We arrive in the Capitol in the early morning. There is no sleeping in or leaving after breakfast. Effie has us all ushered off the train as soon as it comes to a full stop. I'm not sure if she's anxious to be home, or if she's excited about the week's festivities, or perhaps a mix of both, but she is in rare form this morning. Her normally high screech is in the stratosphere, and I'm almost tempted to cover my ears. When we all step out onto the platform, Haymitch is noticeably absent. I'm sure he's hungover, or maybe still drunk from last night. He doesn't sleep until the sun rises, so it's unlikely he's out of bed this early.

"I'll get him," I offer, and Peeta takes my bag. I climb back onto the train and make my way to his room. I take a deep breath and get ready to enter. I try to breathe as little as possible in his room, and even then only through my mouth, but when I open the door, I find Haymitch standing at his bed, latching together his suitcase. His room is clean. Well, relatively clean. He's wearing fresh clothes and his hair is damp from a recent shower.

"Hey," I say, and he turns around. "I was just coming to get you. We're all heading to the Tribute Center now."

"Oh, right," he says distractedly. "I'll be right there."

"I can wait," I say, sitting on the end of his bed. He goes to the bathroom and quickly brushes his teeth before throwing the wet toothbrush in his bag. "Haymitch, are you sober?" I ask.

"Mostly," he says, and latches the luggage closed. He quickly makes the bed, and I watch him with a baffled expression. "What?" he asks warily.

"Who are you and what have you done with Haymitch?" I ask.

"Was that a joke, sweetheart?" he asks. "Did you just try to be funny?"

"Shut up," I scowl at him.

"There's the girl I know," Haymitch states, taking his suitcase in hand. "Look, I've let you guys manage the last districts on your own because you seemed to get the swing of things. Stopped making stupid mistakes. But the Capitol - it's a whole other game. You need to listen to me this next week."

I try to reconcile this Haymitch - the Haymitch trying to help us help Snow versus the secretive Haymitch who seems to be plotting some kind of rebellion behind my back. The only common thinking I can find between the two is he's trying to protect me. He wants to help me meet Snow's expectations to keep me, and ultimately those close to me, alive, even if it does run counter to his grander scheme.

I'm worried about him. I've been so caught up worrying about Gale and Prim and the Hawthornes that I've lost sight of those people right in front of me. They aren't likely to succeed, so what happens when they get caught? Will they execute Haymitch on live television? Cinna? I start to feel sick.

Haymitch must see my skin turn pallid. "Come on, let's go meet Effie before she has an aneurism." Outside we regroup and make our way over to the Tribute Center. Effie tells us we will be staying in our old suite for the run of our time in the Capitol. The team will stay in their old quarters as well. She will finalize a schedule for the week this afternoon and distribute to the staff accordingly.

I can't describe the feeling that overcomes me when I enter the Tribute Center. It's bizarre. Without all the other tributes, the space feels empty. I close my eyes and see Rue pushing all the buttons in the elevator, and the boy from 7 scowling at her. I see Cato and Clove bickering in the lobby. I see Foxface alone in a corner with a book. I feel Peeta weave his hand in mine.

"I know," he whispers, and he does. Only he does. And Haymitch. Only a victor knows what it's like to walk through the ghosts that you left in the Arena.

We have an hour to settle into our rooms before we are supposed to meet Effie for brunch. Brunch is a new concept introduced to me on this Tour. No one has brunch in 12. Even the word sounds silly. It takes about five seconds to put my bag on my bed, and now I have fifty-nine minutes to kill. I hide the basket with Peeta's cake in the top of my closet and make my way to his room.

Peeta is legitimately unpacking. His suitcase is open on his bed, and he lays the clothes in the dresser or hangs them in the closet. When he sees me in the doorway he smiles.

"This is weird, right?" he asks.

"Yeah, it's weird," I reply, crossing to his bed and plopping down next to his suitcase. He takes a stack of shirts and tidies them a little before placing them in a drawer. I look in his suitcase and see it tucked in the corner. I feel my heart throb in my ears. It's a tiny box. I'm sure he was hiding it in his sock drawer on the train. Peeta follows my stare. I must look terrified, because the first words out of his mouth are, "Don't worry, it's not a real proposal."

"I know, but…" My fingers stretch forward and touch the box. It's smooth, like satin. "Can I see it?" I ask.

"Oh, um… yeah." Peeta takes the box from his bag and sits next to me on the bed. He fiddles it around in his fingers, as if he's nervous. We don't have engagement rings in 12. We have wedding bands, which are plain steel rings given to couples at the Justice Building when they sign their marriage license. Everyone's wedding band looks the same. I've seen wedding sets on Capitol fingers though. Like everything else in the Capitol, they are overdone and gaudy. They normally have giant jewels on the front, which I imagine must get in the way when you are using your hands. I know we are having a Capitol engagement, and probably a Capitol wedding, so I wonder what kind of tasteless Capitol-inspired ring Effie made him buy me.

Peeta opens the box wordlessly next to me. Inside, a tiny ring glimmers in the light. It's not huge and tawdry at all. The platinum band is carved to look like a tree branch - imprecise and earthy. A nest of small, delicately engraved leaves nestle a petite pearl. It almost looks like an egg in a nest. The attention to detail, the grain of the smooth bark, the curl of the leaves, are absolutely stunning. It looks like a tiny piece of art. I can see myself in the Spring, climbing branches and peeking into bird's nests, spying the world from above. Feeling safe. This wasn't about them at all. This was about me.

Tears burn in my eyes and I try to bat them away before Peeta sees them. "So… um, you like it?" he asks. I nod fervently.

"Yeah," I manage as I try to choke back a happy sob, but it's obvious I'm moved and I can't wipe this stupid smile off my face. I rise to my feet and try to hide my face.

"I'm kind of glad we got to have this moment alone," he says quietly to my back.

"Me too," I say, still facing the door. I walk forward to leave, but at the doorway I turn to face him. "Thank you," I whisper with a small smile. He returns it in kind.

I go back to my room and a while later Peeta meets me there to walk down to brunch. We don't talk about the ring, or the engagement, but when I squeeze his hand tight in mine, a smile finds a home on his lips and doesn't leave for hours.

Effie gives us the written schedule and I zone out for the rest of the lecture. I spend most of this afternoon with my prep team for our first big event tonight – a dinner with the Gamemakers. That seems like certain torture to me, but apparently it's a tradition. Seneca Crane is notably absent from the registrar, but no one brings it up. Snow as much as told me he was dead. I don't think I ever shared that with Peeta, but I need to. No secrets. I still haven't been able to tell him what I overheard between Finnick and Haymitch, and how it might fold into what Cinna and Haymitch had been discussing. Unlike the districts, I don't know how many safe, unbugged areas exist in the Capitol grounds, especially in the areas we are headed.

My prep session is especially long. Everything I wear in the Capitol is more grandiose than what I wore in the districts. It looks like they've assimilated me. Like I'm one of them now. For Gale's sake, I suppose that's good, but I feel like a traitor with curled eyelashes and stained lips. Haymitch drops by unexpectedly.

"Listen, sweetheart. Tonight is all about massaging egos. The Gamemakers are very important members of society here, but they are prideful and competitive. You need to compliment them, but be careful it doesn't overshadow any of the others. You and Peeta should lay on the love story heavy. And the gratitude. Thank them for saving both of you. Thank them for their generosity."

"Is it important that I don't vomit while I say those words?" I reply coldly. Octavia gives me a sideways look but keeps working.

"I think you've done enough of that already," he smirks.

Peeta and I leave soon after, escorted to the event by Effie. Outside, a crowd of reporters gathers in the lobby. For most of the Tour we've been followed by a dozen or so members of the press, but here in the Capitol with their many gossip and fashion magazines, it's no longer just for government propaganda, and the numbers have swelled dramatically. Peeta protectively wraps an arm around me as we press through the crowd. Bulbs flash and questions fly through the air.

"Katniss, are you happy to be back in the Capitol?"

"Peeta, are you planning to propose?"

"Katniss, do you think about Rue?"

That question stops me. I turn around and face the woman. She's tiny, maybe four feet tall, with a giant magenta wig of almost equal height. It's a wonder she doesn't topple over. "What did you say?" I ask, eyes narrowing.

"Do you think about Rue?" she repeats, microphone shoved in my face.

"Of course I think about Rue," I reply.

"You've killed more Careers than any tribute from an outer district. Are you glad Marvel is dead?" she asks.

My eyes focus in on her, narrowing slightly. I step forward, my voice cold and dark but my eyes on fire. "That's why I got an eleven," I answer ominously. She cowers slightly behind her microphone. The other reporters step back as well. So far, my persona since the Arena has been innocent, sweet schoolgirl, infatuated with her boyfriend and her new fashion line. But here, I am deadly. I am a threat. The questions stop. Peeta grabs my hand and pulls me inside.

"What were you thinking?" he asks. His words are harsh but his tone is less so. He wants to know what hole we need to dig ourselves out of.

"I was thinking that woman tried to reduce Rue to some kind of bullet in my history, not a little girl who lived. She asked if I was glad Marvel was dead, like I'm some kind of cold-blooded killer!" I spit back defensively.

"And you wanted to convince them otherwise? Because that's not what happened," he states.

"I wanted her out of my face," I retort. He sighs. He understands, but he knows we are in trouble.

"Okay, well, let's try to make up for it inside," he says, weaving his fingers in mine.

I try to let Peeta do all the talking. He swoons and woos the Gamemakers as if they were old friends. I hear them laughing and smile along. I hear one bragging about the fireballs, which seemed to be his devious invention.

"They certainly gave you quite a run, didn't they Miss Everdeen?" he chuckles.

"Oh yes. Quite a run," I repeat his words back, smiling brightly. My champagne tastes like vinegar. I want to leave.

When Effie tells us the evening has come to a close, I act disappointed. I'm sure to say goodnight to every Gamemaker individually. A particularly fat, pale man holds my hand for longer than I'm comfortable with. His palm against mine makes my skin crawl. I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. He kisses the back of my hand and gives me a wink. I want to smack him in the face, but instead I giggle flirtatiously until Peeta pulls me away. I want to die. I want to crawl into a closet somewhere and rot away.

Peeta's hand never leaves mine. Not in the car, not in the elevator, not in our suite. Only when I go to the sink and run water over my face does he step back, and sits on the edge of my bathtub.

"I feel dirty," I say, scrubbing my hands ferociously under the water. I want to wipe off the entire layer of skin that man's lips came in contact with. My skin turns pink.

"Hey, do you want to shower?" Peeta asks, and I immediately understand his meaning.

"Yes," I say, and we crank the water on high. For good measure, we leave the sink running. He leans his face into mine until his mouth is at my ear, our cheeks pressed together. I try not to think about our proximity, but even feeling his breath on my skin makes it hard to concentrate. We skip this evening's developments and get right to the chase.

"What do you think Cinna and Haymitch were talking about?" he asks.

"I think they are trying to start a revolution," I reply, and he pulls away to meet my eyes. We stay close and quiet.

"What?" he asks, with a mix of desperation and concern.

"Not just them, either. In Four, it seemed like Finnick might be in on it too, and maybe that other victor, Chaff," I reply.

"So what, a few victors and a stylist are going to take down the Capitol?" Peeta asks, worry evident in his tone. He wants to fight, I can tell, but he doesn't want to run into some foolhardy plan that might get us killed. We're on the same page.

"Cinna implied it's more than that," I said.

"When was that?" he asks urgently.

"Back when we weren't talking. I wanted to tell you…" I lose my words. We promised no lying. No omitting the truth.

"It's fine," he dismisses my concern. "We're catching up now. Also, Portia said something that at the time made no sense, but now…" His voice trails off.

"What did she say?" I ask immediately.

"She said Chaff was sloppy for being seen in Eight," he replies. "At the time I didn't really know what she meant, but maybe it's because he was there covertly."

"In Four, it seemed to me like it was more than just Finnick plotting. It seemed to me like he had control over the people there. Like they'd riot or not on his word," I add.

We stare at each other. Well, it's out in the open.

"Do you want to actually shower?" Peeta asks. "I can go."

"I do, but…" I take a deep breath. "Stay?"

"The night?" he asks.

"No, just don't go yet," I ask. I sit in front of him and he helps me pull what must be a hundred pins from my hair. When it's finally loose at my shoulders, he gives me a lopsided smile. I shower quickly, and he sits on the closed toilet and talks to me about the time his brother Rye switched the confectioner's sugar and flour at the bakery. I'm laughing along as I towel off in the shower. I wrap it around my body and let my hair hang wet down my back. Peeta turns around so I can step on the drying mat, and my skin tingles as my hair falls back into place, soft and untangled.

I pull on a nightshirt and shorts, and Peeta follows me into my room. "I have something for you," I say, as I pad barefoot across my room to the closet. I pull down the basket, and Peeta and I sit cross-legged on my bed across from one another. "It might be terrible. I didn't know what I was doing." I pull out the glass case holding the tiny cake and place it on the bed between us. A huge smile stretches across Peeta's face.

"Did you make me a cake?" he whispers softly.

"Yeah," I say, blushing feverishly. "It's probably not any good."

He pulls open the glass and the air fills with sugar and cinnamon. "Is it a cinnamon cake?" he asks, his curiosity piqued.

I offer a shy smile. "Umm. I tried. There wasn't really a cinnamon cake, so we kind of mixed a recipe for cake and a snickerdoodle." I'm not sure if I'm saying that right. That's just what the book said. Peeta obviously knows though, because his smile brightens.

"Really? You invented a cake for me?" I feel my face burning, but Peeta absolutely glows. "Who is we?" he asks.

"Oh, Cheshire helped me," I mumble.

"You were hanging out with Cheshire?" His eyes are radiant. Walls are tumbling down between us.

"Yeah, we talked. He's nervous about the dinner at the Mansion but glad to be home to see Marigold," I say.

"You know his kids' names?" Peeta's smile is infectious.

"Is this an interview or something? Stop asking questions and eat your cake," I insist. He beams brightly at me and uses the fork Cheshire packed in the basket.

He takes a bite and sighs. "Oh it's so good. Cinnamon is my favorite."

"I know," I say softly.

"You want some?" he asks, his eyebrows perched on his forehead, but my eyes drop to his mouth, where a bit of frosting lingers on his upper lip. I want to lean over and suck it off. I want to taste cinnamon on his mouth. He catches my expression, and the mood turns serious. "Are you going to kiss me?" he asks softly. Hope floats in his voice. My stomach flips.

I want to. I want to.

"Soon," I whisper. He smiles and goes back to the cake.