A different kind of act.

The words ran through her mind over and over as the spotlights swept around the arena, searing the edges of the audience. Though they followed the Rousseaus as they flew through the air, Pity felt as if they kept settling on her. She repositioned herself in her seat, doing her best not to draw any more attention. As it was, she felt as if thousands of eyes were trained on her instead of on the performance taking place.

Beside her, Sheridan leaned over. “I neglected to say you look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“So how does it feel to be on this side?”

This entire city is a stage, she wanted to say. There is no “this side.” Still, there was a distinct sense of wrongness she couldn’t shake. She watched as Christophe and Chrétien executed a synchronized set of aerial flips, her insides echoing the maneuver. I should be below, with Eva and Marius and—

Max.

—the others. I should be out there, in the arena.

“Different,” she replied. “It reminds me of the first time I saw the show.”

And my first Finale.

She startled as Sheridan placed a hand on her forearm and gave it a brief, affectionate squeeze.

Settle down. She forced out a soft smile for anyone who might be watching.

As the Rousseaus’ performance ended, the lights dimmed, casting the emptiness before them in a velvety gray glow. No music played. In the center of the stage a single spotlight remained, as if waiting for someone. Pity’s blood began to pulse in her ears. The pungent tang of fearful sweat filled the air. Though Santino had told her otherwise, she was sure that Daneko was about to appear, to rise out of the dark pit to meet Selene’s justice.

Ser-en-di-pi-ty! Ser-en-di-pi-ty! The wicked chorus played in her memory. Ser-en—

No. She gripped the arms of her seat. When Halcyon appeared to announce the next act, she relaxed. There was no Finale coming. Tonight, the beast would not be fed.

Pity’s hands ached by the time the final round of applause sounded. She obediently took the arm Sheridan offered as the audience quit the theatre for the Gallery. The crowd was thick and perpetually shifting, a maelstrom of glitter and smoke and flesh. She scanned the Gallery as they entered, spotting Luster at a gambling table, an arm around a patron. Garland and Duchess were entrenched in some kind of dice game, while Olivia worked the bar, slinging drinks to Flossie and Halcyon.

Max was nowhere to be seen.

Something akin to relief filled her as they navigated through the mess. After the failed trip through the city, it was better if Max kept his distance. The thought of him watching her all evening—judging every word or laugh she traded with Sheridan—scalded her with annoyance. He’d revealed a side of himself that baffled her no matter how she tried to fit it into her existing perception of him, as if he were a puzzle she’d thought she’d finished, but that was now missing crucial, clarifying pieces.

They settled into their private booth, already stocked with a plethora of fine food and drink, and attendants ready to fetch anything that might be missing. Pity accepted a glass of wine but left it untouched. Her head was already swimming uncomfortably, her veins humming with anxiety.

Smile. You’re still onstage.

She sought out Luster again, desperate for a friendly face, but as her gaze skimmed past the bar, a knot of patrons loosened to reveal a solitary figure.

His back was to her, but she knew him before he started to turn.

Max.

Their eyes snagged on each other’s.

Something was different.

Pity didn’t need to be close to see it—it was painted on him in the set of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth—but she couldn’t give it a clear name, either. He had a look like a bird halfway through molt, a serpent with its skin half shed. More of him seemed to fall away as they stared at each other, until she wasn’t sure who it was she was looking at anymore. The urge to shove her way through the crowd, to shake off whatever it was that was gripping him, nearly carried her to her feet.

“Pity?”

She turned back to find Sheridan watching her.

“Is something wrong?”

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—?”

“It’s not nothing!” She kicked the pack. “What are you doing?”

He straightened, his features hardening. “Something I should have done a long time ago. I’m leaving Cessation.”

“The hell you are!”

Startled by the pure ferocity, Max dropped the brush. He took a step back before catching himself. “Go away, Pity. I don’t know why you’re here in the first place, but go away. And if you care at all, keep this to yourself until I’m long gone.”

She held her ground. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, her tone like chipped porcelain, “and neither are you until you tell me why.”

“I…” Max shook his head. “I can’t.” But his voice wavered.

She stared at him, fists clenched. Then she went to the wall and dragged her palm across it.

“Don’t!” He lunged at her, grabbing her wrist, but it was too late. The beginning of his note was obliterated.

“Why did you do that?” he cried. “Why… why are you here?” He released her, face crumpling with pain. “Dammit, Pity, why do you always turn up right when I’m trying to leave?”

The blaze within her flickered out. A stifling silence rose between them, so thick that Pity’s ribs began to ache. She fought for each breath as she stood steadfast before Max, equally bewildered and torn apart by the battle raging within her, the one that had driven her here in the first place.

An agonizing minute ticked by.

Only when she’d made her decision did the air seem to lighten.

She went over to the door and closed it.

“What are you—?”

“Please, just listen.” Her back still to him, she leaned against the cool metal, trying to slow her pounding heart. “I made a deal with Selene.”

Another moment of quiet passed. “What… what kind of deal?”

She turned toward him. “One where I’d hang off Sheridan’s arm, pretend to be the reason he was back in Cessation.” Once she began, she knew there was no going back. The words tumbled out of her. “Do you understand? It’s not real—a misdirection, in case whoever sent the assassins for Selene tries again.”

Max’s brow pinched with confusion. “But Daneko—”

“Was working with someone in the east. Sheridan thinks he was a target, too. He hasn’t given up on being president, and Selene needs an alliance with him in order to protect the city. I agreed to play my part, and in exchange…” She swallowed, her mouth dry with anxiety. “I’d never have to do another Finale.”

“This is about the Finales?”

She nodded. “I wanted to tell you, but Selene ordered me not to.”

At this, he paled. “Pity, you shouldn’t have—”

“I know. But back in the Gallery… and yesterday… the way you kept looking at me…” She couldn’t finish.

Across the room, Max went as still as stone. An invisible maelstrom of emotion seemed to envelop him as he worked to parse her confession, an echo of his earlier affliction in the Gallery. Unable to watch it, her attention fell on the traveling pack. She was anxious to know what he’d meant earlier about leaving, but too petrified of the answer to ask.

Max took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, it was with a determined air.

Her heart leapt as he reached for the pack…

… and stopped. He straightened again, resolve shifting to desperation.

Instead, he took a step toward her.

Driven by her own longing, she closed the distance between them, paint-stained fingers curling into his shirt as she pressed her face against his shoulder. The scent of him filled her: paint, linseed oil, an earthy warmth like wheat fields baking in the summer sun. The mix went to her head, better than any drug or drink, so much so that at first she didn’t feel his arms close around her.

“Pity…”

“Don’t.” She turned her face to his. “Whatever you’re about to say… just don’t. I don’t care.”

His eyes flickered over her, seemingly afraid to alight on any one place. But his embrace tightened, grounding her, making her feel solid for the first time that evening. He pressed his forehead against hers, the heat of him neutral, as if they shared a single skin.

As they stood like that, a silent tableau cast half in shadow, the rift between them vanished. This time, Max’s lips sought hers, the world around them receding as Pity returned the kiss, desire rising within her like fever.

Within heartbeats, there was no Selene, no Sheridan, no Cessation…

Only Max.