I want to start this chapter by freely admitting that I know I'm pushing canon with this - to Gethsemane, I send virtual painkillers to relieve the pain of excessive head shaking (the final scene is for you as compensation ;)), to the rest of you who are reading this story, I ask you to play along with this for the sake of the rest of the plot. This one is mostly back- and future-story - it will be back to the Games next week, I promise...

Chapter Six

I walk slowly down the corridor, knowing that it's only a matter of time before someone appears with the sole intention of either telling me to do something or shouting at me for not doing what I was supposed to. I should have gone to the television room to talk about my arena strategy like Lace and Topaz asked me to, I know that, but after a day of training which was exactly like the first, I feel very much like I feel at home: Tired of constantly monitoring both my words and actions and everyone else's, desperate for some time to myself where I can simply be Cashmere without having to hide behind the mask I present to the world. At least at home I had somewhere to hide and an accomplice to hide with. Here the performance never stops.

However, when I walk past the door to the dining room, I notice that it stands slightly open rather than being tightly closed like it was before. I know I should try to, but I simply can't resist. I step forwards and tentatively push the door, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart as I peer around it into the grand room that I'm still not entirely used to.

I don't know who I was expecting but I certainly didn't think I would see Falco, who stands close to the floor to ceiling window on the far side of the room with his back to me, staring out at the City Circle below. He turns when the door creaks and I scowl at myself for not being more careful to be silent.

"You'll have to do better than that in the arena, Cashmere," he says, his tone quietly mocking.

"I don't think they'll have doors like that in the arena," I reply, unsure if I should be angry that he thinks he has the right to tease me, annoyed with myself because I gave him an excuse to, or curious about the emotions that lie behind the way he sometimes looks at me, the way he is looking at me now. A combination of the three is the result, and my voice sounds less certain and confident than usual when I ask him what I really want to know. "What happened to your party? Will it still be the social event of the century without you?"

"If you're going to be difficult then I will go alone," he replies, the sudden change in his body language and expression abruptly reminding me who I'm talking to and putting me back on the defensive.

"I'm never easy," I tell him, and I can see from his almost imperceptible smile that he doesn't miss my double meaning for a second. "But what do you mean 'you'll go alone'?" I continue, finding that my defensiveness is maintained for less and less time each time I see him.

"I was thinking it might be more entertaining for all concerned if we tried a different approach to gaining sponsorship this year. I'm going to take you to the party."

I stare at him in disbelief, and my shock must be written all over my face because he laughs softly in response.

"If you don't want to see the Capitol then you can stay here. It would mean giving me an explanation for why you volunteered though. You never did tell me any more than what you said two nights ago."

I realise he's got me trapped then, for I can't decline without having to explain the real reason I raced to the stage on Reaping Day. And anyway, even if I wasn't telling him the whole truth when I had said I only volunteered so I could see the Capitol, I wasn't lying either.

"Are we taking Sheen with us?" I ask, trying to remain nonchalant and to keep the anticipation I suddenly feel from showing in my voice and body language as I allow myself to be almost convinced he's being serious.

"I think you know the answer to that, Butterfly. The quickest way to lose his sponsors would be for them to meet him."

"What makes you think I'll be any different?"

He walks over to me and pushes a bundle of scarlet red fabric into my hands. "Stop digging for compliments and put that on."

I unfold the bundle, shaking it out to reveal an elaborate and obviously Capitol-made evening dress that looks far finer than anything I've seen at home, even in Satin's wardrobe.

"Tributes aren't allowed to leave the Training Centre."

"There's no official rule that says they can't, it simply isn't something that is usually questioned. When the Games first started the tributes were allowed to appear in public during the build-up to the arena as it gave the sponsors a better idea of where their money was going. It might be so frowned upon now that few people even think about it, but as long as I don't parade you around the City Circle then we should be safe enough." He looks at the dress in my hands and smiles. "This way those who can make a difference won't forget you. You don't get much in the arena with nothing more than spoiled little boys sending in half their allowance money because they want to see your pretty face on the screen for a bit longer."

Then I suddenly realise why he's doing this. He wants to make sure the Capitol remembers me so they will sponsor me when they see me in the arena. I'm not a hundred percent certain that I trust his logic and reasoning but if he's happy then why shouldn't I be? What better way to show I am confident and fearless than for those with the sponsorship money to see me in person so I can tell them myself? I run from the room to my own, changing clothes in record time before returning without even bothering to look in a mirror.

I am careful with the door this time, and silently open it just enough for me to slide inside the room, smiling smugly at his still turned back as he continues to stare out of the window, oblivious to my presence. I cough quietly after a few minutes and he turns around, scanning me appraisingly but saying nothing. I feel like I have been standing there forever and still he doesn't look away.

"Maybe I could cope with doors like that in the arena," I say, talking to fill the charged silence, well aware that the intensity of his gaze is making me nervous and more self conscious than I have ever felt before. I hate my weakness.

He closes the distance between us and reaches behind me to unclip my hair, arranging my blonde curls over my shoulders.

"That's better," he says, before continuing in a more serious tone. "You're going to win the Games, Cashmere. I know you are."

"That's what I said to her," I whisper without thinking, not realising what I had said until it was too late.

"Said to who?" he prompts gently.

"It doesn't matter," I reply lightly. "So are we going to get me some sponsors then?"

"I knew you'd get used to the idea," he says, looking a lot more relaxed than I feel. "When we get there, there will be a huge crowd of people and most of them will look at me." I raise my eyebrows at that and he smirks back. "That's not arrogance, it's the truth. Everyone in this city knows me, it's one of the dubious perks of the job."

"And what will I be doing while you are basking in the adoration of those who worship you?"

He shakes his head, still smiling. "I wish I'd met you years ago. Hardly anybody dares to tease me now. I never thought I'd miss it but I do."

"Maybe if I'd known you years ago then I wouldn't dare to tease you either," I reply. "But don't change the subject. You didn't answer my question."

"Try to blend in," he says with a smile that tells me he isn't totally convinced I'm capable of doing such a thing. "Don't introduce yourself to anyone unless I introduce them to you first. Don't stay in the same position too long and don't stare at anyone or let them stare at you."

"Why?" I ask incredulously. "That's stupid. Not that I make a habit of staring at random people, but still…"

He drags me over to the massive mirror that takes up most of one wall, turning me so I can see my reflection.

"Look at yourself, Cashmere. At first glance you look like just another person who lives here, a very beautiful one, of course, but you could blend in nevertheless. But if they look closer then they'll notice your features are that little bit too soft to have been polished and perfected by a surgeon's knife, they'll realise that if you'd had cosmetic surgery to your body then the one who operated on you would never have left behind what he or she would have seen as small blemishes," he continues, resting the tip of his forefinger over the tiny mole I've always had on my shoulder. "Then they will know you aren't one of them and then they will start asking questions. That's what we don't want."

I don't quite know what to say to that so I say nothing and keep staring at his reflection in the mirror. He meets my gaze steadily until in the end I give in first and look down at the floor. Then he takes my hand and pulls me towards the door, letting go when we reach the corridor as he decides he trusts me to follow him. I don't give him reason not to.

The corridors of the Training Centre are virtually deserted as Falco and I make our way to the main doors. Despite his reassurance, part of me expected him to have to smuggle me out through a side entrance, and even though he walks along as casually and at ease as ever, I can't help jumping whenever I see movement, expecting someone to try to stop us from leaving.

"Cashmere, would you relax? You're making me nervous," he tells me, sounding more amused than anxious.

"I can tell," I reply sarcastically. "You look positively terrified."

"I never allow other people to see what I'm feeling inside unless I choose to let them," he tells me, with a slight sadness in his voice. "An essential skill of the job."

"And an essential part of living where I live in District One," I say before I can stop myself, "but it seems I'm not as good at it as you are."

"You're not so bad," he replies, turning to face me as we keep walking. "You're better with Sheen and Topaz than with Lace."

"Lace hates me."

"Lace has her own issues. You just happen to be there for her to take her rage out on."

"It isn't fair. I haven't done anything to her. And she's supposed to be helping me."

"She can help you. Use her to teach yourself how to hide what you're really thinking. When she shouts at you, don't give her the reaction she wants." My eyes meet his as I think about his words, which suddenly sound more than sensible. "I would suggest you try the same approach with me, but I don't think I want you to conceal your thoughts from me."

"How do you know I don't?" I retort, pouting slightly at the thought that he finds me so easy to read.

"Oh, you do, but only sometimes. Only when you make a conscious effort to do so."

"Stop acting so superior or I'll go back upstairs," I snap. His sole response is to smile and pull me further down the corridor. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"You'll see," he replies as he continues to lead me out of the Training Centre and then towards a huge black car that waits on the City Circle road.

He holds the door open for me before climbing in to sit beside me, leaning forward to tap the blacked out screen in front of us. The car begins to move almost immediately, and I lean around so I can gaze out of the window at the Capitol streets that pass slowly by.

There are many, many people walking along, a lot of them dressed in fine clothes and clearly also heading out for the night. It's dark by now but the streets are bathed in fluorescent light that is equally as bright as daylight, most of which seems to come from either the shop windows or the tall lampposts that are set evenly spaced along the pavements. Some of the men and women and most of the children stare at the car as we drive past and I stare back at them, suddenly grateful they can't see me. It's not that I would object to the attention but that I love to have the chance to watch them, to see the way they act, the places where they live, the places where they shop for items that are everyday to them and impossible luxuries for me.

"Is it always like this?" I ask Falco as we drive past what looks like a theatre, which has a large crowd of brightly dressed people waiting to go in, all talking animatedly amongst themselves and buying food, drink and leaflets from white-uniformed attendants who weave their way around them.

"Always," he replies. "This is the Capitol. The very best and the very worst of Panem all mixed together in one big city that never stops."

"People back home say that District One is like the Capitol but smaller. Now I know they were lying. They probably haven't even been here."

"Probably not, but you have. You wanted to see this and now you have."

"You still haven't told me where we're going."

"I have. We're going to the party to get you some sponsors, you know that."

I am about to tell him that telling me that isn't the same as telling me where we're actually going, but at that moment the car veers to the left and we drive down into a underground tunnel, which dips down and then quickly begins to rise up again. It is total darkness outside until I am almost blinded by the light that streams in through the windows. I move to sit forwards so I can look out but Falco pulls me back.

"Wait for a second."

"Why?"

He just looks at me, seemingly amused by my constant questioning but apparently not amused enough to give me any real answers. A few seconds later, the car stops and he nods in the direction of the window.

"Now you can look."

For some reason I look up instead of down first and see immediately that we are inside still, and that the bright light my eyes have only just become accustomed to is flooding in through the massive glass windows which form the ceiling and the top layer of the walls. The light is artificial now, but I can't help wondering if it is the natural light of the sun which lights the building by day. The windows are framed with intricately patterned silver ivy leaves, and they throw shadows and flashes of light onto the walls around them. It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it before in all my life.

I turn to face Falco and he immediately gestures back out of the window, smiling at my reaction. I look down again to see a vast expanse of space, lined with shops on all sides that seem to continue on into three separate corridors all leading off a central point. There are people everywhere, most of them laughing and joking, some walking around and others sitting down, but all of them looking like they haven't a care in the world. A few seconds later, I realise that they probably haven't, not in the same way as I have anyway. They won't be fighting for their lives in less than four days time. But I mustn't think about it like that. The Games is something I have to survive, something I will survive. A means to an end, nothing more and nothing less, and it is that thought that makes me block out all the rest as I continue to stare down in amazement at the sight before me.

I have obviously never seen this place before, but I recognise it. This is the Shopping Centre Charis and Callista were telling me about, the one that sounded like something out of a dream rather than reality. It looks like something out of a dream too, and I have to blink several times to reassure myself I'm not seeing things.

"Is that real silver?" I ask Falco eventually, focussing on the huge fountain in the centre of the main hall. The water that flows through it looks like liquid silver but falls through the air like a rain of diamonds.

Falco smiles and shakes his head. "No. If it was then it would be too hot to go anywhere near it, and that water is freezing cold. Trust me, I know."

I raise my eyebrows, silently asking him to elaborate, and he laughs.

"I was a very curious child, Cashmere. I was here one day with my friends and we were trying to decide what would happen to us if we walked across the fountain. My only defence is that Felix dared me to do it."

This time it's me who laughs, struggling to reconcile the mental image I have of a young Falco standing in the fountain surrounded by water droplets that look like diamonds with the man who sits beside me.

"Maybe you should try it again," I say teasingly, imagining the newspaper headlines that would undoubtedly result from a well-respected government minister climbing into a shopping centre fountain.

"If I do then I'll drag you with me," he replies before abruptly becoming serious once more. "Seriously, when you win the Games, I'll bring you here."

I smile, feeling excitement at the prospect of exploring this place that is straight out of my fantasies even as the mention of the Games jolts me roughly back to reality. He seems to sense my emotions and taps on the screen for the driver to continue.

"It will happen, you'll see."

I don't speak, wishing I had his confidence but not quite willing to admit that I don't.

However determined I remain not to let the awe I feel at the sight of the Capitol show on my face, I cannot help but stare as Falco opens the car door for me and I step out to look up at the grand house before me. We walk along the path towards the entrance, which is lined with brightly coloured flowers I have never seen before. They are like nothing we have at home, and their fragrance hangs in the air, so strong it makes me feel slightly light-headed.

As we climb the stairs to the front door, which he pushes open with an easy familiarity, Falco looks back at me with an amused expression that he isn't even bothering to attempt to conceal. I glare back in response, annoyed that the wonder I feel at the sight of this place shows so clearly.

"Whose house is this anyway?" I ask snappily as we cross a hallway that is the same size as most people in District One's entire house.

"Mine," he replies. "My father died last year and I inherited it."

"I'm sorry," I reply softly.

"Don't be. We didn't exactly have the best of relationships."

"Why?"

"You tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine."

"I'll use my imagination," I retort, but there's no real venom in my voice as I continue to try unsuccessfully not to gawp at my surroundings.

"Admit it, Butterfly, you're impressed," he teases. "You don't have to pretend not to be."

I turn to face him, drawing myself up to my full height, which will unfortunately always be a little bit more than a head shorter than him.

"There's dirt on the carpet," I reply flatly, pointing my finger underneath an elaborately carved sideboard.

He laughs, the sound ringing around the room so it seems to fill even that enormous space, and holds his arm out to me, holding me just the tiniest amount too close for strict propriety as he leads me along the corridor.

"I can see you're not easily pleased."

"You'd better believe it."

He smiles but says nothing further, and all I can hear is the seemingly distant beat of music which seems to be getting steadily louder the closer we get to the double doors at the end of the wide corridor.

"Relax, Cashmere," he says, squeezing my arm before releasing me.

"I'm not tense," I reply stiffly, smiling slightly all the same.

He smirks at both me and my obvious lie as he pushes the doors open, and when he does, I am immediately hit by a wall of sound. The combination of people talking, glasses and plates clashing and the music is almost overwhelming. Everyone stops to stare as we walk forwards, though whether they are staring at him or me, I'm not sure. Either way, it feels good to have their attention, like being at home in a way and yet somehow different. I feel strangely reassured that even in a place like this, I can still make people stop and stare. Then I remember that I'm not supposed to be staring at people or letting them stare at me, so I look swiftly away.

I stand in the doorway, watching as Falco greets everyone he sees, seeming to care deeply for each and every one of them despite how he convinced me during our journey here that he actually despises the vast majority of them. Eventually this gets boring so I slowly edge my way further into the enormous ballroom, unable to avoid noticing how everyone seems to be staring at me like I've just appeared out of thin air in a puff of smoke.

I try to tell myself that I'm being paranoid and simply noticing them more because I can't shake the feeling I have that I shouldn't be here. Falco has reassured me that hardly any of them will recognise me now I'm away from the hype and publicity that surrounds the Games, and that there are more than enough 'famous' people here to distract the mob, so knowledge of my identity is unlikely to explain why they are all staring and that means there must be another reason. Am I really so extraordinary in this place? This place would have us believe that beauty is commonplace here, though having said that, looking around me at the garishly dressed, surgically altered people who surround me, I can see very little to confirm that statement as the truth. Maybe it is the place not the people that possesses the beauty, for as I look at the limitless luxury surrounding me, I can't see how that could be denied.

Holding my head up high, refusing to look away when my eyes meet theirs in spite of Falco's warning, which is still echoing in my mind for more than one reason, I soon find myself at the edge of an expanse of space that seems to be there for dancing upon, though my fellow guests currently appear to prefer eating and gossiping.

I remember when Sapphire was alive and we used to dance at parties, usually more to relieve our boredom than for any other reason, and I remember how everyone used to stop what they were doing to watch. When we were little, Father used to tell us off for doing it, saying that we have no manners and that we act like we were dragged up in the slums of District Twelve rather than raised to be upper class ladies of District One. He slapped my face when my thirteen year old self's first response was to say that we can't help looking so good that we distract everyone. After that, we both did it all the more just to annoy him, knowing he wouldn't stop us because he wouldn't dream of causing a scene in public.

As we grew older he stopped objecting, noticing the hungry gazes we got from wealthy onlookers and no doubt planning to sell us to the highest bidders even then. But if Father stopped caring then Gloss quickly took his place for very different reasons. He hated dancing of any kind but he did it anyway, spinning me around on his one side and Sapphire on the other, waiting to pounce on anyone who came near either of us unless we wanted them to, and more often than not even when we did. I feel a pang of grief that is stronger than I have felt for many weeks at the thought that we will never dance again.

The music that begins to play is apparently typical of the Capitol, with strange-sounding instruments and a singer with a high pitched voice that would sound out of place anywhere but here. The rhythmical beat is familiar though, and I can't help swaying in time with it, eventually jumping and spinning like I haven't done since before Sapphire left me, imagining that she will walk through the ballroom doors and join in any second now. I am lost in it, totally oblivious to everything but the music and my memories, dancing for both of us because she should be with me.

Then the music finishes with a flourish and I return abruptly to reality, barely out of breath because of my many years spent training for the Games. The huge room around me is entirely silent, and as I look around, I see that a circle of people has formed and I am at it's centre. They are all whispering to each other and staring, and for once I am lost for words. It hadn't been my intention at the time, it wasn't planned, but from the way most of the people are looking at me, once they work out who I am, I might have started to achieve my objective for the evening and attracted a few sponsors.

"So much for being discreet. They'll have trouble forgetting you after that," comes a voice from behind me.

I spin around to see Falco staring down at me, his expression as unreadable as his voice. His eyes meet mine and neither of us look away, at least not until we hear footsteps approaching, making a clicking sound as the heel of each shoe hits the polished wooden floor. It takes several seconds before the sound of those footsteps is blocked out by the noise which signifies the party has recommenced.

"Are you intending to make a habit of bringing your work home with you or is this a one off occurrence?" asks an almost squeaky voice with such an extreme Capitol accent that it takes me a second to process the woman's words and then a fraction of the time to get very offended.

"You're embarrassing yourself, Astoria. Don't make a scene," answers Falco, with a coldness I have never heard before appearing in his voice.

The woman, who I suppose is a great but very artificial-looking beauty if seen through the eyes of the Capitol, struts over and makes a great show of clinging to Falco's arm, simpering when he looks at her but quickly narrowing her eyes at me when he looks away.

"I'm not making a scene, dearest. This is very exciting. I've never seen a Hunger Games tribute before," she says, looking at me as if she is examining a caged animal at an exhibition. I glare straight back at her, temporarily forgetting I am supposed to be blending in, and she laughs. "Forgive me, I am Astoria Hazelwell," she continues.

'Hazelwell'? That would make her…well, she certainly isn't his sister. How could I be so stupid? How could I let myself be fooled by him? I did, even if I would barely admit it even to myself. I believed the way he looked at me meant something deeper than simple lust or curiosity. It's the Games that did this, that made me drop my guard in a way I never would at home, simply because I have been thinking of so many other things. I haven't told him everything, but I've told him something of my past, I've talked to him as myself, not as the Cashmere most of the world sees, and now I feel betrayed even if I don't truthfully have a right to.

"Cashmere de Montfort," I reply quietly and calmly, having to use every last bit of my District One upbringing to keep my voice and expression steady and neutral. "Hopefully you will see me again."

"I will definitely see you on my television screen in three days time," she says, sounding very much like she is hoping to see me fall at the bloodbath.

"Yes, you will," I tell her, pointedly ignoring Falco even though I feel his eyes boring into me. "Now please excuse me, there is someone I promised to talk to," I finish, gesturing blindly to the vast crowd on the other side of the room and then heading in that direction as calmly as I can make myself go.

I don't know why I feel angry at Falco for not mentioning Astoria, because I know I have no right to feel that way. I know that but it still somehow doesn't change the rage and hurt I have inside me. I feel betrayed despite the fact there is nothing between us. I trusted him like I have trusted no man other than my brother, who doesn't count anyway because that's obviously totally different. I thought that behind the teasing and flirtatious words, there was actually a genuine mutual respect and friendship, but it seems I was wrong.

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. All that matters is that I win the Games. I don't need someone like Falco to rescue me as I am more than capable of rescuing myself. The fact that part of me wanted him to rescue me is beside the point.

"We should return to the Training Centre now, Cashmere," says the person who has occupied my thoughts for most of the evening, smiling at the latest in a long line of his friends and acquaintances who I have spent the last four hours trying to charm into sponsoring me.

"It was lovely to meet you," I say to the man just before he walks away, which is certainly not the first lie I have told tonight and will most likely not be the last. "Let's go," I continue, all of the sweetness gone from my voice as I turn to Falco.

"Cashmere…"

I say nothing, conscious of the people surrounding us who are watching our every move.

"The car is outside," he says, sounding ever so slightly defeated. I have a feeling it won't last.

I sweep out of the vast room and he follows me. I don't stop until I'm back at the car, and when I get in, I gaze out of the window at the enormous mansion I have just left, telling myself I am trying to memorise everything I have seen so I can tell Gloss, but mostly only doing it so I don't have to look at Falco.

"I don't love her, Cashmere. I never have."

"Why should I care? It's nothing to me."

He turns to look at me. I can feel the strength of his gaze even though I focus resolutely on the streets of the Capitol which whiz by outside the window.

"It suited my family to have me marry Astoria," he says, sounding almost like he is talking to himself rather than to me.

"You expect me to believe your father dragged you kicking and screaming to the ceremony?" I ask cuttingly, unable to avoid thinking how that is probably what would have eventually happened to me if I hadn't come here. "Don't make me laugh."

"I was younger than you are now when I married her. I didn't think it mattered that I didn't love her when it made everyone I had ever loved happy."

"Poor Falco," I taunt, still angrier than I have been in a long time. "Oh how you have suffered. Is that why you took the escort's job? You got fed up here and thought District One might afford you some variety?"

"If that is truly what you think of me then there's no point us having this conversation," he replies. "I have been faithful to that shallow excuse for a person who I have to call my wife since the day I married her, and I decided a long time ago that I would never disgrace her family or my own by being otherwise. Then I heard you shouting at that Peacekeeper back in District One and nothing seemed as straightforward after that."

"You heard that?"

He nods and smiles wryly. "I don't care what you think of me, Cashmere. You're going to win the Games and go back to your brother if it's the last thing I do."

I return his smile, his honesty dampening my anger if not my confusion. "I actually think it's rather up to me what happens in the arena."

"I can't fight for you, I know that, but if you need anything, anything at all, then ask and I will send it."

"I might have won a few sponsors tonight but you aren't going to have a bottomless pit of money, Falco. And don't tell me you'll buy it yourself because I know you're not allowed to."

"Ways and means, Butterfly," he says, his familiar smirk suddenly returning. "Besides, I wouldn't worry about sponsors if I were you. I've seen the amount of money appearing in the District One account already and I don't think it's for Sheen."

The car draws to a halt and the driver opens the door for us. When Falco holds his arm out to me, I take it without hesitation. Three days before being thrown into the Hunger Games arena isn't the time to argue with one of the few people with the power to help me, and besides, I know I should but I can't seem to feel anger towards him. I could see the truth of his words in his eyes, and if I hadn't come here then what happened to him would have happened to me. I can't judge him for that.

"I don't know what you really think of me, Falco. Maybe you think I'm a silly little child who knows nothing, but I'm not and I know what it's like," I whisper as we walk into the Training Centre. "To be controlled by your family, I mean." He turns to look at me, bringing us both to a standstill in the entrance hall. I speak before he can, wanting to finish what I was saying. "That's the answer to the first question you ever asked me, partly anyway. I volunteered for the Games because risking my life in the arena is preferable to being forced to marry a cold-hearted, lecherous man who only wants me as a trophy simply to improve my father's status and make him just that little bit richer."

"Is that true?"

I didn't bother to try to keep the bitterness from my voice and I can tell that he believes me even though he asks the question.

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine, but when he opens his mouth to speak, I mirror his gesture and shake my head in return.

"Don't," I tell him. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Go back to the party. I can find my way from here."

"I won't go back there tonight. I don't go there at all unless I have to."

"You are free, you can go wherever you like," I tell him, alternating rapidly between trying to block out the image I suddenly have in my mind of him holding that awful woman in his arms and mentally telling myself to stop being so pathetic. I've known him for four days. There is nothing between us and now, for more than one reason, there never can be.

"Can we at least be friends?"

"I don't know. Can we?" I reply tiredly. Given the basis for our relationship so far, I don't know that we can.

"Yes," he tells me firmly, and when I step into one of the Training Centre lifts, he follows me and I say nothing. When we get upstairs, he drags two of the armchairs from the television room into the dining room, pushes me down onto one and then sits on the other.

"You don't have to speak," he says, "just listen."

I nod and he smiles faintly in response before proceeding to tell me about his life growing up here, about his family and their place in a society that in many ways doesn't sound so very different to that of District One, only on a much grander scale. He tells me about his work, telling me stories about his fellow ministers which I know I would be executed just for knowing about if I ever repeated them. I find I could listen to his voice and his tales of this world my brother and sister and I grew up fantasising about for the rest of the night, and I am sorry when he finally falls silent.

"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask him quietly. "How do you know I won't tell someone else?"

"I trust you. And I want you to trust me."

I can't help thinking how much that sounds like total honesty for probably the first time. His words aren't implying anything or hinting at something he won't say, this is the real person he is, and because of that more than anything else, Astoria suddenly seems to matter less than she did before.

"I do trust you," I reply, scared at the realisation that what I say is true. I have never trusted anyone apart from Gloss and Sapphire before, so it feels very strange. "I don't know why, but I do."

He smiles but says nothing, and we sit in a silence which is considerably more comfortable and relaxed than the atmosphere during our car journey back here, until at exactly the same time, we both hear footsteps approaching.

Sheen has walked into the room and is halfway towards the drinks machine before he sees us, the moonlight reflecting off his blond hair and the pale skin of his bare chest. When he visibly startles in response to our presence, I quickly sit forward in my chair, still feeling like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. It's irrational and annoying but I have barely been able to shake that feeling from the second Falco told me we were leaving the Training Centre. Unsurprisingly, when I turn slightly to face him, my partner in crime and the undoubted instigator of this evening's events is looking as completely unfazed as ever, not even glancing in Sheen's direction but staring at me with an amused expression on his face.

"What are you doing still up?" asks my district partner suspiciously, almost as if he suspects me of plotting an arena strategy without him or our mentors. I smirk to myself, thinking that I don't see why he would be surprised if I was.

"There isn't a bedtime here, Sheen. You're not at home with your mummy and daddy now," I reply mockingly but without being as malicious as I could be. Whatever I think of him, I am finding that I have a problem with truly despising people who most likely have less than a week to live.

"Why are you dressed up like that?" he continues, taking in my fine evening dress, his eyes lingering on my body for just long enough to make me glare up at him until he looks away.

"Cashmere wanted to see the Capitol and the Capitol wanted to see her," answers Falco flatly before I can respond.

"You've been out?" Sheen replies incredulously, not in any way attempting to conceal his shock. "You left the Training Centre?"

I nod. "I went to a party. I was with Falco, so there's no official rule that says I can't."

"Tributes aren't allowed to find their own sponsors. That gives you an unfair advantage," he retorts immediately, his face suddenly hardening for an instant in a way that makes him look like a completely different person to the arrogant, immature boy I almost know. Then his familiar pout returns so quickly that I almost forget his demeanour had changed at all. "That's not fair," he continues.

"There's only one real rule in the Hunger Games, Sheen, and I haven't broken it."

He scowls at me without speaking. I can tell he doesn't have an answer, that he knows I'm technically right even if our Capitol escort and I have been pushing our luck by doing what we did tonight.

"Don't make an issue of this," says Falco. "If you earn them then you won't be without sponsors either. You have the same opportunities as Cashmere."

"I think she's better at earning them than I am," snipes Sheen waspishly in return, his voice dripping with implied meaning in a way I previously didn't believe him capable of.

I stare at the door long after he has vanished back down the corridor, knowing that if someone had said that to me back home then that person would have ended up suffering for it, at Gloss's hand if not at mine, but for some reason the anger I would usually feel isn't there. Sheen is fighting for his life just like I am. I can't say I blame him for his reaction.