Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row.
The dress was pink satin, with a flat gleam to it and a static-gathering feel. The stiff netting that passed for petticoats bunched out the skirt and turned Fulvia Cardew into a walking bauble, but the five-year-old was not aware of the fact. What she was aware of; and she made the displeasure well known: was the fact that she was most definitely not amused.
"There you are," sighed the shop assistant with a satisfied finality, as she placed a silvered tiara on top of young honey-coloured curls. "Don't you look a little princess, now?"
"Queen," Fulvia corrected her. "Princesses don't do anything."
In the corner of the room, her father laughed. "Quite right, little queen. Tell me, when should I expect your first decree?"
"First?" The assistant muttered under her breath. "Where have you been the past hour?She's been dictating the whole time."
But Fulvia paid no attention to either of them. A crown was on her mind. A large crown with a high top that rose and fell in plastic peaks above plastic gems like traffic lights. She grabbed it, fingers curling around the troughs in between the peaks, until her eyes roamed onto a dull grey helmet.
She would need a helmet, to keep her hair tidy when she defeated her enemies. A prin- queen, should never have messy hair. She might get dethroned. But which one? Crown or helmet?
In the end she went for both. Helmet first, crown on top.
"What-"
"Battle crown," she explained in a world-weary voice that sounded more like a veteran warrior giving advice to a novice. Her father laughed again at the sight of it, crown tilted drunkenly on a helmet that would have fitted more closely had it been a saucepan.
"You don't need a crown when you have magic," The assistant cajoled, holding up a matching wand from which thin streamers dangled.
Fulvia's empty green gaze stared at it suspiciously, the same way it did carrots. "Does it breathe fire?"
"No, but it's spec-"
"Then I don't want it." At the mention of fire, her eyes alighted upon a big red dragon and she clamped it possessively, ignoring completely the gauzy fabric flames attached to its tongue.
"You have wings, little queen." Her father tweaked the gossamer and wire contraption suspended from the back of her dress by elastic. "What do you need a dragon for? Aside from enemy immolation, of course. Why have wings when your dragon flies you wherever your heart desires?"
"In case the dragon gets tired and wants to sleep." Fulvia tweaked her wings back again. "Back up plan."
She had said it as seriously as any president's formal address to the public, yet her father's laughter bubbled out of him in great gusts.
"Of course, little queen. Ah, she has the makings of a president, this one." He caught the horrified look on the assistant's face.
"Oh come on. Snow's not going to be offended by that, is he?"
"Best be on your way now." The woman suddenly became transfixed by the cash register, indulgence turned to ice through fear. "Would you like a bag for that?"
"Will you see my dragon to bed?" Fulvia patted the head of her new toy fondly, again ignoring its flames. They were approaching their destination; and now it was time to part, if she only knew. "He's tired out now."
"No, little queen. This is the dark land where your knight cannot go." He stared at the apartment's front door with resentment or with irony, I could not say which.
"Then where can you go?"
"Home." He replied bluntly, too bluntly.
"Like a dragon's home?" Dragons lived in caves, she knew. Caves made of piles of treasure. Her dragon would have to make do with pillows, but maybe he'd be so tired out he wouldn't notice.
"A wingless dragon, little queen. With kettle's steam for flames and cufflinks for scales."
"Then why go back?"
"Because it is his cave. His home. And this is yours."
He pulled the silk silver flower from his buttonhole; and gave it to his little queen. His little bastard queen.
Seed
Dear Daddy
Will you come back and see me again? We can take my dragon for a fly. (Asha is writing this for me but one day I'll be clever enough to write letters all by myself!)
Love you lots
Fulvia
Dear Daddy
Tomorrow is my first day of second grade. Are you going to take me there this year? I know you couldn't last year but maybe this one? Dragons can't go to school so I have to leave him at home and we're both scared even though dragons breathe fire so they don't get scared.
Love you lots
Fulvia
Dear Daddy
Are you going to my school play? I'm Minerva so I have a big part with lots of lines. I've been learning them all, I promise. I've learned all of Carella's too because she'll forget them because she's an idiot. I know ever so much about Ancient Romans now I can tell you all about them when I see you.
I know it's the same day as your proper children's play, but maybe you could see mine this year? Surely Mrs Severt won't mind? Maybe she could go instead of you this year? I've asked Mom as well but she hasn't said anything so I don't think she'll be at mine either.
Love you lots
Fulvia
Dear Dad
I know it's okay that you don't see me in my school plays, but maybe you could come to Speech Day this year? I'm on the honor roll and the school teams for swimming and chess, but not basketball because I'm short and I keep getting trodden on and I'm so done with that- stuff. Besides, basketball sports stuff is icky.
I'm not sure but my teachers say I might get some school prizes too. I know I'm not getting the math prize but I know I was close and I think I have a good chance at the History and Poetry prizes. A good enough chance that maybe you could come long and see me win them?
Carella and I also got top marks for our political science project. Carella's lovely, I've told her all about you. She's probably going to get the math prize; and possibly trampolining too. I'm going to ask her to be my date for Prom and I'd really like her to meet you. And maybe I could see you too at the same time.
Love you lots,
Fulvia.
Dad
Thank you so much for my present! It would have been very nice to see you but I know you're a very important person so you're busy.
Love you
Fulvia
Dad
I sent my exam results to you. I'm told it's traditional.
Fulvia
Dad
Tomorrow I turn 21, just so you know. I'm not inviting you or anything. I appreciate you're very busy doing important things. And Asha's long since explained to me why I never get to see you anymore.
I don't blame you. No really, I don't.
I'm just asking for a letter. Handwriting. Any writing.
Fulvia.
His reply to each letter was identical and eternal. The single silk silver flower for his little bastard queen.
She had never set foot in his house before. She had never been told to either, or how, but she'd found out the address quickly enough.
I'm going to see him, she promised herself. I don't care what he's doing, or who he's talking too. I will make him see me. After 21 years would five minutes do him any harm? No.
The Avox showed her in and gestured upstairs in the direction of the drawing room, not recognising the tilt of her nose or the curl of her hair that marked her as one of the master's own.
There was talking from behind the door but she deliberately ignored it, snatching the handle and twisting, barging her way into the room.
"If we topple him, then we can- Fulvia?!"
She found herself staring dumbly at the group of people scattered across the room. Capitol men and women, every one of them- no, a few had a District look to them. Mayors. District Mayors.
"What is this?"
Her father's face, grey with fatigue. He was all grey now, she realised. As grey as if he'd been covered with ashes. No silk flower in his buttonhole anymore.
Snow has a dragon of his own. She shuddered.
"This whole plan is doomed to failure!" She screamed at her father when she caught the meaning of his pleading look. "You didn't even lock the door, you blithering idiot! Your Avox just ushered me through without checking to see who I was! I could have been anyone!"
"I am anyone." She realised.
"Fulvia, help me." His tone was gently miserable. "Help us. Wouldn't you want to make the world a better place, little queen?"
This isn't going to work. The truth of that burrowed its way into her stomach. Wrong time. Wrong place. Definitely wrong people. This is not the way a revolution should be done. It's plain at first sight. The people standing around this room... some of them know it. It's only a matter of time before this conspiracy collapses on top of them.
And on top of me.
"Abandon this plan now," she advised, not acknowledging her nickname. Her tone was cold, clinical. Calculating. "Give it up before you get killed for it."
"I can't, little queen." Her father sounded so tired, even though it wasn't yet time for lunch. The day was young and so was Fulvia. "It's my last chance to fly."
She turned on her heels and left without another word.
Shoot
I have to do this.
If it wasn't me, it would be somebody else, I know.
And if it was someone else, I wouldn't have the chance to live.
And then the chance to do it anew, to rebel properly, to actually rebel myself, to put it all right, would be lost for nothing. For the sake of pride. What's the point in doing the right thing if nobody gains from it?
I have to do this.
The President of Panem was every bit as terrifying as she had feared. He didn't point a gun or hold a knife or even clench a fist. He didn't even raise his voice above a calm quiet still tone. But still he was terrifying from the way he offered her tea to the way he sat down.
"I'm very glad that you felt you could come to see me about this, my dear. So often, I fear, our youth today does not communicate with those of the older generations as they should. Terrible. So many things needn't have to happen if people could just talk to each other without silly pretences, don't you agree?"
Fulvia flinched. "Yes."
"Sir?"
"Yes, sir!" She amended hastily. "Yes. I agree."
"Good." He stirred his tea surprisingly ominously. "Now. The problem you wish me to help you with?"
"My father is a traitor." She had practiced the words in front of a mirror, but still they didn't seem to fit. "He's harbouring a conspiracy. I walked in on it. I thought you should know."
"Very thoughtful of you, my dear. Your father's name, perhaps?"
"Severt."
"Which one?" Snow looked at her amused. "Severt the pervert or Severt the stammerer?"
Her face burned red with shame. She had a feeling that he knew which one she was talking about, but he would make her say it anyway. "The former."
"The pervert. I see. Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"
"The other conspirators." That was her small act of rebellion, to ignore what he said and keep going with what she had to do. "I've found their names." The list was too long to read out so she passed over the envelope with it inside. She didn't think her voice had the strength to talk much longer anyway.
"So what made you hand him over?" Snow was curious as he slit it open and began to read.
"Loyalty to my country."
"Of course." Something in his voice made her think he might not believe her. "And what triggered this little spurt of patriotic fervour? Knowledge of the truth, perhaps?"
"What?" She was too surprised to hide it.
"The truth. You know the truth, I take it?"
"I don't understand what- what you mean."
"I shall take that as a no. If you did know, you'd understand exactly what I'm talking about." He leaned forward. "You are aware of your parentage?"
"I was an accident." She stared at her hands.
"Naturally. How many adulterers say to each other: "my love, you know what we should do? Have babies. Neither of us have any intention of divorce, this whole affair is merely an expression of pleasure with no marital future, we have children already and more would just complicate everything and strain our own marriages, but let's have a baby anyway. A baby with no name and no future. A baby neither of us wants to take care of so we'll just fob it off on someone else and go on with our own lives and try not to remember that disastrous love affair."
Fulvia kept staring at her hands.
"Abort it."
She looked up.
"That's what he said. What Mr. Janos Severt said to his darling Mrs. Alerie Ploedyn. Abort it. Kill it. Get rid of it, it was never supposed to exist. It's so inconvenient. Bastards are meant to be born before, not during marriage and anyway we're not in open marriages, it'll cause a scandal. Abort it. Everybody else does. Note the careful choice of pronoun. Rather tasteless, wouldn't you say?"
Fulvia didn't say anything.
"I might be wrong," his voice was ironic, hinting that he highly doubted that he was. "I'm sure your father loves you very much and tells you as much when he visits you."
"He doesn't visit." You know he doesn't, she added in her head.
"Ah. Well." Snow had finished his tea by then and set it down on the saucer. "Thank you for your information. I'll expect you to give evidence publicly at his hearing. I hardly intend to make this a private matter. Your father must be made example of, you understand? Panem must know what it means to betray a leader."
"It will." Her teeth were gritted. "It will." She eased herself out of her chair and made for the door. "Thank you for your time, sir."
Bud
The wood of the stand was smooth but the underside was riddled with tiny curved dents. Fulvia's nails were clearly not the first to clench at it.
"I saw him burn the flag," she swore. "Panem's flag. He and- and all the others, they planned to kill the President. Planned to infiltrate his bodyguard with an Avox and shoot him. The Avox killed herself rather than do it. She knew what would happen if she did it, but they didn't care about her. She couldn't disobey her master, she shouldn't, so she killed herself instead. And he said-"
"Will the witness please state who "he" is?"
"The accused. Janos Severt. He said: "If we can topple him, then we can rule ourselves."
There were gasps of horror and frantic whispers from the public gallery.
"Little queen." Her father's voice was a crushed moan. "Please. Don't."
Fulvia had not looked at him the whole time she gave her testimony of his treason. Now she turned; and mouthed a single word at him.
"I've done everything you asked me to do. I said it all." Learning lines turned out to be a very handy skill. Now can I have my life, please? So that I can go home and plan your overthrow in full?
"Well done, my dear. I could not have expected better. For you." The President handed her a single white rose and an envelope. From the look he gave her, she knew not to open it until after she had gone home.
Behind her, her father was being led away to his execution. She had declined an invitation, as he had declined hers so many times.
She set the rose in a vase, intending to leave it there until it died. Taking the letter opener, she cut across the top of the envelope and prudently chose to set the sharp object down onto the table before opening and reading the contents.
She glimpsed the writing on the card but didn't read it immediately as she sensed the thick slippery feel of something underneath.
She slid out photographs from under the card. Family photographs. Her mother, her father, half-siblings on both sides, grandparents too, step-parents, aunts, uncles, cousins. She knew them from the little telltale traces of herself in them. Her nose, her eyes, her hair, her ears, her hands, spread across the pictures. A little piece of herself in each one. And in each one, someone had inked a question mark.
Where are you?
The smile the pictures had brought had died quickly, so she set them down hastily on the table and read the card.
Next time, talk a little faster.
Horror gave wings to the floor, which flew up to strike her down.
Little queen. Each of her footsteps said that as she walked. Taunting her. Warning her. Little queen. Little queen. Little queen.
Somewhere across the room, a place she gave no thought to, Cinna was demonstrating something to his eager acolytes of fashion, who were as studious as he in their studies as they all learned their trade, but who lacked his innate talent his inner gift. He held up scraps of colourful cloth and was pointing out something about the fabric when he caught sight of her.
"Fulvia." He seemed taken aback. Fulvia expected him to rant and rage at her, call her a traitor, look at her with disgust, or worse, suspicion.
But he knew better than that. He knew she wouldn't ever betray a cause that stood a chance.
She didn't try to smile. Her cheeks were stiff from dried tears. She pointed to each one, careful not to let her nails dig into her face. Then she held up a picture of silver flowers lying on a pink satin skirt, frayed and faded with age. He nodded.
Bloom.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle and shells and pretty maids all in a row.