Midmorning, Max rapped on her door.

A few hours before, Pity had woken to find herself cosseted under the thick comforter, still naked. For a few blissful moments, ignorance lay on her like a different sort of blanket. Then, one by one, memories emerged from sleep’s fog. Where she was… and where she had been. She threw off the comforter, the chill on her skin nothing compared to the flame of guilt in her chest.

You’re lying here, warm and clean, while Finn is rotting away somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

She sat with that guilt for a while, waiting for the flame to ignite something within her, to illuminate some hidden corner of her situation—a different path, a better idea. But when it didn’t, when the feelings remained as directionless as they had on the way to Cessation, she gave in to the draw of the robe Luster had left folded at the foot of the bed. Recalling the previous evening, Pity searched through the black bags in the wardrobe. They were full of clothes—more conventional than what she had observed in the Gallery but far from the shapeless utility of commune garments. She had settled on a pale yellow shirt and a pair of caramel-brown pants, tighter than she liked but as soft as velvet. She’d even found a new pair of boots, sized perfectly.

Max, too, was cleaner but as paint-specked as ever.

“Luster did a great job, I see,” he said. “You look rested.” He wasn’t alone. Behind him stood an older man with silver hair and baggy eyes, carrying a black leather bag.

“Thanks.” Pity pulled at her braided hair, eyeing the stranger. “Stupid me, I went and fell asleep before I could thank her.” Her stomach growled audibly. “Or eat dinner.”

“If you can be patient a little longer, that’s easily remedied.” Max stepped aside. “Pity, this is Dr. Starr. He’s going to give you a once-over. I’ll wait in the hallway, Doc.”

Starr strode across the room and unceremoniously dropped his bag on the table. “They told me about your accident. You were very lucky, it seems. How are you feeling?” He opened the kit and began searching inside. “Any new pain? Headaches?”

“No.”

“Look here.” He swept a light across her eyes a few times, then began prodding her around the neck and stomach. “Tell me if any of this hurts. You’re from the communes, so I assume you’ve had the gamut of vaccines, regular examinations, all that?”

“Yes.”

“Twice blessed, then. Any allergies? Are you fertile?”

“Uh, walnuts… and yes.”

Starr stepped back. “Stay away from the kitchen’s cinnamon rolls, then. For the other thing, we only get enough preventative meds for Flossie’s crew, but if you’re not interested in being a mommy someday, I can do a one-way fix for you.”

“Th-thanks,” she said. Sterilization was illegal under CONA law—very illegal. Apparently Cessation’s offerings extended beyond gambling, booze, and bodies. “I think I’ll stay unfixed for now.”

“If you change your mind, let me know.” Starr grabbed the bag. “Welcome to Casimir,” he said, and departed with as much ceremony as his arrival.

Max popped his head back in. “So, breakfast?”

Unlike the Gallery, the décor of the common dining room was simple: custard-colored walls, bare floors, and wide windows. Morning sunshine streamed across tables occupied by men and women of all ages. Some sat alone, others in groups, chatting and smiling over mugs of coffee and full plates. There were no costumes or uniforms here. Pity couldn’t tell if they were porters, prostitutes, or something else. They could have been workers on her commune—a thought she found oddly comforting.

“As much as Luster loves room service,” Max said, “we mostly take meals here.”

Along the far wall ran a buffet filled with trays. Following Max’s lead, Pity grabbed a plate and piled it with eggs and bacon, toast, fresh fruit, and a mug of cocoa, to make up for the one she had missed. Her hand cramped with the weight of the plate by the time they sat down.

“After breakfast, we’ll head to the theatre. Halcyon wants to see you.”

He certainly doesn’t waste any time. “Should I have brought my guns?”

“If you need them, Halcyon will send someone to fetch them. Just do what he tells you, and everything will be peachy.”

“What’ll be peachy?” The pretty blond youth who had welcomed Santino the prior evening slid into the seat across from Max. He was less pretty this morning, and less youthful-looking, his eyes tired and kohl-smeared. With him was Luster’s handsome companion. He put his plate down but remained standing.

“Gone for weeks, and all we get is a wave.” The blond stifled a yawn. “Good to see you, too, Max!”

“Duchess, manners.” His friend reached a hand toward Pity. He was even more bitingly handsome up close, with tawny skin, dark hair, and darker eyes. “Duchess is pretending like Luster didn’t fill us in already. But you were whisked away so soon after arriving, we weren’t properly introduced. I’m Garland. Any friend of Max is a friend of ours.”

“Pity.” She put out her hand to shake. Garland took it but lightly kissed her knuckles instead, sending a flutter of warmth through her.

Duchess scowled as Garland sat. “My manners and I have been up all night. We’re hungry, we’re tired, and we don’t have an endless supply of charm to draw from, unlike some people.” He nodded at Pity. “So no offense meant. Welcome to Casimir, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Thanks.” Pity buried her nose in her mug of cocoa.

“Normally,” said Max, “you don’t see these two before the backside of noon. So what was it, boys?”

Garland smirked. “Some very dedicated faro players. One was convinced Duchess was his lucky charm.”

“Well, were you?” said Max.

“He lost his shirt,” Duchess replied. “And not in a good way.”

When they finished eating, they ferried their plates to a bin full of dirty dishes. Pity paused at the sight of it, one of the most familiar things she had so far encountered in Casimir.

“What?” said Max.

“It feels… weird.” She stared at the remains of the meal. “I can’t remember the last time I had a meal I didn’t help cook or clean up after. The room, the bath, the clothes—it all feels so… I don’t know.”

Yes, you do, said a nagging voice within. It feels kinda nice.

“Enjoy it.” Max smirked. “You’ll be earning your keep soon enough, trust me.”

The theatre was a whirlpool of seats, swirling down in a series of levels to the stage below. At the top were long, plain benches, followed by individual chairs, red and plush. Closest to the floor were tiers of sectioned boxes—some small, with room for only two or three people, others that could seat a dozen or more. Pity and Max passed through each section in turn, descending one of the stairways set at intervals.

“Normally we move around using the tunnels beneath the stage,” he explained as they reached a door that accessed the stage level, “but I thought you might like to see it from this angle.”

A tremor of nerves shook her. “I didn’t think it would be this big. Everyone on the commune could fit in here, easily.”

“Wait until you see it full.”

While the stands were deserted, the stage was a bustling hive of activity. Everywhere people were stretching, singing, flipping through the air. She and Max came upon a group of lithe youths—two boys and three girls—with pale skin and paler hair. None looked to be older than Pity. Five pairs of icy eyes stared at her as they passed.

“The Rousseau quintet,” Max said quietly. “Clare, Chrétien, Carine, Christophe, and Chloe. Acrobats and contortionists.” He pointed at a man and woman next. “Eva and Marius Zidane. Knife throwers.” As if by command, the pair raised their arms in unison. Two knives sliced through the air and embedded in a round target a dozen yards away.

“Not bad.” Pity had tried to sound impressed, but she had seen similar skill on the commune, usually on the heels of a few tumblers of home-still.

“That’s a warm-up. Their act is more… complicated.”

“There she is, there she is!” Halcyon’s voice cut through the noise. “Everyone, listen! Yes, listen, turn, pay attention!” He swept over to Pity. “Lovely to see you again, dear girl, and, my, don’t you look rested.” An arm stole around Pity’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Everyone, gather round! May I introduce to you our latest acquisition, Serendipity Jones!”

The performers gathered around them. Faces stared at her, curious but cool. One of the Rousseaus leaned to another and whispered something. They both giggled.

A woman with dark, cropped hair and olive skin broke away from the crowd. “Doesn’t look like much. What does she do?”

“Why, Scylla, you should be asking what doesn’t she do.”

Scylla rolled her eyes.

“No, no, wait,” Halcyon continued. “I would not withhold that satisfying morsel from you—it would be cruel, cruel! Serendipity here is a markswoman, finest ever trained on the CONA communes, now come to us to showcase her talents.”

“A commune?” Scylla snickered. “She gonna shoot jackrabbits for her act?”

The crowd tittered. Blood rushed to Pity’s face.

“Careful, Scylla,” said Eva Zidane. “We don’t have any jackrabbits, but we do have plenty of other creatures on hand.”

The remark earned Eva an acid look, but before Scylla could retort, Halcyon released Pity and clapped his hands together in rapid succession. “Enough, enough! Back to work, my lovelies. Tonight’s show draws ever closer! Go, go!” The crowd dispersed. “You, too, Max. Work to be done!”

“Sure, boss.” Max shot Pity a look of encouragement. “You’ll be okay.”

“Well, of course she will,” balked Halcyon. “We’ll have a little chat, talk about her act, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Go on.” Pity’s voice didn’t quite match the confidence of her words, but she managed a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Singh will take good care of me.”

“Please, my dear, call me Halcyon! Or boss, as some seem to prefer. Yes, either will do. Now come!”

It turned out that Halcyon’s taste in wardrobe extended to his office. The striped walls threatened the tranquility of Pity’s full stomach. Only slightly less unnerving were the orange carpet and the furniture upholstered in eggplant velvet. Halcyon plunked her onto a cushy chair before his desk, piled high with an unstable snarl of papers, ledgers, and toys. As Pity watched, a rubber ball rolled out of the mess and over to a wall plastered with maps. Pins were set in a dozen or more locations, all over the world.

“Plans,” Halcyon explained. “Or hopes, I should say. Why, if I had my way, the Theatre Vespertine would be touring constantly: Columbia, Sangui City, Johannesburg—no habitable corner of the globe would remain unvisited! Sadly, here we remain tethered, a beautiful bird kept caged, unable to even move about the continent because some aspects of my show are not deemed appropriate for the audiences of the east. And Selene’s no help, to boot. She doesn’t want to share her treasure with the world.”

Pity blinked. This is the genius I’m supposed to listen to? “To be honest, I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me, either.”

“What? Whyever would you say that?”

“Because I have no idea what you expect me to do,” she said. “And I’m no performer.”

“What does that matter? Performing is easy. You merely need to remember one thing.”

“What’s that?”

He leaned in, voice dropping low. “Give the crowd something they want to see.”

“Do you…” Pity hesitated. “Do you really think my shooting is something people would want to see?”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “It will be. Ah, you still have reservations. Don’t. When you step out in front of that audience for the first time, if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will. They’ll smell it, like sharks smell blood.”

And then you’ll be out on your backside. Pity didn’t need him to say it—Cessation didn’t seem like a place that offered second chances. Did she even want the first? But what was the alternative? With a night’s rest and a full stomach, clarity of thought had returned. Certainly she could play along for a few more days, then head east. But the prospect no longer carried the promise it once had. Finn wouldn’t be east, west, or anywhere else she went. And Cessation had served up an opportunity on a silver platter; she couldn’t expect the same good fortune a second time.

And isn’t this what you always wanted—the chance to show what you can do? Maybe the particulars weren’t exactly how she had imagined, but…

Safety. Shelter. Work.

Cessation—Selene—was offering her all of it. The only thing she had to do was be entertaining.

How hard could it be? she thought. It’s just shooting dressed up fancy. Finn would be tickled to see me show off for a thousand strangers.

Finn’s final moments seeped into her thoughts: the resigned, resilient look in her eyes; the nerve that came to Pity when it was already far too late.

Her breakfast curdled in her gut. The only steel in her is in those guns.

Beau’s barb had gotten under her skin, deeper than she wanted to admit. But maybe he had done her a favor by passing her over. Security could be life or death, and not only for her.

The Theatre?

The Theatre was just a show.