Some people called Cylvania City the city that never slept.

That wasn't entirely accurate There were noise ordinances during late evening hours, and occasionally curfews when some trouble or threat reared its head in the heart of the Republic. So there were times when the streets were mostly empty, save for the guards or enterprising members of the thieves' guild, of course.

But in another sense, it was fitting.

There were thirty thousand souls in Cylvania City, and over two thousand of them were greater golems or doll haunters, or legally recognized undead. And most of those creatures couldn't sleep.

Some still liked to do so from time to time, and there were businesses set up to help citizens experience slumber, for a small fee. Other businesses specialized in low-activity entertainment, such as all-night storytelling lounges, or more elaborate establishments where Sensates could paint the walls with illusions. The theater had enjoyed a resurgence, too, booming in a way that it never had back in the war years.

This was where Cecilia Gearhart found herself sitting, one cool night in early spring. Sitting and staring at the actors stepping through a retelling of a rabbit beastkin revolt that broke an unjust tyrant's power in the eastern land of Belltollia. It was called “Less Misery Buns,” and overall she thought it was a good story. The fake ears were barely discernible from the real thing, and the songs were catchy. A year or two ago it would have been a nice night at the theater.

Now...

Now it was distant, like everything else. She could see it, could appreciate it, but it didn't go further than that.

It didn't make her feel any different, not really.

“I think I like that Bun Valbun character the most,” Threadbare said, from next to her. “He was jumping very high. And the carrotcake he stole was for his starving daughter, so it was for a good cause.”

“Was that the part with the wicked priest who wanted to seduce the flopsy girl?” Celia asked.

Threadbare stared at her for a second too long. “No, no that was in their last play. You remember, the Hutch Back of the No-ear Dame.”

“Sorry. I'm distracted,” she admitted. “The business with the Rumpus Room was entirely unexpected. I'm still turning it over in my mind.”

That was partly true, and Mrs. Beemer's unexpected treachery would cause her no end of trouble in the Council. But it wasn't the full story, and she could tell by Threadbare's body language that he wasn't buying her excuse.

“It is a lot to take in,” Threadbare patted her hand. She squeezed his paw for a second.

But only for a second. A year or two ago she would have taken comfort in that. Taken comfort in the contact, enjoyed the sensation and the love that the gesture symbolized.

Now she felt nothing. And the fear stirred in her, the emptiness and hollowness, the reminder that this wasn't her body, wasn't her hand, it was false and—

She broke that train of thought, and settled for just pulling her hand back. Shoving the contact from her mind, Celia stared back at the stage, looking for an escape. But even that was denied her. Her eyes caught the polished brass of the balcony railing, and for a second she gazed upon her own reflection.

Celia was a small figure, two feet at most. A porcelain doll dressed in fine velvet clothing, her face lined with multiple tiny joins that let her be expressive as any visage of flesh. Her fingers were likewise worked with care, allowing her full dexterity and ease of manipulation. Her hair was as frizzy and red as it had been in life, though now it was made from a boiled weed that could blister fingers if prepared poorly. And her eyes were glass, though with a life to them that no other doll could match. She winked at herself, testing the tiny, thin, eyelid, then winked the other eye, then closed both eyes and fought the urge to smash her head on the railing until it burst open.

She'd been having a lot more of those urges lately.

And she could feel Threadbare's button eyes on her again, could hear him shifting worriedly from one foot to the other. Could hear his suit jacket creak as he stretched out a hand, and tensed herself for contact again.

But he didn't touch her. Which was a relief? Or maybe it wasn't. “I don't know,” Celia whispered. “Let's just watch the rest of the musical. We can talk afterward.”

“All right,” Threadbare said. “That's a good idea.”

So they did. And it was a very good musical, that left the audience very happy. There was quite a long standing ovation at the end, and the actors and actresses almost hurt themselves bowing.

Well, most of them. The troop of players that had come west to give this show was split about half-and-half between actual beastkin and humans and elves playing the part of fuzzy foreigners. The real rabbit beastkin had good enough agility that they could bow like bobbleheads without straining their backs.

The spring air outside the theater was cool and crisp, and she didn't feel any of that. The only way she could tell was by the living members of the audience who were pulling their coats closer to themselves, and the way the leather bands in her body pulled a little tauter, tensing her muscle-equivalents a bit as the cold contracted them. Dodging feet, the two little golems made their way through the crowd, trying to stay unnoticed.

It didn't go as well as they hoped.

Most of the nobles and wealthier merchants that made up the crowd were wrapped up in their own business at first, talking with friends, networking, or making sure that their clothing and accessories were well-displayed to their peers. But the servants who attended them were busy watching the surroundings so that their masters didn't have to. And one poor guy who had been stuck holding the reins of carriage horses for a few hours stared at them as they passed by, then bowed, holding his hat to his chest.

Another servant caught the motion, and gasped. Her mistress glared at her, then followed her gaze, and clapped her hands. “Oh my! Look who's here with us tonight!”

And of course, the entire crowd did turn and look.

“Oh fump,” Celia whispered, and then it began.

The stares, the slack-jawed smiles, the way the crowd pushed in a bit... not threatening, but wanting to get closer to her. The happy greetings, from the ones that knew her, the mutterings and surprised comments from the ones that didn't.

Raw. Focused. Attention. All on her.

And none of it deserved, because it was all due to her body. The body that wasn't hers, not really.

Your Gorgeous skill is now level 67!

“Beautiful,” she heard a man whisper back in the crowd.

“Exquisite!” Came an elderly matron's voice.

“Why, you just want to hold her and rock her to sleep!” a young debutante gasped.

It used to be that she didn't mind the attention. That it was just another factor of her new existence to balance and manage. But combined with everything else, with the weight of everything else pressing down on her...

She thought back to the brass railing. And again she thought about slamming her head into it, and porcelain cracking and breaking.

“Get me out of here. Please?” she grabbed Threadbare's shoulder, and steadied herself.

“Of course.” the teddy bear cleared his throat and stepped in front of her. “Please let us through.”

But his voice was lost in the babble. And even more drowned out, when a few of them finally tore their eyes away from Celia to notice that he existed.

Then the hubbub started in earnest, as the crowd pressed in closer, waving, trying to talk to them, or in a couple of cases with the extravagantly rich, calling over their speed-painters to try and get a quick self-portrait with them in the background.

They meant well, Celia knew.

Crunch, went her skull, in the chambers of her mind.

Then Threadbare straightened up, glancing away from the blathering noble who was closest to them. “Showtime?” he asked.

“Showtime!” bellowed a voice from behind them, and the actors spilled out into the street, some juggling, some dancing, and a few even walking on stilts.

Cecilia might have a ludicrously high Gorgeous skill, and Threadbare might have near-maximum Adorable skill, but the actors did this for a living. And by their powers combined, it was indeed showtime!

“Now's our chance!” Celia whispered, grabbing Threadbare and hurrying around the corner.

They'd almost made it out of the alley, when a door opened and a rabbit beastkin blinked at them, red eyes gleaming against their white fur.

“Oh!” Threadbare said, skidding to a stop. “Sorry about this, but could we go through your theater? We've caused a fuss, and we didn't intend to.”

“Yes, that's what the manager told us,” the beastkin said, “You're welcome to come on through.”

“I know that voice,” Celia said, as the two toys hustled through the door and into the backstage of the theater. “You were Bun Valbun, right? The one who jumped very high?” she shot a glance at Threadbare, and he nodded back at her.

“Oh, yes, that was my role,” the beastkin said, and Celia squinted at them as they moved through the spotlights that were being shuttered and hauled away now that the performance was done. “I'm Jean Lafeet, by the way. Valbun was a fun role, but not my only one.”

“I'm going to apologize in advance for being rude and please don't take this the wrong way,” Celia asked, confused. Jean's voice was deep and sounded fairly masculine, but now that they were close to the beastkin, their form looked distinctly feminine. “But are you male or female?”

“Oh. Ah... hm...” Jean's ears twitched, and their fur ruffled a bit, as they led the two toys around a crew of workers hastily moving backdrops around to set up for the next show. “I'm a woman. Pretty much every rabbit beastkin you're every likely to meet will be female. It's really rare for a bunnyboy to be born, maybe a once in a decade. And the squabbling over them usually means that they don't survive much past adulthood.”

“I see,” said Threadbare. “So all of the male roles are played by ladies?”

“Not always. Not all of the actors are bunnykin after all. Which is good for those of us that are, we get plenty of variety in our... diet.” She shot them a sideways smile, that turned into a puzzled frown as the little bear simply nodded politely.

“She's talking about a sex thing,” Celia told him.

“Oh. Sorry, I'm still a little unclear about all that,” Threadbare said. “I found out that discussing that sort of business with me made people uncomfortable and decided that I didn't really need to know those sorts of details.”

“Huh. That's fair I suppose,” Jean shrugged. “I suppose with how you're built and all you've got no need for that business anyway. That's probably a load off, I imagine. Nurph knows my own desires have gotten me into enough messes anyway. Oh, speaking of that...”

“Must we?” Celia said. She didn't like to think about sex, frankly. That door had been shut for her before it had ever had a chance to be fully opened.

“...about messes, not anything else,” Jean clarified. “The reason I came to you was that the manager wanted me to talk to you about the Midsummer Festival.”

“Oh. Is it that time already?” Celia looked to Threadbare. “Time is passing quickly.”

“It's a month away,” Threadbare confirmed, after scratching his chin.

“We were hoping we could find a sponsor to let us perform there,” Jean explained. “With the backing of one or two councilors, the festival board would surely let us have a spot! And if we could get in there and prepare ahead of time, we'd be able to set up the best show we've ever performed!”

Celia kept her face still, but her heart sunk.

Ever since she'd risen to her position, grasped the reins of leadership, this had been her life. People were always wanting something from her, and this, among other things, was wearing her down.

Still, the actors had saved them from a horde of more aggravating admirers.

She looked to Threadbare. He gazed back, button eyes unmoving.

“What do you think?” she prompted him.

Threadbare looked up to Jean, who had stopped by the exit. “Would you say this was a good show, tonight?”

“I think so,” Jean nodded. “Not one of our best, but a solid one.”

“Then I think I would like to see you perform a great show,” Threadbare said, stretching his paw up. Surprised, and acting on instinct, she knelt and took it. “I very much loved this show tonight,” Threadbare told her. “I think everyone did, and they would like to see you do a bigger show too. And it's nice when someone who played a very good person on stage turns out to be a good person in real life. So I think you deserve good things, and if this opportunity is what you want, then let's give it a try.”

Celia saw the actress's face soften and shift. There was a moment of surprise there, and something else. Sadness?

“Well,” Jean said, and cleared her throat as her voice broke a bit. “Well then. Thank you very much, mister Bear. I will try to live up to your expectations. We all will. Thank you.”

“I hope to be back in time to see it,” Threadbare said, giving her hand a squeeze with both paws, then letting it go. “All right, Celia. Are we ready to try this again?”

“I think so. I just wasn't expecting... the crowd, that's all. This time we'll move quickly and stay out of it,” Celia nodded.

She caught a flash of concern in Jean's eyes, as the rabbit lady looked down at her again. “Was it truly that bad?”

“Ah...” Celia shrugged. “I'll be fine. I've been under some stress for a lo— lately.” She'd almost said a long time, there, and she hoped that Jean hadn't caught the slip. If the gossipmongers got hold of that sort of confession, then she'd only face more trouble in the Council, as her opponents switched to more aggressive tactics to capitalize on her weakness.

“I see,” Jean said, and nodded. “Is it all right if we coordinate with you, visit to hammer out the details of the show? With you being our patron and sponsor, we might need help to get things set up the way we'd like them to be.”

“I could arrange a few people to tend to it if you're... too busy,” Threadbare offered, as Celia considered. “There's actually a young lady I met recently who's between jobs, since the Rumpus Room... well, you know what happened there. She's good at arranging things, I'll let her know she could help with this.”

“Sure,” Celia said. “I can take a more direct hand too, from time to time. It'll be a nice change from the regular council business.” She offered a smile to Threadbare, that seemed to relax him a bit.

“Well then! This has been a very good night. Thank you lady and sir, and we'll see you again shortly.” Jean bowed, and opened the door.

It was a much easier walk home this time. They had no crowd to contend with at the back of the theater, and the streets were empty enough that they could sneak him without drawing much attention. And soon they were at the small house that Celia maintained near Castle Cylvania.

“It was a good show,” Threadbare said. “I'm glad we could see it together, before I go.”

“I am too,” Celia offered a smile. But it slipped away quickly. “Are you sure you have to? Are you sure it has to be you? The first generation graduates are pretty skilled now. They could probably find her, you don't have to go out there personally...”

“I do,” Threadbare said. “They're very good, and they've trained so hard and done so much, but it's not just Madeline missing. We've lost two full parties in that region, and everyone we've sent to find them has either come back empty-handed or not at all.”

“Did you at least check with the God Squad?”

“I did,” Threadbare nodded. “I have to go personally, or it won't get any better.”

Celia expected to feel something. Wanted to feel something. But she just felt weary. Felt removed from it all.

But she knew what he wanted, and saw no reason for him to go off unhappy. So she hugged Threadbare to her, picking him up and squeezing him like she had as a child. “You come back to me, okay? Beat up whatever's eating our people, find Madeline, and come back alive. I want to see that show with you at Midsummer. And many more besides.”

Threadbare simply hugged her back.

They made small talk and played a board game for the rest of the night, and for his sake, Celia tried to pay attention and react to his conversation throughout it.

But over and over again, she kept thinking back to that railing, in the theater.

Kept hearing the crack of porcelain in the darkest parts of her imagination.

**********

Long after they'd been gone, in the rented inn back of the Theater, Jean Lafoot got up from the bed where her snoring lovers du jour were sleeping, and moved to the window. She opened it, ignored the drowsy protests from Thumpa and Flopsi as cold air hit their fur, and leaned on the sill.

“Something wrong?” A gravelly voice asked from above her, and her ears flicked in its direction. She didn't look over at the speaker, though.

“Just having some regrets,” Jean said. “That's all.”

“Regrets? Why? Things are going smoothly,” the voice ground out. “Everything's moving according to plan. You've played your part perfectly.”

Jean ran her tongue along her teeth. “You wouldn't understand.”

“I might, but would it matter?” the voice shot back. “At the end of the day, all we need of you is to play your part. You're an actor now, you should be able to do that just fine, yeah?”

“The play's the thing. Always has been,” Jean smiled, without mirth. “I'll do what I have to. Never fear about that.”

Wings rustled in the darkness, as her unseen companion left without replying.

But Jean stayed by the window for a few moments more, staring out into the cityscape at night.

The little bear's words just wouldn't leave her mind.

It's nice when someone who played a very good person on stage turns out to be a good person in real life.

“It would be nice, wouldn't it?” she whispered to the stars above. “But we don't always get to have nice things...”