Page 95 of Gunslinger Girl
Beneath the table she dug her fingers into the seat cushion. Fine. Say you’re fine. But before the lie reached her lips, the cacophony of the Gallery dimmed and disappeared. In the center of the room, Halcyon stood on a table, calling for attention. Pity took advantage of the distraction and looked back at Max, but he was gone. She caught a glimpse of him, disappearing through one of the arched exits.
“Friends.” Halcyon’s arms swept through the air. “Tonight you experienced a sampling of the notorious, illustrious Theatre Vespertine, an unrivaled wonder throughout the world. But…” He flashed a teasing smile. “Your experience was incomplete, lacking a certain visceral element for which the Theatre is particularly known. Yes, yes—anyone who attended our show at the turn of the year can tell you about that which I speak.”
The edges of Pity’s vision dimmed as her view of Halcyon sharpened, too bright a figure even among the surrounding vibrancy.
“But do not despair,” he continued, “for fools have been in high supply of late. I know many of you have been anticipating this very announcement, so wait no longer. One week from today the traitor and criminal Daneko will join the Theatre Vespertine as our guest in the show’s Finale, to meet the justice he evaded for far too long!”
Cheers erupted. Pity heard them only as muted static as blood pulsed in her cheeks.
Halcyon remained where he was, whipping the crowd into a frenzy, but for an instant his gaze fell on her. What the look carried—whether warning or commiseration—she couldn’t discern.
Around them, the macabre revelry grew.
It was midnight by the time Sheridan decided to retire, and an almost feverish sensation gripped Pity as they left the chaos behind. Inside his suite of rooms, the windows were thrown open. The cool night air was a balm against her flushed skin. She leaned against one of the room’s plush chairs, sharing the weight of her body, sore from too much worry.
Sheridan loosened the collar of his shirt. “You look tired.”
Exhausted was more accurate. A whole day and night of practice couldn’t have left her as drained as she felt then. She smiled weakly. “It’s getting late.”
“You might tell that to everyone downstairs.” His fingers worked the buttons of his cuffs. “You know, there aren’t too many who leave that room behind them when they go. Cessation gets into the blood like a strong drink, it seems. No matter how much one satisfies the desire for it, sooner or later the craving comes back. I see it in the faces of the visitors while they’re here, and in their faces when they’re back in the east. But you? I don’t see that same fixation in you.”
She had no reply to that so said nothing.
He came to her, lifting her chin with his fingers. She recoiled at first, surprised by the intimate gesture—here, where there was no one to see them—but braced herself as his face hovered above hers, searching for… what?
“Good night, Pity,” he said at last. “Get some sleep.”
Though she was relieved at being released, threads of adrenaline coursed through her veins as she entered the nearest stairwell and started to descend, leaving her unable to fathom sleep. In the wake of Halcyon’s announcement, the silent weight of the dark was the last thing she wanted. At the same time, she had no desire to return to the wondering stares of the Gallery, and the only things she’d find in the theatre were ghosts.
One week for Daneko to live.
One week in which Selene would decide whether or not Pity was to be his executioner.
We made a deal, she told herself. I’m doing what I said I would.
But it hadn’t exactly been a deal, had it? Selene didn’t ask, she ordered. Pity was the one who had laid down a price.
In the end, you sold yourself anyway.
Pity knew what she stood to gain from their agreement. What she wasn’t sure about yet was how much it was going to cost her.
She reached her floor. And yet something kept her descending, her feet unwilling, unable, to stop. When she reached the basement, she stumbled into the tunnels, pausing long enough to rip off her pretty, horrible shoes and toss them into the dark. She padded along barefoot through the dark maze of concrete and pipes, half blinded by a glassy membrane of tears.
Even so, she found her way.
The door was ajar, as it had been the first time she had seen it. She didn’t pause to knock, and the metal hinges screamed as she opened it.
Max turned as she entered, wary as a surprised animal. “Pity?”
She started to speak, but whatever words she had been about to say caught in her throat. She was unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Max had a paintbrush in one hand but wore clothes that had no business in Casimir: sturdy boots and a battered, resilient coat. At his feet, streaked by his lank shadow, was a traveling pack.
“What are you doing?” The words shot out of her. She moved closer to see what he was painting. A patch of white now covered one of the existing murals—a blank, lifeless void in the calamity of color. On it was writing.
I’m sorry. Two words, scrawled in midnight blue, but with plenty of room for more.
“Max, what is this?”
“N-nothing,” he said. “What are you—?”
