The nights, which always carried a chill once the sun set, turned true cold as winter approached. Still, the warm days disoriented Pity enough that when Christmas Eve arrived, it came almost as a surprise. Less of a shock was the uptick in trade; as the city celebrated its way through an array of winter holidays, customers, vendors, and goods jostled for every inch of free space at the BlackMark.

“Do you think Duchess would like anything here?” Luster rifled through a pile of goods. She tossed aside a stuffed bear and a pair of glittery pants that seemed to be missing their seat. “He’s so hard to shop for.”

“What about those bracelets over there?” Wedged into a narrow canyon between booths, Pity adjusted the gift-filled satchel on her shoulder. On the commune, some small trinket for Finn had meant saving for months. It was enlivening, handing over money and not feeling a hole in her gut. But one present was still missing. She fingered a set of paintbrushes with dark wood handles.

“Badger hair,” said the booth’s proprietor. “The best.”

She haggled a fair price and tucked them into her bag, hoping Max would like them.

Beside her, Luster crowed with triumph. She held up a book with a bespectacled boy and a train on the cover. “He loves these stories! Thank goodness, because we need to go or we’ll be late. Got everything you wanted?”

“I think so.”

They pushed their way through the crowd. Despite the press, everyone seemed to be in a jovial mood, and the entire market smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. Somewhere a group of young women were singing songs Pity didn’t know but that made her want to join in anyway.

On their way out, Luster bought a bottle of spiced wine. Pity took a long swig, nearly dropping it when a hand grabbed her shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?”

She spun, one gun halfway drawn before she realized it was Duchess. Max and Garland trailed behind him.

Duchess raised his hands into the air. “Whoa, it’s only us!”

“Shoot him,” said Garland dryly. “It’ll teach him a lesson.”

“Just leave me a pretty corpse!” Duchess begged. “And give me one last drink before I die.”

Pity handed him the bottle. “Happy holidays, jackass.”

He took it. “And a blissful New Year, bitch.”

It was the chilliest day so far, but the sky above was a bright, cloudless cyan as they wandered through a part of the city Pity had never visited.

She slowed her step, falling in with Max, who trailed the pack. “Something wrong?”

Max buried his hands in his pockets. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you don’t look very festive.”

“I thought I did.” The tips of his hair were dyed red and green, and a tiny gold bell hung from one of his piercings. It jingled when he moved. He nodded at her bag. “Successful outing?”

“No peeking.” Pity pulled it closer. “It’s no fun if it’s not a surprise.”

That earned her a faint smile. “Sorry, I’m not much for the holidays. You seem to like them, though. Good times on the commune?”

“Good enough,” she said. “When my mother was alive, anyway. On Christmas morning she used to leave her gift to me outside my door, so it was the first thing I found when I woke up. After she died… well, usually I’d hide out with Finn.” The pain of memory came as a pinch—sharp but receding quickly. “What about you? What were they like where you grew up?”

Max kept his gaze straight ahead. “Holidays were…” He thought. “Mostly a reminder of what we were missing.”

They came to an intersection of streets. At the center sat a huge dry fountain covered in thousands of candles. The sight was captivating: uncountable hues dripping over the tiers of stone, waxy water frozen in the act of flowing.

“What’s this?”

“Memories,” said Max. “It’s set up every year. Each candle is for a loved one gone.”

People were gathered around the makeshift shrine. Many prayed—hands folded, on their knees, with foreheads pressed to the dusty asphalt. A pair of Reformationists stood at a respectful distance, reading scripture to the passersby. As they drew closer, a girl carrying a box of white candles ran up to them.

“Do you want to buy some?” she chirped.

“Miss Selene passes them out to the kids,” Max explained. “They get to keep everything they earn.”

“That’s sweet.” Pity bought two candles and added them to the fountain, accepting a lit taper someone handed her. Finn, she thought, lighting the first. Momma. The second flame sputtered before catching. She stared into it. It was hardly visible in the midday sun, but she could smell the oily scent of the burning wax and feel the heat all around her. Lord, if you’re listening, keep them safe, wherever they are. She swallowed the lump in her throat. And you might as well keep Billy and Henry safe, too, she added, remembering a time before her brothers had taken so much after their father.

Beside her, Luster and Duchess were lighting candles of their own. She turned to see Garland handing the girl some money, but when she offered the box, he waved it away. Max was no longer beside him. She found him a little way off, kneeling carefully among the sea of flames. He had a single candle, which he placed on the ground. As he lit it, his face went stony, sorrow and anger etched in his narrow cheeks. Then the emotions were gone, and he looked himself again.

The lost love Luster suspects? she wondered. Really lost, then. I was competing with a dead girl. Guilt prickled, and she chided herself for the petty thought.

The walk back to Casimir was quieter. But it was impossible to stay morose when they found the Gallery decorated from floor to ceiling, a joyous chaos of tinsel, mistletoe, and ribbons. A pair of porters were stringing popcorn and red berries, and there were plates of gingerbread people everywhere. Pity found they came with rather exaggerated anatomy, but they smelled delicious. She took one and broke off a piece without looking too hard at what was getting broken. Tonight there would be a communal dinner for everyone in the Gallery, but on Christmas Day itself Casimir would be shut down. Already most of the patrons had departed the premises for wherever they had come from.

Back in her room, Pity wrapped her gifts in gauzy tissue paper and finished them off with bows. She stared at the pile proudly for a few seconds and then dressed for dinner. By the time she returned to the Gallery, the room was teeming with people, the air thick with body heat and spices and the delicious smells of food. She found the others, waiting patiently to start on the huge buffet that ran down the center of the room.

As the hour struck, the sound of a hundred bells rang out, and everyone got up to fill their plates. The commune had held dinners like this, too. If Pity closed her eyes, it was almost the same—same raucous laughter, same off-color jokes being told. Eyes open, it was a different story, with more color and more skin, but the feeling of community prevailed.

But she felt the voids, too. The puzzle of her new life lacked pieces that had never belonged to it but that could have fit. Her mother. Finn. It was easy, pleasant even, to slot in visions of them, to entwine the memory of Finn’s laughter with Duchess’s, or her mother’s tranquil smile with Max’s. But it was a fantasy.

Months ago that might have been sorrowful. Now it was bittersweet.

Everyone ate and drank until they were full, waited a bit, and ate and drank some more. By the time the plates were cleared away, the laughter was louder, the jokes even more bawdy. The Rousseaus did flips on the bar and walked the length of it on their hands. Olivia extinguished candles with her whip. Flossie flounced around passing out fluffy white bonbons, popping them into every waiting mouth.

In a nest of sofas and chairs, Pity lounged beside Luster, cradling a cup of mulled wine. Across a table scattered with glasses and cookie crumbs, Garland laughed as Kitty dangled a piece of mistletoe over Duchess’s head.

“You gotta give me a kiss. It’s tradition,” she teased, sloshing champagne from her glass.

“I don’t!” Duchess dodged both the splashes and the kisses.

“He’s no fun.” Garland snatched the sprig away from Kitty and jumped onto the couch next to Pity, grinning. “But I bet Pity is.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She kissed him on each side of his mouth.

“That doesn’t count!” Luster protested.

“It does where I come from. Two sweet kisses for one smutty one. Yeah, we played this game on the commune, too! Geez, y’all know we do figure out how to make babies eventually, right?”

Duchess shrugged. “I thought you grew them like crops.”

Garland waved the mistletoe. “Who wants a turn? Now’s the time—don’t be shy!”

Max stood abruptly. He’d been quiet all night, laughing when it was called for but offering little to the conversation. At times, Pity had caught him staring into the depths of his drink, as if reading a message there only he could see. She wondered if he was still thinking about his candle.

“I’m going to get some more punch,” he said. “Anyone else?”

But before he could depart, a horn sounded. A hush fell on the room.

Across the hall, Selene appeared on a raised dais, resplendent in a cascading silver-and-white dress. Beau stood in his usual place behind her, Adora and Halcyon off to one side. Halcyon wore a suit as white as fresh snow but with a purple top hat. Pity stifled a grin. He looked like a skinny snowman.

Selene clapped her hands together a few times, but every eye in the room was already on her.

“I cannot imagine,” she began, voice warm, “that anyone in the world is looking out now and seeing a better family than I see here. Some of you have been here only months, others for years, but all of you bring your own brand of brightness to Casimir, to our home.”

Pity leaned back in her seat, smiling. She liked that word and the feeling it carried. She looked around at the people who, not long ago, she would not have imagined turning into a motley sort of family. Her father’s face floated to the surface of her mind, but she banished it. She wouldn’t think about him today, not when she was enjoying herself so much.

“I don’t want to take you away from your celebrations,” Selene continued. “But for all our beliefs—those shared and those not—for all our pasts and for all our futures, Casimir is a paradise of prosperity because of all of you. You are the soul of our home. Thank you all.”

The cheers that followed were as loud as any Pity had heard in the theatre. As Selene descended the dais, Scylla wandered over, a red-and-white-striped snake coiled around her neck.

“Festive accessory,” said Pity.

“Don’t you think?” Scylla ran a finger across the serpent’s scales. “He waits all year long to be this fashionable.” She gestured at the dais. “Pay attention, the boss has a present for us.”

Halcyon was calling for quiet again, waving his purple top hat emphatically.

“I wanted to take this opportunity to make a little announcement,” he called out, replacing the hat on his head. “On the eve of the New Year, the Theatre Vespertine will hold its next performance.” He paused dramatically. “One that will include a Finale!”

Pity sucked in a breath as the room erupted in ferocious applause.

“Who?” said Luster over the din. “Is he going to say who?”

But Pity already knew. The blood in her veins chilled. “The assassin.”

“Yup,” Scylla confirmed. “Your friend is coming back out to play, Miss Pity.”

“They kept him locked up all this time?” Max’s brow furled with revulsion. “It’s been months! I assumed he was long dead.”

“We all did.” Scylla petted her snake again. “But he’s not, and now we get to have some fun.”

Casimir had never been so silent as when Pity woke on Christmas morning. Like the morning after a hard snow, the quiet enveloped the whole building; even the swish of her slippered feet against the carpet seemed a harsh trespass. She had been the first to abandon the party the evening before, sarcastic booing ushering her out of the Gallery. But she had wanted to wake early. Everyone had agreed to exchange presents after breakfast—or lunch or dinner, whatever ended up being the first meal of the day—but Pity wanted to leave her gifts as her mother had done, outside each person’s door.

She visited each room in turn until only Max’s present was left. Turning the gift over and over in her hands, she considered it, the paintbrushes within clacking against each other. A porter might know where Max’s room was, but she still didn’t. She could wait, but it hardly seemed fair, now that she had delivered the others.

The basement, Max had said. It wasn’t much of a clue. Casimir was huge—it could take her hours to explore its tunnels. But the night he had found her on the stairs, he might have been coming up. Though her memories were hazy, she found the stairwell and descended. When she opened the door at the very bottom, cool air carried the scent of iron and damp stone to her nostrils. Surrounded by drab concrete, she made her way through the bowels of Casimir, searching for anywhere habitable. She found nothing—only utility closets and storage rooms. Once a brown mouse scampered across her path.

As she was ready to give up, she came to a junction of halls. To her left, the passage ended abruptly at a large metal door spotted with rivets. Drippy letters were scrawled across its surface: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PAINTED.

Pity smirked. At least I know I’m in the right place.

She went to deposit the present. The door was ajar, allowing a dim ochre glow to escape. She listened for a moment but heard no movement within.

“Max?” There was no response. She peered closer.

Even in the low light, Pity could see how spectacular the room was. Murals covered every inch of the walls, bleeding onto the floor and up to the ceiling. Mesmerized by the vortex of colors, she took a few steps inside, the door creaking feebly as she pushed it. She couldn’t even begin to pick apart the layers of imagery: spindly trees and bizarre animals mixed in with pure abstract strokes and splatters; a skyline of buildings half covered by a spray of fireworks; a pair of alien eyes looking out from beneath a field of poppy flowers.

As she reached out to touch a bloody sunset, a bell tinkled.

Behind her, on a thick mattress set against the wall, was Max. The only parts of him visible in the mess of blankets were his hair and one hand, hanging limply over the edge of the bed. Beyond the wilted fingers sat a bottle, an inch of liquor left in the bottom.

Pity grimaced. She’d seen Max drink plenty, but there was always a measure of control to his merriment, an easygoing restraint.

This… this was new.

It was a party, she told herself. He let some of his care fall away and he drank too much, that’s all.

But she knew a sad drunk when she saw one.

Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, Pity began to retreat. Her foot caught a jar full of brushes as she did. It overturned, glass and wood clinking against the cement floor.

Max stirred, his head and shoulders emerging from the nest of bedding. “Pity?” Her name came out thick. “What are you… doing here?”

She held out the package. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

His features pinched with confusion as his gaze moved from her to the gift to the bottle near the bed. “What happened to the rest of that?”

Pity sighed and went to the mattress. She sat down on its edge. “I have a pretty good idea.” She overturned the bottle, letting the remaining liquor trickle out. “I think you’ve had enough of that.”

Max tried to rise, groaned, and fell back onto the bed. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Max… are you okay?”

He blinked at her, eyes fluttering in an effort to stay open. “I’m…” His eyelids gave in and he put his head down. “I’m just tired.”

The words carried a weight she had never heard from him before, as if there were anchors attached to them, dragging Max into some unseen depths. All around, the murals drew closer, condensing the dimly lit room until there was barely enough space for the two of them. Powerlessness bloomed in Pity’s chest. You can’t fight someone else’s demons, she thought, reaching out to pluck a stray bit of tinsel from his hair. You know that. But that kernel of knowledge didn’t bring any relief.

Slow, even breaths passed between Max’s parted lips. Pity started to go, but he roused again at her movement.

“Stay.” His eyes remained closed. “For a little bit… just until I fall…”

“Shhh.” Pity clutched the gift to her chest, as if it could smother the ache ignited there. “I’ll be right here, Max. You go ahead and rest.”

She remained like that, surrounded by the manifestations of Max’s dreams—or nightmares—until he was asleep.