The dining room at midmorning was a jolting clockwork of bodies. Some were winding down after a long night, others gearing up for the new day. Pity felt stuck somewhere in the middle. Even after Adora left, her thoughts had kept her awake. An early morning practice, rescheduled to accommodate her new responsibilities, had left her in a state of exhaustion rivaled only by her hunger. The night before, she’d been too unnerved to do more than pick at her food.

As she looked for somewhere to sit, she spotted Max and the others, along with Chloe and Carine, two of the Rousseau girls. She stopped, wondering if it was too late to turn around. But Luster had already seen her and was beckoning.

You can’t put this off forever. “Mornin’.”

She took the seat between Garland and Duchess, who eyed her as she sat. Across the table, Max looked up long enough to give her a half smile that fell somewhere between polite and unsure, then returned to the paper before him, filled with swirls and patterns. When Chloe tapped decisively at one of the designs, he discarded the paper for a fresh piece and started re-creating it.

“Really? That’s all we get?” Duchess said. “Half of a ‘Good morning’?”

“What were you expecting?” Pity buried her nose in her coffee mug, the last shred of hope that last night’s events would be overlooked gone.

“I don’t know, maybe something about how cozy you suddenly seem to be with Patrick Sheridan.”

When Max looked up sharply, Pity’s stomach tightened. Apparently, he wasn’t caught up on Casimir’s latest gossip. Remember what Selene said: play your part well. “There’s not much to say. He asked me to dinner. I said yes.”

“Leave her be,” said Luster. “It’s none of our business if Pity wants to share a meal with a patron. Especially Mr. Sheridan. He seems like a real gentleman.”

“He seems,” Max grumbled, “like a politician.”

The vinegar edge to his voice cast a pall over the table. On either side of him, the near-mirror images of Chloe and Carine traded a glance and got to their feet, departing with only the sounds of rustling cutlery. The others looked as if they were considering doing the same.

“I thought he was done with Cessation,” Max continued. “Or does he still think Selene can make him president?”

“No,” Pity lied, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “He’s here blowing off steam because his campaign isn’t doing well.”

“Is that the only reason? Does he want to see you again?”

The air seemed to thicken around them. Pity ached to blurt out the truth. At the same time, his flagrant disapproval grated on her. Luster was right. It wasn’t anyone else’s business who she spent her time with. Especially Max’s. So what did the truth matter?

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She fought to keep her voice calm. “He’s invited me to dinner again tonight. And he wants to see the city. We’re going on a tour of it tomorrow.” She prodded her food with her fork. “He’s not so bad, y’know. You might even like him.”

“I doubt it.”

Frustration churned within her. “Easy to say when you don’t know the first thing about him. Sheridan fought in the war as a Patriot. That’s why he’s doing so poorly. And unlike most of the CONA folks who come here, he wants to improve things between the east and the west. Not just have some fun and go home.”

Max scoffed. “Are you sure about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he can say anything if he knows he’s not going to win. Did you ever think that maybe he’s just telling you what you want to hear?”

The bitterness in his tone hit her like ice water. “It wasn’t like that at all!”

“Maybe.” Max’s mouth twisted into a humorless smirk. “But if he were elected, he would do what he was told, by Selene or whatever corporate puppeteers were tugging on his strings. He’d be lucky to be allowed to pick the color of his tie.”

Pity bristled. “For someone whose tune was all about getting me to give Cessation a chance, you’re awful quick to dismiss Sheridan.”

“Because I know people like him and where they come from.”

“Really?” She stood up. “Because it seems like you’ve forgotten that it’s where I come from, too.”

Garland put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” she snapped, and stalked out of the dining hall.

So much for worrying about whether anyone is fooled.

As much as the new, unwanted attention needled her, it wasn’t as vexing as her quarrels with Max. First the Finales and now Sheridan.

And one of them isn’t even real.

The thought hung on Pity all through the day and night, though she tried to put it out of her mind. If Max knew the truth, he’d understand, she reminded herself over and over. This was her chance to escape the Finales, to never have to play executioner again. And this isn’t going to last forever. Sheridan would be gone eventually, and if Selene did work her magic, he’d be able to help protect one thing Pity knew Max genuinely cared about: Cessation.

But nothing she told herself stopped the lingering frustration.

This time, she decided, she wasn’t going to let the divide grow between them. And while she couldn’t tell him the truth, there were other options.

She found him in the theatre, touching up the paint on some faded sets.

“Get up,” she ordered.

“Excuse me?” He stood and wiped his hands on his pants, adding to the existing kaleidoscope of stains.

“You’re coming with me.”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Where? I’m in the middle of—”

“No questions.” She crossed her arms. “The sets will wait.”

“But Halcyon—”

“You trust me, right?”

His brow furled with confusion. “Of course I do.”

“Then come with me.”

Pity led him into the Gallery, up the stairs, and to the front entrance.

“Pity, really, where are we—oh.”

Max stopped as he spotted Sheridan, limned by the midday sun streaming through Casimir’s exterior glass doors. Santino and the bodyguard stood on either side of him while, outside, a sleek black vehicle idled.

“Well…” Sheridan looked equally surprised, though he hid it quickly. “Good morning.”

“You remember Max, right?” Pity said quickly. “He was the one who showed me around the city when I first arrived. I thought he could come with us.”

Beside her, Max tensed. “No, I shouldn’t. I’d only be in the—”

“Of course.” Sheridan’s face lit up with a smile. “Please join us. I’d be delighted to get to know one of Pity’s friends better.” Bodyguard in the lead, he headed for the waiting vehicle.

But Max didn’t move.

“This isn’t funny,” he said so only she could hear. “I don’t want to go with… with the two of you.”

“One hour,” she said. “That’s all I’m asking. Get to know him a little. Is that asking so much?”

He frowned and stared after Sheridan, teeth tugging at one of the rings in his lower lip.

The gesture weakened something in Pity’s gut. “Please?”

Aversion filled his gray eyes, but he nodded. “Fine. I’ll try.”

Outside, Pity slid into the vehicle’s sprawling backseat, beside Sheridan. Max unenthusiastically joined them, while Santino took the front passenger seat. Sheridan’s bodyguard drove. His name was Elgin, but Pity had privately nicknamed him Hook, for the shape of the thick pink scar on the back of his head. He steered them away from Casimir and onto Cessation’s main avenue.

The city, awash in the bone-dry daylight, encompassed them. It was only the second time Pity had seen Cessation from a wheeled vantage point, but she could still recall the concurrent feelings of her awe and Max’s enthusiasm when she’d first arrived. That moment stuck out in stark contrast to the current one. Next to her, hands knotted in his lap, Max looked like he’d bitten into something sour.

“Where to first?” Santino called back. Unlike Max, there was a pleasant set to his features, as if he was enjoying the outing as a guest, not charged with Sheridan’s protection. Pity felt a flutter of jealousy at his ability to keeps his emotions sorted. Any interrogation—no, torture—Daneko was being subjected to was his duty, yet he appeared his usual temperate self. “A loop of the city, yeah?”

“An excellent idea,” Sheridan agreed.

They made their way to Cessation’s main entrance, where Hook turned onto an avenue that ran between the Reformationist settlement and the city’s boundary. As they passed, the group’s members dutifully fell to their knees in prayer.

“Ever persistent,” said Sheridan with a hint of amusement.

“Has the camp gotten bigger?” Pity eyed the tents. They seemed more numerous since the last time she’d seen them, sprawling further into the desert. She turned to Max, but he only shrugged halfheartedly in answer.

“They come and go like the tide,” Santino said. “When the heat comes back, they’ll recede again.”

As they traveled around the perimeter of the city, a heavy silence fell. Trapped between Sheridan and Max, Pity searched for a way to break it but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, she thought. Discomfort hung in the air like incense.

“So,” Sheridan said finally, “you’re with the Theatre, too, Max?”

“Yes.” Pity jumped on the opening. “Max makes the costumes and sets. He’s very talented.”

“As I’ve seen. I know Pity is a relatively new addition, but how long have you been in Cessation?”

At first, Max didn’t say anything, his gaze locked on the window. He sat on the side away from the city, and beyond him, the desert stretched relentlessly toward a pale horizon.

When he did reply, his voice was cool. “A while.”

“I remember when he first came to Casimir,” Santino rumbled. Hook turned again, and they reentered Cessation from another side, plunging back into the jungle of concrete and color. “Even skinnier than he is now. Hard to believe he’d survived the streets on his own.”

“Impressive,” said Sheridan. “Then you must know the city well. What would you suggest seeing?”

Max finally turned toward them. “Pity says you used to be a Patriot. Maybe you’d like to visit some of the people you fought with, like the Ex-Pats.” His voice tightened. “Do you know that CONA’s military shoots them on sight? Or maybe you’d prefer some of the dissidents CONA has driven from their homes.”

“Max!” Pity hissed.

“No,” Sheridan said. “Let him speak. I know there’s more to this city than what goes on in Casimir. And I’m sure there are as many mixed feelings about visitors like me as there are about Cessation itself in the east.”

“Something like that,” Max muttered. “Then again, there’s nothing here I could show you that compares to the slums in Columbia.”

Pity’s jaw tightened. This was a terrible idea. “That’s not Patrick’s fault.”

“Maybe not,” said Max, any trace of politeness gone, “but I’m guessing he hasn’t done anything to help the people there, either.”

She started to scold him again, but Sheridan took her hand, cutting her off.

“He’s right,” said Sheridan. “Columbia is no utopia. And I haven’t done as much as I could.” He paused. “Tell me, Max, if you were in my position, what would you do?”

The air seemed to chill. Max’s mouth thinned. Rueful eyes glared at Sheridan, then flickered down to where Sheridan’s hand overlapped Pity’s. “Please stop. I’ll walk back from here.”

“Sir?” said Hook.

“Stop the vehicle,” Max ordered again.

“It’s okay,” said Sheridan. “Do it.”

He was out the door the moment they stopped. Pity was in pursuit before anyone could object, slamming the door behind her.

“What is wrong with you?” she cried.

A dozen yards from the vehicle, he spun to face her. “This was a mistake. I never should have come.”

She balled her fists. “You’re right. I thought you’d at least try to give Sheridan a chance, but you’re clearly unwilling to do even that.”

“I don’t like him,” Max spat. “And I know what you think, but I don’t trust him.”

“Why? What has he ever done to you?”

“Nothing! He’s… he’s just…”

“Exactly!” She couldn’t stop herself from yelling. “He’s done nothing to deserve how you’re treating him. And if you’d actually talk to him calmly instead of treating him like a monster, you might realize what kind of good he could do for Cessation and Columbia.”

Max began to speak again, then stopped. He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m going back to Casimir.” Without another word, he stalked off.

Pity stared at his back for a few seconds, hating every step he took away from her, but she couldn’t bring herself to call him back. Then he turned a corner and was gone.

She returned to the car, her entire body tight with anger.

“Is everything okay?” Sheridan looked past her to where Max had disappeared.

“Fine.” Pity crossed her arms bitterly. “Max needed to get back to the theatre.”

“Ah.” Sheridan accepted the lie graciously. “For the special performance tomorrow night, of course.”

Special? Her mouth went dry. “What? No one told me about a show. I didn’t think there’d be another one until—” Her heart kicked at the inside of her chest.

Until Daneko’s execution.

“Relax, chica.” Santino had noticed her distress. “Selene has some important guests arriving.” He looked pointedly at Sheridan.

“Yes,” said Sheridan. “As much as I enjoy your act, tomorrow you won’t be performing. You’ll be in the audience, with me.”

A measure of cool relief washed over her. Tomorrow’s show was about pure entertainment, then. Or at least as pure as the Theatre Vespertine ever was. There’d be no Finale.

Not yet.

But Sheridan was wrong. She was performing.

It was simply a different kind of act.