There is no way to get more than a few hours of "beauty sleep" the night before the Reaping.
The others are whispering to each other from under their blankets. Every now and then a stifled laugh or a muffled yelp breaks the threshold, which is immediately followed by a chorus of soft hisses. No one wants the Proctors to come in, though I suspect they are turning deaf ears tonight.
My pillow is soft enough, but I roll over onto my stomach and give it a few thumps anyway. I smile to myself when I hear the conversations freeze as fifty pairs of ears strain to listen for approaching footsteps. When no moving shadows block the light coming from the corridor, the subdued buzzing begins again. No one is whispering to me tonight. They haven't in months, since right after the Academy announced that I had been selected to volunteer as the female tribute for District 1. I don't mind that they won't talk to me, for the most part. I'd been the same way with tributes before Hunger Games in past years. I never knew what to say to the lucky ones, those dedicated and talented enough to have been chosen. Besides, I've been too busy.
The call to rise had not yet sounded, and I should not be out of bed. But I have been given some small freedoms since being officially selected, or at least my minor infractions have been ignored. I quietly slipped out of bed, being careful not to jangle the bells that line my bed frame. That was one of the first lessons, to get up in the morning without making a sound, and I am very good at it. Breakfast is not for a few hours. I decide to go down to the practice ring and at least stretch out some of my nervousness. I'm not sure why I'm nervous. I know exactly what is going to happen. I wind my hair into a bun and slip on my sleeveless shirt and leggings. I choose my soft shoes rather than my worn heavy boots, and ease out of the dormitory. If anyone else is awake and sees me go, he does not comment.
The practice ring is not quite empty. Filigree is there, working at the pell with a heavy practice sword. He strikes the padded post hard enough to make it shudder. Sweat beads on his forehead as he strikes and moves, strikes and moves. He switches the sword to his left hand. The pell suddenly rushes at him, thrusting down its invisible track. Filigree dodges to one side, dropping to a crouch and giving the post a masterful blow as it passes. I applaud, slapping my hand on my knee. "Not so bad for a rickety old man," I taunt him.
He glances up at me and snorts. Of course he knew I was there, he misses nothing. It has become a ritual between my trainer and me. I make some crack about his age, or his balding head, or his joints that have become stiffer in the mornings. He always feigns insult with a noise, or throws something at me, or gives me a stiff whack with whatever he has in his hand, sometimes all three, if I've made a particularly good remark. Today, though, the noise lacks its usual gruff tone, and it makes me look at him more closely. He is studying me with curiously bright eyes. I suddenly wonder why he is on the practice floor so early. He finally speaks after a few moments. "You shouldn't be here, Dazzle. You can't be all sweaty for the Reaping."
"I won't be. I was just going to stretch."
"I'm done here. I'll cool down with you."
Our stretches are light, more for the sake of having something to do instead of lying awake. By the time the call to rise warbles through the Academy, I am feeling more relaxed. The Reaping isn't until this afternoon, so there will be plenty of time for me to take a bath and get fixed up after breakfast. I didn't think I'd be hungry, but I am. Filigree pulls on his loose Trainer's jacket over his workout clothes, fastens the bright ornamental clasps, then straightens and faces me. Filigree has been my trainer since I was six years old. We will never see each other again. He looks at me again with that strange brightness in his faded blue eyes, then pretends to cough and presses something into my palm. I can't help but look down at it. It's small, and wrapped in coarse blue cloth, perhaps a scrap from a shirt. "Open it at breakfast," he says curtly, and then he turns and leaves the ring through the Trainer's entrance.
I feel the package in my hand all the way to the cafeteria. When I enter, everyone in the room stands, as they have done at every meal since I was selected to volunteer. I have become used to it by now, but today the group seems tense, and it draws my attention. Even the Tiros, the first-year trainees, are standing ramrod straight. Not one fidgets or looks anywhere except at me. One little boy is actually staring open-mouthed. I nod to them, and as they take their seats, I move to the empty serving line to get my tray.
Today's breakfast is a large square of oily pressed fish, a mound of bittergreen mixed with bland barley, two pickled eggs, and a cup of thin goat's milk. Normally, I am obligated by the Academy rules to eat all of it before I do anything else, but I focus on Filigree's package first. Some of the trainees quietly give each other small Hunger Games presents, mostly useful items like bootlaces or hair ties. The majority of them outgrow the urge to give gifts by the time they graduate to the Second or Third Degree. Filigree has never given anything to me before, and as far as I know, he hasn't given as much as a kind word to anyone else. I pick open the knot, and peel away the cloth. Inside is a precious Gemcake. We are not allowed to have sweets, and I don't remember the last time I've even seen any. This one is richly blue and shiny smooth like a sapphire cabochon, with icing lines forming the star. It is too beautiful to eat, but that's the entire point of a Gemcake. If you succumb to the temptation to keep it without eating it, you miss the total experience. The giver honors you by implying that you are worthy and able to fully enjoy it. I don't even know how Filigree got this wonderful thing, or how much it must have cost him. There is a bit of paper inside the cloth, with a handwritten note.
"You are the best I have ever trained."
I feel a lump in my throat, and my chest is tight. I tuck the note inside my shirt, before anyone has a chance to see it. Filigree would be in serious trouble if it was known that he had shown any favoritism to a trainee, and I resolve to destroy it as soon as I leave the cafeteria. I look at the cake again to memorize every gorgeous line and carefully polished curve, and then I close my eyes and slip it into my mouth. It is the best thing I have ever eaten. I feel like I am going to cry. But I don't.