I'm not really sure what to expect from this Tour. Haymitch said he would give us more details on the train, but we're probably a hundred miles from District 12 by now and he's not talking. He's not even leaving his room. I eat my dinner quietly while Effie flourishes on about the upcoming events. I try to listen but I'm too distracted, replaying the events of this morning over in my head.
"This is getting to be a habit with you, sweetheart," Haymitch growls, unimpressed with the water I've just dumped over his sleeping head. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally filthy shirt underneath, and rubs himself down with the dry part.
"I couldn't shake you awake," I grumble. I'm in no mood this morning. "If you wanted to be babied you should have asked Peeta."
"Asked me what?" Just the sound of his voice makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. I can't tell if it's guilt or excitement. There's longing. I might as well admit there's some of that, too.
I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blonde hair. He holds his hand out to Haymitch.
"Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," says Haymitch, passing over his knife, earning a smile from Peeta. For a moment I feel jealous and then I bury it. I hate today.
"I brought him coffee," I add lamely, but Peeta just gives me a look. He douses Haymitch's knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes it clean on his shirt and slices the bread. I wonder if he made it or his dad. Or Rye. Probably not Rye. Peeta says Rye wouldn't work a day in his life if he didn't have to. I'm sure he's milking his injury for all its worth. Peeta hands the heel of the bread to Haymitch and looks up at me shyly.
"Would you like a piece?" Peeta asks politely.
"No, I ate at the Hob," I lie. "But thank you," I add quickly. My voice doesn't even sound like my own, it's so formal. Just a few days apart and I don't even know how to be around him.
"You're welcome," Peeta responds mechanically, as if I were a customer in the bakery and not the girl he nearly lost his life for. He looks at me and I realize there is a gaping hole between us.
"Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime," Haymitch slurs.
He's right, of course. Peeta and I are awkward together. Polite. Stiff.
"I need to go check on my sister," I say before heading out the door. The snow is just barely on the ground, so light that I can see grass in the wake of my feet. When I open the front door I'm greeted by the warmth of a bustling fire. My mom must have got up this morning without Prim prodding her. Since the revelation about Prim she's remained mostly locked up in her room. But she took care of something today. I let out a sigh of relief, but it's short-lived.
"Katniss!" my mother greets me with a fake plastic smile. Something is not normal.
"What's going on?" I ask, but before she can answer I see a man standing in the hallway with a tailored suit and surgically perfected features. He's from the Capitol. I swallow. My prep team isn't supposed to arrive for hours.
"This way, Miss Everdeen," the man orders, taking my elbow. I have to resist the urge to rip it from his hand. I catch my mother's worried expression and try to smile reassuringly.
"It's probably just more instructions for the Tour," I offer as I'm lead to the study in the back of the house. I hardly ever go in there. The bookshelves are filled with Capitol-approved books and a few medical texts my mother has managed to keep with her. I have no use for this room except as a place to hide.
"Go on in," the man commands. I twist the polished brass doorknob, unprepared for what's inside. A man sits at the desk, expecting me.
"Katniss dear?" I hear Effie tweet and I realize this is at least the third time she's said my name.
"Huh?" I reply.
"Yes or no?" Effie asks, as if I have any context to that. I look at Peeta and he imperceptibly shakes his head.
"No," I say. Effie pouts and gets up from the table.
"Well then don't complain to me again. I try to help!" she says shrilly. Effie flitters out of the room and I look at Peeta.
"She wanted to know if you wanted the prep team to shave off your eyebrows," Peeta says.
"What? Why would I want that?" I spit out.
"Apparently you complained about all the eyebrow tweezing at the house? Effie thought it would be easier to shave them off and paint them on instead. I guess it's common in the Capitol," he explains, clearly entertained.
I try to picture myself with no eyebrows. I need to readjust to being around Capitolites and their crazy ideas.
"She said it will be at least a day before we arrive," Peeta adds.
District 11. A feeling of dread builds up under my skin with an ache I cannot soothe. The Victory Tour feels like a special kind of torture. It's just another tool the Capitol uses to oppress its people, to never let the pain of the Hunger Games slip from their minds. But to a victor, to a survivor, it forces them to relive their Games over and over. To meet the families of those they lost and those they killed. To be paraded around like some kind of Capitol pawn – a transplant that doesn't fit in anywhere anymore.
Peeta watches my face and reaches his hand out for mine.
District 11 is where Rue is from.
Was.
Where Rue was from.
"I just want to go to bed," I say and he nods as I stand up. The train is familiar turf now. Our rooms aren't far apart. Peeta walks me to my door and stands in the hall with me.
"I can do the speech tomorrow if you want," he offers. I've stared at the notecards a few times but I'm not retaining anything. The words are scripted and ill-rehearsed. Anyone would know they aren't mine.
"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," I admit. We need to sell the narrative. We need to keep Prim safe. There are too many thoughts in my mind for me to keep straight. Too many conflicting feelings of mutiny and obedience, defeat and hope, quiet and fury. I'm not selling the lie, not well anyway.
"Do you, um… Do you want to come to my room?" he asks, eyebrow perched.
"What?" I ask, not able to make out the words through the thoughts in my head. It's as though the normal world is moving on without me as I relive the past in my head. I glimpse up at Peeta's face, but before I can respond the train lurches gently and starts to decelerate. We look at each other, confused. We've been traveling maybe 8 hours. I hear an uneven clodding of feet and Haymitch appears at the end of the hall.
"Service stop," he announces and turns without a word. Follow me.
Haymitch heaves the train door open with a groan and jumps from the train to the ground. His knees complain and he's slow to straighten his back. I leap from the train down beside him and he starts moving down the track. I look over my shoulder and see Peeta talking down a guard. Something about Haymitch being drunk or travel-sick, but either way he's not following us. The air is unexpectedly warm and almost humid. I'm surprised that the trees are still flush with green leaves. The foliage abandoned the trees in District 12 long ago.
Haymitch turns around, his face straight.
"Tell me," he says. Haymitch isn't stupid.
"Snow was in my house," I stammer.
He sits at the desk as if it were his own. It is. Everything in the districts, everything in Panem belongs to President Snow. People. Things. It's all the same to him. What is he doing here? If he made the time to come all the way down here it can only mean one thing – I'm in serious trouble. I try to remember to breathe but when I think about his proximity to my sister, I nearly choke.
"I think it will make this whole situation a lot simpler if we agree not to lie to each other," Snow says precisely. "What do you think?"
"Yes, I think that would save time," I answer, surprised my voice is as calm as it is. I refuse to let the fear show on my face. I refuse to give him the satisfaction, even though it's pumping through my veins and filling every inch of my body. Snow pricks an eyebrow. I wonder how many people address him directly. I wonder what kind of deference he expects. Should I call him Sir?
I've never been a polite person. He said not to lie. Why start now?
"My advisors were concerned you might be difficult. You're not planning on being difficult, are you Miss Everdeen?" he poises.
"I'm not planning anything, I didn't know you were coming," I remark back. I'm being smart and I immediately regret it, but the smirk on his serpentine lips tells me he's entertained.
"I told them you wouldn't be difficult. Anyone who cares so much about preserving her own life, the life of her sister, the life of her…" He meets my eyes before placing the next word carefully, "Cousin. Someone like that wouldn't be difficult. She knows what is important. Who is not."
It's a poorly veiled threat. He means it to be. My sister. Gale. They are not important. They are disposable if I step out of line.
"Sit," he orders. I take one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. It's large, my toes barely graze the ground. If he's trying to make me feel inferior, it's working.
"I have a problem, Miss Everdeen. I've had a problem ever since you pulled out those poisonous berries in the Arena," he says. I'm shocked at his candor. We said we weren't lying, but I didn't expect him to be so blunt. "If Seneca Crane had any brains at all, he'd have blown you to bits right there. But he had a tragic…" He pauses again for emphasis. "Sentimental streak. It did not serve him well."
I don't need more than that. Seneca Crane is dead.
Each word from Snow's mouth is punctuated by the scent of blood. I wonder if he swirls it around in his mouth like one of those wine connoisseurs we met in the Capitol. If he drinks it like milk. The rose from his lapel is potent but does nothing to mask the smell. I feel my stomach lurch and force myself swallow.
"After that, there was nothing to do but let you play out your little scenario. We discussed killing you in the Capitol, telling the people that the poison had indeed made its way into your system, but at that point all of Panem was on pins and needles rooting for the star-crossed lovers. That is your fault, Miss Everdeen. Something you will make up to me."
I nod.
"You did your part quite well following the Games – the lovesick schoolgirl. The people in the Capitol ate it up, foolish as they are. But out in the districts, not everyone fell for your act. In the districts, some see your little stunt as an act of defiance. A willfulness against the Capitol. And if a tiny little girl can stand up to the Capitol, what's to prevent an uprising?"
"There have been uprisings?" I ask evenly. The rebellious brew in my blood begins to boil, but it is quickly sated by the icy influence of his threat. Prim. Gale.
"No, and you will see to it that there aren't. That is the deal, Miss Everdeen. You quash this feeling of insurrection among the people. You will show the districts your act was nothing more than that of a foolish child who had fallen in love. That you are nothing but a weak girl who couldn't bear to live without her precious Peeta." The Ps explode percussively from his mouth on his last two words. Snow takes a flawless white handkerchief from his pocket and dabs the corners of his puffy lips.
I don't know what to do.
"If there is an uprising, I will kill every last rebel and hang them in the streets to warn the others. I will turn the next Games into an exercise in cruelty. You don't want that, do you, Miss Everdeen? Children crying and starving and dying all because you were too foolish to let the baker's son die?" Snow stares at me.
I want to scream. I want to throw something. Instead I stay quiet. Instead I let my worry for Prim guide my actions.
"You did well following the Games, but since your return to District 12 you have been less than adequate," Snow says squarely. I don't have to ask. The engagement. "Then you sent your clueless escort to try and make me fix it for you."
"I didn't –" I stammer, but he's not interested.
"I don't make exceptions, Miss Everdeen. The rules are there for a reason. Whatever problems people have with the Capitol, the order we provide is instrumental to the survival of our nation. If I let up my grip on the districts, even for a short time, believe me when I tell you the entire system would collapse. I am not here to fix your mistakes. You are."
He stands from the desk with intention. I get the feeling this man does nothing without precise intention. That's when it hits me.
Snow needs me.
He starts to step around the desk when my tongue betrays me.
"It must be a fragile system, if a handful of berries can bring it down."
The president stops moving. It's the first moment since his arrival that his is displeased. Before I can say another word a hologram appears over the desk. Me. Gale. A kiss. His beady eyes drop to mine. His threats are not veiled anymore.
"I didn't mean to start any trouble," I tell him quickly. The frame freezes, Gale's hands clasped in my hair.
"I believe you. It doesn't matter. Your stylist turned out to be prophetic in his wardrobe choice. Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. The girl who provided a spark that, if left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem." He clicks his fingers and Gale disappears.
"Why don't you just kill me now?" I blurt out. Kill me and none of them matter anymore. No one cares about Prim or Gale, not if I'm dead. It's almost like I'm begging him to take my life. A smile creeps across Snow's lips. Power. He has power over me. And he loves it.
"Publicly? That would only add fuel to the flames," he says. "Him?" Snow brings the image back. I see my best friend in the president's glare. "Him I can kill off if we don't come to a happy conclusion. You aren't doing him any favors disappearing with him into the woods each Sunday."
"It's not like how it looks. Please don't hurt Gale," I whisper. "He's just my friend. He's been my friend for years. There is nothing between us. Besides, everyone thinks we are cousins now."
"I'm only interested how it affects your mood with Mr. Mellark," Snow snarls.
"It will be the same on the Tour. I'll be in love with him just as I was," I blather.
"Just as you are," Snow repeats.
"Just as I am," I confirm.
"Fix it," he says firmly.
"I will. I'll fix it. I promise."
Haymitch stares at me. A soft wind whips across the grass. The sounds of the nocturnal fill the night air – katydids chirping, the low hoot of an owl. The world seems peaceful.
It's anything but.
"Shit."