Houses scatter by. Stretches of marshland, flickering reeds. Swaying palm trees and glimpses of the sea in between. Then larger, firmer trees, and the sea disappears. And after that there are no more buildings.
My fingers endlessly turn Shelleysticks in my fingers. The smooth, cylindrical plastic limbs are comforting somehow. I've taken nothing else with me, nothing from the only home I've ever known. My other hand is pressed against the glass of the window, partially obscuring the trees for moments as they flash by.
As everything rushes away from me in blurs of green through the window my forehead is pressed against, I know that it's useless to wish for going back. Then the last landmark I recognize is whisked from my view.
All gone, says the voice in my head, and for once it almost sounds forlorn.
I stand here, shivering, for what feels like an age.
A door slides open, and then Finnick comes to stand at the window beside me. I do not shift my gaze from the rushing scenery but I see his reflection in the window, his hands in his pockets. Neither of us speaks for a while. I don't bother to blink back the tears.
'What if I don't want you to be my mentor?' I finally find the words to articulate the thought I've been batting through my mind all morning. My throat is cracked, and the words come out scratchy.
Finnick frowns. 'Then it would have been helpful if you'd pointed that out earlier.'
I shrug. 'I had other things to think about.' It took everything I had not to run away.
Finnick sighs. 'Look at me, Annie.'
I turn to face him, peeling my hand from the glass. It leaves a print of condensation, which shrinks and disappears.
My image of him is distorted, because my vision is swimming. He has shrugged a soft beige jacket on over his cotton shirt, and his blonde hair, which was styled perfectly earlier, is now haphazard as though he's raked his fingers through it. Maybe I'd be intimidated that I'm stood three feet from District 4's most eligible bachelor if today was any other day. If I hadn't just been chosen as tribute.
'We both know how this works,' Finnick says. 'I've been assigned as your mentor, and you're our newest female tribute. Which means that for the next week and a bit it's my job to equip you as best I can to help you win the Games.'
'Winning,' I murmur, 'That's ambitious.'
'Survive the Games then,' he says, with a shrug. 'It all amounts to the same thing.' He gives a half-smile, one of those Finnick-smiles I recognize from every photograph. 'You should be less pessimistic, because you're going to be learning from an expert.'
I guess he's used to people laughing at his jokes. Because when I don't respond, the humor is immediately gone.
'The first thing you need to know is that the Games don't start when that klaxon sounds in the Arena,' Finnick says. 'The Games started the moment Aenon chose your name from the bowl. From now on, every movement you make, every choice you make, affects whether you're going to live or die.'
Or at least how long it's going to take you to die, says my taunting voice.
Finnick must read it in my eyes, because he doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, 'Do you know how many Games have been won by Career tributes since their conception?'
It's a stupid question. He doesn't wait for an answer.
'Because the answer is thirty four. Of the sixty nine Hunger Games this country has celebrated, over half have been won by non-Careers.' He smiles slightly. 'And that's not taking into account the vote-rigging to get the Careers into the Games in the first place.'
'I'm flattered that you have hope,' I say.
'From now on, that's my job.'
'But I also know that everything you say is exactly what you think I want to hear.'
His eyes narrow and the smile widens. 'Not quite right. Everything I say is what you need to hear.'
I turn back to the window. The doll twists in my fingers.
'Is that from your brother?'
I look up at him, startled.
'The doll. Did your brother give that to you? Marcus, isn't it.'
'How do you know I have a brother?'
Finnick purses his lips. 'I just about remember him, actually, back when we were small. I remember your family.'
I had no idea he remembered who I was, and I'm not really sure what to say. 'Marcus is too old for dolls now. It's Finn's. He's three.'
'And little Finn expects you to give that back to him, doesn't he?'
I almost laugh. 'What was I supposed to tell him? That in two weeks he's going to watch his sister die?'
Finnick grabs me by the shoulders, and I try not to blanch. It's hard not to think of the death he's dealt out with these bronzed, calloused fingers.
'How badly do you want to be able to keep that promise to your brother?'
'More than anything,' I breathe.
His eyes search mine, earnest. They're not a pure colour; they're flecked with blue and darker shades. Like the sea. Don't be ridiculous, Annie.
'Then let me help you, Annie Cresta.'
My fingers tighten round the doll, firm. I will try to survive.
I nod.
For now, we are left in the carriage alone. The train makes a soft humming noise, but here, with no windows, any movement is imperceptible. We sit in chairs side by side, both staring straight forward. I take quick glances at him from the sides of my eyes. Strong jaw, sweeping planes of his face, hair shorn short. The white of his fitted suit is striking against the dark of his skin.
He is my partner tribute, but he will also be my enemy. Does he have friends who were expecting to sit here in my place?
I'm not expecting him to be the one to break the silence. 'Clyde Laiken,' he says, and turns, holding out a hand. I cannot read the expression in his eyes.
I shake his hand. 'Annie Cresta.'
'I wish I could say that we could be friends,' says Clyde. 'But being friends with someone is difficult if you know you're going to have to kill them.'
'I understand.' Then somehow I find myself adding: 'Though I'm not sure why you assume you will be doing the killing.'
Something flickers in his eyes, along with surprise. It might be amusement. How does he miss the lie I'm broadcasting with my whole body?
The door slides open, and the purple-haired man enters, followed by the young woman who took me to the town hall, Shona, and Finnick.
'I'm going to run you through your itinerary,' the man says, 'But first I think it's time we were all properly introduced.'
I don't really hear him, because I'm imagining my fingers around Clyde's neck, a knife in my hand to slide into his heart. Immediately bile rises in my throat. I cannot kill. I could never kill. Not even Clyde, a boy I barely know, a Career who will murder me as look at me when we're in the Arena.
Annie-can't-kill.
'My name is Aenon Ballantine,' says the purple-haired man, barely sounding more enthused than he did earlier in the mayor's office. 'This is my assistant, Riley Sepulchre.' The woman gives us a small smile, and then focuses back to her datapad, fingers darting across the screen as she enters information. I have been cut loose, thrown into a whirlpool of strangers.
'As District 4's escort,' Ballantine continues, 'I will remain with you for the remainder of your preparation time. Firstly, I would like to give you my congratulations on being chosen to represent our District this year.' I don't understand how his words can be genuine; perhaps they aren't. But despite the fact that Aenon's perfect smile fails to move me, Clyde sits bolt upright in his chair and I think he believes it.
'You have each received an incredible honor, and have been chosen to be mentored by – dare I say it – perhaps our two finest Victors.' He inclines his head at Shona and Finnick respectfully. 'Finnick of course is our most recent Victor, but I and my team have high hopes that this year will see another Victor for our District… despite the slightly unusual circumstances.'
His eyes flicker to me. I notice that his irises are also purple.
'This afternoon you will be introduced to your prep teams – no time to waste - after which we will have a light supper. By eight o'clock this evening we will be in our illustrious Capitol, where you have a rather fantastic ten days of preparation ahead of you.' He smiles at the two Victors. 'Well then, I'll leave you to it. Miss Sepulchre?' He turns to exit, heels of his pointy shoes rapping on the floor.
'Follow me, Laiken,' says Shona brusquely, and Clyde almost bursts from his chair to exit through the door at the other end of the carriage.
'Enthusiastic, isn't he?' says Finnick, once we are left alone.
'Laiken or Ballantine?' I ask.
'Laiken, of course,' Finnick says. 'Ballantine couldn't sound less enthusiastic if he tried. Which is funny, because he loves every minute of this.'
'What's my prep team?' I ask flatly.
Finnick chuckles. 'You'll find out in a minute. They're a bit like me, but far more irritating. We've left Ophelia, your head stylist, back in the Capitol. She's really the back-bone of this operation.'
'I get a stylist?' I say, confused.
Finnick raises his eyebrows. 'Oh, Annie. Image is everything. You get four.'
I thought I wouldn't be able to eat, but I'm starving. Fortunately, a 'light supper' by Capitol standards is rather more food than I was expecting. It's certainly unusual for me to see so much meat that isn't fish. I try two new savoury dishes, and a pink, wobbling pudding I've never even heard of. Next to me, Clyde fills his plate again and again. There is more food than we can eat between us, but I refuse to believe that the leftovers will simply be thrown away.
I sit somewhat awkwardly at the table, because I feel as though I've been violently stripped and scrubbed like old wall paper. My prep team had taken one look at what I was wearing, then instructed me to undress on the spot so that it could be burnt. Clearly modesty isn't going to do me any good here.
Ambrosia Agraphe ('Ag-rah-fay!' she had insisted, in her exaggerated Capitol accent), has hair which has entirely been replaced by thousands of thin glimmering strands of beads, piled up on her head in an elegant coif. Small and slim Magenta 'But you can call me Maggie!' Oberoi has eyeliner tattooed in cat-like sweeps, and metallic nails so long she surely can't do anything with her hands. Ganymede Graphon, tall and dapper in a stout three piece suit, has his bald head tattooed with beautiful blue patterns all the way down to his eyebrows.
They had rushed me through a shower and washed my hair twice, although I told them I'd already done so this morning. I didn't even know that trains had showers. 'It's to work out all those nasty sea salts,' Magenta had said, proceeding to then spray my hair with four different chemicals to 'prepare' it. Then Ambrosia waxed all the way up both my legs and under my arms, leaving my eyes watering, while Magenta rubbed my entire body in with a tub of moisturizing lotion which smelt faintly and deliciously of coconut.
'We'll leave your hair to Ophelia,' said Ganymede, smiling broadly, 'We're only the prep team. She's the real stylist.'
'Oh, you're just going to adore her, Annie,' Ambrosia sighed, 'You must have heard of her. She's a legend in fashion. So elegant. So queenly.'
I nodded, because I had heard of her. Tall, regal, with burnished skin and a long sweep of black hair. They'd interviewed her after Finnick won. Everyone knew the stylists had a crucial role to play.
'You know that she and Finnick -'
'Shush, Maggie. That was never going to happen. You know that Finnick can't with anyone.'
I can't help but ask. 'She and Finnick were an item?'
'Goodness no,' says Ganymede, patting down my hair. 'That never happened. There's so much you have to learn.'
'Finnick doesn't have items,' says Maggie, 'Finnick has… escorts.'
'Oh, honeyplum,' sighs Ambrosia, 'We're going to have to teach you everything.'
They don't say anything further, however, and I have to admit it's left me curious. Now, I am dressed in a simple yet comfy pair of tight legged pants, and a turtle neck jumper. My hair has been blow dried to fall down my shoulders in soft waves.
'We're going for 'relaxed',' Ambrosia had said, as she patted powder into my cheeks. 'Just a subtle, natural look.'
I've never really worn much makeup before, other than the occasional touch of my mother's lipstick. I guess they'll have me wearing it every day now. I chew on a leg of chicken. Across the table from me Finnick tucks into a plate of salad, wearing a different dark blue button down shirt and his hair sticking up in slightly damp spikes. I smile to myself; it seems the prep team managed to corner him as well.
We all sit round a table, myself and Clyde, our mentors, as well as Aenon and Riley. The stylists have occupied a separate carriage.
'Tell us about yourself, Annie,' says Aenon Ballantine. 'It's a while since I've escorted a non-Career.'
I hastily swallow a mouthful and glance around the table, suddenly shy to speak. 'Well, I'm from the quay,' I say, and clear my throat, because my voice sounds scratchy again. 'That's where I live, I mean. In the town.'
I look down at my plate because I'm not really sure what to say, and I can feel Finnick's gaze on me from across the table. 'I have two younger brothers, Marcus and…Finn.' I give a slightly awkward laugh. 'Finn's named after Finnick, actually.' I glance up, and Finnick, whose eyes were curious, suddenly looks away. My stomach sinks at having embarrassed him.
'Rather fitting, I suppose,' Aenon muses. 'A good omen.'
I'm glad one of us sees it that way.
'I think that's sweet,' Riley smiles. Perhaps she's not as bristly as her angular grey suit suggests.
'There's not really much more to say,' I trail off, and fiddle with my napkin.
'And how about you, Clyde?' Finnick asks, stretching his arms back behind his head. 'Where were you from before you became a Career?'
Clyde puts down his fork. 'Actually, I used to live with my Mom, out in Bartlett. You know the village? It's north of the main town, on the river estuary. I go see her sometimes. I don't have any other family.'
'And what do you enjoy doing?' says Aenon. His small talk is slightly strained. 'Do you have any hobbies?'
'When you're not learning how to kill people, he means,' says Finnick. I look up in shock but there is no trace of sarcasm in his voice.
Clyde shrugs. 'I like playing football. But being a Career has been my life. I train with a sword every day, and wrestle…'
'And how about you, Annie?' says Aenon.
For some reason I am blushing. 'I swim.'
'Well, that's hardly surprising, now is it,' says Shona with a slightly mocking smile, 'You're from District 4 after all.'
'I suppose so,' I say.
'She's failed to mention exactly how good she is. When she was nine her brother hid himself in the nets and almost drowned out in the bay. Annie dived in faster than anyone and saved him.'
I stare at Finnick. He's grinning at me. I had no idea he remembered that. And now I'm the one who's embarrassed.
'Seems our non-Career has quite the hidden talent,' says Shona in obvious surprise. I'm not offended, as I didn't expect her to have a high opinion of me in the first place.
'Anyone could have done it,' I mumble.
'No they couldn't,' Finnick snorts, 'You were underwater for over a minute. He was completely caught up and they had cast him in over the side.'
Riley raises her eyebrows. 'That's actually impressive.'
Clyde's lips are pursed. I realize I might have stolen his thunder.
'I was just trying to help my brother,' I say. I wish I didn't feel the need to justify myself. I don't know why Finnick decided to tell everyone this. I certainly didn't want him to tell them this. I'm shy enough as it is.
Finnick leans back in his chair, and gives me a self-satisfied smile.
I can't meet his eyes, and I look back down at my meal.
The sofa we sit on is wide and plush but I'm still not comfortable enough to relax into it. Clyde is to one side of me, Finnick leans on the back. Aenon and Shona sit in separate armchairs.
We're watching the other tributes' choosing ceremonies.
District 1's boy, Halcyon Seacrest, is tiny, with a sharp, flashing grin. His partner, Victory Savera, is of south Asian descent, and shakes out her black hair with a smile of fierce triumph. Indigo Greenlaw of District 2 is tall and muscled; his partner Epiphany Deerlove has hair cropped short and a confident stride. The boy of District 3 is tall, auburn, the blonde girl long limbed and stunning.
I'll be meeting them all soon. Too soon. I don't know which will be worse: the strong and dangerous Careers I will have no chance against, or the terrified children I know I will be expected to hurt myself.
When I appear on the screen, I clench my fists into my thighs and force myself to watch. The camera picks up my movement and zooms in on my aborted attempt at fleeing just in time to see a white, panicked face, freckles standing out as though I'm ill. My expression when I'm on stage is no better, but I'm gratified that my trembling hands are not noticeable.
'The entirety of the Capitol has seen you, Annie,' says Finnick bluntly, 'And they know that you tried to run. Your reaction has already affected how people perceive you.'
I swallow. 'I messed up.'
'You didn't cry, which is a start.'
'I still look terrified.'
Finnick narrows his eyes. 'Crying admits weakness. It makes you a target.' He sighs, and shifts his stance. 'Everything you do from the moment your name was called adds up against you. It decides whether sponsors give you the time of day. Whether the other tributes think you'll be an easy kill. It decides who will give up on you. And it decides how long you last before the Careers figure it's time to take you down.'
'For the moment, the Career tributes are obviously the ones to watch,' Shona says. 'But don't write anyone off because they appear small, or weak. As far as you're concerned, all the tributes are equally dangerous.'
5's Thornborn Yule is rotund and stumbles on his way up to the stage. Clyde snorts. 'Seriously?'
'You'd also be wise,' Finnick says slowly, 'Not to write anyone off because of their behavior in the choosing ceremony.'
6's girl is openly weeping, but has her head held high. The boy of 8 is young, too young, and bile rises in my throat. The boy of 9 is pulled forward in sullen tears. 10's are twins -
'Oh my god, the chances of that,' Clyde breathes, sitting further forward in his chair.
Aenon snorts. 'The chances indeed.'
We watch the rest of the recordings in silence. I take in no more names, and soon the faces onscreen begin to blur. And as the minutes tick by, the train rushes ever closer to the Capitol.
I've seen the Capitol endlessly, of course: on the screens, and in adverts. But as the train races round a hill and out onto a wide bay, that doesn't really prepare me for the soaring view of metal and glass, towering, sprawling and glinting in the sun, backed by distant mountains.
'There'll be journalists,' Finnick says, as we stand side by side in the darkened carriage, the train slowing beneath us. Clyde and Shona will be exiting by a different door. 'Don't talk to them. Don't even look at them for now.'
'Do I smile?' I ask. My heart is pounding. 'Surely I should smile. For the photographs.'
'No smiles for the moment,' says Finnick thoughtfully. 'They know you didn't want to be chosen. You're the martyr.'
'I didn't martyr myself for anyone,' I say.
'We'll talk about this with Ophelia later,' His eyes run over my face, calmly assessing, and his fingers brush at the shoulders of my top, tugging out a crease and smoothing it down, 'Right now, you're going to be pale, silent and brave. I want them to know that it's costing you to be brave.'
'I can do the pale and silent. I'm not so sure about the brave.'
Finnick gives a sharp, barking laugh, but I wasn't joking.
'Then I'll go first,' he says, with that half smile of his. 'Warm them up for you.' He gives me a wink, and I huff out a breath which is half anxiety, half exasperation.
In front of us, the doors hiss open. I know there's a crowd outside from the sound and because Finnick's face is suddenly illuminated by camera flashes.
'Annie,' Finnick's green eyes are suddenly earnest, 'You'll be absolutely fine. Remember, I've never been a mentor before. So in a way I'm new to this too.'
I open my mouth, but before I have a chance to reply, he steps through onto the steps and saunters down onto the platform, hand raised in greeting. The crowd roars in appreciation. The Capitol's favorite celebrity, returned home at last.
I am suddenly bereft, standing alone. I can't go out there.
But you have no choice, Annie, says the voice in my mind. Are you going to be a coward again?
I raise my head.
I step out onto the steps, down from the carriage, and immediately have to resist the urge to cover my eyes from the bursts of light. A hundred voices shout my name, yelling questions, attempting to reach out and touch me.
Finnick stands just below, hand outstretched to help me down the final step. But I walk past him onto the platform before I have entirely registered he's there.
Back straight. Face high. Ignore everyone on either side of the barriers and keep walking. It's a short passage across the platform and to the doors of a low, sleek electric track car. A suited man with a bald head opens the door to me and I slide inside.
Finnick has jogged to catch up with me and slips into the seat beside. As he shuts the door the noise cuts out and tinted windows dim the interior. I relax into the seat, and let my head fall back, exhaling.
'How was I?' I ask.
'Very pale,' says Finnick, 'Possibly also brave. I was walking behind you so I couldn't really tell, but you didn't try to run away, so I guess it's an improvement.'
I shake my head slightly because he almost manages to make me smile. The car pulls away.
'Welcome to your new home,' says Aenon, strolling out through the elevator doors into District 4's penthouse suite. I gaze around at the luxurious open plan living area. Floor to ceiling windows give an incredible view out over the city. Here we are in the heart of one of the wealthiest districts - the needling metal spires of new-wave architecture sit side by side with elegant, old stone buildings, exclusive apartment complexes and shopping centers interspersed with public parks. As far as I can see, skyscrapers break up the fading glow of the sunset, silhouetted against the dark backs of the mountains on the horizon.
Riley conducts us on a short tour of our living quarters; Clyde and I both have an entire corridor to ourselves with our mentors living in separate, adjacent complexes. All our meals will be prepared for us, of course, but there is also a communal kitchen area stocked with a thousand types of snacks, fruits, and cooling cabinets for various drinks. We have our own sauna, and on another level are two private gyms. 'New this year,' says Finnick, 'So you get to train with your mentors in person. Aren't you lucky.'
The penthouse takes up the entire top two floors of the building. I try not to gape. I try not to imagine how much it all costs. Since these are probably the last few days of our lives, we might as well live them out in style.
When we finish the tour and enter back into the main living space, two newcomers are there to greet us. There's a man with long blonde hair and a perfect smile, and a tall, elegant woman in slim fitting pants and a long, flowing tunic who I instantly recognize as Ophelia Garnett.
'Ah, Clyde and Annie,' Aenon says, 'May I present to you Ophelia Garnett and Jackamo Loveguard, your stylists.'
'Finnick,' says Ophelia, and walks, no, sweeps forward, so she and Finnick can embrace.
'It's good to see you again,' he says, as they pull apart.
'It's certainly been too long.' I remember what Ambrosia said about there having been something between them. Ophelia turns towards me, gracious smile on her face.
'Annie Cresta,' she says, and she doesn't speak loudly but I am captivated by her low, sweet voice. 'Welcome to the Capitol.' She clasps my hand in her long, smooth fingers. Her skin is the same color the terracotta vase in our seawards windowsill warms to on summer evenings. 'Let's go and see what we can do, shall we?'
She leads me back into my area of the living quarters, and through into a brightly lit dressing room which has half of its space given over to racks of clothing. Shimmering long dresses, thick hooded coats, jackets, shirts and trousers all hang above rows of enough shoes to fill an entire shop.
'Is this all for me?' I ask stupidly. 'I'm only here for a few days.'
'I had to be prepared,' says Ophelia, 'I had no idea who you'd be until this morning. Now, take off your clothes.'
'All of them? Again?'
She smiles. 'Don't worry, you can keep your underclothes on; I only need your measurements. I have to ensure your costume is properly adjusted for the opening ceremony tomorrow.'
I nod and pull off my jumper, shivering in nervous anticipation at the mention of the ceremony. Ophelia walks around me, tape measure in hand. Ambrosia, who appears through a side door, taps the results into a datapad. The beads of her hair have changed color to a pale pink, though I'm not sure how.
'What do you think of the Capitol so far, Annie?' she gushes.
'I haven't really seen much of it,' I say, 'But it's very pretty.'
'Isn't it just,' Ambrosia sighs, 'I just couldn't imagine living anywhere else.'
Dusty streets, skies criss-crossed by power lines, and a sharp salt tang on the air. I swallow down the rising swell of memory.
'Get started on those adjustments straight away,' says Ophelia as I redress, and Ambrosia nods and disappears.
'Now,' says Ophelia, her gaze critical but not unkind, 'We need to decide how we're going to approach these next two weeks. Sit down,' she gestures to a chair.
I sit in front of a mirror – with lights around it, of all things – and she spins me around to face her.
'Soft lips, strong jaw. Oval face,' she says, cupping my face in her hands. 'You have lovely eyes, Annie.'
'Thank you,' I say, unsure how else to respond to the compliment. Then Ophelia produces a comb, two large hair slides and a pair of scissors. I watch my reflection in mild consternation as she takes inches from the bottom of my hair, heavy locks falling into my lap.
There's a knock on the door.
'Come in, Finnick,' Ophelia says, without turning around.
Finnick enters, and stands by the door, arms folded, silently watching as Ophelia finishes the cut and brushes out my hair with a wooden backed brush. She wordlessly holds up a mirror so that I can see both the back of my head and the front, and I realize that I rather like it. My hair remains long, but now ends a few inches below my shoulders, making its natural waves more pronounced. The bottom has been layered, as well as shaped around my face, softening the line of my jaw.
Ophelia turns the chair back around to face her once more.
'What's the verdict?' Finnick asks.
'Sweet and vulnerable,' says Ophelia thoughtfully, turning my face this way and that. 'Finnick Odair's very first mentee. The innocent girl trying to be brave. That's what they've made of you so far, and they seem to like it. So we're going to play it. We can play this well, as long as you're up for doing a bit of acting, Annie.'
I nod, although I'm not really sure what she's talking about.
'Do what you have to do,' Finnick says, and begins to pace up and down. 'Presentation is everything.'
'I taught you well,' Ophelia muses with a smile.
'You learn quickly when the alternative is dying,' says Finnick, who doesn't return the smile.
'Normally, they want nothing better than a pretty girl who smiles,' says Ophelia matter of factly. 'The girls are always expected to smile. I'm sure you know how to smile.'
Of course I know how to smile. I haven't smiled since the choosing ceremony, however.
She doesn't wait for an answer. 'Well, forget about that. We're going to play things differently.' She gestures for me to rise and begins to walk around me in a circle. I turn my head to follow her.
'I want you to be cool, composed. Aloof but not unfriendly. Be sparing with your smiles. Bravely resigned to your fate but not afraid to fight if you have to. I take it you have a younger brother?'
'Two.'
'The younger is only three,' Finnick says.
'Perfect,' says Ophelia. 'Don't let them forget it.'
'I have… his little doll,' I say, 'He gave it to me before I left.'
'I want you to take that mascot to every interview you have.'
'Her brother's called Finn, by the way,' Finnick adds. 'They named him after me.'
A fact of which I am now acutely embarrassed.
'And yet another stroke for Finnick Odair's ego,' says Ophelia dryly, 'Now he knows that he won't let you forget it.'
'Stop making me out to be so conceited,' says Finnick, tone mock-offended.
'I'm not making you out to be anything,' says Ophelia, 'I'm merely warning poor Annie about what she's in for having you as a mentor. In fact,' she clicks her fingers, 'In this instance it may help us. If we can build a friendly rapport between you that would be something people will want to see.'
Finnick huffs out a laugh. 'Let's not overwork that, please. Tribute-mentor relationships can get creepy.'
My eyes dart between them.
'What we're going to have to ensure is that Finnick doesn't steal your limelight,' Ophelia continues. 'You already managed to help us along when you ignored his arm to help you down from the train carriage earlier.' She gives Finnick a look. 'It's an unusual girl that ignores his flirting, and Ambrosia tells me it's already got people buzzing. Good move.'
I frown, because it wasn't like that at all. It hadn't even occurred to me.
'Don't listen to Ophelia,' Finnick says in a stage whisper, 'She's trying to drive a wedge between us.'
'Be sensible, Finnick,' Ophelia says coldly. 'And if you can't be sensible, be quiet.' She places her hands on my shoulders. 'Annie, I have three words for you. Strong, calm and poised. Whenever you go out in public, I want you to repeat them to yourself in your head. You're going to project this image until you believe it, and everyone else believes in it too.'
I nod. Strong, calm and poised. This is me now. The identity they're going to invent. Maybe a week ago it would have been hard to let go of the part of me that laughs just at the sight of the sea, that skips along the quay like I'm still eleven.
But that was all before this morning. I am a tribute now, and I left the old Annie behind when I stepped onto that train.
I don't want to go to bed, although it's getting late. Instead I wander through the darkened rooms of our apartment and trail my hand over the walls and furniture, Shelleysticks clenched in my other fist. My chest aches and I don't know what's making it worse, the homesickness or the knowledge that in just under a fortnight everything will be over.
Annie-can't-kill.
I need to live each day while I can.
I turn down a corridor and there is Finnick, just returning from the communal kitchen and unscrewing a bottle of juice. He is also naked from the waist upwards, small towel hung over one shoulder and damp hair mussed from a shower.
I hope I'm not blushing. I am more or less a grown woman, after all. But it is slightly unexpected. The muscles of his chest and shoulders are lean and tanned. I catch my eyes before they start to slip down his abdomen to where he's wearing his pajama pants slung low on his hips.
'Annie,' he says. 'You should try and get some sleep. Not to sound patronizing, but you're going to need it.'
'If I thought I could, I would,' I say simply.
'Fair enough,' he says, and gives his hair another rub with the towel. 'Your brother's doll again?' he inclines his head at my hand. I nod.
'Don't let go of it,' says Finnick, absentmindedly touching the leather thong at his neck. 'You're going to want something to remind you of home.'
'Why did you choose me?' I ask him suddenly.
Finnick doesn't miss a beat. 'Because of all the Victors back home, I'm the one who's going to keep you alive.'
I breathe out heavily.
'And I am going to keep you alive,' he adds. 'I was younger than you when I made it through the Games. The first thing you're going to have to learn to do is trust me.'
'That might be difficult,' I say slowly.
'Because you don't know me?' he asks, and steps forward. 'Or because I'm a Victor? Because I'm Finnick Odair?' His fingers outline his name in speech marks.
I swallow. 'Both.'
'You're going to have to move past that, since to be honest Annie, becoming a Victor is the only career option you've got left to you right now.'
I look down at my hands. You know you have no chance. 'I'm not really sure winning is an option for me.'
Then, before I can stop myself- 'I can't kill anyone,' I blurt. 'I know I can't. I can't even fish without feeling awful - I'm the worst person they could possibly have chosen.'
'I'm sorry, Annie,' his eyes are sincere but uncompromising. 'Being gentle isn't going to do you any good. You're going to have to lock that part of yourself away.'
I blink quickly because my eyes are tearing up involuntarily. 'I know. I know. And I can't. I don't know what I'm going to do.'
'You're going to listen to me, for a start,' Finnick says. 'And I'm telling you first off not to let them see you cry.'
I nod, and brush angrily at my eyes with the back of my hand. God, I'm so stupid.
'Hey,' says Finnick after a moment, and reaches out to place a hand on my arm. 'It's okay.'
I give a laugh that comes out more as a sob.
'You're right; I'm lying,' he says, 'It's not okay. It's shit. Come here.'
He pulls me into him and wraps both his arms around me, my face pressed into the crook of his shoulder. I breathe in the scent of his hair, and link my arms around his back. His skin is warm.
These arms have broken necks. I start to shiver, because I'm not sure what it is I'm afraid of any more.
'It isn't going to get any easier,' Finnick says softly. 'But if you can trust me, it'll feel as though it is.'
I nod, breathing starting to slow. Finnick pulls away. He raises his eyebrows. 'You really need to go and get some sleep. Goodnight, Annie.'
'Goodnight,' I murmur as Finnick saunters back down the corridor, tilting back his head to take a long drink from the bottle. I don't move but instead stand watching him, rubbing my hands over my shoulders, which are suddenly cold.
Later, in my room, I stand in front of the large window looking out over the city. The dark plain below is illuminated by a thousand different lights before it suddenly cuts out at the still, smooth black of the bay. Life in the Capitol is so gratuitous that no-one even thinks to turn out their lights and save electricity. There's a remote control lying by my bedside table and as I press a button the glass crystallizes into a new image, the city fading away. Now I'm gazing out into a forest so real I can almost feel my feet sink into leaves and moss. I flick through the settings until I find one which shows the sea at sunset. The soft sound of surf dragging on sand comes over the speakers.
With a sigh, I push my slippers from my feet, and slide between the sheets of my bed.
Maybe last year's tribute, Emilia Irvin, stayed in this same room. Or Mariana Glendower, tribute for the 65th Hunger Games.
Mariana Glendower, who died gasping on her own blood, a trident through her neck.
I close my eyes and sink back into the pillows, but the sound of waves won't help me sleep tonight.
