was in pursuit before anyone could object, slamming the door behind her.
“What is wrong with you?” she cried.
A dozen yards from the vehicle, he spun to face her. “This was a mistake. I never should have come.”
She balled her fists. “You’re right. I thought you’d at least try to give Sheridan a chance, but you’re clearly unwilling to do even that.”
“I don’t like him,” Max spat. “And I know what you think, but I don’t trust him.”
“Why? What has he ever done to you?”
“Nothing! He’s… he’s just…”
“Exactly!” She couldn’t stop herself from yelling. “He’s done nothing to deserve how you’re treating him. And if you’d actually talk to him calmly instead of treating him like a monster, you might realize what kind of good he could do for Cessation and Columbia.”
Max began to speak again, then stopped. He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m going back to Casimir.” Without another word, he stalked off.
Pity stared at his back for a few seconds, hating every step he took away from her, but she couldn’t bring herself to call him back. Then he turned a corner and was gone.
She returned to the car, her entire body tight with anger.
“Is everything okay?” Sheridan looked past her to where Max had disappeared.
“Fine.” Pity crossed her arms bitterly. “Max needed to get back to the theatre.”
“Ah.” Sheridan accepted the lie graciously. “For the special performance tomorrow night, of course.”
Special? Her mouth went dry. “What? No one told me about a show. I didn’t think there’d be another one until—” Her heart kicked at the inside of her chest.
Until Daneko’s execution.
“Relax, chica.” Santino had noticed her distress. “Selene has some important guests arriving.” He looked pointedly at Sheridan.
“Yes,” said Sheridan. “As much as I enjoy your act, tomorrow you won’t be performing. You’ll be in the audience, with me.”
A measure of cool relief washed over her. Tomorrow’s show was about pure entertainment, then. Or at least as pure as the Theatre Vespertine ever was. There’d be no Finale.
Not yet.
But Sheridan was wrong. She was performing.
It was simply a different kind of act.
