Page 41 of Gunslinger Girl
“Your, uh, inseam,” he said.
Was it her imagination or was there a flush to his face, too? Her heart thumped as his knuckles brushed against her thigh. She lowered her arms and concentrated on a puff of cloud. An agonizing moment later, she heard the scratch of pencil against paper.
Max stood. “Done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Not at all,” Pity replied, a touch too lightly.
Dense silence floated between them.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” Max said hurriedly.
“Where?”
He pointed over the edge of the building. “There’s more to Cessation than Cas.”
“Is it… safe?”
“Of course. You’re under Miss Selene’s umbrella right now. No one will lay a hand on us. They know what would happen if they did.”
The Rousseaus? Pity guessed silently. Or maybe the Zidanes?
“Right,” she said aloud. “I think I’ll bring my guns anyway.”
Pity kept a hand resting on the butt of one gun as they left Casimir’s protective circle and entered the maze of buildings. Her veins thrummed, but more with excitement than with fear. As midday approached, the city was coming to life. The streets were rougher and dirtier beyond Casimir’s boundaries, but not what she had expected. The gritty, garish cloak of night had been put aside. Normal-looking folks carried on with normal-looking errands. People greeted one another with smiles, and a pack of children played in the streets.
They walked slowly so she could take everything in. Max bought them skewers of grilled meat from a street vendor and a bag of oranges. He was right—the streets seemed safe enough during the day, and Pity was pleased to see pairs of Tin Men patrolling at intervals. Even when they passed dim doorways that leaked smoke and other ill odors—where jagged men and women lingered, skin sallow and eyes cold—no one gave them any trouble. A few even nodded politely.
Miss Selene’s umbrella casts a nice shade, Pity thought.
Max paused before an alley. “Hold on a second.”
A moment later, a young boy melted out of the shadows. He was skinny, his clothes faded and threadbare, but he looked healthy enough. Pity guessed he was about ten.
“Hey, Tye,” said Max. “Anything interesting going on?”
The boy’s eyes flickered to her. “There’s a new girl in the Theatre,” he said flatly. “People say she’s a sharpshooter.”
“Smart-ass,” said Max. “Anything else?”
“A big group of dissidents came in early this morning. They’re camped over by the smoke dens.”
“Where’d they come from?”
Tye shrugged. “Dunno. Looks like they seen a fight, though.”
“Hmm.” Max handed the bag of oranges to him, along with some currency. “Thanks.”
The boy faded back into the alley.
“Who was that?” asked Pity.
“One of Cessation’s strays. Good eyes.” He started walking again. “When I first got here, I knew no one, had nothing but some paints and brushes. I spent my first night huddled in an alley, hungry and cold. Some kids found me. I didn’t know what to do, so I painted them a picture on a scrap of wood. They took it and brought me some food. I return the favor now and again.”
“That’s sweet,” said Pity. “So you going to tell me where we’re headed?”
“Shopping.”
“Shopping?”
