When the show concluded, the entire company escorted Pity to the Gallery, where cheers erupted the moment she walked through the door.

“You were great!” exclaimed Max.

“You were perfect!” upped Luster.

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.

“No,” Pity said. “Of course not. Thank you for the wine.”

“Patrick Sheridan.” He offered a hand. “I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed your performance.”

“Okay, Sheridan.” The bald man shifted impatiently. “You’ve spoken to her. Selene is waiting.”

“Disregard my new friend Mr. Daneko’s rudeness,” Sheridan said. “He wouldn’t have followed me if he wasn’t impressed, too.”

Daneko frowned. “I was only interested in getting a better look at the girl who shot at three of my people.”

Pity sat up straighter, trying not to squirm as the leader of the Old Reds glared at her. She waited for him to say or do something more. He can’t, she realized. Not so long as I’m under Selene’s protection. Emboldened by the champagne, she gave him a perky smile. “It was only one, truth be told.”

“And from what I’ve heard of your people, Daneko, they undoubtedly gave her good reason.” Sheridan scanned the table, taking in each of its occupants before returning to Pity. “I confess to being curious: what tempts a talented, CONA-raised young woman to a place like Cessation?”

Max tensed beside her. “She might ask you the same question.”

“Oh, but I inquired first.”

“That doesn’t mean she needs to answer.”

Pity glanced at Max. His tone wasn’t discourteous exactly, but there was a hint of defensiveness, like the flash of a hidden blade.

Sheridan stared at him for a moment with an air of faint amusement. “I think your friend is suggesting I mind my own business.”

“It’s all right,” said Pity. “I’m—”

“No, he’s right. I shouldn’t pry.”

“Sheridan!” Daneko barked.

Sheridan bowed his head politely. “Don’t let me distract you from your celebration. Enjoy your evening.”

Before Pity could thank him again, the men were gone, consumed by the reveling crowd.

“What was that about?” she said to Max.

“Aw,” interjected Duchess, “just because Maxxy’s bread is buttered by CONA plutocrats, it doesn’t mean he has to like them.”

“Is that who he was?”

“Oh, yeah,” Luster agreed. “Never seen him here before, but we know the type. Well-dressed, well-groomed, and throwing currency around like it was nothing.”

“There’re better places they could be spending their money back east.” Max scowled. “People who need better food, vaccines—”

“People who aren’t here.” Duchess snatched the bottle and began to pour himself a glass. “And this very fine, very old, and very expensive wine is already open.”

Garland stole the glass away and set it in front of Pity. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

She took a sip. The wine was smooth and spread through her mouth like jam. She nudged Max. “Are we celebrating or not?”

After a moment, his features softened. He accepted a glass.

“I don’t see why you’re getting worked up about some CONA tycoon.” Luster put a hand on Garland’s shoulder and raised herself above the edge of the booth. “When’s the last time we saw Daneko around here? Look—he, Selene, and Pity’s new friend Sheridan are comfy as kittens, surrounded by a bathtub’s worth of whiskey and champagne.” She lowered herself back down. “Rumor is that they’re making peace. Real peace, I mean. Guess it’s true.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Max.

“Why?” Garland teased. “We’ve got Pity here to keep us safe from the Old Reds.”

She laughed and took another swallow of the wine. “At this point, I don’t think any of y’all should count on me to shoot straight.”

“The only thing I’m counting on you for right now is more of this fancy booze,” Duchess said. “How about a turn of the room? See who else is feeling generous?”

Beside her, Pity could sense the heat emanating off Max. His arm rested on the top edge of the booth. When she leaned back, they were almost touching.

Pity gave Duchess a content smile. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’m fine right here.”

“I know I shouldn’t jinx it.” The words were as thick as molasses in her mouth. “But I can’t wait for the next show! I can’t!”

The floor lurched.

Max caught her. “Whoa, careful.”

“I’m fine!” She closed her eyes, but when she did, it was like she was back in the arena, spinning and twirling. She opened them again. “Okay, maybe I had a bit too much champagne.”

“A bit too much? It’s a good thing it comes in bottles and not buckets.”

“You’re one to talk! I didn’t see you saying no to any refills.”

He tugged at the collar of her blouse. It was sticky and peeled away from her like the skin off a peach. “At least I’m not wearing it.”

“I must look like a total mess.” She pulled away, stumbling back until she found the wall of the hallway.

He laughed. “You look as good as you did when you stepped out into the theatre.”

“Liar.” But it’s a nice kind of lie. When she looked at Max—even the slightly wavering Max before her right now—all she wanted to do was smile. “Where are we?” she said, tearing her eyes away to blink at the door numbers. “All these damn hallways look the same.”

“Almost there. You can make it.”

She straightened… mostly. “I could make it a mile if I needed to.”

“Sure, but lucky for you it’s only a few more doors. Here we are—home safe and sound.”

Pity punched in the door code, but it wouldn’t unlock.

“You’re punching in the door number, not your passcode.”

She turned back to him, off-balance, but the wall caught her. “Do it for me, would you?” Slowly, she slid down until her backside hit soft carpet.

Instead of opening the door, Max sat down beside her and sighed in an amused sort of way. “I think you are in for a helluva morning, Serendipity Jones.”

“Oh, am I?” Pity moved so that his face was only a foot away. “Well, it ain’t morning yet. And you know something?”

His mouth turned up at the edges. “What?”

“It sounds nice when you say my name.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were soft and still tasted of champagne. There was a cold twinge from one of his piercings—a strangely enticing sensation. Max stiffened with surprise, but then he was kissing her back. His mouth moved against hers, his hands finding her shoulders…

He pushed her away. “Pity, stop. I—you’re drunk.”

“So?” she said. “It’s just a kiss. I’m not too drunk for a kiss.” She started forward again, but he jumped to his feet.

“I’m drunk, too. We shouldn’t. I… can’t.”

“Fine.” She pushed herself up to standing, too. “But tomorrow when I’m sober—”

“Pity, I can’t.”

His tone hit her like a bucket of ice water. She tensed as he took another step backward.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do!” But Max didn’t look at her. He looked at the wall, at his shoes—anywhere but at her. “I can hardly remember the last time I liked someone as much as you. It’s… it’s just… you’re a good friend.”

“Oh.” Idiot, she thought, a cold blade of embarrassment plunging into her gut. She turned to her door and stabbed the code in. This time she got it on the first try.

“Pity, wait—”

“No, I’m sorry.” She retreated inside. “I was wrong… misread things.” She began to close the door and then stopped. “You’re a good friend, too. ’Night, Max.”

The lock clicked, a final, cheerless knell to the evening. She pressed her forehead against the closed door. Why did I do that? All her prior elation was gone; left in its place was a feeling like she had swallowed a pound of clay. Pity ripped off her gun belt and tossed it on the bed, then carefully made her way into the bathroom. The face that stared at her from the mirror was ragged, the last remnant of what might have been a happy glow fading rapidly. Her hair was flat and matted, her eye makeup smudged.

Idiot, she thought again, gritting her teeth as the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes began to fall.