I have a silly moment of trying to think of a way to send the delivery to the wrong house, trying to spare Katniss the nasty shock. Hazelle coolly redirects them though, and we spend a moment staring at each other questioningly. The hard times in the district have very obviously been a direct result of Snow's anger with Katniss and me failing on the tour. He is punishing us, by punishing those we love. Even those who simply have the audacity to live in the same district we do. We spend the days wondering whether the widespread misery will be appeasement enough, or if he's eventually coming for us more directly. So what then does a crateful of wedding gowns mean?
My heart lifts and I meet Hazelle's steady gray eyes with hope. "Do you think this means-" I begin, but she cuts me off with a frowning shake of her head.
"No," she answers darkly. "He's not going to let her off with a miserable marriage anymore." I try to keep my face impassive but she wrinkles her nose contritely. "Sorry. But you know I'm right." She pats my hand on the table and rises. "I better get home and start dinner for my little ones. Will you make sure Haymitch drinks the tea? If you can get any of the soup down him, it will do him a world of good."
I promise her I'll do my best and stand in the doorway as she makes her way down the path, watching her for as long as I can see her. When I turn back to the warm, bright kitchen Haymitch is wavering at the counter. He looks awful, gray and drained, his lank, greasy hair hanging in his eyes and a visible tremor in his hands. On the upside, he isn't ranting and threatening me with what I'm often certain are anatomically impossible consequences for not giving him more liquor.
"Hey, Haymitch," I say in a low, calm voice, like I'm approaching a cornered beast. "How are you feeling? Can I get you some tea?"
He scowls at me with disgust and collapses into a chair at the table. He lifts his nose and sniffs toward the stove. "Is that potato soup?"
"Hazelle made it for you," I tell him, trying to hide my relief that he's showing any interest in food. It's been a rough couple days. He grunts an expletive about the "woman who destroyed his house," but dives eagerly enough into the bowl of hot soup I serve him. A little color is coming into his face and the tremor doesn't leave his hands, but lessens. Once I'm satisfied he's taken care of for the night, I bid him good-night and make way to my own house, dark but snug.
In the kitchen, I dip fresh bread into my own bowl of Hazelle's excellent soup and toy with the idea of calling Portia to get a feel for what the Capitol is being told. The bugged phone line puts a stop to that idea, though, and I finish my dinner in silence. Cleaning my dishes at the sink, I stare out the window into the darkness and wonder what's coming next.
The next day I spend feeling anxious and on edge. I can't stand to be inside, even my studio doesn't hold my attention. Heading out, I wander aimlessly. I don't want to get anyone I know in trouble by associating with me, it's hard enough seeing strangers cross the street to avoid me. I watch the trees, quiet and inviting in the distance. Only an idiot would consider trying to duck under the fence these days, though. That doesn't stop me from passing next to the meadow, and I'm surprised by the low, menacing hum that indicates the fence is live. Is this just another move by the Peacekeepers to exert control, or is something coming and flight is anticipated? Even more worried, I turn back and head for the village, I need to talk this through with someone. Katniss is out of the question, I don't want to wind her up any more than necessary until I know for sure what I'm talking about. The phones are out as well, and that only leaves Haymitch. Beggars can't be choosers, I guess.
He answers my knock and I'm relieved to see him looking tired, but lucid. I follow him as he turns and disappears back into the house. It surprises me every time I come here and it's clean and fresh smelling. We settle into chairs in the living room and he nurses a cup of tea. Ignoring his failure to offer me one, we sit in silence for a little while. I'm not sure how to bring up what I want to talk about. It feels like a bunch of minor, disconnected observations, rather than an overarching threat when I try to put it into words. Haymitch isn't helping at all, grumpily waiting me out. Finally, I just dive in.
"The fence is back on," I tell him. Gratifyingly, his eyebrows lower and he looks worried.
"Since when?" he asks.
"Today, I think," I tell him. "I was near it yesterday and didn't notice anything, but I wasn't looking for it either. Also," I continue, "Snow sent a bunch of wedding gowns for Katniss to pick from last night. Is that as weird as I think?"
He watches me quietly for a few minutes before dropping his head and swearing under his breath. When he looks up, his gray eyes are strained. "Bagel boy," he says heavily, "we may be at the beginning of a world of hurt."
Icy fingers clutch my stomach and I grip my hands together. "I was afraid of that," I mutter. "What is he aiming for, though?" I ask urgently. "Does he want us to get so desperate that there really is an uprising, and then he can smash the entire district under his boot?"
"Maybe," Haymitch nods. "But maybe he doesn't want to lose an entire district. There's already trouble in 8, and if rumors are believed, other districts are getting rowdy as well." He shakes his head, watching me carefully. "He tried to get you guys to calm them down, and it didn't work. He has no use for Katniss anymore, she's just a constant reminder. Now, he needs to get rid of her altogether." I watch him with growing unease. He's right, Snow can't possibly keep her around. I've been fooling myself to think reason would win out in this.
"So he sends the district to the brink of starvation," I say, talking it through, "then sets her up in an unreal gown with a lavish wedding that would have fed the entire district for a year." I look up and see the confirmation on his face. "He's going to televise the entire thing. Every little bit of how much she is part of the Capitol, happy and celebrating while the districts slowly starve to death. They'll hate her."
He shrugs. "If he outright killed her, she'd be a martyr. This way, he gets rid of her influence, then he does her in and everyone is happy she's dead."
I stare at him as he delivers this cold indictment with seemingly no emotion. As I struggle to come up with a way out of this, the silence in the room begins to feel thick, suffocating, and I leap with a yelp at the sudden banging on the front door. Haymitch smirks at me and heaves himself out of the chair. He goes to answer the knock and I hover in the hallway, within earshot but not clearly visible.
"Afternoon, sir," comes a crisp, authoritative greeting.
"Is it?" he asks blearily, sounding more disoriented than he did a moment ago. "I just woke up," he says apologetically. "How can I help, officers?"
"We're looking for Katniss Everdeen, have you seen her, sir?" I don't recognize the voice, but it carries all the smug arrogance of the new Peacekeepers, none of them have been here longer than a few weeks. All of our familiar officers have disappeared.
I step into the hallway and offer my most welcoming grin. "Afternoon, officers," I greet them. The woman is smallish and looks eaten up with her own importance. A larger man stands behind her and returns my smile, though smothering it quickly as though reminding himself to be threatening. "I'm Peeta Mellark, I don't think we've met." I offer a hand to each of them while telling them cheerfully, "I live a couple doors down. Haymitch and I were just going over to Katniss' place for dinner. If you didn't see her there, I'm sure she'll be back right away. She's expecting us," I lie smoothly. Where could she be? If they're out looking for her, it doesn't bode well. I have an image of the humming fence in my mind and I offer a silent plea that she couldn't possibly be that reckless, could she?
The small woman tightens her eyes and tips her head a little to the side. "Is she. Well, we're heading there now to deliver a message from Head Peacekeeper Thread." She pauses for us to tremble in fear and looks slightly put out when Haymitch and I just nod encouragingly.
"Okay," Haymitch claps his hands together. "Well, I'm going to get dressed and we'll see you over there. Unless, do you know which one it is?" he asks kindly.
She reddens and her mouth squeezes into a bitter little line. Without a word she turns on her heel and marches out into the snowy grass, her companion following behind after smiling at us apologetically. Haymitch closes the door and leans against it, looking at me. He holds a finger to his lips, making a listening gesture and pointing to the room. I widen my eyes in surprise and he shrugs but nods.
We hurry to get Haymitch ready and cross the green as nonchalantly as we can. Prim answers our knock with a relieved smile, and both Peacekeepers right behind her shoulder. Letting us in, she accepts our apologies for running late and says Katniss is late as well, so not to worry.
"She knew I was going to help your mom with those butter rolls," I offer. "Probably she's counting on dinner being late." Mrs. Everdeen nods just the slightest bit too eagerly, but it goes unnoticed. I join her in the kitchen and the uniformed man follows us, standing against the wall and very obviously keeping an eye on us. I show Mrs. Everdeen my father's recipe for his delicious butter rolls and she works silently next to me, folding and thumping the silky dough. I can feel her uneasiness radiating off her and she keeps looking out the window anxiously. I try to distract her, making jokes and giving her pointers, and she eventually relaxes, enough that it isn't suspicious anyway. Her nervousness is making me more and more sure that Katniss is on the other side of the fence. And the smug confidence the woman Peacekeeper is stalking around with is convincing me that she knows it too.
Once we have the rolls resting under a light towel to rise, we head back into the living room. Haymitch is telling Prim a lively and highly inappropriate story about a time he made a fool out of a Peacekeeper. He keeps adding little details about her, and they all match the officer standing smoldering in the corner glaring at him. His story finally ends with the Peacekeeper retiring from the job in disgrace and I shake my head at him, but I can't quite keep the grin from spreading across my face.
"Haymitch," I say pointedly, "I still owe you a rematch from the last time I annihilated you at chess. Feel up to it? Or are you too fuzzy?"
Predictably he can't resist the taunting and we settle down at a small side table in the kitchen with the board between us. As the time passes, the woman begins to smile openly. She's preening and obviously thinks she has Katniss dead to rights. I'm not sure what she's waiting for, confirmation maybe? Surely Katniss wouldn't actually touch the fence, would she? She'd notice the hum in time. I try to imagine what that would do, contact with that kind of charge. I grip a rook in my hand, the image of Katniss blasted backward by the jolt and lying in an unconscious heap lingering behind my eyes. I shake my head, trying to clear the terrifying picture. She would never get caught like that. But maybe they have someone posted to catch her out on the other side. I firmly squash the flutter of despair in my stomach when I think about the third possibility that's been nagging at the back of my mind. I'm almost ready to leap out of my skin when I hear the front door open. My hands begin to tremble from how relieved I am and I press them together in my lap to hide it.
The two officers step together into the doorway and I can see the man quickly cover his surprise.
"Hello," she greets them impassively.
"Here she is!" Mrs. Everdeen trills, and I'm worried her breathy relief is too obvious. "Just in time for dinner!"
Katniss is casually shaking off the snow from outside, but her movements are stiff and oddly purposeful looking. "Can I help you with something?" she asks.
"Head Peacekeeper Thread sent us with a message for you," the woman replies, though the grandeur of her delivery is considerably tarnished. She is clearly frustrated to have Katniss appear.
"They've been waiting for hours," Mrs. Everdeen adds fretfully.
"Must be an important message," Katniss says snidely.
"May we ask where you've been, Miss Everdeen?" the woman asks, trying to get control back.
"Easier to ask where I haven't been," Katniss answers, crossing into the kitchen and thumping her bag down on the table. I eye it nervously, trying to make out what contraband might be inside.
"So where haven't you been?" Haymitch drawls.
"Well, I haven't been talking to the Goat Man about getting Prim's goat pregnant, because someone gave me completely inaccurate information as to where he lives," she says, irony dripping from her words, but her eyes trained on Prim.
"No, I didn't," Prim replies coolly. "I told you exactly."
"You said he lives beside the west entrance to the mine," Katniss exclaims in exasperation.
"The east entrance," Prim corrects sweetly.
The two officers look on as the sisters banter back and forth, Haymitch and I joining in for good measure. The man is grinning but the woman is clearly growing more frustrated as each moment passes. She cuts in abruptly, "What's in the bag?" and my heart leaps into my throat.
"See for yourself," Katniss shrugs, dumping it out.
Mrs. Everdeen is pleased to find bandages and I peer into a small white bag. "Ooh, peppermints!" and I take one for myself. Katniss swipes for the bag but I toss it to Haymitch who gobbles a handful and chucks it to Prim.
"None of you deserves candy!" Katniss glares.
"What, because we're right?" I tease, folding her close to me. She stiffens and turns a little yelp into an angry growl, but I search her eyes anxiously. She's hurt.
"Okay, Prim said west," I soothe. "I distinctly heard west. And we're all idiots. How's that?" I smile and kiss her lightly.
"Better," she concedes. She glances at the Peacekeepers as though she'd forgotten them. "You have a message for me?"
"From Head Peacekeeper Thread," says the woman brusquely. "He wanted you to know that the fence surrounding District 12 will now have electricity twenty-four hours a day."
Katniss opens her eyes wide and asks, "Didn't it already?"
"He thought you might be interested in passing this information on to your cousin," the woman growls, her last threat sounding empty even to herself.
"Thank you. I'll tell him," Katniss says with syrupy sweetness. But then she has to push it just a little further, "I'm sure we'll all sleep a little more soundly now that security has addressed that lapse."
The woman glares impotently, but she knows she's out of ammunition. She nods stiffly and leaves, the man bobbing along behind. Mrs. Everdeen bolts the lock behind them and Katniss sags weakly. I tighten my arms around her, careful not to squeeze anywhere. "What is it?" I ask her worriedly.
"Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone's had a bad day, too," she grimaces.
I guide her over to a softly padded chair and lower her down gently. I hold her hand while her mother slips off her boots, asking what happened.
"I slipped and fell," she answers, and all four of us look to her quizzically. "On some ice," she adds unconvincingly. We'll talk about it later, no doubt eager ears are straining at Capitol speakers. Mrs. Everdeen makes a quick diagnosis and gets her bundled into pajamas, a snow pack for her sore foot. We eat a hearty stew with the fresh rolls and talk quietly about unimportant things. Prim moves to sit at Katniss' side, leaning affectionately against her.
"Are you going to try on your wedding dresses?" she asks with innocent excitement.
"Not tonight," Katniss answers tiredly, avoiding my eyes. "Tomorrow probably."
Her mother hands her a cup of tea laced with sleep syrup and she sips it thankfully. As her foot gets wrapped, I watch her eyes begin to droop heavily. I offer to help her upstairs and she leans gratefully on my shoulder. Before we even make it to the stairs, she is groping and stumbling. I gather her into my arms and carry her up to her bed. Her head is bobbing as she fights to remain coherent and I tuck her blankets around her, smoothing her hair back and bidding her good-night. As I stand to go, she reaches out and grips my hand. Her eyes meet mine and her longing is clear. I think of Gale, and how he would feel if he knew I was here. I steel my heart and squeeze her hand, then tuck it under the blanket.
"Don't go yet," she pleads fuzzily. "Not until I fall asleep." She looks so desperate that I relent and sit on the edge of bed, taking the hand she reaches back out to me.
"Almost thought you'd changed your mind today," I murmur, finally giving voice to the fear and ache that has plagued me ever since I realized where she was. "When you were late for dinner," I add, trying to keep my voice light.
"No," she whispers, her eyes closing as she pulls my hand up to cradle against her cheek. "I'd have told you." I watch her fighting to speak, trying to reassure me, and I close my eyes in the dark, a warm glow in my chest. As her grip on my hand relaxes and the sleep syrup pulls her under she mutters one quiet plea. "Stay with me."
"Always," I answer, the promise etching itself onto my heart in the silence.
Katniss is ordered to a week of bed rest, and she accepts it gratefully. I visit every day, chatting with her, bringing her news, keeping her company. She is happily willing to stay wrapped in her blankets and away from the worries pressing on us. One morning she asks me for my help on a project she is undertaking. Her mother has an old family book full of records about plants and their medical uses. Her father had continued adding to it with edible plants found nearby and Katniss wants to contribute what she's learned to the pages.
The work is a joy for me. I love the precision and detail, the careful shading and coloring that has to be just right. Katniss and I spend the hours huddled together, one of us on either end of her bed while I sketch until the drawing is perfect and she carefully prints the information on the dry parchment. I sometimes watch her from under my lashes, her brow wrinkling with the intensity of concentration as she adds critical detail to the passages. She taps the pen against her temple when she's thinking, as though trying to send a code to her brain to release the information she's after. When she remembers something she makes a small, satisfied grunt and bends intently over the page.
One afternoon, as I struggle to capture a correct blush of pink, the quiet contentedness overwhelms me. We've never had this kind of time together, free from pressing danger, not having to act as anyone other than ourselves, just working and being happy next to each other.
"You know," I look up, and I'm flustered to find her watching me absorbedly. "I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together," I finish disjointedly.
"Yeah," she agrees, and her gaze stays locked on mine. I can't read her expression, but the depth of her gray eyes pulls me in, my pulse quickening and breath catching in my throat. "Nice for a change."