Chapter Three –Slip Beneath the Tide
It's early morning and the sun barely over the horizon when the skiff arrives from the mainland to deliver the mail. Finnick sees it come in and walks down to the pier to meet it. There are twelve boxes at the end of the pier, but Finnick can't remember a time more than half of them were in use.
"Morning, Mr. Odair." The old man pauses to greet him from the end of the pier, then tosses the rope into the skiff and hops aboard, setting it to swaying wildly.
"Seanan." Finnick nods and waves. Several times over the years he tried to get Seanan to call him by his first name, but he finally gave up. Seanan doesn't call any of the victors by their first names, claims it wouldn't be right.
As Seanan starts up the motor and speeds away, Finnick collects the mail from the box at the far end of the pier, sorts through it on his way back to the house. There isn't much, so the envelope with the presidential seal stands out. He stops cold, surrounded by wood decking, water lapping at the footers, and stares at the cream and blue paper. A gull swoops in overhead, close enough to see that he isn't holding food before flying back out over the water.
"You bastard," he whispers. "You can't do this to me." But, of course, he can. Finnick crumples the envelope in his hand, unopened, and starts walking again. His feet pound on the pier, harder, faster, until he hits the sand running. He doesn't go back to the house, instead runs past it, out away from the cove; he can't even see the houses by the time he stops running and drops to the sandy ground, stares at the President's note. He doesn't have to open it to know what it says, but he finally does anyway.
My dear Finnick. It has been far too long since we've seen you in the Capitol. A few of your more ardent admirers have been asking after you rather persistently. I think it's high time you returned to spend some time with them before the upcoming Games. A car will arrive for you on the tenth of the month at 9:00 a.m. As always, there is no need for you to bring anything.
Nothing else. No signature, not that he needs one. Snow's elegant handwriting is far too familiar. The only unusual thing about this particular summons is that there is no indication of how long Finnick will be required to remain in the Capitol. Finnick supposes that makes sense, too, since the law states that all potential tributes must be present in their home districts during the selection process for the games. But that means Snow might want to keep him there for nearly a month. He shivers so hard it turns into a shudder, his entire body shaking, suddenly cold even though the summer morning is already hot and the day promises to be a scorcher.
He looks out over the horizon at the empty blue sea, at the line where blue water meets blue sky and the only difference between them are the fluffy white clouds that drift above but are nothing but distorted grayish reflections below. A light breeze blows, intermittent, there and then gone again, and Finnick lets the note drop from his fingers. How am I going to tell Annie? he thinks. She's doing so well.
When he found her the night of the announcement, he was afraid he was losing her, but then she woke the next morning from the sleeping draught his mother gave her and she was okay. Not great, but okay. In the days that followed, she was more easily distracted than usual, more prone to stopping what she was doing to drift off somewhere Finnick couldn't follow, the way she was right after her games, but she recovered. Every day, she's better, more solidly with him in the here and now.
He looks up. In the here and now, she walks toward him, climbing the rise from the shifting sand to the more solid ground on which he sits. He doesn't move, just watches her and waits. The thin material of her skirt flows around her legs like water. Puffs of wind play with her long hair, loose down her back, tendrils and wisps fluttering around her shoulders. He loves her hair, the play of sunlight in the rich brown of it, the copper and gold highlights, the feel of it against his skin.
Stopping in front of him, she says nothing, just leans down to pick up Snow's letter. Her face remains blank as she reads it, but when she's done, she drops it, lets it drift to the ground with the breeze. Finnick wishes it would fly away, hit the sea and just float off. He wishes that he could pretend he never received it. But it wouldn't matter. The car would still come for him. He'd still have to leave her.
"That's the day after tomorrow." She drops to her knees in front of him, takes his arm and turns herself around until she can back into him to sit between his legs, pulling his arms around her. "I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to go."
"Then don't. Don't go. Stay here, with me."
Finnick freezes. He closes his eyes, wishes he could close off the memories as easily, and holds himself very still, as though if he moves he might shatter. "No," he whispers, not even sure if his voice is loud enough for her to hear. "I did that once. It's not worth the risk." He did shatter then, the one time he defied Snow, and it took him a long time to put himself back together again. He never told Annie about that. Never told anyone. Maybe never will.
Saying nothing else, Annie rests her head on Finnick's arm. The only indication that she's crying is the wetness on his skin as her tears fall. He buries his face in her soft hair.
They sit like that, unmoving, unspeaking, as the sun rises in the sky, just holding each other. It's quiet save for the birds and the sound of the surf in the distance. The peace of the setting and the woman in his arms settle into him and the trapped feeling fades. Everyone thinks Annie is the fragile one, but Finnick knows better. She is his strength. Without her, he would sink into the mire that his life has become. He would be lost.
The heat of the day finally chases them apart, at least enough to allow the meager breeze to cool them where their bodies touch. Finnick lifts Annie's hair, braids it and then picks the braid apart only to braid it again. He nuzzles at her jaw, brushes his lips against her neck. Her skin is slightly salty.
His restless hands go still against her back. "Shit."
"What's wrong?" Annie asks.
"My dad is going to kill me. I was supposed to go out with him and Rick this morning."
"Oh. I forgot to tell you. When you didn't come back from the pier, I called him. I told him not to come out, that you couldn't make it this morning." He lifts the heavy braid off her neck, unravels it, runs his fingers through it. "He told me where they were going to drop anchor, if you want to meet up with them this afternoon." She turns her head toward him. "We could, if you want."
His hands go still again. "We?" Annie is as much a creature of District Four, of the sea, as he is himself, but ever since her games, she's frightened of the open sea, of being surrounded by water with no land in sight.
"I could help, too," she says, "since they're a man short."
Finnick pulls her back into his arms again, whispers into her hair, "I don't deserve you."
She's quiet for a beat, then, "You really don't."
He laughs, startled, and she lifts his hand, uncurls his fingers so she can kiss his palm, then leans her cheek into his open hand. It's nearly noon, judging by the sun, and the sporadic breeze finally dies away completely.
He pulls her back against his chest, not caring how hot it is. He wants to stay here with her like this forever. But he rarely gets what he wants. He has a feeling Snow won't let him go this time, regardless of the laws surrounding the Hunger Games. "I want you to move in with my parents while I'm gone," Finnick tells her.
"Why? I've never stayed with them before." She kisses his hand. "Finnick, I'll be fine." He knows she's right. She'll be okay, at least at first. But as time goes on and Reaping Day approaches… "I'll be fine," she repeats.
"I worry about you when I'm not here," he says. "Humor me, okay? Please, just stay with them. You like Shandra, don't you? And Rhys?" His sister and nephew lived in town, but recently moved back in with Jenna and Thomas. It happened the last time Finnick was in the Capitol and he hasn't had a chance to talk to Shandra to find out why.
Annie doesn't say anything. Finnick extracts himself from her arms, moves until he's kneeling in front of her. He takes both of her hands in his. "Please, Annie, promise me you'll stay with Mom and Dad. It'll help me to know you're not alone, that you're safe."
She bites her lower lip, but finally nods. "I don't want you to worry about me." She reaches out to touch his mouth and he kisses her fingertips.
xXx
Annie stops in front of a shop window, transfixed by the play of light on and through an oddly shaped bit of glass. Shades of green and blue and purple, with veins of gold and red shot through it all, the glass hangs from a piece of fishing line, twisting to catch and refract the light, both the natural sunlight and that of the small spotlight fixed to the ceiling above it.
Finnick's sister catches up to her, stops to look at the piece of glass while Mags waits for them a few yards up the road, leaning on her cane. "What is it?" Shandra asks.
"I don't know," Annie shrugs, "just drift glass, I think, but it's beautiful."
Shandra looks up at the sign that hangs over the window, then waves at Mags. "We're going to look in here, Mags!" she calls and Mags nods, turns, and parks herself on a bench to wait for them.
A set of tiny bells tinkles as Shandra pushes the door open and enters the shop. Annie follows, carefully closing the door. She's tempted to open it again, just to listen to the little silver bells one more time. The sound they make is almost as pretty as the piece of glass in the shop window.
She hears Shandra ask the man behind the counter about guitars; apparently he has several to show her. Annie tunes them out, browses through the shop looking at this and that, at whatever catches her eye. She smiles as she picks up a pipe carved from some pale blue stone. Finnick once accused her of being part magpie when he went shopping with her, because she always stopped to look at bright, shiny things, pretty things. She returns the pipe to its resting place and moves on to the next shiny thing.
He's been gone a week and she misses him. She always misses him when he's gone, but at least this time, she's not so lonely, since he made her promise to stay with his family instead of all alone in their house. It's not as bad as she thought it might be, because she can still feel him there in his parents' home, even if it's not as strongly as in their own; she sleeps in his old room. And he was on the television the night before, briefly, for once not the focus of the story but only there in the background.
"Are you going to buy that piece of glass?" Shandra asks and Annie jumps, spins around. "Sorry. I thought you heard me come up." She holds a guitar in her hand.
"That's for Rhys?" Annie asks.
"Yeah. He's wanted one forever, but no one knows what happened to the one Finnick had as a kid and I could never afford to buy him a new one."
Annie doesn't ask how she can afford it now. Before today, Annie has only been to the vendors that line the town square, but Finnick told her about some of the shops in this part of town, the way they don't always get their merchandise from orthodox means and thus don't charge their customers as much as the shops along the main street. He said the vendors here feel it's more prudent to sell quickly than to have inventory sit on the shelves where it might become a problem later.
Shandra nudges Annie's shoulder. "That piece of glass?" she reminds her.
"Oh. No. I don't have any money."
"No money?" Shandra's tone is skeptical. "But you're a victor. I thought you were all supposed to be rich. Finnick certainly spends money like there's an endless supply."
"No," Annie says, frowning. "The Capitol pays for what we need. That's not the same thing." She can't explain to Finnick's sister just how the Capitol pays for the victors' needs. Shandra wouldn't understand and it's not something that Annie's happy about or at all comfortable with. Especially not now. She can't help but remember the man Finnick was with in that television news article last night.
"So you can't have a pretty piece of glass because it's not something you need?"
Annie nods and turns toward the door, resisting the urge to cover her ears with her hands, to hide behind the curtain of her hair. She doesn't want to be here anymore, doesn't want to talk about this anymore.
"Pardon me, ladies, but I couldn't help but overhear." The shopkeeper stands in Annie's path, blocking her way to the door. In his hands he holds the pretty glass from the window. "You're Annie Cresta, aren't you?"
Annie stares at the piece of glass, her gaze fixed on the veins of red running through it. There is a sharp smell of blood in the air. She knows it's not real, but still she backs away from the man, bumping up against a table full of merchandise that rattles when she hits it, but nothing falls.
"Annie? Are you okay?" Shandra asks, holding out a hand to steady her.
Blinking rapidly, Annie can't look away from the blood-red veins in the glass the man holds out to her, offering it to her. "I…" She swallows hard, looks up at the shopkeeper, but she can't quite meet his eyes. Shaking her head, she whispers apologetically, "I have to go." She slips past the man and runs for the door, heads out into the heat and the sunlight. Just runs.
She runs until she can't anymore, until her sides hurt and her lungs can't pull in enough air, until the scent of blood can't find her. When she stops, she's in the town square in front of the Justice Building. A Peacekeeper is stapling a piece of paper to the big bulletin board and once she catches her breath, she slowly walks toward him, curious.
The Peacekeeper backs away from the board and turns, runs right into Annie. He snarls at her to get out of his way and pushes past her, knocking into her shoulder. He neither looks nor sounds like a native of District Four. She ignores his ill temper and joins a group of people reading the page, slips in between a woman wearing a fishmonger's apron and an old man with the deep lines of a lifelong seaman sun-etched into his face. They all mutter angrily to each other about what's written on the piece of paper.
"How are we going to feed ourselves?"
"But we're overfishing close to shore already! We have to be able to fish further out!"
"What're they gonna do? Tag all the fish so they know where we took 'em?"
Annie reads.
By order of the President of Panem: Everything beyond three nautical miles from shore belongs to the Capitol until further notice. Any product of the sea taken from Capitol waters is the property of the Capitol and strict punishment will be meted out for poaching and all other acts considered by the Capitol to constitute theft. This edict has the full force and effect of the law of Panem.
The edict is signed with a flourish in an elegant hand. Coriolanus Snow. Though she's never seen his signature before, Annie knows the handwriting. He never signs the notes Finnick receives, but he does write them himself. Annie blinks at the words, the name, and backs away from the board. Her place is quickly taken by someone else as new arrivals to the square hurry to read the edict for themselves.
As the crowd of district citizens grows larger, Peacekeepers arrive from outside the square. The angry voices grow louder as the square fills. Annie spins around, sees Mags leaning on her cane in the opening where an alley intersects with the town square; the old woman searches the crowd. There's no sign of Shandra, but Mags spots Annie and lifts her cane, waves it at her, mouths a word that Annie thinks might be "riot."
A Peacekeeper shouts, "Return to your homes!" But his voice is lost in the low roar of the crowd. Annie sees Shandra weaving through the mass of people, headed toward Annie. Someone in the thick of it picks up a stone and throws it at the Peacekeeper who told them to go home. The stone misses its mark, but another is thrown and then a bottle follows, smashing in a shower of green glass against the brick wall of the Justice Building, right beside the open door through which a female Peacekeeper walks. She shakes glass from her hair and stops at the top of the steps.
The staccato burst from a machine gun is loud enough to cut through the ugly sound of the crowd. Annie looks up at the woman, at the machine gun in her hands, pointed at an upward angle over the heads of the people in the square. People all around the square back away from the Justice Building and Annie finds herself alone in a little clearing. Her eyes meet the Peacekeeper's; Annie is not quite close enough to read the name on her uniform, but she thinks it might be Officer Leto from the night Jackson Hull died.
The Peacekeeper lowers her gun until it's pointing at Annie's chest. "Return to your homes!" she shouts, the same words that were used a few minutes before, but far more effective, as the implicit threat to Annie sinks in. Annie looks at the gun. The sunlight glinting from the metal and the shape of it reminds Annie of the eye of a snake. A very large, one-eyed snake. And that reminds her of a joke Finnick told her once. She can't help herself. She begins to laugh as the crowd slowly dissipates.