“The Theatre?” Pity leaned against the back of the elevator, muscles watery. Beeks’s scream echoed in her ears. “Can’t I scrub toilets?”

Max leaned next to her, grinning. “Are you kidding me? You hit the jackpot!”

“I’m not an actress.”

“And I told you,” he said, “it’s not that kind of theatre.”

Halcyon Singh’s Theatre Vespertine… Meeting Halcyon only added a new layer of peculiarity to the words. “What do they expect me to do?”

“Shoot things, I suppose,” said Max. “Leave that to Halcyon. He’s a genius with the details.”

Pity stared at her feet. “I… I don’t think…”

Adora sighed. “What Max is trying to communicate,” she said, her back to them, “is that you have been offered a coveted position. Performers in the Theatre Vespertine are entitled to generous wages, room and board, and all of Casimir’s luxuries.”

“As I recall,” Pity said, “I was offered a chance.”

Adora turned her head, gazing at Pity with sly cat’s eyes. “And you can see for what tomorrow evening. Halcyon has quite a show in store.”

The elevator doors opened. For a minute they were back among the revelry of the main hall, until Adora ushered them through one of the arched exits that lined the walls. From there, Casimir became a disorienting maze of hallways and stairways.

“This way.” Adora turned down a long hall, stopping before the door at the very end. She punched a code into the keypad. The door opened. “Max, show her around. I have to get back to more important things.” She smiled frostily at Pity. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Uh, sure,” she said. “Thank—” But Adora was already walking away. Pity stared after her. “She’s…”

“About as pleasant as a mouthful of sour milk?” Max said. “Don’t take it personally. Adora isn’t nice to anyone. But she does her job well. If Beau is Miss Selene’s gun, Adora is her pen. Well, go on in.”

Automatic lights flickered on as she entered, illuminating a room at least ten paces on each side. A huge bed took up much of the space, but there was a small sofa, a table, and a wardrobe against one wall.

“This is for me?”

“Like Adora said: luxuries. Miss Selene wants you to know what you have to gain.”

“I guess so.” She paused a few steps in, feeling like a trespasser. “How long does it take to get used to this sort of fancy?”

“Actually…” Max hesitated. “My room is in the basement. I tend to be messy, and no one cares if a little paint gets splattered around there. Not so impressive, but I prefer it.”

The bed looked like a coat of fresh snow had fallen on it. When Pity pressed her hands into the comforter, they sank to the wrist.

“Makes you want to jump right in, doesn’t it?”

“Lord, yes.” Her body ached for rest. It had been days since she had slept in a real bed. Then again, her definition of real bed paled in comparison to what lay before her. “But it’s so clean and I’m filthy.”

“You’re not the only one.” Max sniffed his shirt and made a face. “Hazards of travel. I’d better get washed up, too. If there’s a performance tomorrow, I’ll have work waiting.” His expression turned serious. “I’m sorry about upstairs. That’s not how I expected things to play out. But you did good—really good. Selene was impressed. I could tell.”

“Not that impressed.”

“Listen to Halcyon. Do what he says, and she’ll be begging you to stay.”

Who says I want to? Now was the time, Pity thought. She had her guns back, and she had seen Cessation. It was real, and it was dangerous. Max had promised to put her on the train if she wanted… All she had to do was ask.

And where would I go? She couldn’t return to the commune, and she hadn’t forgotten what Olivia had said about the eastern cities. She had no supplies, no connections, and no currency. She and Finn might have made it together, but alone? Her eyes burned.

“Max”—she pushed the words past the lump in her throat—“who is Miss Selene?”

“She’s the person who keeps Cessation from descending into chaos,” he replied. “Without her it would all fall apart. Miss Selene controls the Theatre, the Tin Men, and Casimir. She prevents lawlessness from taking over the city.”

“I thought there was no law in Cessation.”

“There’s not,” he said. “Except for Selene’s law. Everyone knows not to cross her.”

She gave him a pointed look. “What about Beeks?”

Max shrugged. “There’s always an exception or two to every rule, right? Bathroom is through that door. Get some rest. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

“Max?”

He paused in the doorway, his gray eyes wide as he waited for her to speak again.

Ask. All you have to do is ask.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The door clicked shut. Pity stood in the center of the room, alone. She remained that way for a long minute, staring down at the apple-green carpet, unsure of what to do next. Finally, she took off her belt and laid it on the table next to the bed. She might have her guns back, but how far would she make it in the state she was in? Bruised body, battered emotions, exhausted to her very bones.

A few days couldn’t hurt, could it? She could rest, get her strength back. And then, if she still wanted to leave…

Impress Halcyon. Selene’s words thrummed in her ears. Impress me.

Too tired to think, Pity went over and examined the wardrobe. It was empty save for a thick white bathrobe, soft as a spring lamb. She gathered it and went to the door Max had indicated was the bathroom. When she saw the bathtub, the robe dropped to the floor.

Moments later, her clothes followed.

There was a knock on the door as she was drying off.

“You decent in there?” a woman’s voice called.

Pity froze, bent over, her hair trailing above the bathroom tile.

“I’ve got the code,” she continued. “But I was trying to be polite.”

Pity tightened her robe. She went to the door and cracked it. “Uh, can I help you?”

It was the dark-haired young woman who had blown Max the kiss. She gave Pity a pert smile, her tan cheeks shimmering with a faint gold sheen. She pushed the door in. “I’m here to help you, honey. Flossie sent me. I’m Luster. And you’re Pity, so Max tells me.”

A man entered behind her, dressed in a scarlet-and-black uniform trimmed with gold buttons. He carried an armful of long black bags on hangers. “In the wardrobe, please,” Luster instructed. “Then take off.” When they were alone, she gave Pity a long look over, from top to bottom. “Well, the first thing we need to do is get you clean.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. In the bath.” Luster kicked off her heeled shoes and strode into the bathroom.

Pity heard the water turn on again. “I spent the last half hour in there.”

The bathroom was as luxurious as the bedroom, with pale blue marble and a deep, round tub fed by a golden faucet shaped like a fish. Luster leaned over it, testing the temperature of the water. Up close, she didn’t look as young as she had downstairs; Pity gauged her to be at least a few years older than she was, despite her diminutive figure.

“Flossie told me to make you presentable, not dunk you underwater a few times and call it a night. Robe off, back in the tub!” When Pity failed to comply, she put her hands on her hips. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s only…”

“Don’t tell me you’re shy.” Luster laughed. She plucked a pair of pins from inside her bodice and gathered her hair. In a practiced instant it was twisted up and pinned in place. “Honey, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen a thousand times, in a thousand ways. C’mon, lose it.”

Pity slid out of the robe, shivering even as the room filled with steam. You swam naked in the creek with Finn a hundred and one times. This is no different. Or so she told herself.

Luster whistled. “Those are some pretty fine bruises. You’re more plum than peach right now. Unfortunately, I’ve seen that before, too.”

As Pity slid into the water—and she had to admit, a second bath was not the worst thing she could imagine—Luster opened a cabinet under the sink, filled with soaps and oils. A wealth of smells drifted over.

“Peppermint? Wisteria? I’m partial to lavender, myself.”

“Anything that doesn’t smell like sweat or burnt oil.” Pity sat back. The heat felt as delicious as before.

After setting the bottles within arm’s reach, Luster stripped off her dress. The undergarments beneath revealed more than they covered.

Pity stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t want to get it damp.” She rolled her eyes. “Relax, this isn’t that kind of work. Come over here and dip down. Get your hair nice and wet.”

Pity obeyed, hesitating again when Luster ordered her to turn around. But the young woman only perched on the edge of the tub as she worked a dollop of liquid soap into Pity’s hair, massaging it until a thick lather formed. It was a uniquely soothing sensation. Within a minute, Pity’s muscles began to unknot and her eyelids grew heavy.

“You have lovely hair,” said Luster. “Brown as cocoa… Ooh, that sounds good. You want some cocoa?” She rinsed her hands, then pressed a button on the wall Pity hadn’t noticed before.

“May I be of service?” said a voice.

“Hey, y’all, it’s Luster. I’m in 486. Can you send up some hot cocoa in about half an hour? And maybe some…” She turned to Pity. “Are you hungry? Kitchen does a roast chicken thing with wine and mushrooms that’s tasty.”

Pity’s stomach gurgled at the mention of food. “If it’s not dehydrated or from a can, it’s fine with me.”

“Send that chicken I like,” Luster said. “And some wine. Actually, send that now. Thanks!”

Pity wiped a speck of lather from her cheek. “Hot cocoa? Dinner? Just like that?”

Luster winked. “One of the perks of living in Casimir. I heard a rumor that you’re joining the Theatre.”

News travels fast here. “From Max?”

“Oh, I never reveal my sources,” said Luster. “But you’re gonna love it. Great food, ample drinks. And plenty of free time in the Gallery.”

“The Gallery?”

“Where you came in downstairs. Hold still. I’ll hose you down.”

As Luster used a sprayer to rinse Pity’s hair, another knock sounded.

“I got it!” Luster popped back into the bedroom, not bothering to re-dress.

Pity heard the door open and shut. Luster reappeared, a bottle in one hand and a pair of wineglasses in the other. Pity averted her eyes. Stop it, she told herself. She’s got nothing you haven’t seen before, either. But there was something disconcerting about Luster’s brazenness. Even the way her makeup had blurred softly in the steam seemed to carry a touch of wickedness.

Luster poured two generous measures of garnet-red liquid.

“Drink up!”

“I… I shouldn’t.”

Luster pressed the glass on her. “If I looked like you do, I’d want something a lot stronger than a bit of wine.” One eyebrow rose. “That could be arranged, too, y’know.”

“No, this is fine.” Pity took a sip. It tasted like dark cherries and left a sticky feeling on her tongue, but the moment it hit her stomach a deep warmth spread, bleeding outward to meet the heat of the bath pushing in.

Luster grabbed a sponge. “Turn around again. I’ll do your back.”

Pity took another swallow of wine. With every moment that passed, the tightness in her body unwound a little more. She leaned forward against the edge of the tub, arms crossed on the tiles as Luster circled the sponge over her shoulders and back, taking extra care around the worst of the injuries.

“Luster?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Do you… like living here?”

Luster laughed. “I think what you want to ask is do I like being a whore, right?”

Pity shifted, glad her face was hidden. “It’s none of my business. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I asked Flossie that same question the day I stumbled into Casimir, doing my best to not look like the underfed dissident spawn that I was. You know what she said? ‘No one here does anything they don’t want to.’ Heck, I could be a porter tomorrow if I had a mind to be.” She chuckled again. “But we should all be honest about where our talents lie. Don’t get me wrong, though. Casimir is a far cry from what goes on in Cessation’s alleys. I’d go back to the mudhole camp I grew up in before you’d find me there… Well, maybe.”

“Was it that bad? I don’t know much about what goes on outside the CONA territories.”

“Nothing more than they tell you, I’m sure.” Luster sighed. “CONA called us dissidents as an insult, but in the camps it was a badge of honor. We might have lost the war, but we were free, right? No plutocrats or corporations telling us how to live our lives. Thing is, freedom doesn’t put food on the table. A lousy crop meant a cold, hungry winter. Infighting was common. And even in the better settlements, fate has a cruel sense of humor. Garland—you’ll meet him—came from one of the First Peoples communities. Y’know those, right?”

“Only that they stayed out of the war, and CONA trades with them from time to time.”

“When it suits them, sure.” Luster scoffed. “A sickness came one spring. Wiped out half Garland’s community within months. Yeah, it gets pretty bad.”

Pity didn’t ask any more questions. For all the commune’s flaws, she had never faced starvation or war, or an illness there wasn’t medicine for. What others did to secure themselves wasn’t for her to judge—not when their situations were dire enough to make her wonder what she might do in the same place. How bad would life with her father have had to be to make her jump at an arranged marriage?

Too exhausted to ponder that path, she sipped her wine and floated, letting Luster scrub away the stains of travel. Her eyes opened and closed, vision blurred by more than the steam. She didn’t protest when Luster helped her out of the bath and dried her off with a downy towel, or when Luster led her to the bed and began massaging scented ointments into her bruised skin. The soft anchors of the bath, the wine, and Luster’s skilled touch sank her further and further toward sleep. She roused momentarily when she heard a third knock, but her eyes closed again quickly, the faint scent of cocoa ushering her into the dark.