Just one more chapter (and the epilogue) to go after this one. Thank you for sticking with me throughout this journey.
Ah, yes, we finally meet Gale. Hmm...that name...
The next morning, Lavinia disturbs my slumber by throwing open the sashes on the curtains, letting the Sunday morning sun stream into my room and politely informs me that she is to help me clean up and dress for church services.
At my mother's insistence, I am to lie for several minutes with cucumber slices over my eyes to reduce their puffiness. Lavinia washes and sets my hair, tying the upper portion of it back from my face with an olive green ribbon that matches the gown laid out on my bed. The dress has clearly been chosen to complement—or perhaps counteract, in my mother's humble opinion—my current complexion.
"You look lovely, Miss Katniss," she praises kindly when I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror.
"Thank you," I reply. I frown discreetly at the girl who stares back at me when Lavinia turns away to retrieve my gloves.
The church is a mere three blocks away so we walk, my mother carrying a large yellow parasol, her other arm linked through my father's. Prim and I walk obediently behind them.
I am fully aware of the multitude of curious eyes and gossipy whispers directed at me as we arrive at the church and my family selects a pew. Thankfully, the minister is prompt and begins the service, temporarily quelling the nosy inquisitions of the congregation.
Much of his sermon is mindless prattle to me. I let my eyes wander absently through the hymnbook, choosing instead to think about Peeta and our last night together. Is it a sin to think about premarital relations inside a church? I don't care if it is. I shift in my seat, attempting to relieve some of the heat pooling between my thighs as I recall him thrusting within me, his mouth claiming my breasts, the heat of his tongue lovingly teasing my aching nipples when Prim elbows me subtly. I feel my underclothes becoming damp.
"Why are you blushing?" she hisses through her teeth.
"I am not," I retort back.
"You are," she insists. "Mother is watching you."
I cut my eyes to my right and catch a reproachful look in my mother's blue orbs. I exhale and turn my attention back to the hymnbook, fidgeting on the wooden pew. My finger maps the page, drawing the letters P-E-E-T-A over again and again.
I dutifully alternate standing and being seated at the minister's command between convocations and hymns, my lips miming the words without uttering a sound as the service continues.
When the minister concludes his final call to worship and the final 'amen' is chanted, I file out of the church with my parents and Prim. On the large common out front, many of the ladies of the congregation have laid out tables of tea and coffee and pastries and small sandwiches. I groan inwardly at the resigned look on my mother's face, realizing she intends for us to join this social hour.
Prim scampers off immediately, disappearing into a gaggle of teenage girls who chatter and giggle animatedly.
"Reverend, that was a lovely service," I hear my mother say, and I glance up to see the minister approaching my parents.
"Thank you, Mrs. Everdeen." He shakes her hand warmly before he turns his attention to me. "This must be your elder daughter unless Primrose has suddenly cut and dyed her hair."
"This is Katniss," my father smiles, placing a strong hand on my shoulder. I give the minister a weak smile. "She has just returned from boarding school in England. Katniss, this is Reverend Flickerman." I curtsy to him politely.
"Welcome home, my dear," the minister says kindly. "Are you happy to be home?"
"Yes," I lie. Is it a sin to fib to a man of the cloth? Again, I am decidedly indifferent to the thought.
"Father, I am going to go for a walk. Is that alright?" I have no interest in standing with my parents and making polite small talk with this Reverend Flickerman. I wish to be alone with my thoughts of Peeta and my brothers I left behind on The Mockingjay, so terribly do I miss them all.
My father and my mother exchange a look. "Alright, young lady. But do not wander far," he says.
"Thank you, I won't."
I saunter up the cobbled street, away from the throngs of people gathered outside the church, but before I can put too much distance between them and me, an unfamiliar voice freezes me where I stand. "Catnip?"
There is only one person in the world who ever called me by that name. It has been eight long years since I last saw him. I turn apprehensively and study the tall, dark-haired man who now stands before me. His slate-gray eyes widen as they settle on my face and a broad smile claims his mouth.
"Gale?" I ask hesitantly, though I am more than certain I am correct in his identity. "Gale Hawthorne?"
"You remember me," he replies, clearly pleased. His handsome face lights up immediately.
"How could I forget?" I laugh softly. "No one else has ever dared to call me Catnip."
His eyes crinkle, but his countenance quickly becomes more serious. "It is not really proper of me to do so anymore. You are a lady now, and I should really address you as Miss Everdeen rather than Catnip or even Katniss."
"Oh, it doesn't matter to me," I say dismissively. "You can still call me Katniss. Or Catnip. Or whatever." It is difficult to admit how much I came to love my name while on that ship. I have already tired of being called 'miss.' And of course, my name had never sounded as sweet as it did in those moments Peeta and I spent together in the cabin. I fear that I will never again hear it said with such reverence, such adoration, such passion as it was when he called it out as he claimed my body with his own.
The stifling August sun is no match for the heat rising in my body. I flutter my hand in front of my face, hoping to disguise the furious blush that I feel overtaking me.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
"Oh, yes, just a fly," I say quickly, waving my hand more deliberately to feign shooing away the pesky fictitious insect.
"Well, welcome home," he says warmly. "I bet you are very glad to be back on American soil."
"Yes. It's nice." Nice—such a plain word.
"I am sure you are also very happy to be back with your parents and Prim. I know they missed you terribly."
"It has been a lovely reunion so far."
"Are you tired? May I walk you home?"
"Oh." I look around, seeing my father and mother still speaking with the reverend. Prim is nearby, her blonde curls bobbing as she talks excitedly with a petite red-haired girl who I do not recognize. "I should probably get back to my parents."
"I shall ask your father's permission," he adds eagerly. "It would be nice to walk and talk and get reacquainted after all these years." I bite my lip, an uneasy feeling descending upon me. Shit, I think. Cinna and Peeta were right. Gale Hawthorne is wasting no time—he's already courting me.
"Thank you, Gale, but that won't be necessary. I should stay with my parents. I've only been home for a few days."
"I know. We were all anticipating your arrival. I'm sure your father will not mind."
"Yes, Gale has been quite anxious to see you again after all this time," my mother interrupts, suddenly beside me, a coy grin on her face.
"Hello, Mrs. Everdeen," Gale smiles politely, raising her gloved hand to his lip.
"Hello, Gale. Is your mother nearby?"
"Oh, she and my father took Posy home. She was getting a little irritable."
"Posy?" I repeat. The name is unfamiliar to me.
"Yes, my sister."
"I know I wrote to you when she was born, Katniss," my mother says, and I frown, trying to recall such a detail. There were already three Hawthorne boys when I left for Panem, the second of which, Rory, was only a few months older than Prim.
"Of course," I answer, but I am not certain at all.
"I was just asking Katniss if I could walk her home, Mrs. Everdeen," Gale offers, and my mother's smile widens.
"How thoughtful of you, Gale. Wouldn't that be lovely, Katniss?"
"I guess." It would not be lovely and I'd rather be alone, but I am not in the mood to argue with my mother or cause a scene that will embarrass us both.
"Your father and I shall see you at home, then," she smiles contentedly and strides back to my father.
"Shall we?" Gale extends his arm to me. I take his arm, looping my hand around it, and we begin the short walk back to my house.
"I imagine it is quite a relief to be back on terra firma after all those days on a swaying ship," he muses. I wrinkle my brow at the small talk, but I mumble a quiet yes in reply.
"How are your brothers?" I interject after he asks another question about the ship that I don't wish to answer for fear the memories will bring tears to my eyes in my present state of melancholy.
"Oh, they're good. Rory is apprenticed to the tailor, Mr. Mitchell." He pauses. "We don't quite know about Vick yet. He kind of just enjoys causing trouble right now."
"He's a young boy," I shrug. "He is probably just having fun."
Gale furrows his brows at me. "Yes, but he will be eleven in April, Katniss. He isn't a child anymore."
Neither am I, I think sullenly, though Gale's condescending tone, whether intentional or not, addresses me as such.
I am thankful when we reach my front steps and Gale politely kisses my hand and bids me farewell. He does not even entertain waiting for me to invite him in. I hover in the threshold and watch his broad figure amble up the street before closing the door behind me.
My mother finds me reading on the chaise lounge in my bedroom—I quickly stowed the book and the nib in the gap between the arm and the cushion when I heard footsteps—when they return from church roughly twenty minutes later. She pries none-too-subtly about my walk with Gale, and when I offer little information, she leaves me alone to my studies—her words, not mine.
That night, in my bed, I let my fingers slip between my legs, sliding through the slick, wet heat that has accumulated there as my mind spools of images of Peeta. I imagine it is his hands that are manipulating that little bundle of nerves just as he had showed me how to do. I swirl my fingers frantically, desperate for a release, causing me to bury my face into my pillow to muffle my cries of desire as I bring my body to a shuddering climax. I do not feel the slightest bit badly about doing it either.
But when I drift off to sleep, however, there is a profoundly hollow feeling inside me, and I toss restlessly wondering if, wherever he is, he is thinking of me too.
The days pass slowly, but autumn soon arrives. A chill frosts the morning air, though some days remain unbearably hot, and a kaleidoscope of fall leaves twirl past my bedroom window when I sit in my chair and write, catching the winds that spring up almost daily.
I lament sadly how momentous wind had been to us on the ship and how little I have thought about it since I have been in Philadelphia.
My parents continue to press me to respond to Gale's repeated attempts at courtship. The Hawthornes have been recurrent dinner guests in recent weeks, and I am aware that Gale's parents seem equally invested in the progression of our relationship.
On a particular late September night, the Hawthornes join us again for dinner, and I am in a particularly sullen mood. To further exacerbate my misery, although Gale's brother, Rory, has joined us for dinner, (I am not immune to the adoring gazes my sister persists in aiming in the young boy's direction) but his youngest two siblings have been left at home with a nanny, so I cannot rely on their antics to divert any attention from me.
Mr. Hawthorne is particularly curious as to the details of my journey on this evening, and I find it exceedingly difficult to answer his repeated queries. When coffee and dessert are served, I figure he's finally done probing, but after the third subsequent question about the hurricane, I clench my fists in my lap, fingers clutching the linen napkin so hard I see my knuckles fade from their peachy-flesh tone to a white that disappears against the blanched fabric.
"Katniss," my mother says sharply. "Mr. Hawthorne asked you a question."
I feel seven pairs of eyes on me. "My apologies," I reply, but my voice lacks sincerity and my mother's narrowed eyes confirms it. "I am sorry, Mr. Hawthorne." I plaster a tight smile on my lips. "What did you wish to know?"
"The wind, my dear. What was the wind like during the hurricane?"
A bittersweet tremor seizes my heart as I recall my last conversation with Cinna. I remember his words so clearly, warning me to be careful of the wind I choose. I cut my eyes to Gale; he watches me with rapt adoration, and the irony is not lost on me that his name itself means a harsh wind.
"George, that is a foolish question," Mrs. Hawthorne scolds, carefully spiraling her teaspoon through her coffee as she adds a few drops of milk to it. "The poor girl would have kept to her cabin during such a brutal storm."
I ignore the visual warnings that both my parents give me with their eyes. "The wind was unimaginable, Mr. Hawthorne," I reply, looking Gale's father right in the eyes. "It could knock you right off you feet. I actually hit the starboard wall—"
"Katniss, that is enough," my mother says. "She has quite the active imagination after so many days alone at sea."
"I was not alone," I counter. "And I am not imagining things, Mother," I add sharply. "I was there. I saw it. I lived it." I turn back to Mr. Hawthorne. "It took days for the bruise to heal where I hit the wall when I was caught in a particularly vicious gust."
Both Gale and Vick's eyes widen, but whether it is from admiration and horror or both I cannot discern.
"You will have to excuse Katniss," my father says smoothly. "It was a very difficult voyage, and now even a few weeks later, she can get caught up in these bad memories, can't you, dear?" His tone is softer than my mother's and his grey eyes implore me to play along.
"Actually, I would like to be excused," I pipe up, earning a pointed look from my mother, and a puzzled glance from Gale. I wipe my mouth and place my napkin beside my untouched lemon meringue pie. I want nothing more than to go to my room, close the room and be alone.
My mother, however, has other ideas. "Gale, why don't you take Katniss into the parlor?" she offers, her eyes still locked on me. "You can keep her company while she takes a few moments to gather herself before you rejoin us for the rest of dessert."
"Absolutely, Mrs. Everdeen," he smiles politely, wiping his mouth with a napkin and placing his fork on his pie plate. I do not tell him he still has whipped cream at the corner of his mouth when he helps me stand and escorts me into the parlor. Other than our walk home from church on the first day we reacquainted, this is the first time I have been alone with him.
I close the French doors and sink to the sofa, wincing as the boning of my corset pinches me when I hunch over.
"You are not yourself tonight," he says gently, sitting down several feet away from me.
I shake my head. What a foolish statement. This man doesn't know the first thing about who I really am. He does not know me at all.
"You seem so sad," he continues, shifting a bit closer to me, reaching for my hand. I cannot help but compare how soft his skin is against mine, how different it is from Peeta's touch. It's too soft, really.
"I'm fine, Gale," I reply.
"It's okay that I am holding your hand, isn't it? I do not want you to think I am moving too fast."
I stifle a laugh at the sheer silliness of his comment, the implication that holding my hand is an intimate gesture. He can't possibly know, of course, that I am hardly the innocent maiden he thinks that I am, but that does not make his comment any less ridiculous to me. "It's fine, Gale," I echo.
He smiles contentedly. "I like you, Katniss. I couldn't be happier with the arrangement our parents have made."
My head snaps up. "What arrangement?" I ask suspiciously.
"Uh, well…" he stammers, clearly flustered by my question, as if I should have been more privy to this so-called arrangement than I actually am.
"Tell me, Gale," I demand, releasing his hand and leaping to my feet.
"Our, uh, marriage?"
"Marriage!" I cry, my breath catching in my throat. "I am sixteen!"
His grey eyes, so like my own, widen and he too jumps to his feet. "Well, not right this moment, but yes, marriage, Katniss. I am eighteen after all. I thought your parents told you. I mean, you know that I am courting you—"
"Are you courting me because you want to, Gale, or because our parents decided you would?" I ask sharply.
He laughs nervously and rakes a hand through his short hair before scratching at the edge of his short muttonchops. "I like you, Katniss." He repeats his earlier statement, and I want to scream at the simplicity of it. "I have been waiting for you to return."
"How long have you known you were to court me, Gale?"
"Uh, for a while, I guess," he replies quietly. "I think it has always been assumed that you and I were meant to be together."
"Well, no one ever told me," I say bitterly. Cinna was right. Peeta was right. They both were, I think again. This is not a choice I am going to have any say in. I feel like retching as my stomach pitches violently. I am trapped.
Gale frowns. "You were an ocean away, Katniss."
"My parents wrote me letters. It is not that the opportunity was not there to inform me."
"Does the idea of marrying me one day upset you, Katniss?"
I sense that he is trying to stay calm, not to show the irritation that I have managed to generate in him. And instead of answering his question honestly, I decide to do something rash, something that the very thought of repulses me. I speak a silent apology to Peeta and impulsively, I shove Gale down to the couch, lean in, and press my lips to his.
"Katniss," he gasps, clasping my shoulders in his firm grasp. "What are you doing? This is not right."
"Shhh, Gale. Be quiet," I order, climbing onto his lap, shifting the many layers of my petticoats and skirts as I settle against him. I draw his head towards mine again and slant my mouth over his again.
It feels nothing like kissing Peeta. My heart seizes painfully as Gale's lips wrestle against mine in a sloppy embrace. He is eager at first, and beneath me, I feel him growing hard in response to my machinations. But no sooner does his erection swell does he grab me again and pushes me aside as roughly as he can without hurting me. I assume he thinks he can hide it and I will not have any understanding of his body's natural reaction. I guess perhaps I should be flattered that I've elicited such a response from him, that I genuinely raise a desire in him. But in contrast, his lips leave me cold and my body aches for another.
He leaps off the couch and paces frantically before me. "Katniss, stop. This is not right. We should not be doing this. What has gotten into you?" I slump over, trying to catch my breath and come to my senses. My veins feel as though they are clogged with ice floes, so absent is any warmth from the kiss I just forced on poor unsuspecting Gale.
It is not truly his fault that I cannot be the girl he expects to marry someday. And I feel a slight twinge of remorse for using Gale in such a cruel manner. He cannot know that I am hopelessly and irrevocably in love with another man—because I know for absolute certainty, standing in my parents' parlor, that I will never love another man the way I love Peeta Mellark.
My lips tremble, and I gently touch the pads of my fingertips to them. The tears slip down my cheeks before I can attempt to contain them. Gale stops pacing, his eyes wide with horror, and he rushes to my side, shaking his head. "No, no, Katniss. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to react like that."
I blink through my blurred vision, shrugging off his arms as he tries to wrap me into a comforting hug. I'm not crying because of him, after all.
"I shouldn't have done that," I whisper, the guilt swelling in me anew. "I should be apologizing to you. I'm sorry." And without another word, I stagger to my feet and race from the room, tearing up the staircase to seek refuge in my room, where I dissolve into a flood of tears.
Gale must not say anything to my parents or perhaps they are just too fed up with my antics to care because neither of them is concerned enough to check on me for the remainder of the evening. I imagine them making empty excuses for my behavior, apologizing to the Hawthornes and promising that the next dinner I will be more agreeable.
My stomach aches painfully at the thought, and it is nearly impossible to seek solace from my slumber that night. I don't even touch myself to thoughts of Peeta before slipping into a restless sleep. I awaken myself screaming several times, though no one comes to my aid, and I wonder if I imagine it. I hunger for Peeta's arms around me to chase away these nightmares. I feel utterly alone.
After breakfast the next morning, Prim's tutor arrives, and my parents head to Market Street to allow Mother to arrange for a few new gowns to be made. Autumn and winter bring lots of festivities, she explains cheerfully before they set off.
I linger at the breakfast table, repeatedly plunging a spoon into my oatmeal without once lifting it to my mouth when the front door bell chimes loudly. I scurry from the dining room, beating Thresh to the door by several spaces.
"Miss Katniss?" he asks, taken aback.
I throw open the door before he can protest further. A short red-haired boy stands on the front step, earnest expression on his freckled face. He thrusts forward a package bound with brown wrapping paper.
"Delivery for Miss Katniss Everdeen," he announces loudly. I smile triumphantly at Thresh, who looks unnerved by my behavior, but he quietly retreats from the door and disappears into the kitchen.
I carefully unwrap the crinkly paper, revealing a small black box. When I lift the lid, I gasp at what is nestled on a bed of crushed red velvet inside. It is a golden mockingjay brooch. A small pearl winks at me from its place as the bird's knowing eye. It is identical to the figurehead that is so etched in my mind.
There is no note, but my heart flutters hopefully. "Wait!" I cry, stumbling down the stairs and running after the boy. "Wait!" I repeat, and the boy turns around. "Who sent you?" I demand, my heart thumping wildly now.
"Can't say, miss," the boy answers. "Mr. Heavensbee took the order."
"Mr. Heavensbee?" I echo.
The boy nods. "The jeweler? I'm his page. I do know it was commissioned."
"Commissioned," I whisper.
"Yes, miss. Made special. Mr. Heavensbee received a sketch…"
"A sketch," I breathe. My pulse quickens, and the beats of my heart accelerate in tandem. It is a sign. My heart sings. "Did you see the sketch? When did he receive it?"
"Yes, miss, I saw it. A few weeks ago. Postmarked from Baltimore. Mr. Heavensbee showed it to me and to his apprentice. He was quite enthralled with it—the detail, the intricacy. I'd wager he probably saved it too. The only other order was that the design was to be fashioned and delivered on this specific date."
"Wait right here," I sputter, spinning on my heel and bolting for the house, my skirts billowing behind me as I dash up the winding staircase to my bedroom. From atop my bureau I grab three shillings and race back down the stairs, breathless and alight with excitement as I drop the coins into the stunned boy's hand. "These are for you. Thank you."
I race back to the house and slam the front door, leaning back against it, the pin clutched in my hand. I cannot contain the silly grin that graces my lips, and it is then I come to feel Thresh's eyes on me.
"Is everything alright, Miss Katniss?"
"Better than okay," I murmur, my eyes tracing the flawless lines of the brooch. I allow my finger to ghost over the iridescent pearl, and my stomach flips giddily. I feel hopeful for the first time in days.
Thresh makes a motion to leave. "Wait! Thresh?" I call.
"Miss?"
"Did my father's morning paper come today?"
"Yes, miss. It should be in his study where I left it. He did not finish reading it before he and your mother departed."
"Thank you!" I exclaim. "Oh, and Thresh? Please do not speak a word of this delivery to my parents!" I whirl about and leave him, probably even more perplexed, in the foyer as I rush to my father's study. I am fully aware that I should not be in here, but my intrusion is nary a thought on my mind as I locate the paper, neatly folded beside the leather armchair. Heart drumming steadily, the thumping resonating all the way to my ears, I carelessly flip the feathery pages and frantically scan line after line until, triumphantly, I find what I am so desperately hoping for: Departures for Europe.
Brig, Mockingjay, to set sail at morning's tide, September the twenty-third. Captain Haymitch Abernathy, master.
September the twenty-third. I gasp, covering my mouth, stifling a scream of joy. September twenty-third is tomorrow.
It is incredibly difficult to act nonchalant for the remainder of the afternoon, but I do manage, and quite convincingly, I might add. I am the picture of the good submissive daughter at tea, allowing Prim to dominate the conversation, prattling on about her cello and some cotillion that will be held in a few weekends and how she needs a new gown and that Mother should have allowed her to go with her to the dressmaker that morning.
"Katniss, dear, how is your reading coming along?"
"Fine, Mother," I smile politely, sipping my tea.
"Have you considered which dress you would like to wear to the opera this Friday evening?" my mother asks.
"What opera?"
My response clearly surprises her. "Did Gale not ask you to accompany him to the opera this Friday evening?"
"No," I reply.
Her brows furrow, and she looks visibly puzzled. "He did not? Your father and I saw Hazelle at the seamstress this morning and she was under the impression that he had already done so."
Prim sits quietly, watching the scene unfold as if she were viewing some kind of Greek tragedy. Her pinky finger extends from her teacup, and her blue eyes dart back and forth between Mother and me.
"Well, there's always tomorrow." I swallow back a smile with the remainder of my tea.
Later that evening, I am lounging on the porch swing in the rear garden, the autumn twilight descending upon me when the weight on the bench shifts, and I am surprised to find my father seated beside me.
"Homer?" he nods at my open copy of The Odyssey that rests in my lap. I frown, knitting my brows, thinking he is about to scold my choice of reading.
"I thought I would take a break from the essays on patience and read a slightly more thrilling account of the same virtue. This poor man sailed for years to get back to his beloved wife. And she waited all those years for him, spurning suitors and remaining faithful to him. It's inspiring, Father." I hand him the text, in case he wishes to affirm its contents. He cannot understand my true intentions for picking up the story, the connection I feel to it. A few weeks is hardly ten years, but it has certainly felt like an eon. My heart empathizes with Penelope. I know how she must have felt, waiting for her beloved Odysseus to come home to her.
He shakes his head and smiles kindly. "It's a difficult work of literature, Katniss, that's all. I am impressed with your perseverance to read such a thing." He clears his throat. "I am pleased with the progress you are making, my dear. I know it has been an adjustment coming home after all those years at Panem and after such a distressing experience on your return voyage."
"Thank you, Father." A niggle of guilt tugs at my heart at his words of praise.
"I know you thought I was harsh in my response to your journal, Katniss, but I hope that the longer you are home and in your proper place, you will realize that I only want the best for you. Your mother and I have so much hope for you, my dear. You are going to have a wonderful life here. A bright future." He places a hand on mine and squeezes lightly.
"Thank you, Father," I repeat, plastering a sweet smile on my face.
"Do not stay out here much longer, my dear girl. The light is getting poor. You shall hurt your eyes." He rises, sending the swing pitching backwards gently as he presses a kiss to my head.
"Good night," I murmur, my eyes following him as he crosses the garden and opens the French doors, disappearing back into the house.
I do not pick up my book; I curl my boots underneath me on the swing and stare up into the branches of the sugar maple that dominates the rear of the house. Patches of the inky indigo sky peek through where leaves have already unfurled and let go in anticipation of the coming colder months. I wonder how different it will be sailing the Atlantic in the chill of October instead of the oppressive heat of summer.
Finally I retreat into the house, allowing Lavinia to supervise my bathing—I cannot wait to be rid of that indignity—and my dressing for bed.
Once she has left and I've waited a few moments, I pad down the hall, worrying my lower lip with my teeth as I hesitate outside Prim's room. I draw in a deep breath and rap my knuckles lightly against her closed door.
There is no reply. I crack open the door and a tiny shaft of light from the hall spills into the darkened room. Muted moonlight from behind her curtained windows bathes Prim in a bluish glow. Her sweet face is slack with sleep, a gentle smile curved onto her pale pink lips, and I cannot help but wonder what pleasant dream she is lost in. Is she dreaming about the Hawthorne boy? Perhaps my parents will forge a Hawthorne-Everdeen betrothal one day after all.
I withdraw the book from behind my back, opening the front cover and scanning what I have written there one final time:
My dear Primrose-
When you finally discover this, you will understand. It can be our secret. I love you, Little Duck, and I know you will do Mother and Father proud.
-Katniss
Crossing to her bookshelf, I shove the morality text between two other books. Most of Prim's reading currently comes from her tutors so I figure it will be some time before she even locates the usurper among her collection. Maybe by then, she will be old enough not to judge me, to know why I had to do it.
I take a last lingering look at my beautiful little sister, blonde hair spread like a halo against her pillow, and I blink back the tears that threaten to well in my eyes. "Good bye, Little Duck," I whisper before I creep back to my room to wait again.
An hour later, the house is completely quiet. My parents have turned in for the evening, and the servants have all gone to sleep. I toss back my sheets and hop off the bed, my bare feet dancing across the cool wood as I reach my bureau and rummage through the neatly folded petticoats and corsets until my fingers graze the rough material I seek.
I smile as I slip out of my nightdress and let it pool around my ankles. For a moment, I contemplate bundling it and bringing it along, as I imagine Peeta might enjoy seeing me in it, but it's part of this life and will only serve as a reminder of such, and so I leave it behind in the drawer.
The canvas trousers and cotton shirt feel delightfully liberating against my skin after so many days of restrictive garments. I reluctantly lace up my rattiest pair of boots—their soles are scuffed and one lace is frayed—since I cannot make the entire walk to the dock barefoot. I do grab a few ribbons from my vanity; they will come in handy securing my hair in the braid that Peeta likes so much. I pin the brooch to my breeches as the fabric is sturdier, and I scan the room a final time.
It is laughable how easily I climb out of my window and scale the trellis that deposits me into the rear garden. The latched gate is also no deterrent; I vault over the wall with minimal effort, taking one last look at the house I tried to call home.
But a house and a home are not always the same thing.
The moon lights my way as I stride hurriedly along the deserted streets of Philadelphia until the familiar sounds of the water lapping at the dock lifts my heart in a way I still cannot put into words. I begin to run, my pulse quickening, my boots creating soft thwacks against the wood planks.
The Mockingjay stands moored to the dock, restored to her former beauty, a new mast in place. In the silver glow, the figurehead looks unearthly.
The ship is entirely dark, save for a lantern hanging near the gangplank. I hear the occasional shuffling of feet and come to realize that someone is pacing the quarterdeck, keeping watch. I hold my breath as the mysterious figure comes into my line of sight and reaches up to tug the bell. With each reverberating ring, my heart thrums louder. Five bells.
I release the breath and march up the gangplank. My heavy footsteps draw attention.
"Who goes there?" I swallow the lump that rises as I hear his voice. "Who goes there?" A lantern swings inches from my face as I reach the top and come face to face with him.
"Cinna!" I sob, choking out happy tears as recognition dawns on his kind face.
"Katniss! What are you…"
My lower lip trembles and my voice quivers. "I've come home, Cinna."
He draws me against him, slipping his arms around me. We hug and sway in the moonlight, neither of us saying a word. He finally lets go of me and holds me at arm's length, studying me carefully in the dimness.
"This is my home, Cinna," I repeat, wiping at my eyes. "With you. With Haymitch. With Peeta."
A wry smile crosses Cinna's face. "He will be ecstatic to see you," he says quietly.
"Cinna, who the hell are you—" Haymitch stops in his tracks as his steely eyes land on me. They instantly soften and crinkle. "Hey, sweetheart."
"Haymitch," I reply. The smile that creeps onto his lips fills me with warmth.
"What are you doin' here at almost three o'fuckin' clock in the morning?"
"She's come home," Cinna answers for me.
"Captain Abernathy," I declare boldly. "I've come to sign on to this voyage, if you'll have me."
"Well, I'll be damned," he laughs, shaking his head.
I cough a little and straighten my back. "So will you have me?"
"I dunno. Let me ask my second mate." Haymitch turns to Cinna and shrugs. "Should we take her?"
I cannot contain the squeal that bubbles from me. "Cinna! You're second mate?"
He smiles. "Aye, Katniss. It was quite a pleasant surprise to learn of my promotion."
"That's…oh my God, that's wonderful!" I launch myself into his arms again, and he laughs that gentle, calm laugh.
"Thank you."
I pause. "Why not first?" I accuse, looking at Haymitch playfully.
"Not my choice, remember. And it's a big enough step for Cinna to make second mate. Chaff is first mate for this voyage. But perhaps someday the world will be ready for a black first mate…or a captain." He winks at me.
"So, um, Haymitch…Captain Abernathy, is—"
Haymitch raises a hand, effectively cutting me off. "The boy is down in the galley. He's officially our cook this voyage. Cinna's promotion opened the door for him."
My heart lifts, knowing the position means a myriad of possibilities for Peeta. For us.
"Go. He should be down there now. Some of the crew has yet to arrive, but he's been here for the last few hours." Haymitch and Cinna both give me expectant smiles. "Waitin' for you. He hoped you'd come."
"I knew you'd come," Cinna adds.
My pulse is now galloping like a steed, and my body is electric with anticipation and need. I turn to go below deck and have just reached the steps when Haymitch calls after me. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
Thank you to ILoveRynMar and jeeno2 for their unwavering support from the beginning and to streetlightlove and IzzySamson for their continued support and friendship. And many more thanks to all the readers who have loyally read and reviewed every chapter. I appreciate the support more than you know. The reviews and PMs that I have received from you have kept me inspired and lets me know that yes, people are reading and are enjoying what they've read. I'm not on tumblr and I really do enjoy the little interaction I get with you all here.
The final chapter will be posted next Thursday since I like the synergy of ending this story's journey on the fictitious day that it began. Until then. ~C~