“The first thing—the most important thing—you need to remember,” Eva Zidane said, “is to never lose the crowd. If you lose the crowd, you lose the act.”

Pity shifted from foot to foot, nervous for her first real training session. As promised, Halcyon had arranged for Eva to work with her, but Pity still had little idea what to expect.

The woman pointed to the opposite end of the ring, where a glass bottle balanced atop a stool. “Now—shoot that for me, please.”

Pity drew and fired. The bottle shattered.

“Terrible!” Eva said.

“Why? I hit it, didn’t I?”

Eva tipped her delicate chin up. She had striking, earthy features, with olive skin and long-lashed green eyes. When she spoke, there was a hint of an unfamiliar accent, as faded as an old scar. “Is that what you think the Theatre Vespertine’s audience comes all the way to Cessation to see?”

Pity crossed her arms. “I aim. I shoot. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Give them a show.”

“Yeah, well, it is more exciting when my targets aren’t sitting still.”

“That’s not the point,” said Eva. “You must find the dramatic in the mundane, capture the attention of the crowd.” She pulled a thin blade from her sleeve, turned toward the outside of the ring, and threw. The knife embedded in the wall. “How exciting was that, pray tell?”

Before Pity could reply, Eva twisted in a sudden pirouette. Another blade flew, hitting above the first. She danced forward, her brown skirt spinning as a third and fourth knife landed to each side of it. Finally, she cartwheeled, legs slicing through the air. As she righted, a fifth blade soared. She turned back to Pity, eyes as bright as emeralds. “The skill and the show are not the same thing.”

Pity eyed the cross of blades. “I see what you mean, but I don’t think I can do a cartwheel with my guns.”

“Then we will find you your own steps. Do you dance?”

“Like a spooked mule.”

“You will learn,” said Eva. “The act is like a dance. You are one partner, the audience is the other. You must always lead. The audience must always follow. Do you understand?”

“How am I supposed to lead when I need to concentrate on shooting?”

“For you, it should be simple. Your targets are the steps; your bullets are the music. The Theatre will add its own touches, but the most important flourishes will have to come from you. Let’s practice. Empty your guns.”

“Empty them?” said Pity.

“Please. If we are going to dance, I’d rather avoid unintentional injury. I contend with that enough in my own act.”

Spin and point, point and spin. Pity obeyed as Eva led her through a strange choreography. She didn’t simply aim, she arced her arm in a wide circle, leading with her hips as she moved. Eva showed her how to add grace to every step, embellish every movement. A glide, a step, a hop, a spin—no matter what Eva did, she was the embodiment of elegance.

Pity, however, was not. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Well, that is apt, since you look ridiculous.” But her tone was patient. “It will come to you eventually.”

Along with what else? “Eva?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever done a Finale?”

She was silent for a moment. “Marius and I have done them together, yes.”

“Was it hard?”

Eva pulled out another dagger and stared at it, turning the blade over in her hand. “Killing is rarely easy, nor should it be. But those who end up in a Finale are not people whom you can—or should—spare.”

Pity holstered her guns. “It’s only that I’ve… never…” She couldn’t count the scroungers who’d killed Finn. With no time to think about what she was doing, the grenade had been more luck than intent. While that probably didn’t mean much to them—dead was dead, after all—it made a difference to her.

Eva gave her an understanding smile. “Let me ask you—what do you gain by fretting over a moment that may be years in arriving, if it ever does? My husband likes to say that worry is a poor expenditure of life’s currency. Right now you should be focused on your performance. You will do that many, many more times than you’ll ever do a Finale.”

If, Pity didn’t bother to add, I make it past the first one.

For weeks Pity practiced her showmanship. Sometimes Eva was there; other times she worked on her own. Her body ached constantly as unused muscles were woken and pushed, but it was an invigorating sort of pain, soaked away each evening in her tub. At first, only Halcyon or Max watched her practice, but as the days wore on, more onlookers peppered the stands: Marius, even warmer than his wife; the blank-faced Rousseaus, who never said a word to her; and other Casimir inhabitants she hadn’t met yet. It made Pity so nervous that, at first, she missed more shots than ever. But eventually she settled into the performance, finding a certain rhythm in her shooting and the sporadic applause.

Still, she reminded herself daily, a few dozen people were nothing like the real thing.

Halcyon must have thought so as well, because when he announced the next show, she wasn’t included in it. Not yet, he told her, but soon. There was no set schedule for the Theatre; instead, it was determined by Halcyon’s mood or whoever important happened to be in Cessation at the time.

Pity spent her second show behind the scenes with the other performers, in the spacious passages that ran beneath the stage and stands. There the roar of the crowd was muted, replaced by the frantic hustle of preparations. Trying to keep out of the way, she retreated to the bright alcove that functioned as Max’s work area during a show, where Clare Rousseau stood on a riser as he painted glittering fish scales onto her skin.

“I don’t know how you do that,” Pity said.

“Same way you shoot. Plenty of practice.” He dabbed on a last bit of blue. “Okay, that’s it. Stand still for a few minutes while you dry.” He wiped his hands on a rag and turned to Pity. “How’s the act coming?”

“Good, I guess.”

They went over to a wall of screens displaying various areas in the theatre. In the arena, a miniature ship of wood and satin sailed upon a sea of blue fog. It was manned by a pack of pirates, drawn closer and closer to an island by beautiful sirens, until the mock ship crashed upon the mock shore.

“Wait…” Pity spotted a familiar face in the crowd. She pointed to a screen. “I know her. That’s Maria Alton!”

“Who’s she?”

“The governor of my territory. Every time she visited the commune our mayor would trip over his own feet trying to impress her.”

Alton sat in one of the luxury boxes. Beside her, in a shirt opened enough to show a hint of collarbone, sat Garland. When he leaned over and whispered something in the governor’s ear, she flushed visibly and laughed.

For a moment, Pity imagined herself in the woman’s place. She quickly banished the thought. “Why would she visit a place like this?”

“Besides the obvious?” Max smirked. “Pity, half of Casimir’s clientele are CONA officials or corporate agents. More deals get made here than in the halls of Columbia.”

“And CONA is okay with that?” Pity watched Maria Alton. Though Garland massaged one of her hands in his, she spoke to another man beside her, the movements of their mouths furtive despite the din of the show.

“Not exactly. But what Selene offers, people want. There’s no need for forced propriety or moral smoke screens here. She keeps secrets, brokers connections, and isn’t beholden to anyone. In its way, Cessation is as powerful as Columbia.” His piercings twinkled in the screen’s light. “C’mon, I have something to show you.”

He led her to a workroom littered with mannequins and bolts of cloth.

“Wait here,” he said, features alight with eagerness. “And close your eyes.”

Pity put her hands on her hips but obeyed, content to submit to whatever game Max was playing. His footsteps moved away and returned.

“Okay, you can look.”

Pity opened her eyes.

The costume had a simple, striking elegance: a lavender blouse with a darker half corset laced over it, and fitted pants of a supple silvery gray material. Beside the mannequin wearing the outfit sat a pair of high black boots that matched the black leather of Pity’s new gun belt.

“I…” Stunned wonder gripped her. “I love it!” She hesitantly ran the tips of her fingers over the purple silk, afraid the slightest touch would mar it. “But how is it going to look on me?”

“Only one way to find out.” He gestured to a folding screen set in one corner.

Pity went behind it and shrugged out of her clothes. Acutely aware of her bareness and the thin partition that separated her and Max, she dressed quickly. The costume hugged every curve and angle of her body perfectly. And yet she couldn’t help but feel like an imposter, as if it couldn’t possibly be for her.

“Does it fit?” Max called.

She tightened her gun belt. “Yes.”

“And are you going to come out sometime tonight?”

Her flush turned to one of embarrassment. “I’m considering my options.”

“If you don’t want to let one person see you,” he said, “how are you going to let a thousand?”

“Exactly.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and stepped out. “I’m not afraid. I’m just… not used to wearing costumes.”

Max grinned and set upon her immediately, fussing with the laces of the corset and adjusting the lay of her holsters on her hips. Pity went as rigid as the mannequin.

“The hem of the pants needs to come up a bit, but otherwise…” When he unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, so that more of her neck showed, a shiver raced from her throat to the bottoms of her heels. “There. Perfect. How does it feel?”

Pity took a welcome few steps away, drew her guns, and spun. “I’ll have to stand a bit straighter than I’m used to, but… I can work with this.”

“Excellent,” said Max. “Because Halcyon has already scheduled the next show, a week from now.” He paused. “And he wants you to debut.”