Page 30 of Gunslinger Girl

“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.”