Chapter Four

In the six months following my marriage to Coriolanus, the Capitol grew apace. Mr. Snow had announced plans to build a great arena for the coming up twenty-fifth Hunger Games. It would the world's first Quarter Quell and he wanted to be remembered for it; in four years time the Quarter Quell would be upon us and, inwardly, no one thought for a moment the president would live that long to see it. Building the extraordinary arena was the only way he was sure he'd be remembered for.

On top of that Mr. Snow decided to extend and refurbish his own mansion. I was forced from my mother's house into Coriolanus' chambers about his father's mansion. It wasn't unpleasant, but builders and laborers thronged the site. To cater to the growing workforce, as also the growing complexity of the mansion's occupants (Coriolanus' sisters and their families remained at home as well), so also the numbers of servants and Avoxes grew. Not to mention the countless doctors that rolled through in order to examine the president's condition.

The mansion almost tripled its population and in response a small irritation grew about the halls and chambers. Meals were especially difficult to get through, being that I hated most everyone. More oft than not I declined the invitation to a meal and sulked in my room, ordering an Avox to find me some food.

Aside the heavy knowledge which I held, that Coriolanus had paid off Avoxes and servants to watch me everywhere I went and note every tiny thing I did, or said, for what is was worth, I had managed to befriend one of the servants.

Some three months after my marriage, a young widowed woman had come to the mansion, highly recommended, asking for work as a laundress, or perhaps a maid... whatever work there was, she begged. It was odd that she would be hired, since Avoxes generally were more of the political family's taste, but it was to me the final decision went for allowing her a place among Coriolanus and I's household.

Damson, she called herself, after a variety of exotic plum. A damson, I thought, studying her silently for the first time, was the last thing she looked like. The woman was already tired and worn, despite her relative youth, with stooped shoulders, waxen cheeks marred by broken veins, and pale blue eyes that looked about to fade away to nothing. Nevertheless, she claimed to be a skilled laundress, and with Coriolanus as he employer, she better hope she did the work that was required of her and did it well.

With all the persons within the mansion, well, another laundress was always needed.

It was my job to hire our staff, as Coriolanus claimed he had no time for frivolous homey devices. I smiled at Damson. "Very well, then," I said, "but you'll have to work under my direct orders for the time being, until I can be sure you're trustworthy."

Damson's eyes brightened at the prospect of a home and I instantly softened. I patted her on her cheek and sent her away to join the other household staff. Within a week I had forgotten to distrust her, and most nights it was her who brought me food and sat with me, smiling at each other over the most atrocious, pointless gossip she'd heard while collecting clothes about the mansion.

"Lara said what?" I asked, fighting hard not to laugh.

Damson shrugged her gnarled shoulders and showed the smallest bit of a grin. "Well her and Coriolanus were having a go at it. He was telling her that she had to stop hiring the victor, you know, Marcus from District Two–"

"The prostitute?" I exclaimed, eyes wide.

"The very same."

"Oh, what about the man her father set her up with!" I shook my hand in a vague, forgetful gesture. "What was his name? Igneous?"

"Not even close. Neo, was the fella's name."

I rolled my eyes at her. "Like I get out enough to be close. Tell me more, I'm intrigued. Tell me she made my husband scowl. Did his lips twist like they do when he's eaten something unpleasant?" I picked up my glass of wine and brought it to my lips, drawing the pungent fluid across my tongue. My smile was sore and ripe when I set the glass back to the table. "Did he shout at her? Lara does love to stamp her feet. What I wouldn't give to see Coriolanus tasting his own medicine!"

There was a pause after my exclamation and I realized that was the first time I'd spoken my dismay toward my husband. I could tell by the slight shift of Damson's face; she was about to look displeased.

Actually, for a minute, she seemed bemused, but when I opened my mouth, horrified, she only laughed.

"Oh, Rose," she said. "What a sad woman you are. I had wondered why you were locked up in here, this dark, plain room, all day, week upon week. I had wondered how such a lovely woman was captured in love by the president's son." Her blue eyes were intent on my pale face. "Coriolanus is a loathsome man, isn't he?"

All the cheer, all the laughter, had been drawn from the room. I could only feel the coldness, the bareness of this bedroom I normally shared with my silent and placate husband. Six months I lived with the man, and it seemed I had not talked to him since our wedding night, when he'd turned his back to me.

With a swift hand I threw all my utensils and unfinished food onto my plate and then I shoved it at the woman across from me. My eyes were trained on the gray swirling tattoos that spread down my arms onto the backs of my hands. "I adore my husband. He's charming, handsome, and intelligent." I glanced up at Damson. "I'm finished, clean up the mess and don't come back until the morning. I'll have laundry for you by then."

She came in the morning and the next, and the next, and by the fifth, after I cooled myself and coached myself in a carefully practiced passionless voice, we began to speak again. We grew friendly. I had a companion again, but she was one that I tiptoed around. She never mentioned my husband and I never let her bring him up. I knew that any servant could be paid by the press for a good story. And this delicious piece of scandal? A wife who secretly hated her husband and was forced to marry him? That would ruin Coriolanus and then he would ruin me.

Out of my boredom and entrapment, I had spent most of my time wandering parts of the mansion, even the ones in the works. I smiled at all the laborers and they never failed to return it; unlike so many members of the Snow family, whose lips seemed set in ice, unmoving and rigid. I found a particularly handsome worker that showed me more attention than anyone else previously living in the mansion. I adored him instantly. My husband might only briefly glance at me, but this man's amber eyes traced over me in the way that made me feel exhilarated.

"What is your name?" I asked him one day, feeling bold.

"Ephesus," he told me, tanned face twitching into a smirk. "But call me Ean."

"Call me Rose."

"Not Mrs. Snow?"

I had left after that, feeling bitter about the reminder. But everyday I would show up, peeking around marble columns or leaning over stray piles of lumber. Ean would smile warmly and flash those eyes and my heart would clench, in a loneliness that I'd not known as a child or girl. He addressed me as Rosey. A ridiculous name, on all accounts, even to me, but I only smiled shyly and decided that I could endure an awful nickname for the sake of feeling.. feeling wanted.


It was the eve of a late night in winter, when I approached him fully, not peering around a corner or something barring between us. I was dressed in a frock of blue and white silk, slashed and heavy on my form, hugging hips and arms. Later, months in the future, I would realize what I had been thinking when I approached him in that way, that it was not for Ean at all. Really, it was me, secretly keening for the attention my husband refused me.

Ean was sanding a length of wood. He lifted his head at the sound of my footsteps slipping over smooth floors and grinned at the sight of me there. I glanced about us, and the only person close to us was his partner at work, an old man. No one. A friend to Ean, who I had no care to heed. "I have needs of your strength. There is a heavy possession of mine I dropped and I can not lift it myself," I said to Ean, who rose to his feet at my words.

I turned and made off down the hall; I could hear him following.

Around the next bend, through three doors, behind a rich traverse of maroon, he caught up to me. In the dim hallway, I leaned up on my toes and brought my lips to Ean's ear. "To you, I'm not married."

I had meant to withdraw then, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist. He tugged me into him, the hard outlines of his chest muscles searing through my clothes. I felt wanting seethe its way up my body; how long had it been since I'd kissed someone? When was the last time someone hugged me? I was craving human contact so much that I melted into his lips damp against my ear.

"Ten twenty," he whispered, before he pulled away, smiling brightly.

"Ten twenty?" I said, confused. I blinked at his handsome face for a few seconds before it dawned on me. "You're a prostitute." My heart sank. I was only another potential costumer to him. Nothing special.

Ean roared with laughter. "No." I relaxed some, relieved, momentarily. "I'm a porn star."

"What is a porn star doing lifting boards and painting walls?" I inquired suspiciously.

Ean touched my cheek and drew the thumb along the jawbone. I shuddered underneath his hand. Odds, I was leaning into him. I should be disgusted. I should recoil and shove him away and be a proper Snow. Remembering the weight of the name I bore, I shook myself, stood straight and managed to pull his hand from my face.

He merely caught my hand, intertwined our fingers, and brought my knuckles to his lips. His eyes were hot into mine, like two gold coins, gleaming, and I pushed my hand more firmly into his mouth. "Ten twenty, Rose," he murmured. "Meet me twenty minutes after ten tonight through the servants chamber, on the bottom floor, back door. I shall take you out."

"Who said I wanted to go out?" I asked. "What I had in mind is more of an inside activity."

"Ah," said Ean, "but I have one rule."

"Rule?"

"It must be taped or it won't happen. You see me here, lifting boards and painting walls, because I am a sucker for women, such as your ravishing self, that are not fond of being taped or publicized. I don't make money unless it's recorded. I make too many mistakes, fall prey to cruel women's promises, and have no pay. Thus you find me here."

"I'll wear a mask."

There was a rave of humor in his face. "Rosey–"

"And, I'll pay you all you wish," I rushed out. "Make it worth your while. Just.. don't call me that."

"Why ever not?"

Because that is the name my father gave me and it is not for you to use.

"Makes me feel like I'm three again."

"No, we wouldn't want that. You're most certainly not three." His eyes fell to my figure.

It was my first love affair.


Ean was no common whore. He did not want pay in the end. I liked to think at the beginning he merely kept coming back because he sensed my need. That was the kind of person he was; warm, sunny, there to make others feel squirmy and happy inside. What I loved most about him was the dusk of a dessert painted across his skin that I felt beneath my fingers more times than I ever cared to count, so different from the Snow family's pale and icy colorings.

Ean was warm, where Snow was cold.

I adored him more and more as our meetings continued from week to week. But I never loved him the way one would think. It was more of a healthy, wholehearted friendship between us. A protective circle to each other's wants and wills and misfortunes. He was ears to listen to me when I spoke. I was his cushion when the night's were empty and meaningless to a man who dedicated his whole life to film and his prick.

The only thing we did not speak of was Coriolanus.

I was still scared, even then. Even with two friends that felt real. Even with a lover.