Page 36 of Gunslinger Girl

When the riotous clapping began, Pity joined in automatically, her hands moving back and forth mechanically to applaud the final act of the Theatre Vespertine.

Pity yanked the scrap of fabric tighter around her. It did nothing to stop the shivering. She leaned against the wall for support as they waited in a passage beneath the stands. Above them, hundreds of feet pounded against the ceiling, as loud as the applause minutes before. She could feel the eyes of the others upon her.

“Are you okay?” Luster asked.

Pity stared at the ground, unsure how to answer. The show had left her with a distressing snarl of emotion—energized, excited, disgusted… and terrified.

“Leave her be,” said Duchess. “Her delicate sensitivities aren’t used to—”

The feelings burned away in a flash, fuel for the anger that coursed through her. “You think I’ve never seen a dead man before? You think the communes don’t have their own sort of justice?” She stalked over to Duchess and stabbed a finger at him. “Just because we don’t kill folks for entertainment where I’m from doesn’t mean we’re ‘delicate.’ So don’t you tell me what kind of sensitivities I do and do not have!”

“Whoa, calm down.” Garland wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her away. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Clutched against Garland, Pity was more unsettled than ever but no longer shivering. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she was instantly ashamed for having such a reaction after the morbid event she had witnessed.

“You’re not the only one who got a shock,” Garland continued as she disentangled herself. “I take it that’s what you and Olivia and Santino were up to, Max?”

“Yeah. I would have warned you, but…”

“But it wouldn’t have done a lick of good.” Duchess tossed his head. “Beeks crossed Miss Selene. He knew better.”

That no one asked what Beeks had done didn’t escape Pity’s notice.

“Well,” Luster sighed, “after that, I think all our sensitivities could use a drink.”

The Gallery was crowded and raucous by the time they arrived. They elbowed their way to the long bar that ran along one wall, where Max wrangled a stool for Pity.

Luster wriggled in beside her and leaned across the polished wood. “Hey—hey, Olivia!”

Olivia sauntered toward them, in finer clothes than the last time Pity had seen her, though her whip remained coiled on her hip. She smirked at Pity. “Hardly recognized you. Nice dress. Almost covers the bruises.”

“Drinks, Olivia, strong ones.” Luster kicked up a heel and balanced it on the bar, her dress riding high on her hips. When the patron beside her gave her an appreciative once-over, Luster winked at the woman in the mirrored wall that ran along the back of the bar.

Olivia frowned. “Not when you ask like that, missy.”

Garland gave a winsome smile. “Please. The word she forgot was please.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Anyone ever said no to that face, Gar?” She eyed Pity. “Performers drink free, though you’re not really a performer yet, are you?”

“C’mon, Olivia,” said Max.

“Fine. I guess she might as well enjoy herself as long as she’s around. Although others are supposed to be working for their keep.”

“One round and we’re on the clock,” Garland promised.

“Horseshit.” But Olivia filled five tumblers from a pitcher, sliding the first over to Pity.

Pity hesitated, body tight with unease. A few hours ago she had begun to relish the possibilities that the Theatre offered. But now? She took a polite sip. “Thanks. It’s good.”

“Really?” said Olivia. “Because from the look on your face, it tastes like old spit.”

Pity stared into the tumbler. The ice cubes knocked against one another woodenly. “I’m not much of a drinker is all.”

“Interfere with your aim?”

“Don’t know.” Her eyes locked with Olivia’s. “Never messed up my mother’s, though, no matter how many empty bottles she left behind her as she walked the wall. Her balance, on the other hand…”

A pall fell over the group, a knot of silence in the surrounding revelry.