A/N - First thanks go as always to Court81981 for encouragement, support, patience, and general all-round awesomeness.
Huge thanks also go to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading. You two ladies are just fabulous.
This chapter is being dedicated to mellarksloaves (Everlark Pearl) - this hellish winter won't last forever hun, hang in there. Huge hugs in the meantime.
Please do leave feedback, I'd love to know what you think of this :) And feel free to follow me on tumblr - alatarielgildaen
Mrs Eleanor Mellark was not known for her kindness. Indeed, she was known for being proud, avaricious and short-tempered, a reputation that had grown exponentially since her gentle husband's death. The servants were all terribly afraid of inciting her wrath, for she was known for lashing out at the slightest provocation.
When Gale Hawthorne came to work for Mrs Mellark, he was determined to make a name for himself. Like Mrs Mellark, he was proud, and could be quick to anger, but unlike Mrs Mellark, whose main trait was bitterness and nothing more, Gale's temperament featured many more shades of colour. He was also hardworking and fiercely loyal, and could almost be forgiven for the fact that he knew deep in his heart that he was better than the other servants, that it was only a matter of time until he was regarded above all other servants in the household.
The servants felt a little slighted by Gale's attitude on his first day, and so they sent him to wait upon Mrs Mellark, knowing full well that she would not take kindly to him. She sat hunched over a small table, reading through the estate accounts, in one of the smaller sitting rooms on the first floor. Almost immediately, she requested a single glass of elderflower wine.
Gale descended to the cool dampness of the cellar and sought out the wine that Mrs Mellark had requested, pouring her a single measure into a cut crystal glass. He delicately balanced the glass on to a tray and returned to Mrs Mellark, setting the drink down beside her. With a well-practised flick of her wrist, she drank the entire glass in a single gulp, and demanded another.
He felt a rush of annoyance that she would send him back down to the cellar so soon, but bowed his head towards her and did as she asked. On his return, Mrs Mellark repeated her actions, knocking the drink back in one single swig, and demanded yet another glass. Three times in total she sent him back to the cellar for a single glass. When she asked for the fourth time, Gale could contain his anger no more. "Dear God, woman, why did you not ask for the bottle, then?" he snapped, finally losing his patience.
Mrs Mellark's eyes narrowed at the young servant, and if any other servants had been present to witness Gale's outburst, their fear for his safety would have shown on every one of their faces. Mrs Mellark's cold voice became as ice. "I am sorry," she began, "if my request is too much trouble for you."
"Of course not," sighed Gale. "But if it pleases you, this time I shall fetch the rest of the bottle."
The following day, Mrs Mellark had a special request of the new servant. She handed him a sealed envelope and requested that he deliver it directly to Mr Stannard of Garçon Brisé Farm. She gave him explicit instructions on how to reach Garçon Brisé Farm, as it could not be reached by the main road. It was vitally important that Mr Stannard receive this letter by the end of the day, and it was a twenty-mile ride so Gale would have to leave immediately. He was then to return directly home.
The weather was not in Gale's favour. The heavens had opened up, and icy sheets of water came down thick and fast over the heads of any unfortunate enough to be outside. But Gale did not care. He had already been entrusted with this vitally important task. And why should it be any other way?
He quickly saddled up one of the strongest horses in the stables and rode out into the bitter rain. With each passing mile, his discomfort grew and grew, but he rode on, determined to show Mrs Mellark that he could be trusted with such an important task.
The wind picked up, howling through trees and over moors, chilling Gale to his very core, but still he rode on, until he reached an apple orchard, precisely as Mrs Mellark had described. She had explained that to the immediate left of the orchard was a path that would convey Gale directly to Garçon Brisé Farm. However, as far as the eye could see, to the left of the orchard was thick with briars.
Gale followed the path a little further until a small village came in to view. Garçon Brisé Farm was nowhere to be seen, so he presumed that the path he required had merely become a little overgrown. Dismounting from his horse, he pulled a knife from one of the saddle bags, and began to hack at the briars.
It was slow work, and the briars tore at his clothes and skin, as the rain lashed down harder and faster than ever. He had already been soaked to the bone and chilled through for hours, and by the time Gale had managed to cut through the overgrown briars to the clear pathway on the other side, he was nearing collapse from exhaustion.
Eventually, as the sun hung low in the sky, Gale spied a small farm in the distance. He urged his horse on ever faster, desperate to complete his task at last. Tethering his horse at the gatepost, he peered through the rain at the welcoming glow coming from the farm's windows, and stumbled towards the front door. Leaning heavily against the door frame, he banged three times on the oak door and waited for a response.
After a few moments, a comely-looking woman opened the door, stopping short at the sight of the desperate-looking fellow on her doorstep. Suspicion mingled with a little fear clouded her features, and she closed the door slightly, ready to slam it shut if necessary. "What do you want?" she demanded.
"I'm looking for Mr Stannard," choked out Gale, shuddering with cold.
"Mr Stannard?" replied the woman.
"This is Garçon Brisé Farm, yes?"
"Who sent you?"
"Mrs Mellark of Woodhay Manor. I have an important letter to deliver to Mr Stannard."
Immediately the woman's aspect changed from one of suspicion to one of motherly pity. "Oh, my dear," she said, opening the front door wider, "you must have done something to upset her. My husband has been dead these last five years. Garçon Brisé Farm, you say? You don't speak French, I take it? I am sorry, my dear, but she has played a rather nasty trick on you. Garçon Brisé, indeed. Broken boy…. Come in, warm yourself."
She manoeuvred the shuffling and practically frozen Gale into her large and welcoming kitchen, and sat him at a seat in front of a roaring fire.
"I cannot stay," he said, his teeth chattering. "I was given instructions to deliver the letter and return immediately."
"Yes, and if you fail to return to her promptly, she will only make it worse. However, I cannot allow you to leave without giving you something to warm your cockles." She fussed over a large pan on a stove and poured Gale a steaming mug of broth, pressing it into his cold and shivering hands. "Drink this. I will not allow you to leave until every last drop is gone."
Only after she had forced a second mug of the piping hot broth into Gale, did Mrs Stannard allow him to leave. She offered him the sound advice to keep his head down and not offend his mistress again, lest her punishments become even more brutal, then helped him back out into the bitter weather.
It was lucky that his horse was a particularly hardy and clever beast, and knew the way home without requiring guidance, for after just a few miles Gale began to become delirious with the cold. It was nearing eleven o'clock at night by the time Gale finally returned to Woodhay Manor, slumped over the neck of his great horse. Thom, one of the other servants, helped him down and brought him inside, and Gale wanted nothing more than to be able to retire to his bed for the night, for he was already terribly feverish, but Thom whispered to him, "The mistress told us you're to go straight to her on your return. Just… try not to displease her again."
Unable to stand on his own, Thom aided Gale upstairs into Mrs Mellark's favourite sitting room. Thom propped Gale up in the corner, and risked incurring Mrs Mellark's wrath upon himself by saying to her, "Ma'am, he is unwell. Perhaps I could wait on you this evening instead?"
"No, Thom," she replied, a wicked smile on her face. "No, I am quite taken with this young man. And all he needs is a little fresh air. Open the window before you go, would you?"
Out of her spite, she was determined to further punish Gale for his impudence. While all the other servants knew that he needed warmth and bed rest, Mrs Mellark insisted upon Gale staying awake all night, next to an open window, ready to wait upon her whenever she required it.
The servants were convinced that come morning they would discover Gale's dead body. However, what Mrs Mellark hadn't counted upon was that he was young and strong, while she was old and weak, and the punishment that she meted out upon him, she partially shared. In the morning, Mrs Mellark was discovered frozen to death, while Gale desperately clung on to life.
It was not one of the servants who discovered the body of the dead mistress, as well as the slumped and prone form of Gale Hawthorne. The youngest master of the house, Peeta Mellark, had returned.
Peeta Mellark was one of those rare breeds of men to whom everything came easily. No matter what he turned his hand to, he found that it was a success, and yet nothing he had tried captured his heart. He was nearly thirty and still had no idea what he would do with his life; he could easily have gone into the church, like his eldest brother, or become a soldier, like his other brother, yet neither field excited his soul. And so he remained a constant source of disappointment to his mother, being both unemployed and unmarried.
When he discovered his mother's dead body, he was sympathetic over the loss of life, as he would be for anyone, but found his overwhelming feeling was one of relief rather than sadness. One of his first questions was to Thom, asking about the young man who was found with his mother.
"Gale Hawthorne, sir. He hasn't been here long, and I'm sorry to say he rather upset the mistress."
"I see. And so, my mother, being who she was, felt vengeance to be the most sensible course of action?"
Thom stumbled over his words, torn between his desire to speak the truth of Mrs Mellark's terrible punishment, and his fear of speaking ill against her in front of her son. "You may speak freely, Thom," smiled Mr Mellark. "There is little love lost between my mother and I."
After hearing of what his mother forced Gale to endure, Mr Mellark insisted on nursing Gale back to health himself. He found himself rather taken with the bold, young servant, whom he liked to refer to as 'St George.' When asked why by the other servants, he shrugged and said very simply, "George slayed the dragon."
Katniss Everdeen's return to life was truly remarkable. She was not just alive once more— she was living more than any other young lady her age. If there was music and dancing, Miss Everdeen would be present, leading every one of the dances.
Naturally enough, Mr Everdeen was very quick to sing the praises of the noble magician who had restored his daughter to life. And members of London society were very quick to try and befriend the magician, to try and gain a certain amount of influence over him. Haymitch advised his master to be careful against the influx of people wishing to share in his glory, but two men managed to convince Mr Heavensbee that their own influence was so great, and that their friendship would be utterly invaluable. Mr Seneca Crane was gifted with enough of a silver tongue that he was soon able to worm his way into Mr Heavensbee's company as a trusted confidante, while Mr James Cato came from one of the richest and oldest families in Highgate, and his opinion was valued by most of society, regardless of whether or not it was correct.
These two men were of a kind that had always refused to take honest work. But while Mr Cato had been born into a life of idle pleasures, Mr Crane had to work at it. He lived on his wits, borrowing from one man to pay another, leading other men into debt in return for a small percentage, profiting from the vice and ruination of others.
Very soon, Mr Heavensbee was inundated with requests from the government to aid them with magic. They had seen how successful Miss Everdeen's resurrection had been, and so naturally their first ideas were of a similar nature. Many great men in government debated back and forth over who the best person to bring back would be. Eventually it was settled that Mr Pitt the Younger, the greatest Prime Minister England had ever known, as well as Lord Nelson, would both be ideal candidates in the fight against Napoleon Bonaparte.
It was put to Mr Heavensbee that more resurrections had been requested by the government, and naturally enough, Mr Heavensbee paled terribly at the suggestion. He had not wished to employ a single fairy once, but the idea of re-employing them? It was far too dangerous! Imagine then his relief when he heard precisely which persons the government wished to restore to life! The degenerated states of the corpses provided him with the perfect excuse not to perform the magic that had been requested of him.
Mr Crane was, as always, the first to offer his opinion.
"My dear Mr Heavensbee," he began, "you cannot continue to turn down these requests! Your benevolence at restoring Miss Everdeen to life is, of course, well known, but you cannot be known for just one act!"
Mr Heavensbee, Mr Crane and Mr Cato were taking tea in Mr Heavensbee's drawing room. Haymitch observed the gentlemen from a shadowy corner in the room, an amused and ironic expression on his face as he listened to the three of them talk.
"Of course," continued Mr Crane, "I have been very quick to sing your praises to anyone who will care to listen, and to describe in great detail some of your past great feats of magic."
"Some of my past great feats?" said Mr Heavensbee incredulously. "Such as what, precisely?"
"Well," said Mr Crane, "of course I have been forced to embellish a few incidences. But you see, Mr Heavensbee, people want spectacle! They wish to hear of you riding into battle, your fairy servants at your side—"
"Fairy servants?" interrupted Mr Heavensbee, "Riding into battle? No, no, no, this will not do. It is precisely these romanticised and violent associations with magic that I wish to dispel!"
"Still," said Mr Cato in a bored voice, "you cannot expect to obtain glory by riding out the success of one single act." At this Mr Heavensbee opened his mouth, presumably to protest that actually he had given two demonstrations, but before he could continue, Mr Cato began to speak again, in his same bored drawl. "Have you considered contacting the Navy? I have a very foolish cousin who signed his life away for the notion of England's glory, and I am forever receiving very tiresome letters about their troubles and difficulties. I am sure you could find a way to aid them."
Mr Heavensbee's eyes lit up. Here was a real opportunity. "Would we be able to borrow these letters? I should like to have Haymitch study them further. If we could understand the precise difficulties presented to the Navy, perhaps we could indeed aid them in their struggles."
Three weeks later, a young French officer woke up in the early hours of the morning and looked out to sea in the French Naval port of Brest. And his heart nearly stopped at what he saw. A hundred English battleships had set up a blockade around the port. It was normal to see maybe four or five ships, but a hundred! It was unheard of!
But this wasn't the only strange thing about the ships. They shone and sparkled in the sunlight, and some men swore that they had witnessed the ships rise up out of the Atlantic itself in the dead of night. They appeared to be made, not of wood, but of a shimmering grey metal.
Being a naturally superstitious people, the French feared that these were the ghosts of every English ship they had ever sunk, returned from Hell to seek vengeance, and so they watched and waited. Meanwhile, news began to reach them from other ports. Similar blockades had been set up all along the French coast. It appeared that more English ships were currently in French waters than could possibly have ever existed!
After eight days in which no French ship dared to sail out to greet the English, one particularly brave (or foolish!) sailor declared that he would take a small boat out to inspect the English ships. He was small enough that he could slip between the ships unnoticed and would die rather than spill France's secrets if captured.
As he neared the ships he noticed that they were not made of metal, as they originally appeared, nor were these ghost ships. The ships had been crafted from the sea itself and some were beginning to melt back into it. The French sailor had no idea who could have built the ships, but whoever he was, he was a clearly a master seasmith.
Not long after the ships were discovered to be made of the sea did they begin to collapse back into it. The English Navy were as overjoyed at the turn of events as the French were furious. For well over a week they had been able to sail unhindered, drop spies into port, and bring others home to report on their findings. It was a great morale boost for the English and a terrible blow to Bonaparte.
Back in London, Mr Heavensbee's name was shouted from the rooftops. Here was a second time that he was able to prove his usefulness, and this time without the aid of any wicked fairy-beings. This was the kind of magic he had come to London to show. This was practical, useful and above all respectable magic.
In various publications, Mr Heavensbee's opinions on magic began to appear. He was exceptionally vocal in decrying the magicians of the past who had consorted with Otherworlders, almost as vocal as he was in decrying the fairies themselves. Most of all he spoke out against the Raven King, which surprised most people, all of whom had grown up listening to stories of the Raven King's incredible beauty and power.
Indeed, the only person who did not seem surprised at Mr Heavensbee's opinion was also his most famous subject. Miss Everdeen was almost as vocal about magic as Mr Heavensbee was. "Why!" she would say to anyone who cared to listen, "Mr Heavensbee knows more of magic than anyone else in the land. And if he says that the Raven King was a thoroughly un-English monster whose memory deserves to be forgotten, then who are we to question him?"
With his opinion becoming widely known about fairies, Mr Heavensbee set out on another of his tasks to make magic respectable; to rid London of the scourge of street-magicians.
Heavy handed law-enforcers were sent out to find the little booths littered about the streets where the false magicians sold pretend spells, fake amulets of protection and invented radical prophecies. Almost all reluctantly agreed to abandon the pretence of magicianship; after all, they could make just as much money as beggars and considerably more so as pick-pockets, and they didn't need to go to the extra effort of inventing these wild fantasies.
One street magician, however, refused to denounce his old ways. Marvel sat behind the filthy yellow curtain of his booth and risked a beating and a day in the stocks by declaring that he would not move on until he was granted an audience with the famous Mr Heavensbee.
Mr Heavensbee scorned to hear such a request, and Marvel's booth, from which he had sold his prophecies for over twenty years, was smashed to the ground.
One evening the winds blew bitterly hard against Mr Heavensbee's windowpanes, and as he studied a passage in A Faire Woode Withering, he thought he might like to take a cup or two of chocolate to warm his bones. He rang for Haymitch to attend him, but to no avail. He rang for one of his footmen to wait on him, but no one came. Just as Mr Heavensbee was about to rise from his studies he noticed a movement in the corner of his room. "Fetch me a pot of chocolate, would you?" he spoke to the moving figure.
The figure stepped into the light and Mr Heavensbee was filled with fear to see, not one of his servants, but a gaunt figure with a terrible aspect. He was all skin and bones, and much taller than average, and he wore upon his face an ironic smirk. "I have long waited to behold you, magician!" spoke the creature.
"Haymitch?" called Mr Heavensbee. "Haymitch, come now!"
"Two magicians will rise, one from the North and one from the South," said Marvel, for it was he.
"Oh, prophecies is it?" said Mr Heavensbee. "Well, you should know that I hold absolutely no stock in such mystical nonsense! Haymitch? Haymitch?"
"Do not turn your back on your true King, magician! He knows! All magic belongs to him, and he knows!"
"Prophecies and the Raven King! You will be sorry you ever saw fit to break in here, wretch! Haymitch!"
At that moment the door to Mr Heavensbee's library flew open, and framed in the portal was Haymitch, looking vaguely amused by the sight of Mr Heavensbee's fear. He was soon able to overpower Marvel, wrestling him out of the room, while all the time Marvel shouted to Mr Heavensbee not to ignore the importance of the Raven King.
Back and forth across the floor of his library paced Mr Heavensbee in nervous agitation until Haymitch returned to him.
"What do I employ you for if not to stop entry to those who mean me harm? What did he want? How did he get in? And why did you not come immediately when I rang for you? Or any of the other servants? Why should I not fire you immediately?"
Haymitch raised an eyebrow at his master. It was not the first time he had listened patiently to one of Mr Heavensbee's rants, and he was certain it would not be the last. Taking a deep breath, Haymitch spoke, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that eluded his master. "That man did you no harm other than stealing a meat pie, a wheel of cheese, and a bottle of claret. I think it pretty clear what he wanted: to tell you not to ignore the Raven King. He came in through the back door, forcing entry when only the maid was in the kitchen and unable to stop him. Neither myself or any of the other servants came immediately because he cut the lines that ring the bells for us." He shrugged. "As for a reason as to why you should not fire me, well…. It's up to you. But you should remember that no one else knows your business as well as I."
Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of his fingernail for a moment or two. "This maid who allowed him entry, who is she?"
"Her name is Rue. She's been with us nearly three weeks."
"Tell her to seek employment elsewhere."
"Ah yes. Because, of course, any fifteen year old girl should be able to single-handedly fight a man nearly thrice her age and twice her height. I shall tell her to pack her bags tonight."
Seeing that his master was somewhat satisfied, Haymitch descended to the kitchen, where Rue was still greatly shaken from her encounter with Marvel. Instead of telling her she would be leaving Mr Heavensbee's employ, he sought out a bottle of Port from Mr Heavensbee's cellar, opened it, and shared a glass with the girl to soothe her nerves. There was no question in Haymitch's mind that she would continue to work here. What Mr Heavensbee didn't know wouldn't harm him.
He also decided it best not to tell his master that before his expulsion from Mr Heavensbee's London home, Marvel had told Haymitch that he would now be leaving London of his own volition, in order to seek out a second magician in order to tell him his fortune.
Cinna Black was highly unusual amongst the servants of the upper classes in London. Very few households would think to employ a Negro servant, and those that did would never elevate said servant to the highly important position of Butler. However, Cinna was highly respected in the Everdeen household, and his hard work and quiet, solicitous nature had garnered him a strong reputation amongst other households too.
Lately, he had heard whispers from some of the other servants that Miss Everdeen should have been allowed to die peacefully, that she was now a cursed and unnatural being. Even Madge, whom had attended on Miss Everdeen for many years, became fearful whenever she spent too much time in Miss Everdeen's rooms. She complained to Cinna that she could hear a sad and lonely bell tolling, as if from a great distance, and that it made her melancholy to hear it.
Although Cinna could hear no such bell, nor feel the sadness that its tolling brought, it appeared that Miss Everdeen could. In the weeks after her return to life, Miss Everdeen was as lively as he had ever seen her, but a fatigue began to overtake her. She soon began declining invitations to parties, complaining that she was forced to dance all night every night, and saw no reason to do it during the day as well. No one was able to explain Miss Everdeen's sudden aversion to dancing and music, which were both pastimes she had always loved. She began to forbid Primrose from playing the pianoforte whenever she was near. And slowly but surely, she began to slip from society until barely three months after her remarkable resurrection, only her dear friend Miss Annie Cresta would continue to visit her. Most of the time, when Miss Cresta paid her a visit, she would find Katniss seated alone, perfectly straight-backed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring wistfully out of the window.
Poor Annie would spend hours at a time in Miss Everdeen's company, telling her about the balls she had attended, and of course about her growing friendship with Mr Odair.
"My dear Katniss, he is such a charming gentleman. I do hope you will meet him again someday. Do you remember meeting him before? You were very much ill when he first came to visit. He has not yet made any promises to me, but I feel it may well only be a matter of time. My father is very much taken with him. Oh, and you will be very interested to hear this! He is a magician!"
At her words, Katniss' eyes widened in terror. "Annie, my dear, you cannot trust him! Magicians are all the same. Liars and scoundrels!"
"But surely you of all people cannot truly believe that!" declared Annie, resting her hand on top of Katniss'. "Why, you owe your very life to one from that noble profession!"
"I owe him naught but my misery," said Katniss, "and when I tell you what he has done, you too will surely understand!" She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and clutched tightly to Annie's hand. "In the village of Castella di Barti, there stands a beautiful church. The very foundations have been in place since the time of Caesar. The stones in the foundations were made when the tears of a beautiful virgin slave girl hit the bare earth, and as such, her sadness remained a part of the church itself. That sadness is, to this day, passed on to anyone who enters the church. As soon as one walks through the door, one finds oneself singing an ancient and sad song, and all who hear it are forever caught in its spell, and will never be able to speak again without being overcome by unbearable sadness. Anyone attending the sermons has to agree to have their ears cut off before entering, to prevent the curse from spreading!"
As soon as she finished speaking, a look of embarrassed horror passed over her face, and her head fell into her palms as she began to cry. "That was not what I intended to say," she wept. "I must try again." With another deep breath, Katniss began to speak. This time she recounted the tale of a feisty young milkmaid. Her cow had been missing for five days, and was eventually found underneath a rainbow. When the milk from this cow was drunk, it gave her the ability to hear the thoughts of a dashing farmhand that she had her eye on. But the farmhand was in love with a poor washerwoman from town. In a fit of jealousy, the milkmaid strangled the washerwoman and confessed her love to the farmhand. But in her absence, the farmhand had also drunk the cow's milk, and could hear her thoughts. In vengeance he killed the milkmaid, and the cow to be safe.
Once again, as soon as she had finished her strange tale, Katniss broke down in tears.
Cinna overheard this conversation and shook his head sadly, before heading back towards the kitchens. Once there, he could hear the tolling of a bell, as if from a great distance. It was not a bell he had heard before and could not have come from any of the nearby churches, and as such its origin puzzled him greatly. It could not be coming from any of the bells installed in the house. He looked up and the row of bells in the kitchen, and at the labels on each of them. The Parisian Drawing Room, The Green Drawing Room, The Music Room, The Library, Mr Everdeen's Bed Chamber, Mr Everdeen's Dressing Room, Miss Everdeen's Bed Chamber, Miss Everdeen's Dressing Room, Miss Primrose's Bed Chamber, Miss Primrose's Dressing Room, Panem.
The bell labelled Panem was the one ringing, and Cinna shook his head as if to try and disperse the sad sound. He stared at the label. Panem? It was not a room he could recall seeing before, and yet he was being summoned towards it. His instincts as a servant kicked in, and he left the kitchen to try and find this mysterious room. All of a sudden, he discovered that he did not recognise the corridor he was in. Instead of feeling concerned at this turn of events, he merely felt intrigue, and perhaps a little annoyance that Darius, the head gardener, had neglected his duties and allowed the trees to grow so close to the windows. This intrigued him further; there should have been no trees in the vicinity at all, but there they were, as clear as day.
The trees had an ancient, un-English look to them, as if not only did they not belong in the vicinity, but they did not belong in this time or land at all. Again, this did not concern him, and he felt merely intrigue at their strange appearance. After all, he thought, he did not belong in this land either, and yet here he was.
At the end of the corridor, a door was slightly ajar, and he could hear movement behind it. Curiosity at the appearance of this new area of the house got the better of him, and he pushed the door fully open.
Inside, a gentleman with snow-white hair was in a state of undress.
"Where have you been?" demanded the gentleman. "I have been here, summoning a servant for as long as I care to remember! Dress me!"
Cinna hurriedly stepped forward. This was not a guest he had seen in Mr Everdeen's home before, and he could not recall any instructions from Mr Everdeen that any guests would be staying, but it was not his place to question the appearance of the gentleman.
This was where Cinna felt most natural: helping gentlemen into their exquisite clothes, and this particular gentleman had, quite simply, the most beautiful clothes he had seen. The gentleman's shirt had been laundered to a gleaming, shining white, his black boots shone and reflected the ceiling above him, and his rich velvet coat was of the deepest blood red he had ever seen.
From the pocket of his velvet coat, the gentleman with the snow-white hair withdrew an unusual box. The box was decorated with a beautiful opal that was of a colour Cinna had never seen before. As he stared at this opal, he felt a curious tugging in his chest. Suddenly, he keenly felt the loss of his mother, who had died shortly after giving birth to him whilst being transported from their homeland in Africa. He felt the desperation of his fellow countrymen who were unlucky enough to be taken to America, where they would be forced into slavery. In short, the opal reminded him of all the heartbreak and sadness in the world, and in particular that which had been inflicted upon him.
Tearing his gaze away from the opal and turning his attention back to adjusting the gentleman's cravat, Cinna said, "That is a rather beautiful looking box, sir, if I may say so."
"It certainly is," replied the gentleman, "and it contains my most valuable treasure. Would you like to see?"
"If you would care to show me, I would be honoured."
The gentleman smiled and opened the box, and Cinna was momentarily shocked to see a lady's finger, perfectly preserved, nestled inside the box as if it were a brooch or necklace. He thought of Miss Everdeen, missing her smallest finger, and the sense of melancholy and heartbreak that surrounded her. But almost as soon as these thoughts entered his mind, they began to grow indistinct. Suddenly it seemed perfectly natural for the gentleman to be carrying a box the colour of heartbreak that contained a lady's finger. Surely this was nothing out of the ordinary, and a lady's severed finger was something all gentlemen carried?
"I can see why you treasure it so highly, sir," commented Cinna, as he brushed down the shoulders of the gentleman's coat.
"Oh!" exclaimed the gentleman once he was fully dressed, looking at himself and Cinna in the mirror, "but I had mistaken you for a servant! My humblest apologies!"
"You were not mistaken, sir. I am but a servant here."
"Pish and nonsense," said the gentleman, waving his hand dismissively. "Look." He gestured towards the mirror, and Cinna turned to see what the gentleman with snow-white hair could see. "What a fine pair we make. A man as beautiful and noble as you should never be a servant. You could be a prince. Why, maybe even a king!"
A strange trick of the light seemed to place a thin, golden diadem across Cinna's brow. He reached up to touch the crown and was almost surprised to find that it was not there. He turned away from the duplicitous reflection, back to the gentleman. "I truly am flattered, sir, but a man such as myself could never be a king. Least of all in this country."
"England has never known what is best for her. Look at who she has for a king now! An old, fat madman! Why, Cinna, if I were to present you to the people of England, and ask who they would prefer, they would be bound to choose you!"
Cinna could not remember ever having introduced himself by name and he marvelled at how the gentleman knew him. But one thing was for certain. "I fear you are mistaken, sir," he said. "If there is one thing I know about this country, it is that they would never accept a black-skinned man as their king."
"Oh, they will, my dear Cinna. It is simple enough. All you would need to do is kill their current king. Whoever kills a king is automatically his successor."
A terrible chill passed over the room at the gentleman's words. If Cinna were to be discovered discussing the murder of any white man, he would be sentenced to death without trial, but to be discussing treason? He feared the English would find a way to punish his soul for eternity. He looked in the mirror once again, and was disturbed to see that his reflection still wore a crown.
"Thank you for your kindness, sir," said Cinna, backing out of the room. "I must be returning to my duties."
"I will see you tonight, my dear Cinna," said the gentleman, smiling broadly. As Cinna bowed and took his leave, he was almost overcome with an otherworldly smell of blood and roses.
With no other occupation to take up his time, Peeta Mellark enjoyed taking Victor, his prized chestnut-coloured horse for long rides. Gale would take Flint, a dappled-grey, and load the saddle bags with heavy drawing paper and charcoals. If, on their rides, they came across a particularly pleasant or interesting panorama, they would stop so that Mr Mellark could sketch the view. This was a pastime that used to particularly irk Mr Mellark's late mother, and he felt that continuing to draw was a perfect way to honour her memory.
It was a sublime spring morning. The sun shone brightly in the pale blue sky, causing the frost that clung to the blossoms littering the branches of the trees and each individual blade of grass to sparkle like diamonds. The two men had stopped so that Mr Mellark might draw the village that lay nestled in a valley below them. Both men were beginning to feel the cold seeping into their bones when Mr Mellarkspotted a strange sight. Stumbling towards them, over the hard, frozen ground, was what looked like a bundle of rags that had sprouted legs.
"What do you suppose that could be, George?" asked Mr Mellark, pocketing the small piece of charcoal and pointing in the direction of the moving figure.
Whatever the ghastly apparition was, it seemed to be moving with real purpose towards them, and Gale felt a sense of cold dread as he watched. His hand found its way to resting on the handle of the blade he carried with him at all times. "Until we are certain, stay back, sir," he answered.
"I don't expect there will be any need for that," laughed Mr Mellark, although Gale was certain that he could detect just the slightest hint of nervousness in his words.
"As a child, I heard strange tales of demonic creatures roaming these hills. These black demons would lure lone travellers into bogs where they would be trapped and would never be seen again."
"Then let us be grateful that we are not alone."
As the figure approached, both men were able to make out that this was not a demon after all, but rather a strange-looking man. Tall and skeletal, the skin that was visible had a bizarre appearance, as if it were translucent and all his veins were visible underneath, shining blue. Marvel had found his quarry at last.
"I've been looking for you, magician!" he shouted as he approached. "You are not an easy man to track!"
Mr Mellark and Gale both turned on the spot, expecting to see this mysterious magician behind them, and were both a little surprised and confused to find themselves alone.
"Which of you is it?" said the ghastly-looking man as he came closer. His eyes darted back and forth between the two men as he waited for an answer.
"I think you must be mistaken," said Mr Mellark. "There is no magician here." He looked with pity at the creature, as a particularly bitter wind blew.
Marvel bowed low and said, "I am not mistaken." Standing up once more, he made a flourish and said, "I am known on the streets of London as The Great Marvel. Prophecies are my forte, and it is my destiny to tell the Southern Magician his."
Peeta dug deep into his pockets and withdrew a purse full of florins, tossing it towards the poor man. "Here," he said. "There is an inn in the village where you will be able to get a hot bath and some food. No man should be wandering these hills in this weather, dressed as you are. At the inn, tell them that Peeta Mellark sent you, and that he wishes for them to send for the cobbler and tailor to redress you."
A wide smile passed over the face of the piteous creature, and he bowed his head towards Mr Mellark, pocketing the coins as he did so. "I have waited my entire life to meet you, Mr Mellark. I have something for you." The wretch reached inside his own coat pocket. As he did so, Gale's hand tightened around the hilt of his knife, but there was no threat. From the ragged coat, an equally ragged scrap of paper was withdrawn and held out towards Mr Mellark.
Warily, he took the proffered piece of paper and unravelled it. Written in spiky, childish lettering were the words, 'A spel to see my enermees.' Underneath this, in strange, broken English, were the instructions to fill a silver bowl with water, and a description of the hand gestures required to pass over it. "Is this a joke of some kind?" Mr Mellark asked, looking up from the paper.
"No," replied Marvel. "I have a message for you as well, magician. The day will come when you need to remember this." He pulled up the sleeve of his dirty overcoat, revealing the tattoos that covered his arms, and when he next spoke he appeared to be reading directly from his arm. "Speak to the stones. Speak to the sky. Speak to the water. Speak to the trees. Speak and they will listen. Speak and they will answer."
"I think you must be mistaken," said Mr Mellark. "I am no magician."
"Yes," replied Marvel, "you are." He spun on his heels and walked directly away from Mr Mellark and Gale, back towards the village.
Mr Mellark and Gale watched the strange man retreat for several minutes before either of them spoke.
"What do you suppose he possibly meant by that?" asked Gale, turning towards his master.
"I have no idea," replied Mr Mellark, still studying the strange scrap of paper. Folding it over twice, he secreted it away in his inner coat pocket. Suddenly the winter sun appeared to exude even less warmth than it had previously, and a shiver passed over the back of his neck. "Let us get back home," he said, looking around at the glittering landscape. "Outdoors has suddenly lost its appeal."
The vagabond's strange words repeated over and over in his mind, and he mounted his steed and rode hard, as if speed could somehow distance him from the ominous divination.
In his drawing room, Mr Mellark paced back and forth. Over and over again he read the scrap of paper, shaking his head at the ridiculous notion. Everyone knew that magic no longer worked. He had heard rumours of a gentleman from Yorkshire who had travelled to London who claimed that he could make ancient spells work, but personally he thought these rumours were very much exaggerated.
"Gale," he called out, and immediately his servant knew that this request was bound to be serious if Peeta was using his Christian name. "Gale, fetch me a silver bowl and a jug of water."
"You aren't serious, sir?" remarked Gale. "You can't possibly think it will work?"
"I believe there is only one way to know for certain," he responded, before he resumed his agitated pacing.
When Gale returned with the bowl and water, Peeta instructed him to set them down on the sideboard. He half-filled the bowl with water and studied the instructions once again before passing his hand over the surface of the water three times.
Lights glittered and flickered and moved over the surface of the water, giving it the impression of a burning piece of paper, and when the surface had stopped mimicking fire it no longer appeared to be reflecting the room they were standing in. Both Mr Mellark and Gale gaped at the bowl of water. The room in the water was well proportioned and lined with books. A middle-aged man was hunched double, his face hidden and his nose inches from the page of a book, while a candle beside him burnt low.
"Who is he?" asked Gale
"I haven't the foggiest of ideas," replied Mr Mellark, shaking his head and looking at the piece of paper with the scribbled spell once more. "According to this, he is my enemy, but I have never before seen him. How can a man I have never met be my enemy? And besides, I am not in the habit of collecting enemies. Perhaps I did something incorrectly?"
"Well, sir, whether or not you did it incorrectly, you did magic. I am impressed, and I don't say that lightly!"
"True, George, true. Perhaps I have found my calling at last. It is a shame the dragon is no longer here to witness this!"
