Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, places, and names belong to their respective owners. Thanks again to Court for being my lovely beta. If you want to see the outfits worn in this chapter, check out my tumblr starveinsafety under the tag 'all was golden in the sky'.
"What do you mean?" I narrow my eyes at him.
"The sentence for petty theft is six months, right?" He glances downward.
I nod. Six months. How would Prim have survived?
"It's more of an invitation than anything else. You would certainly be free to go and come at your leisure. In exchange for your freedom—for the duration of your sentence, that is—I would request the two of you come live with me, stay in my city home. And at the end of those six months," he grins, "everything would be repaid."
"Stay?" I question the implications, pinching my eyebrows. Would I be working in his household? There would be no pay, of course, and I'd have to quit my job at the factory. Who knew when I would be able to get a new position? Times were tough and it was hard to get a stop on the floor, especially for a woman of my age—too old to take a child's position, too young to be given any responsibility.
"Yes," he says, "stay. Stay with me, in my home. You would be obliged to nothing, we can work out an arrangement, I suppose. You would be in need for nothing, and if you remain in my household, this entire misfortune could be forgotten."
I am silent as we walk through the office halls of the department store.
The streets facing the city must be swamped, because Peeta leads us through an exit along the Park. Prim's happy as can be, though she doesn't quite understand the situation. The corner of her mouth is sticky with chocolate, and she has a skip in her step as we cross into the side of the park. It is probably inappropriate, especially around Peeta, but I cannot find it in my heart to chastise her.
"Here," Peeta says as we come to the side of a closed carriage. The body is black, with large curtained windows on both sides. It is far nicer than the buggies that come into the Seam; even in this light you can see the quality—the sleek lines and navy blue detailing. Everything is polished too. The bright silver wheels seem to shine above the blackened, salted snow that covers New York.
One of Peeta's men opens the doors for us and helps Prim and me into the carriage, as if we were proper ladies.
"Step right up, miss." The man is wearing a coal black suit with a crisp, collared white shirt. A tan top hat in the latest style adorns his head, and brass buttons lining his jacket. This driver is better dressed than any man in the Seam, even the shift guard at the factory.
I'm a little wobbly once I take a step inside the carriage, quickly sitting myself and Prim on the side opposite to Peeta. The inside is just as fine as the outside. Puckered dark blue velvet lines the entirety of it. Prim's certainly impressed; I can see from the way her eyes light up as she notices the mahogany panelling. Neither of us have ever been in anything so nice. In fact, I'd only been in a carriage once before, and it was dingy cab—nothing like this. In the Seam, we had to walk everywhere we needed to go.
Immediately, I feel out of place. I eye Peeta sitting across from me, his fine suit blending perfectly with the environment. And there is the two of us in our worn, ratty clothes. Both of us stick out like sore thumbs. At least Prim still has that natural, childlike beauty. I lost that years ago. The reflection from the paned window shows only the tired sorrow of twelve-hour shifts. I don't belong here, I think.
As we pass West 57th Street, Prim speaks up.
"Katniss didn't steal those things," she says, her timid voice breaking through the silence. She's naive. Of course it is obvious to anybody that I stole those things. But Prim has always had the highest opinion of me. I've been father and mother and sister for far too long.
Immediately, I turn away. This was not a conversation I wished to have.
"Of course not, dear," Peeta says, placing a reassuring hand on hers.
His reassurance seems to sate her, as if his word is golden. Because why else would Peeta tell her that unless it was the truth?
I make a mental note to thank him for saving my sister's opinion of me. Yet another unexplainable kindness on my behalf. Or perhaps he was only saving himself from impolite conversation.
"I like your carriage," she says giddily, changing topics.
"Thank you," Peeta says, giving her a tight smile.
"It's very pretty," she babbles. "But why don't you drive your motor-car. You do have one, don't you? My teacher, Mr. Nichols, says all the rich men have them these days."
"Prim," I chide, turning red with embarrassment. It was an inappropriate question. "That's rude," I tell her. It was better she learns her place now rather than later.
"No, no," Peeta lights up, "It's fine. Yes, I do have a motor-car, I've gained a few of them over recent years. I keep them in the country though. Far too difficult to manage the city streets in a timely matter. Although perhaps one day, if you're ever to visit my country estate, I could give you a ride."
I frown at him. Who is he to give her such lofty ideas? Motor-car trips? It's cruel to fill her with promises he will never keep.
"If your sister allowed it, of course," he quickly adds.
"Oh, Katniss! Could I?" Prim leaps at the idea, wriggling in her seat.
Luckily, I'm spared the need for an answer as the driver pulls into the Avenue, quickly settling the horses as we reach our destination.
The house is as grand as one could possibly imagine. The building itself is legendary, though I've only seen it in passing. I remember when they built the place, the talk that spread amongst the Seam. 'Just another Avenue mansion for a robber baron,' Gale had said. They had sprung up over the past years. Ian Fletcher's place, which looked more like a castle than anything else. Astor's House, a few years back. And now the Mellark family had a place, too.
It's imposed itself on the surroundings. The first story is covered in light stone with matching towers that climb up the facade, bright red bricks peeking through. It fills the corner of the block, windows and windows to either of my sides.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Peeta says, pulling me from my thoughts. He stands beside me, looking up at the house, as if he too is amazed by the sheer extravagance. "I often find myself admiring the place, perhaps more so than my store."
The purchase itself was subsidized by investments and railroad money. The first residential home in the world to have an elevator, or so they said. It had been common gossip amongst the factory workers. With little to live for, the women in my shift slot had the tendency to chit-chat about whatever marvelous home or scandalous affair of the rich was passing around.
"Does it really have an elevator?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. I had never seen anything so grand in my life. "On the inside?"
He nods, "And there is a contraption of ducts, too. Really marvelous things. They pump cool air and heat into the house. Very modern, something I borrowed from an uncle of mine. But alas, it takes up a whole room in the lower building and is very finicky to run. I imagine that one day every home in America will have a system like this."
I laugh a little, imagining a future where heat and air just ran through homes like magic. It's probably another fad, like motor-cars, a novelty for the rich. There's no way that it will ever become affordable.
I feel as if I have stepped into another room when the three of us enter the foyer. It's cozier than one might expect, filled with sentimental paintings and silk flowers, but still majestic, decked in a flurry of marble and mahogany.
"Your coat, miss," one of the serving boy says. I eye him skeptically. Why on earth would he want my coat? If he took it, I'd never be able to leave, not in this weather, at least. Though maybe that is the point.
Noticing my nerves, Peeta places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "He's just going to put it in the coat closet," he points towards a door in the foyer, "you'll be free to take it at any time."
"Now, Peeta, why on earth are you home? Dinner will not be on the table for hours!" A woman bursts through the door, stopping abruptly as she notices us, "Oh my, what did you get yourself into?"
The woman is comically dressed. She dons an oversized, ruffled bustle big enough to clothe the entire Seam. Hell, the puff of her hair could keep half the city's children warm. For a moment, I wonder if she is Peeta's wife. Surely I would have heard of it in the papers, and she appears to be much older than him, but anything is possible. She can't be simple staff, not with the way she calls him Peeta, the way she so affectionately and openly addresses him, as if she has the right to chide him.
I grit my teeth, irritated at both the thought and the way she eyes me critically, her eyes forming little frowns as she politely composes her face. She's obviously distressed by our disheveled appearance.
"Effie," Peeta says, "these are my guests, Katniss and Primrose Everdeen. Why don't you have one of the girls draw the two of them baths, let them settle down in the Rose Rooms."
I frown a little at his use of the word guest. Prim and I are assuredly far from that.
"I am not a housekeeper," the woman, Miss Effie, protests, eyeing me up and down. "Peeta, may I speak to you in private?" She catches his wrist, hastily pulling him into the side parlor.
We're stranded there for a moment, Prim and I. Effie's scolding him, I can tell from the not so concealed voices and the puffed appearances they both sport after re-emerging from the parlor.
I can hear her as they exit; her high voice carries in the open room, "This is your problem, not mine. You deal with it."
"Effie," Peeta replies, "be courteous. Make our guests at home."
"Fine," Effie says, her voice drawn as she places a hand on Prim's back. "Why don't I take you upstairs, sweetheart?" She gives the tiniest smile at my sister, the first genuine look I have seen on the woman's face. "Primrose, was it?"
Prim nods, fascinated by the woman.
"Now, Katniss," Effie adds, not nearly as nice when she directs me, "follow me, and mind you, don't touch anything."
My head feels perfectly light as I dip my head into the perfumed, scented water that fills the porcelain tub. The woman that Effie passed me off to, a young, timid red-headed maid, an oddly familiar girl, had offered to cater to me in the bath, as if I were a child, but I had quickly declined. I wonder if that was a thing wealthy people did, if they were too incompetent or lazy to bathe themselves.
Nonetheless, I can't deny it is an enjoyable experience. The water is hot, straight from the tap. Back home the shared bath was always a bit musty, a little lukewarm, by the time I ever got in. I had never really experienced a truly fresh bath, much less piping hot water filled with creams and potions that the serving girl promised would make my skin feel soft.
Not that it matters to me. I'm happy enough to remove the grime that seeped into my body from years of life in the Seam.
I've noticed all the girls who work here have clean, fresh skin. Perhaps now that I am part of this arrangement, my skin will be kept clean too. It will be a nice change, for certain.
I think for a moment of my sister, if she too is enjoying one of these drawn baths. Effie had taken her down a hallway. Perhaps they have more than one of these rooms? It sounds awfully expensive, with all the wood paneling and running water. Though if anybody can afford two bathing chambers, it's Peeta.
This, I think, this I could get used to.
I could stay here forever. But eventually the bath grows cool and I force myself from the comfort of the water's embrace. The maid left a pile of clothes on the sink.
There's a pink thing waiting for me. When I unfold it, I notice the cut, smooth with no visible bustle or skirtage. The top is all ruffles and lace that dances along the high-collared neckline, tying only at the waist in a pale pink ribbon. Prim would love this. It's a dressing gown; I've seen them advertised. The type of thing a woman of wealth wears, far from anything I should be in. But seeing as it is the only thing here, I have no choice but to put it on.
The dressing gown sticks a little against my wet skin, and I can't help but wonder where the girl took the dress I came in. Would I ever get it back? It was my best dress, even if it doesn't compare to this.
Crossing the little room, I peek outside of the door, spotting the maid that helped me before. She's sitting in the hallway with a pile of laundry. I imagine she did idle work while she waited for me.
"Miss," she says, setting aside her bin, "let me bring you." The red-haired girl from before she takes my hand into hers, wordlessly leading me into a room with blue toile wallpaper, rugged floors, and a wall of dressers. "Let me take this," she points to the pink dressing gown, "I'm here to get you ready, let me do my job."
I submit, feeling slightly unnerved by my nakedness as I slip out of the dressing gown and into the crisp white underthings that she sets aside for me. I even let her put me in a corset when she promises not to fit it too tight.
When she pulls the dress from the wardrobe, my eyes widen. I'm not the type of girl that is easily impressed by clothes, but even I have to admire the beauty of it. The main body is a bright Christmas red, with little buttons along the top. Over that, there is a cropped red velvet jacket that looks like the ones in the advertisements Prim likes to pore over. And then there is the patterned gold and red overskirt that settles over the dress—no oversized bustle, thank god.
"Are you sure this is for me?" I question the girl. The dress is clearly very expensive, whatever this arrangement is I highly doubt Peeta intended to deck me out in soft pink dressing gowns and rich red dresses, nice as he is.
The girl nods. "Master Mellark set it aside in particular for you."
Author's Note: The new chapter is up! Let me know what you think in the reviews, it's been over a year since I started publishing fanfiction, crazy, right?
Anyways, as always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety.