He screws it back on as if he’s a doll, flesh reattaching to flesh.
“That ain’t right,” Garrett yells. He clutches his religious necklace. “You’re some kind of demon.”
Luca grins and stuffs the heavy bag of winnings in his vest. “I think that’s it for the night.” He hops off the stage and lands at my side. “Thanks, princess,” he says. I’m too stricken to bother correcting him for using that nickname. “I usually have a block ready in case someone beheads me. I don’t like to get myself dirty.” He licks his hand and rubs some dirt off his chin. Around us, the crowd dissipates and moves on to a new attraction.
“That was repugnant,” I say.
“I usually do better the bloodier it is,” he says. “Some people put money in without even trying to kill me. They just get a kick out of watching me die.”
Maybe that’s because you’re an ass, I want to say, but then feel ashamed of the thought. These people don’t know him. They’re merely cruel.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” I ask.
“Only for a moment.” He taps my mask. “I like your mask today. Very sparkly.”
“Thanks.” My mask is silver and covered in glass fragments, smoothed by a translucent coating. Its reflections shimmer green from the Downhill’s torches. “Why do you let them do that?”
“The money, of course,” he says, his voice hollow. “Even demon-workers have to eat.”
What a pitiful way to survive.
“I didn’t intend for you to witness my gruesome spectacle,” Luca says. “You’re early.”
“I said nine.”
“And forgetful.” He studies my messenger bag. “What are you carrying?”
“Some books,” I answer.
He swiftly snatches a book out of the bag, nimbler than a pickpocket. “A Complete List and History of Gomorrah Proprietors?”
I grab it from his hands and return it to its place. It’s no secret in Gomorrah that I’m Villiam’s heir, but I don’t want anyone overhearing clandestine information.
“Can we talk in private?” I ask.
“Yes. Let’s take our discussion elsewhere. Away from prying ears.” I peek over my shoulder, and there are others watching us. Children crouching behind the stage or tents, wondering if the seemingly blind girl would make a good target to pickpocket—as if they can assume anything about me simply from one appraisal. Some of Luca’s audience members, lingering for any additional entertainment.
Luca avoids their stares and leads me to his tent next door. The gossip-worker sign I kicked down the other day has been put upright. He must think I’m such a child. How embarrassing. I take a seat at the table while Luca pinches at the fabric of his shirt, damp from blood. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Gin it is,” he says. He sets two glasses on the table, pours them a quarter of the way full and then slides one to me. “Here. Drink some. Compose yourself. I’m going to change into something more comfortable.”
He disappears into the other, more private tent. While he’s gone, I take a sip of the gin and then immediately spit it back into my glass. I untie my mask for the moment, to release some of the pressure on my forehead and my sinuses. All the crying in the past week has turned me into a mess. And Luca’s show outside managed to agitate my anxiety. But gradually, my heart rate slows. I tap my fingers against the table to the rhythm of the Freak Show’s opening song to avoid thinking about Luca’s blood on my tunic.
Then Luca returns, so quietly I hadn’t heard him approach, and I freeze. My nose is running, I’m sweating and I’m maskless. He pauses, studying my face, and I brace myself for an expression of disgust or discomfort. But it never comes.
He sits across from me. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m managing.” I fiddle awkwardly with the mask in my lap, tracing over the glass shards with my thumb. I rarely remove my mask and never in front of near strangers.
I’m still beautiful without my mask, I tell myself. Nevertheless, I tie my mask back on and hate myself the entire time I do it. My face shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care what he thinks. But I do. And it’s hard enough to sit here, salvaging what remains of my pride after asking him for help, and talk about Gill and Blister.
He takes a generous sip from his glass.
“Should you be drinking?” I ask.
“It makes me nicer,” Luca says.
