Cecelia:

I can't stop my hands from trembling. They won't stop. I bite my lip and tell myself to take deep breaths, deep breaths, and then I taste blood in my mouth as I bite too deep. I grasp my dress in both my hands but that only makes my shoulders shake and now my vision is blurred by tears or raw fear, I don't know anymore, and I hear a voice screaming like tortured animal and I realize that it's mine.

"No, no, no! Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!"

And I scream until I don't have breath left in my breast, until my voice cracks, until I collapse onto the couch, breathing in the scent of dust and velvet.

And my hands still shake.

I look at the clock on the wall. I've been in here for two minutes and forever. I can't make it twenty minutes past my reaping without having an emotional breakdown. How, how am I going to survive the week ahead, the parade and the prep and the training before the Games?

The Games. My hands shake harder. Was it just yesterday that I walked through the square with Crin and Dolla and the girl whose name I can't remember, if I ever knew it? I told them that I wasn't nervous, that the reaping didn't scare me. My words seem so ridiculous that I let out a bark of laughter that I'm sure sounds half-crazed.

I close my eyes and tell myself to get a grip, that I'm not doing myself any favors. But everything, from the pinch of my shoes to the thrumming sound coming from the vents near the ceiling is threatening to send me into another cascade of tears, and I can't afford that anymore. Not when my family is on their way to see me, and I will not let their last memories of their sister and daughter be one of tears and hysterics. I will not. So I close my eyes and do what I have done every day for the past year and fall into my river.

I float down the river in my mind, casting away all thoughts and feeling, focusing on the slowly-moving water and forests on the shore. The silver boat meanders down the current, the soft sunlight dancing on the silken sails and ropes of pearls. It's a scene I have created for myself so many times that it blurs into a hazy sort of reality, and when I lift my face to the sun I can almost feel the warmth.

But I cannot stay here. I must return to District 8. I don't open my eyes yet, but I start to let the room in the Justice Building back in, oh so very slowly. The first thing I notice is the air. It smells different. It feels different. It takes me a moment to realize that it's because the Justice Building is in the Clear, and despite my lies of the past year, I've never actually been up here. The smog and filth that creep into everything in Fog Town isn't a part of this place, and somehow every breath I take is lighter. Cleaner. More alive.

Slowly, bits at a time, I open my eyes. The room in the Justice Building is very beautiful. The walls are paneled in a dark wood, no doubt imported from District 7. I know very little about the other districts, the Capitol makes sure we are purposely ignorant of our fellow oppressed, but the district trades are one of the first things we learn in school. I make a game of finding small pieces of the other districts around the room. The golden-gilt clock above the fireplace is from 1. The marble mantle of the fireplace was mined in two. The fruit in the silver bowl was grown in 11. A gadget on the wall that monitors room temperature and security is no doubt from 3. The coal in the bucket by the fireplace is from 12. But the true marvel of the room are the tapestries. They are the pride of District 8, and the ones in this room were no doubt the work of dozens of hands and thousands of hours of weaving and embroidery. They show the history of Panem, or at least the parts that district people are permitted to know. I'm staring at the one opposite the fireplace, marveling at how the firebombing of District 13 could be rendered in such a beautiful way, when the door opens behind me.

I nearly throw myself into Carl's arms as he walks in. My older brother's chest is trembling and it's all I can do to keep the tears from pouring out again. The river flows through me, and my eyes stay dry.

"Celia," he whispers. "I didn't…I can't…I don't…"

"Shut up, Mutt-face" I say and he laughs at the nickname I haven't used since I was five.

He takes me and holds me at arm's length, staring deep into my face before leading me to the couch and sitting me down.

"Twine and Cole?" I ask, registering for the first time that my brother's girlfriend and young son didn't come with him.

"She had to take Cole home. He was howling when he saw you on the stage and saw Da…break down. She wishes you good luck and sends her love, of course."

I nod, choosing not to care whether Cole was really throwing a temper tantrum or if Twine just didn't want to face a tribute. I've known a couple girls who have been sent over the years, only acquaintances, and the thought of visiting them before they left was enough to turn my stomach.

Carl takes my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face up to meet his dark eyes. "You can win this, Celia. You can do it, I know you can!"

"Carl," I whisper, and I jump when he leaps up and stands over me, glowering in anger.

"No!" he shouts. "You're not giving up. You don't get to give up! You're going to fight, Celia. You can do this. You're crazy smart, you always have been. You're beautiful, and the Capitol likes beautiful things. They have to love you. You have to make them love you! You have to do this, Celia."

"Carl, stop, please," I whisper, not because he's angry but because the raw emotion on his face is drawing out the tears and the river can only do so much.

He kneels down in front of me and puts his hands on my shoulders. "It's Da, Celia. You love him, we all do, but I know him, I know him better than almost anyone. After Ma died, he nearly lost it. He would have lost it if he didn't have you and I. Celia, he's got Kerry, and he's got Della, but you're his baby. He can't do this if you don't fight. He has to see you fighting, Cecelia, and that's why you can't give up. Not now. Not here.

"Carl…Da…" I close my eyes.

"Promise me, Celia."

The door opens and two Peacekeepers walk in. Carl stands and they put hands on his shoulders and back, forcing him out of the room.

He turns his head and shouts. "Promise me, Celia! Promise me!"

I can't get the words out, I can't say anything until I'm screaming "I promise! I promise!" but by then only the heavy door can hear me.

The same door opens almost immediately and this time there's no holding back as Kerry wraps her arms around my waste and Da wraps his around my shoulders and somehow we all end up on the couch together, arms wrapped around each other. I sob and sob and sob, and I'm matched by my father, whose whole body is shaking. I don't need to fall into the river here, Da and Kerry are my river, they are my refuge. And even though there are some things they cannot keep me safe from, I hold them in my arms and draw my strength from them.

Da looks at me once, as though he's about to speak, and I shake my head. I don't want him to say anything. I don't want good-byes, I don't want apologies or lamentations for time and opportunities lost. Right now, I just want my father with me. I want to be held in the arms that cradled me from my earliest memories, the hands that tickled and taught me, the eyes that loved me.

"I love you, Da," I whisper, and his shaking turns into upheavals.

Kerry climbs up onto my lap. "Will you tell me a story, Celia?" she asks in a voice that only barely shakes, and my heart breaks open at the courage she's trying to show.

"Of course I will," I say as I wrap my arm around her and stroke her dark hair. "Once upon a time, there were four children who had to run away from a war."

"Was it a bad war?" asks Kerry in a small voice.

"A very bad war. But the four children were good and brave, and they weren't afraid. They fled to a land filled with magic and good creatures, where animals talked and trees danced."

"But they didn't, did they? They didn't dance."

"No, because an evil witch kept the whole land under a spell of ice and snow. But the four children were so good and so brave that they defeated the queen and brought peace to the whole land. And even though one of their friends died, they never, ever gave up. And that's why they won."

Kerry looks up at me with her huge eyes. "And did they get rid of all the snow, Celia?"

"Yes Kerry," I say as my voice breaks. "They got rid of all the Snow. Forever and ever and ever."

But there are no forevers, and the door opens up and the Peacekeepers walk in again. Kerry screams as they tear her off my lap and Da won't let go of me, and I finally have to scream at him that they're taking Kerry away and he has to stay with her before his death grip on me loosens. I fall back onto the couch and stare straight ahead so I don't have to see his last look before the door closes.

I stand and wipe my face, wishing I had a sink like back in my tiny cell in the Red. I stop, frozen, as it hits me. The Red. I will never go back there again. Whether I come back to District 8 in a wooden box, or by some insane chance or fate I come back as a Victor, I will never step foot in that filthy, hated place again. The desire to laugh, to whoop, to cheer rises in me, and it collides painfully with the grief and sorrow and anger, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry or scream anymore. So I settle for blowing my nose on the back of the District 13 tapestry and flipping the corner down to hide the evidence.

It's only when I hear footsteps behind me that I realize the door must have opened again. I didn't even hear it. My whole family has already come to visit, besides Spindella, and she's no doubt celebrating the fact that I'll never trek dirt onto her floors again. I have no idea who else would come, and it's a shock when I turn and see the stocky girl from the square yesterday, the one who watches Crin after school.

"Cecelia Rheys. I'm sorry this happened to you."

I nod, and sit back on the couch. The girl is still dressed in her reaping dress, which looks awkward against her strong frame. I can tell that she feels much more comfortable in the work overalls worn by the factory laborers. Her face is still streaked with the soot of Fog Town. It matches the hair that she's pulled back into a tight bun, in a perverse sort of way.

"Crinoline? And Dolla?" I ask before realizing what a stupid question it is.

"They went home with their families. They were both very upset to see you on the stage. Crin especially." For the first time she shows some semblance of emotion as a small grin tugs at her face. "Are you still not afraid of the reaping, Cecelia?"

I meet her eyes. "I'm more like you than you think. I'm always afraid."

"I will help you, in any way I can," says the girl as she sits down next to me.

I look at her, unable to keep the accusation from my voice. "Why would you do that? Why are you even here? What am I to you?"

"You are a representative of my district and my home in the Hunger Games. How could I not help you?"

She takes my hand in hers and continues. "Cecelia Rheys. I swear to you know, that if I can aid you in this fight in any way, I will. Whether or not it's a few coins in sponsorship or an interview on your behalf, I and everyone like me will do what we can. If you return a Victor, I will stand by you, shoulder to shoulder, no matter what may happen in the arena. If you return in a box, I will fight to my last breath to avenge your death."

I gasp in shock. "Shut up, shut up," I hiss. "Do you think it's safe to say things like that here? Anywhere? They always here, they always know!"

"Let them," says the girl with a dismissive nod around the room. "Do you think they haven't heard worse in fifty-seven years? I'm a grief-stricken friend, I'm not responsible for what I'm saying."

"But you're not a friend! I don't even know you!" I narrow my eyes. "Do you come and say this to every tribute who goes to the Games?"

She looks at me with eyes of clear forest green, the only part of her that could be called beautiful. "I have visited every tribute since I was ten years old."

I have no response to that except to squeeze her hand. Finally, I think of something to say.

"Tell my family I love them. Tell them I said I was sorry when I…when I fall."

"Tell them yourself when you get home," she says, her voice harsh. "Of every tribute I've visited, you're the one I would put money on. You have something, Cecelia Rheys. Something I can't point out exactly, but it may just put you on the Victor's Throne. If you play the game."

"It's what I don't have that matters. I don't have training. I'm not from One, Two, or Four, I can't even use an ax like Seven or a scythe like Nine. How can I even-"

"Seeder Crue. Nolan DeNaro. Haymitch Abernathy. Blight Gavin. Cora Shutter." The names of the past Victors drop from her lips like the toll of a bell. "Which of these had what you mentioned? And which of them came home?"

The door opens and she stands before the Peacekeepers can pull her out.

"Wait!" I shout before the door closes. "I don't – I don't even – what's your name?"

She gives a glance back as the door closes. "My friends call me Paylor," she says, and then she's gone. I'm left thinking how unfair it is to finally make a real friend a week before I die.

I don't look up when the door opens for the fourth time. I listen to the shoes walk across the fine carpet, to the scuffle as a chair is pulled to face me, and it's only when she tells me to look at her that I raise my head and look at the thin, pinched face of my stepmother.

"You're a mess," she says in distaste. "You should have kept your tears for the train. There are cameras waiting outside as we speak."

I sigh as I gather words that somewhat resemble civility. "What are you doing here, Della?" I ask. So much for civility.

"You're not stupid, Cecelia," she snaps. "Now is not the time to start acting like it. Not until you're around your fellow tributes. Then it will be prudent to hide the scope of your intelligence so they think of you as another terrified, idiot slum girl."

"You mean, exactly what you've always thought of me, Della?" I ask, and I'm surprised that I'm able to keep the anger from my voice.

"I'm not here to argue. So you can cut that tone right now. I'm here to help you plan how to get you out of that arena and back home."

I sit back, sure that the shock is evident on my face. "I didn't realize you cared so much."

"Of course I care, stupid girl. You may be a temperamental child, but you're fifteen and we all were at that age. So cut the surliness and listen up. You're beautiful. You always have been. You can use that."

I curl my lip and cross my arms. "Is that all? Carl said the same thing."

"I'm sure he did. I'm also sure he was referring to the Capitol. I am not. Not entirely. Remember that some of the tributes, the most dangerous ones, are more men than boys. You can use that. Make them think twice before killing you and you can seize that opportunity. Or get one of them to trust you, to be your protector before you turn on him."

I look at my stepmother as if seeing her for the first time. "What are you suggesting. That…that I seduce the other tributes?"

"Of course," she says without meeting my eyes. "By all accounts you're already very good at it."

It takes a few seconds for the enormity of that statement to hit me, and when it does it's as if a mountain has fallen onto my shoulders. I stand and look down at Della.

"You knew," I whisper. "You knew all along."

"Of course I knew!" Della says. "I knew from the first day when you walked into the Red and Cora came straight to me to tell me you were there. How do you think your father never found out? I've been lying to him as much as you. Why do you think you never got someone who enjoyed violence? Because Cora knew she'd have me to answer to if you ever came back from that place with a mark on your body."

I'm standing as if the blood in my veins has turned to streams of fire. "You knew all along. You knew. And you still let me do it."

"If I had forbidden it, you would have done it anyway just to spite me. So don't deny it. And you know why I let you do it. We needed the money."

"Oh yes. The money. It's always about the money for you!" I swing my arm out as I pace the room, sending a vase to shatter against the wall. Della doesn't even blink. "Was Fog Town just too dirty, too poor for you? You had to mug and grub and do anything, let anyone do anything, for a few more sesterces? When were you going to send Kerry to the Red? Or is that too precious for your real daughter?"

"You know nothing, Cecelia."

"I know that you're a vicious, heartless bitch."

"Your father is dying."

If there was a mountain on my shoulders, it's collapsed. If there was fire in my veins, it's turned to icicles.

"What? Da is..."

"He's dying Cecelia. He's dying and there's nothing I can do for him. I've…I've tried." For the first time her voice breaks. "I've tried everything. Every medicine we can afford. I've kept everything clean. Nothing is helping. It's from the factories, the smog is in his lungs. We can't do anything."

I want to cry, I want to cry so badly, but there is nothing left. "Does he know?" I ask.

"Of course. But your father is a great actor. Where do you think you got it from? He's hid it from you, from Kerry, for two years now." She looks at me with eyes of flint. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you from the Red, Cecelia. But I had to let you do what you did. He is Kerry's father. Your father. I love him in my own way, as I love my daughters. But I can't save him and he's running out of time. And that's why I'm here."

Realization hits me. "The Victor's purse. Could it…could we,"

"I don't know. But how can we not try?"

I face my stepmother and she senses my mood enough to rise, to stand before me.

"I'll do it," I say.

"I never doubted it, girl. You fight to save him. And I will fight here to save you."

"Deal."

"Deal, indeed."

The door opens and the Peacekeepers walk in. Della reaches out to brush my hair back.

"Remember that you are beautiful," she says before walking away.

A Peacekeeper reaches out to take her arm and receives the force of all her disapproval.

"Don't. You. Touch me," she says as she pulls out of his grip and marches out.

I sit on the couch as my head reels. Da is dying. Dying. I have to save him. I will save him.

The door opens but this time it's just the Peacekeepers coming in to escort me to the train. I rise to meet them, my face and mouth dry. We walk down the halls of the Justice Building without exchanging words until we come to the great iron doors that lead out towards the road to the train station, and no doubt to a flock of Capitol reporters all wanting a word with District 8's latest tributes.

"Wait! Wait!"

The doors are opening but there's someone dashing down the hall, waving one hand while holding her wig on with another. The Peacekeepers close in around me, but then part when they see that she is very much Capitol.

"Who are you, exactly?" asks the man who seems to be in charge as the woman gasps with the effort of running twenty yards.

"I'm Glouda. I'm doing Miss Shutter's prep for this year's public appearances. She sent me."

Without another word she sweeps up to me and unfolds a makeup case as long as my arm. I barely have time to blink as brushes sweep my cheeks and powder flies up my nose. I sneeze and she looks at me in disapproval before taking a dark pencil and drawing around my eyes."

"Miss Shutter said you were in no circumstances to leave the building with red eyes and puffy cheeks." She closes the case and looks down at me with a sigh. "It's not too much, but at least you look marginally decent."

"I'm not decent," I say as I turn away from her. "I'm beautiful." And I step through the iron doors into the light.

Ugh, I am so sorry it took so long for me to get this up. In my defense, I had a family emergency. May has been a rough month. I intend to update more regularly from here on out.

Thanks to Yohan, Maraudercat, Clove'sAllies, BR2607, Spaidel, and Clover80 for your reviews!