AN: Thank you all so very much for your reviews and support. It never ceases to amaze me how many of you enjoy reading ADAD. A special thanks to populardarling who is the wonderful lady who betas this story so it's a better read for everyone.
ADAD Chapter 8
Katniss
I don't sleep at all and by dawn I rise knowing there's no hope for a moment's rest. I decide to make the best breakfast I can for Prim using the meager offerings in the kitchen.
The porridge isn't much and it doesn't look appetizing, but I know Prim is too sweet to turn her nose up at it. When she walks into the room, already dressed for school, she glances at me worriedly.
"Katniss, you look awful," she says in the kindest tone, "Are you feeling well?"
I give my best attempt at a smile, "I'm okay, Little Duck. I just didn't sleep well."
"Your eyes are swollen. Have you been crying?" she asks, placing a delicate hand against my forehead. She's always been sharp as a whip, that's why she will make such a good healer, and I did cry several times throughout the night as I pondered thoughts better left alone.
"It's nothing, Prim," I assure her with the best smile I can muster. "Don't think on it for a second." I hand her a bowl of porridge and she looks entirely unconvinced but doesn't argue anymore.
"Are you sure you're feeling well?" Prim asks once more as she walks out the door on her way to school, "I can stay home if you want."
"Nonsense, Prim," I scold, patting her lightly on the shoulder and handing her a pail of lunch. "I'm walking around just fine, aren't I? I'll be here when you get home."
It's too early to leave for The Hob right now and I have mending that needs to be done by the afternoon, so I try to focus on the painstakingly boring work until I hear the old church bells in the city ring twelve o'clock. The last pair of trousers I mend feels like it might drive me insane until, finally, I cut the thread and hurriedly gather the clothes.
Hazelle is up to her elbows in washing when I arrive and doesn't keep me chatting for too long, which I am grateful for since my mind seems to only hold one thought on repeat at the moment. From the Hawthorne's apartment, I hurry toward the factories and I am pushing through the door of The Hob just as the lunch rush is beginning to die down.
I make my way to the counter and Sae sees me coming, her eyes narrowing. The woman is sharp as an arrow and I'm sure my face gives away my nervousness. I've never been very good at hiding my emotions. Papa always said it was good I was a girl because I'd lose all my money in poker if I weren't.
"What are you doing here, child?" she asks once I'm close enough. Rue is just beside her, scrubbing away at a massive pile of lunch dishes. The young girl looks up and gives a bright smile.
"I need to speak with Mr. Abernathy." My voice trembles traitorously, an octave too high to sound calm and confident, but I continue, "Do you know where I can find him?"
The old woman eyes me, her gaze landing on my hands where I have been nervously wringing my fingers since I walked in. I drop them to my sides immediately, but the damage is already done. She shakes her head ever so slightly and sends me a sympathetic look. She knows. My face flushes with embarrassment, but I know I might as well get over that right now. I try to remind myself that there's no shame in doing what I must to provide for my family.
"He's in the back, dear," Sae says softly, nodding her head towards the door that leads to the rear of the saloon.
I nod my thanks, quickly crossing the saloon under the gazes of a few straggling men, and I find the old drunk just where she said he would be. He's bent over some papers, frowning as he takes a swig of the clear liquor in his glass. His frown deepens to a scowl when he looks up to find me standing in his doorway.
"This should be good," he remarks, taking another long drink before leaning back and fixing me with his gaze. He has Seam eyes, I notice. "What trouble have you brought with you this time, Sweetheart?"
"No trouble," I reply, trying to sound calm despite my racing heart, "I heard you were looking for a new girl for your show."
He smacks his hand against the table, lines deepening in his scowl, "Who told you that?"
"Does it matter?" I retort, holding his gaze. All I really want is for the floor to open up beneath me, but I know that he won't take me seriously if I look unsure of this.
"It was Johanna," he says firmly, shaking his head. I'm not sure how he knows, but I don't deny that he's correct, "Damn that woman. Well, the answer to you is no."
My heart drops into my stomach. This is the only chance I have to feed my family. I take a step forward, ready to fight the old drunk on this.
"You haven't even let me sing yet-"
"No," he cuts off my argument. And looks me over, "You can't be more than a day over fifteen. I'm not letting a child-"
"I'm not a child!" I snap, standing up as straight as I possibly can. I know I'm small and right now I'm bonier than almost any other girl my age. I don't blame him for thinking I'm so young. I lack any curves that might convince him otherwise.
"I'll be eighteen in a week. I'm fully aware of the implications of working for you, Mr. Abernathy, and I would appreciate a fair chance."
His scowl deepens but I don't relent, staring brazenly at the man who holds the fate of my family in his hands whether he realizes it or not. He lets out a deep breath and seems to realize we've reached a standstill.
"You'll get one song to prove that you can do this." He holds up a finger and points it at me, "One, you hear me? And you won't be doing any business upstairs with the other girls. I don't care if I'm not in charge of what goes on up there, I won't have a girl like you dealing in such things."
It strikes me that perhaps I should be annoyed by Mr. Abernathy's assumptions both that I would want to take part in what happens upstairs and that he has any control over what I choose to do. However, I am too grateful at this point to consider arguing with the man. Instead, I nod politely.
"Of course, Mr. Abernathy."
"The show starts at nine o'clock. You get here at seven thirty. Come in the back door. I won't have you walking through the saloon at night until you're working- if you're ever working," he says sharply, clearly none too pleased by the idea. "You'll sing for me and the others and we'll decide then."
"Thank you, Mr. Abernathy. I will be here," I assure him as I turn to take my leave. I have no intention of giving him the opportunity to change his mind.
"Sweetheart," he calls out and I turn, wondering if he even knows my name, "you make good and sure this is what you want before you come back tonight. There's no going back after working at a place like this."
I nod, knowing all too well that my life will be changed forever once I start working in the saloon. Marriage will never be in the future after tonight if all goes according to my plan. I had never wanted to marry of course, but once I become a showgirl there will be no question about it. My reputation will be tarnished forever.
I return home and find myself with little to occupy my worried mind, instead fidgeting uncomfortably the rest of the day, waiting for the evening to come so I can return to The Hob and get this over with.
Mother returns home from a call out on the western edge of the Seam. There's a strange fever spreading there that has her deeply concerned, but when she sees me nervously cleaning the kitchen, she clears her throat.
"Katniss, dear, are you alright?"
I look up into her blue eyes, creased at the corners with worry. I must look a fright if she's actually noticed something different about me.
"I'll be fine, Mother," I answer quietly, my voice just louder than the swish of the towel against the metal sink, "I will be leaving this evening to see about a job."
Her pale eyebrows shoot up as she reaches for my hand, "What job would that be?"
She knows just as well as I do what sort of job requires a girl to go out at night and I stare back at her with a steely gaze. I won't be the one to say it. Perhaps it's cruel. Perhaps I want her to say it because I want to punish her for what she did to us. Perhaps it will soothe something inside of me to make her admit how far into the pit of poverty our family has fallen.
"Katniss…" she whispers, a sad look overcoming her that lights a fire in my belly. How dare she look sad about this. It's my life, my future that is being dragged through the mud.
"I'm going to be a singing girl at a saloon near the factories," I spit, taking great pleasure in the way she winces at my words. "It's all that is left to do now, Mother. I won't be staying here. I plan to make living arrangements above the saloon since I want to protect Prim, but you can't fall apart again. You can't crawl back into your mind and leave her alone."
"I was sick, Katniss-" she starts, but I shake my head.
"It doesn't matter, Mother," I argue, my voice rising despite my best efforts to control it. "You left your daughters to fend for themselves once. You can't do that again. I won't be here to watch out for Prim."
"I came back! I loved your father and losing him killed a part of me," Mother reasons sharply. I have hurt her by pointing out her failure to care for us.
"I loved him too! I loved my father and I lost him just as much as you did, Mother, but I didn't abandon a helpless little girl!" My hands are shaking with fury, tears burning at my eyes, but I don't allow them to fall. I won't let her see me weak.
She looks as though I've slapped her across the face, a small frown forming on her worn face that is still pretty beneath the worry lines.
"I'm sorry," she mouths, a broken, tiny squeak that isn't nearly enough to heal the angry wounds inside of me that still fester with her abandonment.
"It doesn't matter," I lie, "I will get this job tonight and I'll send my money home to you. You just need to make sure Prim is safe and fed and clothed."
Her glassy, blue eyes stare at me as though she's looking at me for the first time. And maybe she is. I'm not the little girl I was before Father died. I'm not the daughter she knew. I've changed in the months that we've both been skirting around one another. We're strangers, really.
"Promise me you'll take care of her," I beg, my voice trembling with the weight of each word.
"I will, Katniss. She's my daughter. Of course I will."
Her words don't soothe me much, but they're all I have so I take them for what they are. Prim walks through the door not five minutes later, glancing curiously at her older sister and mother, noticing the tension in the room.
"Are you okay, Katniss?" she asks, a worried crease forming on her brow.
"Of course, Little Duck," I assure her, ruffling her blonde locks for good measure. "Now, tell me what you learned at school today," I say, changing the subject.
Prim is happy to chatter about her science and math lessons. Despite the cruelty some of her classmates have exhibited, Prim still has such a passion for learning. She's always been the more scholarly of the two of us. Even before things got difficult after Father died, school was always a chore for me, whereas Prim enjoys it.
She carries the conversation through supper and I manage to keep a smile on my face until she's shut away in the bedroom doing homework. I help Mother clear the dishes before nervously brushing at my skirt.
"Don't tell Prim where I went," I mumble, "Tell her I went to see Gale if she asks."
"Katniss, I-"
"I will be back later this evening. No need to wait up for me," I cut her off. I know she was about to tell me something silly, like how sorry she is that this is what we've come to. Being sorry won't change anything though, and it makes my throat close up when she speaks to me in that soft tone. The one she used to use when I was little and she still acted like my mother.
I don't wait for her to respond before hurrying out the door. I'm afraid if I stay I will do something childish like let her hug me or cry.
When I arrive through the back door like Mr. Abernathy instructed me, I'm met with a flurry of activity. Several young women bustle about the room. I manage to catch a glimpse of Johanna, and Clove is shouting something about a garter belt.
Mr. Abernathy is in a corner having a heated conversation with the most garish looking woman I've ever seen. She wears a wig of thickly set curls that tumble from a knot on the top of her head. I've rarely seen a woman wear makeup but I can't see her skin through the thick layer of powders covering her face. Her dress is a shocking pink and she seems to be giving Mr. Abernathy what for.
A man dressed in an elegant suit hurries past me with a blue silk dress in his arms. His skin reminds me of Rue's but it's much lighter and when he speaks to Clove before helping her into the gown, I can't recognize the strange accent.
A man in a pinstriped suit whose face seems to perpetually look as though he's surprised about something, steps through the door that leads to the saloon.
"Time check, ladies, it's seven thirty!" he calls in a clear, tenor voice.
Mr. Abernathy recognizes the time and looks up, spotting me still standing awkwardly in the doorway.
"Everyone, quiet down now," he shouts and silence falls almost instantly, the only sound is that of the customers in the saloon on the other side of the wall.
Mr. Abernathy crosses the room to my side, "Katniss here is looking to fill Catherine's position. She says she can sing and I've given her one song to prove it. You all are going to help me decide if she stays or not."
"Well, she is pretty enough, especially once she has some charcoal around her eyes," the ghastly looking woman says in an airy, falsetto voice.
"Sing away, Sweetheart. You only have one chance," Mr. Abernathy says, stepping away.
As I look out at all the eyes staring at me, I realize I can't breathe, let alone sing. I have not sung anything for a group this large since that day in choir that Peeta remembers so vividly. Thinking of Peeta doesn't help matters either as my breath hitches.
I close my eyes and picture Prim, but not the way she looked today. I picture her those months ago when we were starving to death. I can't let that happen again. I have the opportunity to give her a better life so I must.
The song comes to me like a memory whispered in my ear. Father used to sing it to us when he would come home from work and we were still awake in bed. Sometimes we would sing it in the park together on the days mother would have her lady friends over.
Deep in the meadow,
Under a willow,
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.
I always loved this song. It sounds so lovely, so peaceful, like the perfect piece of heaven. I would dream as a young girl that I would one day find myself in the place the song describes, but now I realize how outlandish that sounds. I will never make it out of this dirty city. I will live and die here like any other member of the Seam.
By the time I sing the final line, I open my eyes and realize everyone is staring in rapt attention. I shift awkwardly when no one moves or says anything. This job is our only hope and perhaps I've just lost it.
"I'll be damned," Mr. Abernathy utters under his breath, a look of sheer surprise on his face.
Johanna is staring at me with a cross between a smile and a smirk. Clove is easier to read with a look of poorly concealed jealousy.
"You should keep her," the man with darker skin says softly but assuredly, that strange lilting accent like a soft harmony, "She has a certain spark about her."
Mr. Abernathy nods, "Is everyone of the same opinion?"
"She seems a bit innocent, don't you think, Haymitch?" Clove pipes in, "Do you think she honestly knows what she's getting into?"
Haymitch levels me with an appraising look and I stare back, hoping it might prove to him that I understand. I know this night is going to change everything.
He nods slowly, "I think she does. Any other concerns?"
No one else speaks out against me, the room deathly still.
"Then I suppose you have the spot, Sweetheart. You're paid every other week and you'll get your cut of the profit just like all the other girls here. Which means, the better you are at your job, the more you'll be paid. Cinna will take care of you for now. Ask Madame Trinket when you should be here to rehearse," Mr. Abernathy reluctantly informs me. "You'll remember our deal though. No outside dealing."
"I remember," I say, stepping forward so that I might speak with him more privately. The others all go back to their earlier flurry of activity as I cross the room. "I also hoped you might rent a room out to me upstairs. I can't live at home if I'm to work here. I have my little sister-"
"Yes," he grumbles gruffly, "You'll stay upstairs but if I catch you going behind my back to earn more money…" he trails off. I already know the results of such indiscretions.
"I won't. You have my word, Mr. Abernathy," I say, a shiver running down my spine just at the thought of such a thing.
"And Katniss?" I lift my gaze to his, "Call me Haymitch. No point in formalities anymore."
I give half a smile before he heads through the door and into the saloon, leaving me to find my own way. I'm supposed to talk with Cinna, though I have no idea who that might be. I peer around the room in hopes that I might recognize him when I see him.
"Bonjour, Miss Katniss," the dark skinned man with the exotic accent says as he steps up gracefully beside me from seemingly nowhere.
"Pardon me?"
He laughs lightly, his voice like fresh cream, something I haven't had in a very long time, but I remember being sweet and rich.
"It means hello," he says, kindly. I don't get the impression he's poking fun at me despite his laughter. Something is gentle in his eyes and I think immediately that I might come to like him very much. A hesitant smile crosses my face.
"I'm Cinna. I'm in charge of all the girls' wardrobes." He holds a hand out to me, which I take lightly.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Cinna," I say softly, hesitating at the strange name. He smiles in a friendly manner.
"I will need to measure you for your dress," he informs me, leading the way to a small sewing table in a tiny room off of the backroom we were just in, "I should be able to make something up for you in two days."
He procures a measuring tape and begins taking down numbers without any pretense. I have half the mind to be embarrassed as his hands brush lightly over my body, but he seems completely unaware that he might be causing any discomfort. Cinna is focused on the work at hand and nothing else as he mutters softly to himself.
I catch a word every so often but I don't understand any of them.
"Petet… jon… rouj… byen jen…"
Curiosity finally gets the best of me as he folds the measuring tape away.
"What language is that you're speaking?" I question as he looks over several large bolts of fabric along the wall.
"Creole," he says, beaming at me over his shoulder for a moment before turning his focus back to the wall, tapping his chin lightly with a slender finger.
"Creole?" I repeat the foreign word. "I've never heard of it before."
"They speak it where I'm from," he says, selecting a fabric and pulling it from the shelf, "I was raised in the city of New Orleans."
"Why did you leave?"
He arches an eyebrow, quirking his mouth in an amused smile, "You are awfully curious for a young lady."
"All girls are curious," I reply easily with a roll of my eyes, "We just aren't supposed to be."
"But you don't follow the rules?" he questions, chuckling under his breath as he holds the fabric over the curve of my shoulder.
"I suppose if I'm going to work for Mr. Abernathy- I mean, Haymitch- I might as well follow my own rules," I shrug. There doesn't seem like much of a point in trying to be ladylike when my reputation will be sullied by tomorrow.
"I think," the older man says, rolling the fabric back onto the bolt, "That more girls should follow in your footsteps, Katniss."
He squints at me for a moment and pulls another fabric from the shelf, holding it up next to my face, "What do you think of the color red? Johanna has told me about you. She says you're a girl with a fire inside of you. I like the idea of dressing you like one- a flame," he throws a hand out in front of us both, moving it slowly through the air as though revealing a sign only he can see. "Katniss, the girl si dife."
I look up at him with a smile and nod.
He's a strange man, I have no doubts about that, but I like him. He's honest and real. He makes me forget that he'll be making me a dress because I'm one of Haymitch's girls and not because I'm paying him to. Cinna sends me back to the front room to talk with Madame Trinket, the woman with the overdone wig and heavy makeup.
"Katniss." She says, leaning in to kiss first one cheek then the other. She smells strongly of rosewater and it nearly makes me gag, but she pulls away quickly with a wide smile accentuated by her red lips, "It's lovely to meet you. I am Madame Trinket." She holds a hand out daintily to me, giving me a look that leaves me under the impression that I should recognize the name.
"Madame Trinket was a Prima Dona in Paris for years before she came to America," Cinna says softly from over my shoulder.
"Oh," I say softly, "It's nice to meet you, Madame Trinket."
She smiles, clearly pleased with herself, "There is the small matter of when you should arrive tomorrow so that we might find you a number to sing and train you a bit in the art of acting. Your voice is quite nice, dear, but that will only get you so far. To be truly great you must be able to transform yourself into what the men out there want."
I nod. Part of me wishes to tell her that I don't care about being great, but then I remember what Haymitch said, about receiving a percentage of the profit. If learning how to act from Madame Trinket will give Prim a more comfortable life, I am willing to give it my best effort. She speaks with an airy voice of self-importance that leads me to believe that I wouldn't ever want to cross her opinions anyway.
We agree that I will arrive promptly at ten the next morning to start my 'finishing' as Madame Trinket likes to call it. By the time I arrive home, the building is quiet, most families having gone to sleep since they will be up in the early hours of the morning. When I slip into our bedroom, Prim is sleeping soundly next to my mother. I can't help but stay up for a while and watch them. Like this, she still looks like the innocent, young girl that she is. Something inside of me is snapping, cracking at the seams, as I watch her but there's nothing to be done about it.
I imagine she'll be furious when I don't return home tomorrow or the next day. She can never know where I am though. Prim will live a better life and sacrificing me is a small price to pay for it really.
There's also the not so minute matter of Peeta Mellark. I haven't given myself a real chance to figure out what to say to him, how to tell him. I know he'll never accept the truth. He promised me once that he would do anything to keep Prim and me safe. If he found out now what I plan to do, he would most certainly put an end to it and I would owe him for the rest of my life. My pride, sinful as it is, won't allow for it. Peeta Mellark has already done too much for me and I won't let him throw away his life to do it again.
I have a fitful night of sleep as dream after dream of Prim calling for me in a garden maze plagues me. Each time I awake gasping for breath, I assure myself that this is for the best. My mind knows it is but my heart seems to disagree.
Prim doesn't suspect anything as she readies for school. Her blue eyes, sunken deeply into her skull, glance at me warily when I hold her in a hug for too long and request an extra kiss. I don't mind though. The extra kiss might have to last me for years before I get the opportunity to safely do so again.
Mother lingers by the doorway of our bedroom once I return to gather the few belongings I have. Her eyes burn at my back as tears escape down my cheeks despite my best effort to contain them.
"Katniss…" she starts but trails off as I tuck Peeta's letters away into a worn sack. I can't turn to look at her. I won't let her see what this is doing to me.
"Just tell Prim that I've gone off and eloped," I whisper my throat too tight to speak any louder. I came up with this plan last night after I woke from my sleep for the third time.
It's an easy excuse, one that would explain my sudden disappearance and the money that will now be sent to them. Somehow, I've met a man with means and convinced him to marry me. It's not unheard of through the girls who climb the social ladder in such a manner are typically shunned from society. I plan to disappear as it is so I don't much mind either way.
It's the same lie that I plan to tell Peeta when I post a letter explaining my disappearance. If I break his heart in this way, he will never come looking for me. My hope is that he'll move on, marry a lovely lady, and have beautiful, gentle children. My own heart splinters every time I think about the sentences I will have to form tonight. I wish there were some other way, one that would allow us to be together, one that wouldn't mean I would owe Peeta everything for the rest of my life.
"Will you visit?" Mother's defeated voice asks from over my shoulder. I wipe my tears and straighten, gathering the sack over my shoulder.
"Not for a long time. It would have to be safe," I answer, brushing my skirt down with shaky hands, "I don't want Prim being linked back to me."
"That's impossible Katniss, someone will surely recognize you," Mother argues tensely. She's wringing her hands, which she only ever does when she's uncomfortable about something.
"Hopefully they won't. I won't look like myself and they won't call me by my real name."
It's not much assurance, but it's all I can give her. We have to hope that I won't be recognized and traced back to my baby sister so she still has a chance at a normal, respectable life.
"I will send my earnings home every week," I add because she's still standing there, looking at me sadly with her pale blue eyes, the ones that look so much like Prim's.
"I need to be going," I whisper, my throat swelling shut once again as I blink furiously at the tears burning in my eyes.
Her arms are around my shoulders before I can comprehend that she's moved, "I am not as strong as your father. He never would have let this happen. I am so sorry, my darling Katniss."
I can't recall the last time my mother sounded so emotional and her embraces have always been rare. It's strange but comforting, her skin soft and yielding against mine, and for a moment I allow myself this indulgence. For a moment, I allow myself to forget all the anger and pain and it is blissful.
The church bell rings out that it is half past nine o'clock and I pull away reluctantly, the reality of the situation crashing back around us like Lake Michigan's waves on the shoreline. I try not to look back as I walk out the front door of my home for what could very well be the last time. I've heard it's bad luck to look back at your past when leaving to face the future. Mostly I'm just afraid the tears I'm trying to hold back so desperately might start to fall if I do.
Peeta
"Carl, you're just the man I was hoping to see," Peeta says cheerfully from over his morning cup of coffee, "I have a bit of a puzzle for you to help me solve."
"Yessir!" Carl nods with a toothy grin, always ready for a challenge.
"I need to locate a certain valuable item that Katniss sold to a store in return for money," Peeta explains to the younger boy, "Where might I find a shop that deals in trades like that?"
Carl eyes the blonde man as though he's gone completely mad, "Well, there are plenty of shops like that in the Seam, Mr. Mellark."
"That is what I feared," he sighs heavily, letting his head fall into his hands in thought, "How many shops are we talking about?"
"I don't know, sir." Carl itches behind his ear as he ponders for a moment, "At least twelve, I think."
Peeta shakes his head, "No, that definitely won't do. It would take longer than we probably have."
He drums his fingers against the desk in thought and snaps his fingers when he finally thinks of something, "How many are near Katniss's home? I doubt she would have gone out of her way."
"There are two, both of them a few blocks from her building," Carl responds easily and Peeta suspects that the boy would make a damn good cabbie one day if he ever got the chance. He already knows the city like the back of his hand.
"Excellent, Carl, then we have our mission." Peeta claps the young boy on the back, gathering his jacket and heading for the door. Carl follows without asking, looking up at the man beside him and waiting for his assignment.
"We're looking for the hair comb I gave Katniss for Christmas," Peeta explains as the boys hurry down the back staircase where Peeta knows he'll find the driver in the kitchen talking with the scullery maid.
Carl frowns, "The one with the flower carved on it? What did Miss Katniss sell that for?"
"She and her family needed the money for the rent," Peeta says mournfully, "They are in a rough spot right now. Katniss was just so upset. I thought I might surprise her by returning it to her."
"Sir, are you sure she won't be upset by it?" Carl asks, his voice cracking from his anxiety. His voice is mostly finished changing however when the young boy gets nervous it tends to revert back to his child's voice.
Peeta frowns at the grey eyes peering curiously up at him, "Why would she be?"
"It's just," the boys cheeks flush red and he turns his gaze to the toes of their shoes before continuing, "she sold it to take care of her family. It might look like you think you could do a better job of it if you go around buying what she was forced to sell."
Peeta's brow creases. He had never thought of it like that, which just goes to show how different things in the Seam can be. With a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair and nods.
"I understand that, but I still want to do this." Carl nods and Peeta adds, "Besides, if she lets me explain, she'll see that I don't mean it like that."
Katniss was so upset when she had to tell him that she sold that comb. He could tell that, while she didn't want to accept the gift in the first place, it had become important to her. He knows it is important to him. She had been wearing it the first day he kissed her. Somehow that made the tiny object worth chasing down.
Once the driver has pulled the automobile around, Peeta and Carl settle into their seats, "Where are we headed then?" Peeta questions the younger boy who quickly gives an address.
It's fascinating for Peeta to watch how the city changes around him with each passing block. Initially, they pass one opulent mansion after another. Mansions turn to cramped apartments, to the rundown slums of the center of the city. Of course, Peeta has ridden this same path dozens of times before but today it takes him to a different section of the Seam, one grittier than where Katniss lives and it makes him queasy imagining his small Katniss hurrying along the sidewalks to scrounge enough money to survive.
A layer of grime has settled here in every crack and crevice, giving the area a grey hue despite the bright sunny day. Children walk through the streets without shoes in clothes that look as though they've never been washed. However, it isn't the clothing that holds Peeta's attention, but rather their bodies; the knobby joints, the heavy limps and missing fingers or hands, the girls with hair cropped short like a boy so that it doesn't get caught in machinery. Peeta wonders how he has never noticed this before.
"Is your home near her, Carl?" Peeta questions, peeling his eyes from the view outside of his window for a moment.
"No, sir," he replies with a look too solemn for a boy his age to be capable of in Peeta's mind, "This is where the poor live."
"I thought everyone in the Seam was poor." Peeta hopes his words aren't insensitive but the boy beside him doesn't seem perturbed by them.
"Not like these people. They don't have homes."
"Then where do they live?" Peeta frowns, imagining the cold Chicago winters where the wind whips between the buildings straight off the lake.
"In allies or charity houses if they are lucky," Carl answers, wide grey eyes meet blue, "Mama makes us give thanks every night that we aren't one of them."
Peeta is at a loss for words as he looks at the grave face of his companion. He knows that Carl's family is better off now that the boy works for him instead of trying to sell newspapers, but he also knows things aren't easy for them. His chest aches thinking about such a young boy being thankful for the little he has instead of living on the streets. Someone that young shouldn't be that wise.
"This is the shop right here," Carl points over Peeta's shoulder at a dingy, crumbling storefront. Peeta's mind instantly compares it to the ice cream parlor he had once visited with Katniss. That is the sort of place she should frequent, not this. She's far too radiant for a place like this.
The creaking hinges on the door act as a warning that people are entering the shop and a greasy man appears as though summoned from the grime itself.
"Can I help you?" he questions in a deep, heavy accent, eyeing Peeta suspiciously. Clearly he doesn't get many visitors dressed in day suits.
"I hope you can," Peeta says, flashing his brightest smile and stepping up to the counter, "I am looking for a hair comb."
"A particular one?" The man asks slowly, reaching under the counter and procuring a large, thin wooden box and placing it on the counter.
"I will know it when I see it," Peeta replies easily. Something tells him that he should keep the entire story a secret from this man.
The storekeeper raises a bushy eyebrow but nods, opening the box and revealing a large collection of hair trinkets, many of which are damaged in some way.
A quick glance tells Peeta the comb isn't here, "Are there any others? Perhaps nicer?"
The man huffs indignantly, insulted by Peeta's insinuation. Carl fidgets uncomfortably but the man bows into a back room, muttering to himself in a language Peeta doesn't recognize.
When he returns, the man carries a much smaller box, only about the size of his hand, "Seam rat brought this in."
Peeta's heart jumps excitedly at his chest as he peers around the man's hands. There, nestled against a bit of worn, black satin, is the familiar lotus blossom carved intricately from ivory and set with tiny sparkling rhinestones.
"How much?" Peeta inquires, his voice soft and breathy as his mind flashes the memory of Katniss that day in the park.
"Fifteen." The man gives a smile that reveals yellowed, crooked teeth.
"Ten," Carl pipes up just as Peeta was about to reach out a hand and seal the deal. Both older men look down at the boy with looks of surprise.
The greasy man grunts, but apparently he can't resist haggling, "Fourteen."
"Eleven and no more." Peeta watches the blood drain from Carl's face as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets.
"Too little. Thirteen and final." He crosses his arms with a firm look.
"Then we will find another elsewhere," Carl states dragging Peeta by the hand out the front door. Peeta has half a mind to ask Carl what's gotten into him but he trusts the boy and follows along.
Just as Carl's hand reaches the doorknob, the greasy storekeeper calls after them, "Wait! Twelve and you take the box."
"Deal." Carl gives a toothy grin and shakes the man's hand while Peeta counts out the bills.
Once they're safely ensconced in the automobile again, the dirty box held protectively in Peeta's lap, he smiles at Carl.
"I didn't realize you were so good at business," he chuckles.
Carl lifts his shoulders sheepishly, "I have sold to that man before. He knew no other man would be able to afford even the twelve dollars you paid, sir. That was a lot of money." His voice cracks on the last word and it wrings Peeta's heart.
He knows that it is a lot of money of course, but something about hearing it from Carl is particularly heartbreaking. He wonders what the younger boy's family might be able to do with so much money. Admittedly, Peeta doesn't know much about Carl's life outside of the hours he spends with Peeta. He knows the young boy has several other siblings and two working parents, but he hasn't a clue about anything else. Part of him wishes he did know more, but the other part of him knows that Carl hasn't offered up any information either. He suspects the young boy doesn't particularly want to share details of his home life, which Peeta can only respect.
"I hope Miss Katniss will be pleased," Carl murmurs as an afterthought, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Peeta smiles as well, resting back against the soft seat of the automobile, "I hope she will be, too, Carl."
Katniss
There isn't a moment's time wasted when I walk through the door of The Hob. Immediately, Madame Trinket swoops in on me, a cloud of scented water and green fabric.
"First, we absolutely must get you into something more presentable," she chides, guiding me with a hand on my arm into the back room.
"I haven't anything more presentable." I mutter, but she's already lost in her own thoughts, pulling out a gown I don't recognize and unfastening me from the dress I'm wearing. My hands immediately reach up to preserve what modesty I can manage. The woman before me seems entirely oblivious to my embarrassment though and continues to unlace my corset.
"This tattered thing is only fit for the trash," Madame Trinket muses to herself, "Cinna is still making your new gown, this one is Clove's but it should suffice for now."
A new corset is placed around me and I nearly wheeze when she gives the first pull on the strings. For as petit and graceful as Madame Trinket looks, she has a vicious ability to lace a corset, and she doesn't just tighten it like I normally wear it. She keeps pulling at the laces until I'm certain I can't breathe, then she tightens them some more.
"Don't hold your breath, Katniss," she chastises, "I need to get these laces tight."
"I believe they already are," I hiss uncomfortably. How does she expect me to sing when I can't even take a decent breath?
"This is the problem with you girls coming out of the Seam," she muses to herself, mercilessly yanking at the laces again, "You have never worn your corsets tight-laced before. This isn't about comfort, Katniss; it's about fashion. You need to look desirable and this will set you on the right path."
"I can't breathe," I retort, trying desperately not to hate the woman before I really even get to know her, but with each tug at the corset, my patience dwindles.
"Of course you can!" Madame Trinket argues, "I have tied the corsets of every girl here. I know far better than you how they must be tied," she knots the laces with a flourish, "There. That already improves your appearance leaps and bounds."
I'm too preoccupied with fighting against the bindings to take insult at her comment as she slips the gown over me and deftly fixes the row of buttons down the back.
"Almost a perfect fit, dear!" Madame Trinket chirps, clapping happily, clearly quite pleased with herself, "Now sit here. I will show you how you should fix your face."
I frown, not at all inclined to let the woman touch my face. Madame Trinket's face isn't any less garish than it was yesterday, painted with rouge, and charcoal, and rosy color on her lips.
"Try to hide your horror, brainless," Johanna's voice comes from behind her. I turn, wide eyed, to find Johanna leaning against the doorframe with a smirk, "She always saves the worst of it for herself."
I settle onto the tiny stool that Madame indicated and try not to cringe as she smears the white puff over my face, followed by a pot of rouge that she dips a brush into and dabs across my cheeks. She reprimands me when I flinch and my eyelids flutter as she tries to line them with charcoal. I wonder what mother would say if she could see me now. I suspect she would be rightfully horrified. No dignified lady paints her face.
I silently admit to myself when I look in the mirror that I do appear more attractive, though I don't really look like me. I look like one of the girls that act in the operas, sultry and flawless. It's strange to watch the reflection looking back at me, almost unrecognizable, but I know it must truly be my own visage because this face still has the same hollow cheeks and familiar grey eyes.
"Come, come, Katniss," Madame Trinket claps again. Her clapping is quickly beginning to wear on my patience, but I follow anyway, stepping up onto the low stage in the main room of the saloon.
A sheet of music is thrust into my hands and a man I have never seen before starts to pluck the notes out on a piano next to the stage. I stare blankly at the dots and lines above the words on the sheet.
"What on earth is the matter?" Madame Trinket asks with a deep frown when I don't begin to sing with the music.
"I haven't the slightest idea of how to read this," I hold up the sheet of paper in mild irritation, "I learn songs from listening to them."
"Oh for the love of God." Johanna pipes up from the corner of the room where she's been observing the scene with a look of amusement.
"Joseph," Madame Trinket chirps, not phased by my admission, "You sing along the first time while you play. Katniss you listen and learn the music."
An hour later, I have finally managed to learn the words to the song that Madame Trinket apparently expects me to sing in the show. It's a horrid song though, with silly lyrics and overly dramatic harmonies. I stumble through it disinterestedly. It has no meaning, no purpose-
"Stop!" the gaudy, Frenchwoman shouts for what must be the tenth time, "You must make the men like you," she calls out clearly from her seat in the saloon, cutting off my song from where I stand on the small stage. "Singing like that, they will admire your voice for a moment and forget you. You must allow them to feel the music with you. They must suffer your pain so they might imagine saving you from it. They must revel in your happiness so they might imagine sharing it privately with you."
It makes me queasy to think about teasing the audience of men like this. Ladies are not meant to tease or incite desire. That's what my mother and society has taught me since I was a child, but now this woman demands I do the exact opposite.
"I don't know how to do that," I grit out between my clenched teeth, frustration boiling over in my blood. Johanna chortles from her seat in the corner, finding my struggle more amusing than everyone else in the room, Madame Trinket included.
The older woman frowns at the sound of her laughter, "Fine. That will be enough for today. Johanna, you will come back tomorrow and help Katniss work on her appeal."
Johanna rolls her eyes but nods.
"Haymitch will expect you on the schedule in two days though, so we have much, much, much more work to do before then," Madame Trinket chirps.
Johanna ambles towards us, "Come on, brainless. I'll show you where your room is."
The stairs are narrow and steep as they creak under our feet, reminding me of the ghost tails of haunted houses that I was told as a child. The room Johanna guides me to looks almost identical to the one they put Gale up in for the night only weeks ago.
There is a bed with an old, worn quilt covering it. A small dresser rests against the wall next to the door and a chipped washbasin sits atop it alongside a water pitcher. A table with two chairs is in the far corner with an oil lamp settled perfectly in the center of its worn surface.
It's a simple room, really not any better than home, but I didn't take this job for my own comfort. I'll be fed and clothed here and I'll still have money to send home to Prim and mother.
I try to dawdle about, unpacking the few belongings with me as slowly as I can manage so I don't have to face the one thing I am still dreading about today. Saying goodbye to the home I've always known was difficult, but I still have to part ways with Peeta. The thought severs whatever seams were keeping my heart pulled together. My chest aches painfully, but I can't avoid this. It's for the best that I end things with Peeta. He would never accept this fate for me.
Procuring a small sheet of paper and a stub of a pencil, I settle down at the table and set to writing a letter that will ensure Peeta will never come looking for me again. I know I have to break his heart, but in the process I end up breaking my own.
I swat at my tears in irritation. The very last thing I need is to stain the letter with them so he knows I was upset while writing these words. And so it is, with certain effort and a great amount of emotional turmoil later, I scribble my name, shakily at the end of a letter full of lies and hurtful sentences. I seal it away in an envelope and scrawl his name across the front before hurrying out of my room. I don't want to spend a moment there thinking about what I am about to do. If I think about it, I might change my mind and the results would be disastrous, I am sure.
I walk until the sun has nearly set, the long summer day fading into a short, sticky summer night. I find a young boy selling papers on the corner of a street, much like Peeta had found Carl, I imagine, and ask him to deliver the letter promptly to Mr. Mellark, passing him several silver coins.
I only watch for a minute as he hurries past late evening couples walking home in the fading evening light. I turn away then and head back to The Hob, back to the life I have chosen, for better or for worse.
Peeta
He can't believe the words on the sheet of paper before him. He can't possibly have comprehended them correctly. He can't breathe. He can't think. This surely can't be happening.
An unfamiliar boy had delivered the letter just after dark and Peeta had quickly begged leave from the drawing room to retire for the night so he might read the letter in peace. As he grips the back of the chair, staring down at the offensive paper on his desk from where he stands, he is glad he did not read it in his mother's presence. She most certainly would have snatched it away from him, demanding if he had seen a ghost.
He looks at the signature and back up to the line reading his name, only his name; no dear nor sweetest, simply Mr. Mellark. The words sting as he reads them, like rubbing salt into wounds he didn't realize he had. The body of the letter proves no more comforting than a stampede of buffalos trampling his chest.
He reads the words again like the masochist he knows he must be.
Mr. Mellark,
I write to inform you that further inquiry for my company need not be made for I have eloped today.
I felt you deserved to hear of the news from my own hand rather than by any rumors you might hear. I wanted to give you an explanation for what might seem like a rash decision. You see, for the past several months, my fancy has been captured by a handsome man by the name of Mr. David Whitman. Mr. Whitman had never taken notice of me, however, and I was desperate to catch his eye as he had caught mine.
When you started to make your affections known, I saw such an opportunity that would allow me to incite Mr. Whitman's jealousy and chose to take full advantage of it. I allowed you to grow closer to me and I professed to false affections of my own towards you. I do most sorely regret any pain I have caused you with my deceit. I used you, selfishly, as a pawn in my game.
Our budding romance succeeded in catching Mr. Whitman's eye and he asked me, most suddenly, to marry him only this evening past. He had no interest in a wedding and I have never been so sentimental as to desire such a thing so we eloped.
I hope you might one day forgive me for using your freely given trust only to further my own position. If you might not forgive, then I hope you might forget and move on to care for another lady more deserving than myself. I have found my love, Mr. Mellark, and wish you the same happiness.
Sincerely,
Katniss
Peeta swings out a hand and sends a small clock crashing to the ground, hoping that this might ease the throbbing in his chest and allow him to breathe again. He's not sure he wants to breath again though. Breathing only means he'll have to live with the knowledge that she is gone from his life.
Married. Married. He kicks at the chair roughly, sending it skittering across the room, scratching the shiny gloss of the wooden floor. It doesn't help though. The damage of it only fuels his anger, leaving him hungry for more.
He cries out a harsh, heaving sob. Why does it feel like his body is being torn to shreds from the inside out? How can he feel so hollow? How can he make it stop hurting?
It's when he asks himself this question that he remembers the bottle of whiskey Axel had hidden in his suite two years ago. His mother had been furious with her middle son's behavior and threatened to turn the room inside out and take every depraved object from him.
"It's the best money can buy," Axel had told him, "She'll just empty it down the drain. You can't waste whiskey like this on something like that. Just leave it here and I'll take it back when it's safe." He had said, sliding it, ironically enough, behind Peeta's copy of the Holy Bible.
Axel had never taken the bottle back though, instead telling Peeta to keep it for a rainy day. Today is that rainy day. He throws the books roughly from the shelf to the floor as he searches for the amber liquid.
The glass bottle is just where Axel left it and in one swift movement, Peeta uncaps the bottle and guzzles down a fourth of it. He coughs and sputters as he comes up for air, the liquid burning like fire as it descends into his stomach. He can still think too clearly though so he drinks more.
It's not long before he's slumped against the post of the foot of his bed, shirtsleeves unbuttoned along with the first three buttons under his neck. He couldn't seem to breath so he thought it might help to have them undone but lost interest before he could manage to take the entire shirt off.
He gazes at the crumpled letter in his hand, vision blurring as he stares blankly at her name in her handwriting. It only takes him a moment to strike the match he's holding and light the offending thing on fire. He can't stand to look at it any longer. It hurts too much.
He lets the paper drop once the flames lick his fingers and it singes the hideous Oriental rug that he's always hated anyway but his mother forced him to keep. Peeta watches the curls of smoke rise up, floating gracefully through the air.
He tries to ignore the knock at the door but whoever it is doesn't have any proper manners and enters without his bidding to do so. Glenn smelt smoke out in the hallway as he passed on his way to his own rooms. Thinking perhaps his younger brother lit a candle and fell asleep, Glenn decided to check on the younger man.
"Oh Peet," Glenn's voice carries to him from the door. He doesn't really sound like Glenn though because Glenn wouldn't sound so concerned.
Glenn doesn't get concerned about anything because Glenn doesn't have emotions. Glenn is smart. It's safer not to feel at all than to feel and end up like the pathetic mess Peeta is now.
"What have you done, little Peet?" His brother soothes as he brushes a hand through Peeta's hair and looks into the younger man's eyes with his own impossibly pale ones.
Peeta doesn't know why or how, but he suddenly sees all the emotion there, locked away behind the washed out blue of his brother's eyes. Glenn loves Peeta, no matter how stupid that feeling might be. Something snaps inside him like a beam that finally cracks after the flames of a fire have ravaged it, sending sparks flying wildly and uncontrollably into the air.
Glenn has never seen his little brother fall apart quite so completely and tragically as the young man buries his face against the clean linen of his older brother's shirt. Peeta had always been the kindest and happiest of the three Mellark brothers. Glenn knows something awful must have happened to reduce him to this state and Glenn hates whatever that something might be.
It's not until Peeta sobs out a name that Glenn realizes that a person might have done this to his little brother. Katniss, he had said. Glenn has never known most of Peeta's friends, being six years older, but he's sure that if he ever meets this Katniss, he will make her suffer more than his dearest brother is now.
"Hush, Peet, you have to quiet down," he tells the sobbing man in his arms, still brushing a gentle hand through his sweaty curls. "We don't want Mother to hear you. She'll be livid if she sees you like this."
Peeta doesn't really quiet down but Glenn doesn't have the heart to tell him again so he lets his brother cry and holds him because it's all he can think to do. He's never quite known how to show Peeta that he would do anything for him; that he, quite simply, loves his little brother more than words could ever describe. The older man has never been able to tell him this though.
Sometime well into the wee hours of the morning, Peeta quiets down to a sniffling mess, completely drained of energy and still drunk to boot. Glenn manages with some difficulty to get the stockier man into bed and strip his clothes off before covering him with a blanket.
Peeta falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. His soft, deep breathing is the only sound left in the overlarge suite as Glenn brushes a stray curl back from his forehead. Tomorrow Peeta will suffer for tonight's decisions, Glenn is sure about that, but perhaps it will take away some of the lingering hurt that the girl, Katniss, caused him.
"Good night, little Peet. I don't know what she did to you, baby brother," Glenn whispers to his unconscious brother, and for the first time in his life utters the words, "But I love you no matter what."
…
The light sends pain shooting straight from his eyes to the back of his skull when he cracks them open the next morning. He lets out a groan both because of his pulsing headache and the rush of memories from last night. It only comes back in flashes- his rumpled shirt, the letter on fire, someone, and he's afraid that someone was Glenn, holding him while he sobbed.
He sits up slowly and the room starts to spin. He lies back against the pillow in hopes that it will stop before he gets sick all over the bed. Peeta can hear the sounds of the house waking up below, recognizing that it must be well into the morning by now but he can't fathom finding the motivation to get out of bed. So he lies there, staring up at the ceiling hoping that the throbbing in his head will take some of his heartache with it when it wears off.
Peeta is not sure how long he lies there before the door slowly cracks open and Glenn's lanky form steps inside. Peeta closes his eyes and hopes his brother might think he's still asleep. He doesn't want to look the older man in the eyes after last night and he doesn't even remember everything that happened.
"Peet, I lived with you for over half of my life. I know you're awake." Glenn says softly setting a tray down on the bed next to his brother with half of a grin. He remembers how Peeta used to do this all the time as a young child in hopes that he wouldn't be forced to attend school. It never worked.
"I brought coffee and toast. I figured your stomach probably doesn't feel too great this morning," he says settling into bed next to Peeta so that his back is against the footboard.
He toes Peeta in the side, "You have to wake up, Peeta. Mother will be up here soon if you don't. I told her you were feeling a bit under the weather this morning but that's only going to work for so long."
Peeta groans but opens one eye to glare at Glenn. He doesn't say anything but sits up slowly, propping himself against the headboard.
Glenn hands him the cup of coffee, "I know you don't like the taste but it helps, trust me."
Peeta takes a swig of the steaming beverage and grimaces. It tastes just as awful as he remembers. He kicks the rest of it back, trying not to think about the bitter taste of it. If it helps with the spinning, he would drink an entire pot of the stuff.
He starts in on the toast next, nibbling at first, wary of how it will sit on his churning stomach. The heavy rye bread seems to banish any nausea however and he's cleared the plate almost before he realizes it, suddenly famished.
When he is done, Peeta looks up to his brother's gaze for the first time. Glenn has been watching him the entire time but the younger man couldn't bear to look up at him. Now he has no choice though with nothing further to occupy himself. The drab blue of his oldest brother's eyes question him wordlessly but he pretends he doesn't see it.
Glenn isn't about to let him off that easy though.
"Whatever she's done, she's a fool for it," he says, "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay, but I am here for you, Peet. And if I ever meet this Katniss-"
"Don't say her name," Peeta hisses, realizing he must have drunkenly spoken her name last night. "I don't want to hear it ever again."
Glenn nods, "Fair enough. But if I do meet her, she'll hear a piece of my mind. Clearly she is a stupid, little girl if she did this to you."
"She isn't though," Peeta whispers, pain palpable in his voice.
"Anyone who hurts my baby brother's heart must be a fool. You're too good for her, Peet," Glenn says with a frown before standing and gathering the now empty trays.
"You should take a bath. You smell awful and it will help clear your head," Glenn suggests, back to his typical clinical tone.
"Will it ever stop hurting, Glenn?" Peeta questions his voice that of a child's, eyes wide with the terrifying thought of always feeling this way.
Glenn gives a half smile, "The hangover will be gone by this evening, Peet, I promise."
"You know that's not what I meant. You loved Sara, the girl from the Seam. I didn't realize it then but the way you looked at her-"
"That was a long time ago, Peeta," Glenn interrupts but it's impossible to miss the regret in his voice. "You need to get up. Mother will be up soon."
Peeta nods and starts slowly making his way out of bed. Just as Peeta is about to enter the bathroom, Glenn calls out from the doorway.
"Peeta?" Both men turn to face one another from opposite sides of the room, "It gets easier as time goes on. It won't always hurt like it does right now."
They stare evenly at one another for a long moment, both men sharing a part of himself with the other that no one else in the world knows. The room falls into silence for a long while before Peeta nods slowly and they each turn to leave the room. Peeta hopes his brother is correct when he says it will get easier because right now all he wants to do is curl up in a hole and wait to die.
AN: Please feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter by leaving a review. I truly appreciate hearing from each and every one of you. I've been terrible about responding to them lately with work and the holidays but I promise I do read them all and I am trying to keep up with answering them!
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