Page 51 of Gunslinger Girl
Garland said nothing but threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the bar. By the time he deposited her there, she was beet-red and breathless. Olivia pressed a full, foaming bottle of champagne into her hand. She also slipped her a fold of paper.
I didn’t take you as one for dramatics, it read, but amusing touch. I’ll be looking forward to your next show. —S.
Pity searched the sea of heads. She found Selene in the very back of the room, near her elevator, cordoned off in a spacious, curved booth flanked by Tin Men. Even at that distance, Pity caught the faint nod of her chin.
The last knot within her came undone. It didn’t matter what Beau had said, it didn’t matter what anyone else said. Selene approved, and Selene’s word was law.
Casimir’s arms had opened for her, and now they embraced.
Olivia leaned over the bar. “Looks like you had a successful debut.”
“I thought so, too.” Pity flicked away a bit of foam from the bottle. “But this seems a bit much.”
“It’s not only for you. It’s for them.” Olivia indicated the bustling Gallery floor. Performers, patrons, and prostitutes alike were shoulder to shoulder, surrounding the bar and calling out congratulations from the gaming tables and booths. “Since it looks like you’re sticking around,” she continued, “a word of advice: just because the show is over doesn’t mean the performance is.”
At that moment, Halcyon jumped onto the bar beside her, boot heels clicking on the wood, purple-and-orange coattails flapping. As if they were still in the theatre, the onlookers quieted immediately.
“My friends…” His practiced voice carrying throughout the hall. “It’s not often that we add to our esteemed list of acts. The Theatre Vespertine is as strict a mistress as any of us will ever know—no slight intended, Flossie, my dear—and she is not for those of weak constitution, in either her performers or her audience! But tonight we have had the honor to watch our newest, fledgling performer leave the safety of the nest and soar to no less than the expected heights!”
People clapped and hooted. Pity took a long drink from the champagne and raised it to the crowd, who cheered even louder. She looked for Max and found him a few yards away. She wanted to pull him up beside her. He deserved credit, too; without him she wouldn’t have had the barest chance in Cessation. But he was too far, pushed away as people jostled to shake her hand and slap her on the back.
Nearby, the two Rousseau boys raised a performer onto their shoulders. More champagne appeared, flying through the air; he caught all three bottles and began to juggle them.
“So tonight,” Halcyon continued, “as is our wont and our way, we welcome Serendipity Jones fully into our family. This is the true first day of her life in Cessation, in Casimir—”
As he spoke, the juggler let one of the bottles loose. Halcyon caught it and popped the cork in one smooth motion. The results were explosive. “And in our observed tradition, we baptize her the newest member of Halcyon Singh’s Theatre Vespertine!”
Pity shrieked as the frothy liquid poured over her, drenching her hair and running down her back. When she threw back her head and let the champagne pour into her mouth, another round of cheers erupted. She sputtered and coughed as the bubbles caught in her nose, but Halcyon didn’t stop until the bottle was empty.
Halcyon bowed. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Thanks, boss.” Pity pushed dripping strands of hair from her face.
He stomped on the bar. “More drinks!” he cried. “No one is to stop celebrating until the sun sends the night fleeing from Cessation once more!”
A hand grabbed the bottle she still held. It was Max. He took her by the arm. “Here to save you,” he said. “C’mon.”
“Good,” she said. “I need to go change out of these clothes. All the work you did, and they’re already—”
“Afraid not.” He grinned. “Tradition. You stay like that all night.” He pulled her from the bar and pushed through the throng to one of the booths. Luster, Garland, and Duchess were already waiting, and Eva and Marius, too, though they weren’t sitting.
“Excellent job.” Ignoring her dampness, Eva gave Pity a hug. “Though there are a few things we’ll have to work on.”
“Don’t pester her, dear.” Marius kissed Pity lightly on both cheeks. He was a narrow but handsome man. “Come dance with me instead and leave Pity be. She’s done for tonight.”
Except she wasn’t.
Just because the show is over doesn’t mean the performance is.
She slid into the booth beside Max as the congratulations kept coming. Dozens of Casimir’s patrons stopped by the table: influential citizens of Cessation or CONA, wealthy traders, even some of the higher-ranking members of the gangs. She was learning to recognize them by sight—Sicarios, Wraiths, Old Reds—but felt no fear seeing them in the Gallery. In Casimir, everyone was friendly with everyone… or else.
At a break in the crowd a man approached the table, a porter a few steps behind him. The porter proffered a tray to Pity, upon which sat glasses and a bottle of wine, a fine layer of dust on its surface.
“Compliments of the gentleman.” He deposited the gift.
“I hope I’m not too late to convey my congratulations,” said the gentleman in question.
Pity recognized one of the men from Selene’s box. Up close he was blandly handsome, with shrewd eyes and an easy smile. His bearing was one of utter ease amid the chaos that milled around him. Behind him, scowling as if he smelled something unpleasant, was the bald, bearded man.
