The sun has barely cleared the sky when I stumble into the kitchen. Yet Peeta is already up, shuffling around the cabinets and bringing out large canisters of flour and sugar. He turns around when he hears me enter. This is still strange to me. Usually I am soundless, but the weight of a bulging stomach has disrupted my gait.
Peeta beams at me. "Morning, Katniss."
"Mmmuh," I mutter, plopping myself down on the table. I would do anything to be in bed right now. Yet I must meet with a doctor in a couple of hours, to check in with the baby.
Peeta walks over to me and places a cup in front of me. He has made me tea. I used to not be able to stand this stuff, but Peeta puts enough milk and sugar to make it bearable. I take a half-hearted sip, still wanting to sleep.
"Morning," Peeta tells my stomach. "Had a good night?"
Hearing Peeta's voice, the child kicks. When my daughter first did this, it frightened me nearly to death. It would take me hours to calm down in Peeta's arms. I can't say that it doesn't frighten me now. But it's a thrilling sort of fright, as if I cannot bear to wait any longer to hold the baby.
Peeta grins at the kick. "I'm glad it went well," he says. He brings his head closer and kisses my stomach. This almost makes me feel better. Almost.
He lifts his head up and places a kiss on my head. "The tea will help," he says into my hair.
"One cup wont," I say. And I can't drink any more than that, not in this state.
"It's only for today," he says, meaning the appointment.
Yes, and only "for today" two weeks later. I just grunt. Peeta tells me to drink up, so I do.
The tea does help. By the time I have downed the cup, I feel awake enough to ask, "Where's our daughter?" My daughter, much like her father, is a very early riser. The pair are well into their day by the time I even rouse myself.
Peeta grins at me slyly. "With Haymitch," he says.
My eyebrows raise. Haymitch is even less of a morning person than I am. My chirpy, early rising daughter is with Haymitch, who, in the rare moments makes an appearance, we do not see until late afternoon? This I have to see.
"Where are they?" I ask.
"Outside," Peeta offers vaguely. He follows me as I walk to the door. I open it to stand on the porch, and see quite the arrangement in front of me.
Haymitch looks even more beat down than usual, and about ten times more grouchy. He is walking steadfast up the path of the Victor's Village, his several geese following him in a line. His geese and my daughter, that is, who stands at about the same height as the fowl.
As they get closer, I hear her voice, loud and inquisitive. "But why, Haymitch? Why are there clouds?"
I stifle a smile. Has this what she has been doing all morning? Attacking Haymitch with all the answers she suddenly craves? I glance at Peeta, who is grinning.
"Because," Haymitch's voice is low and petulant, "water is magical and rises into the air when it gets dry."
"Oh." The answer satisfies my daughter for about three seconds. "Is magic real?"
"I'll believe it when someone gets you to be quiet for more than a minute," Haymitch mutters.
My daughter just laughs. "You're silly, Haymitch."
"I've heard."
"Well," Peeta murmurs into my ear, "at least he's making an effort." I only nod, still holding back a smile.
"Haymitch," my daughter starts again, "Why don't your birds fly away?" She flaps her wings, encouraging the geese around her. "Come on, geese, like this!" They watch her curiously, occasionally giving a loud honk.
"They've got their wings clipped," Haymitch says.
"How?"
"Cut off their flying feathers."
"Why?"
Haymitch sighs at length. "So they don't fly away."
"Does it hurt?" she asks.
"What?"
"Clipping their wings."
"Would you like to find out?"
My daughter just laughs.
The ensemble keeps moving forward, with Haymitch muttering something about needing a drink and my daughter waddling with the geese. After a moment, she says, "I wanna fly, Haymitch."
Haymitch gives a snort. "Good luck with that, sweetheart."
"Like a mockingjay," my daughter says, and I freeze. Even Haymitch's eyebrows raise, almost imperceptibly. My daughter has said nothing wrong, lacking no innocence. Yet suddenly, it is harder to breathe. Peeta's fingers curl around my own, giving them a slight squeeze.
"They're so high up," my daughter continues, throwing her head back. "And they sing so nice. Like my Mommy. 'Cept Mommy is better. They all listen to her, Haymitch. They all stop and listen to her."
Her voice is warm in reverie, which makes my throat feel thick. Haymitch, quietly, says, "I know, sweetheart. I know."
"Will anyone clip my wings, Haymitch?" Her next questions stills us all in shock. My daughter frowns, hugging her arms close. "I don't want them to."
"No," Haymitch says after a moment. His voice is quiet, but grave. "I won't let them."
"Okay," my daughter is promptly reassured. "Thank you, Haymitch."
I'm still shaken from her words. They were the simple chatter of an otherwise occupied four-year old, but they still managed to unhinge me. Maybe, as Haymitch likes to remind me, it's my "raging hormones", or maybe I'm onto something. But the idea of my child's wings being clipped, the idea of her being in a world with limitations imposed upon her…it chills me to the bones. It is one of the reasons I agreed to have children. My children must live in the meadow of the song that still haunts my dreams. A world where no harm may come to them, a world where any dream of theirs can be made real. This is the world I shall present to my children. This is the world they must have. And I will do anything to keep it that way.
I watch my daughter giggle as she walks, chatters. So free of hurt, of bitterness. Fresh as a raindrop. I will protect that to the ends of the Earth. So will Peeta. And, as I have realized a long time ago, so will Haymitch. We're still a team, Haymitch, Peeta, and I. But instead of double deals and meaningless vows, we're working to protect my children. It is an unspoken agreement with no deceptions. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
Haymitch finally spots us in the porch and scowls. He comes to an abrupt stop and the geese, along with my daughter, collide with his legs. The geese start up a confused honking. "What's so funny, sweetheart?" Haymitch growls at me.
I realize I have calmed myself enough to be smiling at the befuddled geese around his legs. I am about to retort, but Peeta speaks over me with a "Nothing, Haymitch."
"Stay here," he tells the birds. "Not you," he says to my daughter, scooping her up. She climbs to his shoulder, taking fistfuls of his gray hair to keep from falling off. The two make their way up the porch stairs, one beaming, one scowling, and my smile only gets wider.
"Consider keeping the kid inside the house," Haymitch says as he hands my daughter to Peeta. "Maybe she'll understand the meaning of 'no visits before 5 PM'."
"Aw, come on, now, Haymitch," Peeta says gently, "She's only curious."
"About the state of the drainpipes?" Haymitch asks doubtfully.
"She's enquiring, that's her nature." I find myself scowling. "Stop acting like it's a bad thing."
Haymitch turns to me, his scowl bigger than mine. "I have enough trouble from you, sweetheart." He hisses, "Don't add to my plight. And you," he jabs a finger towards my stomach, "you stay in there as long as you like." And with that he turns on his boots, trudging down our stairs.
"See you tomorrow, Haymitch!" My daughter waves cheerfully.
Haymitch sighs, turning his head. "Only if you bring me a drink," he drawls tiredly. Then, so quick I barely catch it, he grins at my daughter, shooting a wink her way. His face snaps back into its scowl, and he treads away, the geese following in a hurried gaggle after him. I watch him walk down the path, soon disappearing behind a barricade of shrubbery.
My daughter promptly inquires, "Does he want apple juice or milk?"