XIII : But First: Coffee. And Second? Also Coffee.

Seeds in my head

Visions in red

All that I dreamed

And all that I've bled

My mind is a gun

I won't be outdone

Say what you want

While I shoot for the sun

"How did it go?"

Fra is waiting for me in the foyer of our apartment. Normally unflappable, he's uncharacteristically anxious as he gets to his feet, putting his book down on the side table. I can't remember the last time he closed a book the second someone walked through the door. He must be a mess.

I take a deep breath. "I think it went well. I did the agility course and it went off without a hitch."

"And the self-defence?"

I take a deep breath, trying not to bounce I'm so excited. It's kind of fun to leave him in suspense. He looks ready to tear his hair out. "Fra, it went perfectly."

He releases a long sigh. "Great. Great. I'm so glad to hear that. Here—you must be hungry—let's get something to eat and you can tell me the details."

By now it's nearly dinner time, but Rhodendra is nowhere to be found to tell us we're going to spoil our appetites. There's an unnecessarily-large chocolate fountain in the middle of the dining room table, surrounded by bouquets of skewered fruits and pastries and cookies which have been shaped like everything from curled-up kittens to blooming roses. We each take a bowl of the chocolate and a plate of the best-looking goodies and head to the parlour.

I tell Fra all the details of my private session with the Gamemakers while we eat. He had already gone to sleep by the time I got back last night, and this morning there wasn't really time to tell him what I was planning in detail. Judging by his distress when I got back, I think it's safe to say he's been fretting all day over how the session was going to go; his relief at hearing everything went off so smoothly seems to have taken ten years off his face.

Only now that I'm telling him about it do I realise he's not the only one relieved that the private session is behind me. The time allotted to each Tribute is so short that there isn't much room for experimentation or deviating from the plan, which is a shame because experimenting and deviating from the plan are practically my two favourite things. Plus, I needed to do the agility course and self-defence, which left even less room for improvisation or error. Now that it's over, I realise I was stressed about it more than I thought I was.

And the lack of flexibility in my plan would have been even more daunting if I hadn't finally gotten the Career to admit he was planning to do not two, but three different skills in his own session. Sure, he may have had the advantage of an entire year to prepare for it, but if he could do all that in under twenty minutes then surely I could manage to stick to my two things, right?

Oh! That reminds me:

"There's something else," I say, once I finish telling Fra all about how I escaped from the Trainer in less than a minute on the third round of attacks. "I was right about my Career."

He smiles. "Oh? How do you mean?"

"I didn't tell you this morning—" I look over my shoulder, making sure no one else is within earshot "—and I can't give you details now, but Cato took a really interesting approach in his session today. In a way that will be really good for us in the arena."

If he'd aged-down ten years with relief, returning to his old worrying ways seems to add at least that many back. "What do you mean?"

I shake my head. "I… I can't explain it more, I'm sorry. But I've got a lot more to work with than I would have thought three days ago."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, but I don't mind. I'm in a great mood, and I'm happy to sit in the silence and munch on a chocolate-dipped pear shaped like a bird in flight. It even has a tiny branch held in its talons. How do they get them so detailed?

"I'm really glad to hear that, too," he says, surprising me. "I know you can tell I've been worried about this partnership, and what it could mean for you." He smiles, a bit drily. "I know I haven't been good at hiding that worry. But I want you to know that I've never had a Tribute whose judgment I trusted more than you, nor one I was more determined to bring home." He reaches out, hesitantly, then lays his hand on my wrist. "So I'm really glad that things have been improving."

"Thanks Fra. Me too."

Although "improving" might be too strong a word. After last night's revelations, I'm still trying to figure out if the net product of our conversation was good or bad news—there certainly was a lot of both. I do feel pretty good about how things are moving forward with our partnership, and I think I've been doing a decent job of handling the various problems Cato's thrown my way, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't still have concerns. Concerns which need sorted through before the final interviews.

I take a bite of a piece of chocolate bread. "Can I ask you something?"

He looks up from his plate. "Of course."

"There's no way Brutus could do anything… dishonest, with the money in our account, right?"

He immediately takes another bite, and I almost laugh at his blatant attempt to stall answering. Of course, he would never speak with his mouth full, so I'm left waiting patiently while he chews. "Dishonest?" he asks. "And… perhaps illegal?"

"Mm-hm. Perhaps."

He shakes his head. "No. District Two has been known to behave in a less than scrupulous manner in the past, but this year it will be much more difficult with another Mentor watching the money. District One might still try it—they've a terrible track record for dishonest bookkeeping, and don't care as much about secrecy—but really the only way I can see that anyone will get away with it is if their Tribute's partner dies. Otherwise getting caught is a near-certainty."

I nod. Cato didn't seem to know much about the financial situation for the Pairs, but I wanted to be sure he didn't know something I didn't about Brutus's ability to move money around.

"Should I be worried about this, too?" he asks.

I shrug. "Only if you feel like adding it to the ever-growing list of things I give you to be worried about," I joke. "Keeping your eyes peeled for any funny business wouldn't be a bad idea, though."

He hums. "Yes, well, like I said: Two has been known to mess about in the past, but it really is more One's thing. One's reputation actually got so bad that they decided just to lean into it, and now they're almost upfront with their sponsors that a donation to either Tribute is a donation to whichever Tribute they prefer."

Well, no one better tell District Two that they have that option. "That's… an interesting approach. How did they pull it off without scaring sponsors away?"

"They timed it very well; at that time—this is not quite fifteen years ago—many sponsors were growing disenchanted with District Two and their reign of terror. Then Enobaria bit her opponent's throat out and while that was the gory theatrics some citizens craved, there were many others who found it more than a little off-putting. District One positioned themselves as the desirable alternative; donations to them became a way of ensuring the Victor was someone a bit more palatable, even if your preferred Tribute wasn't the one chosen by their Mentors."

It certainly sounds like the underhanded and ruthless behaviour District One is known for. "I guess they'll have to find a new way to cheat this year," I say. "Since moving money around probably won't be an option."

Fra smiles. "They'll find a way, I'm sure. But I'll keep an eye on Brutus, to make sure he isn't cheating too—in any way. Thank you for the warning."

"Hey, thank you for making sure he isn't up to no good," I return. "Just… please don't make it obvious. I don't think Brutus is smart enough to trace your suspicion back to Cato but I'm sure you'd agree it would be best if he didn't." I'm counting on some degree of sensibility from District Two, but if they get angry enough I have a feeling rational thought will go right out the window.

Fra leans forward. "Did Brutus tell Cato he was planning to move money around?"

I think back to our conversation from last night. "Not in so many words. It's honestly a long story, Fra, and I don't think I'm allowed to tell most of it, but I know we have reason to suspect foul play."

He sighs, shaking his head. "District Two. It's always something with them."

"Tell me about it. It's been nonstop fun learning about all the myriad ways they're a bunch of psychos, that's for sure." I pick up another piece of fruit, it's a banana shaped like a lily. "Cato, if you can believe it, seems to be the sanest of the bunch." I look back at Fra, dunking the banana in my little dish of chocolate. "Which, you can imagine, is less than encouraging."

"I thought he wasn't so bad?"

"Oh no, he's not. Not by comparison to his entourage, and not compared to the District Two track record." I take a bite of the banana. I'm beginning to think you could dip a piece of wood in chocolate and I would eat it. How does everything taste so good? "Still though. I get the feeling Cato's composure is hanging by a thread."

Considering his genetic material, though, that really isn't surprising. I made the mistake of looking up the highlight reel of Hunger Games 49 late last night, the year Karnus Emery emerged Victorious, and I think I'll be having nightmares for the rest of my life. Karnus makes the things Dominic did last year look like child's play. And worse, Karnus was actually smart.

Without warning, Rhodendra appears in the doorway, hands on her hips. "And just what is going on here?"

I jump a little at her sudden appearance, smearing chocolate on the corner of my mouth. Fra tries to somehow look dignified while hiding that his mouth is full, but at least he doesn't have anything on his face.

I swallow, hurriedly grabbing a napkin. "Just having a snack."

Our Escort purses her lips. Did she sneak into the apartment so quietly just to catch us if we happened to be eating before dinner? "Well, I hope you're pleased with yourselves, because dinner is still going to be served in fifty-two minutes and you are still expected to be there." She turns a sharp look on me. "And I won't be accepting falling asleep in the bath as an excuse again, I'll have you know."

I hope the expression on my face looks contrite and not like I'm barely holding back laughter. "I know—I'm so sorry about that, again. We'll be there, don't worry. It was just a little snack."

The size of our plates begs to differ, but at least they're mostly empty now and she has no proof as to how full they were.

She maintains the evil-eye for a moment longer—just to show she means it—then relaxes with a polite smile. "How was your private session, dear?" She looks around the room. "And has anyone seen Jace? I'd like to know how his went as well." Her expression darkens a little. "Though sometimes I don't know why I bother with that boy."

I try not to find too much joy in the fact that Jace continually snubbing Rhodendra means that I'm her favourite. "It went really well, thanks for asking. I did the agility course and then did some defensive-style one-on-one with a trainer. Honestly I'm not sure it could have gone better."

She smiles widely, clasping her hands together. "That's wonderful! I'm sure you'll get a fantastic score, my dear. You deserve it."

Oh, I'm definitely her favourite. "Thanks, Rhodendra. I'm anxious to see the scores, but your faith is definitely encouraging."

"We all have faith in you," she says, looking to Fra for support. He nods. "You're going to do well. So long as you have faith in yourself."

I've never heard her talk about it, but I wonder if Rhodendra has kids. With her talent for giving both withering glares and cheesy but uplifting pep talks, she'd probably be a decent mom.

Then again, being a mother might make it significantly harder to be the one to lead a pair of children to the slaughter year after year.

I look between the two of them, not having to fake much of the emotion in my voice. "Thanks. I'll—I'll try."

As she promised, dinner is right on schedule, and like we promised Fra and I are there with our best appetites. It's another dinner with the whole team present, for which I'm glad, because neither Jace nor Clyse say a word all through the meal. The silence would be painfully awkward if it weren't for Rhodendra, Bran, Vo, and Aurelle—Jace's stylist—maintaining the chatter. Which they do remarkably well.

I keep up at first, but as the meal wears on I find myself thinking more and more about the score announcements after dinner. I know that my session went as well as I need it to, since I just need to get a score that shows I'm not going to be dragging Cato down in the arena. I mean, the pressure isn't on me to blow anyone away with my training score.

Of course I have no doubt Cato has the ability to blow them away, but I still run scenario after scenario through my mind, trying to reassure myself. Just like with Nye before the Games, I try to imagine the worst and prepare for it. What if they didn't like that he didn't give them the District Two Special? Not everyone likes a surprise, and if they're disappointed that he's not what they expected… well then things could go kind of badly.

But what does "badly" mean? The worst he could possibly get is a seven—and that's a score any of us non-Careers would be happy with. And the private sessions aren't all the Gamemakers consider; I'm sure he showed off enough in the first days of training to prove he's still far, far above average. So even a seven is very unlikely. And if a seven is unlikely, then that means he scored higher. And any higher puts him in Career territory, where he belongs.

As for me, well, I'd love a seven; Fra got me the data for the last five years, and without counting the Careers (who always skew the data) the mean Training Score has consistently sat somewhere between four-and-a-half and five-and-a-half. Last year's mean was a bit higher, thanks to Katniss's eleven and surprisingly high scores from other outer-District Tributes like Rue and even Peeta, but still it sat below six (at 5 and 23/30, to be exact).

For me to score below a six would be rough. Scoring below five would be devastating.

Okay, so there's where we start: what if I score a four? What's the worst that could happen? Cato ditches me and plays alone? No, that's the one great thing about what he told me last night: he needs me to ensure Brutus doesn't steal his sponsor money. If Cato ditches me, there's nothing preventing Fra from looking the other way while Brutus gives it all to Farley.

So even with a four, I'd still have my Career. I might lose sponsor interest, but only at the start, only until we're in the arena and can prove our actual worth. There have been plenty of Victors who've scored low in Training, sometimes on purpose and other times because not everyone's skills translate well in training. And my best assets have never been anything I could prove in a gymnasium.

And finally, neither of us need a good score to give the Capitol a relationship to root for.

Even if it would help.

By the time we're sitting down to watch the score announcements, I feel almost completely at ease. Still, I wish I could watch the program alone, or at least just with Fra. If things don't go well I don't want to have to deal with everyone here trying to console me about it. That would be annoying, and more than a little awkward.

Alas, I also don't want to be the one to ditch the party. Especially not right as an Avox is passing out bubbling beige wine, handing me a long-stemmed crystal glass that—like the fruits from earlier—is shaped like a flower.

Because this is a Quell, and because of the particular rule-change, many aspects of the Games have taken a turn for the extra-dramatic. We got more training time, longer training days, a rearranged schedule, an extra interview, and I'm sure the arena will hold its own unique, sadistic twists. It's a Quell. Things need to be different, they need to be special.

But the scores are something almost sacred to the Games; they're taken very seriously by Gamemakers and Capitol citizens alike, and the secrecy that surrounds our days in the Training gymnasiums makes them a precious tool for sponsors (and gamblers). Thus they unfold this year the same as they do every other year, with simplicity and understatement so uncharacteristic of this city. Starting with Glint, our pictures will flash across the screen with our scores beneath them, a few seconds and then gone. There will be no comment until afterward, after the numbers have been released into the world for viewers to pick apart.

They don't even begin with much fanfare. There's Glint's handsome face, and beneath it, a nine. A typical Career score—not the highest we'll see tonight, I'm sure, but higher than most.

Majestie, of course, scores a ten. She's not exactly smirking in her picture, but I still interpret the look in her eye to mean she is entirely unsurprised that she scored higher than her District Partner. I'm certainly not surprised.

Cato's unsmiling face flashes across the screen next, and I hold my breath. It will be fine—don't worry.

I almost laugh when the number finally does appear. I was an idiot to even consider being worried.

Jace sucks in a breath across the room, Bran swears colourfully, but I just keep watching the screen. Eleven. The picture definitely brings out that half-mad look in his eyes he gets sometimes, but the score directly contradicts any assumption you might make from the look of him.

The Gamemakers do not give elevens to crazy people.

Then it's Farley's face and a ten, and I finally come back to reality where Rhodendra, Bran, and Vo are discussing the implications of such a score.

Fra is sitting beside me, and even he lets out a slow breath. "So that's what you meant when you said he was doing something differently."

I nod. "Yeah, pretty much."

I try not to let this good news distract me, not when I need to be paying attention. I don't want to have to memorize the scores at another time, but I want to know them all before the arena.

Lane from Three scores a six. Elinnor—Glint's partner—scores only a five.

Logan scores a ten, and my spirits sink a little. That's two tens from that Pair. Was it too much to hope one of them would completely flop?

I wait as the next scores come in, watching for a surprise, for an outlier. But the pattern from the past few years holds this year as well, with most Tributes scoring fours, fives, and sixes. Mara, Jace's partner, breaks the mold a little by scoring a seven. I almost turn to Jace to say something encouraging, but I decide that would be more patronizing than anything, after Cato. Still, I feel bad when all he gets is a wordless grunt from Clyse and a quiet "that's good" from Aurelle.

Thane scores a nine, which I'm sure is cause for rejoicing two floors above our heads. Prim definitely doesn't need any help getting more sponsors, but a partner who scores a nine will probably do a rather good job of protecting her.

Domas gets a seven, but besides him no one from Eight or Nine distinguishes themselves.

Then it's the moment of truth.

I swear we're all holding our breaths as Jace's face appears onscreen. I shoot him a quick look out of the corner of my eye. He looks even younger in his picture than he does in real life.

The number 6 scrolls across the bottom of the screen.

The congratulations come just a beat later, as everyone turns to Jace with smiles and vague encouragements.

I hold back from saying anything until I see how Jace reacts. I'm always wary in situations like this—like when a friend at school tells you their test score and you're not sure if they're bragging or lamenting. It's always awkward if you get it wrong.

I offer a thumb's up when I see him smiling at the congratulations. Jace is only fifteen, and has no training. He could have done a lot worse than a six.

The fussing stops as my face replaces his, and I feel Vo grab my hand and squeeze, her long, fake nails digging in almost painfully.

8

Eight!

I'm embarrassed at the weird little gasping sound that I make, though thankfully it's drowned out by the unearthly shriek that comes from my stylist.

"Eight!" Bran whoops. "Fuck yes!"

Rhodendra sounds almost ready to cry. "Oh, dear, congratulations Caerwyn! I knew you could do it."

Vo continues to laugh, letting my hand go to throw her arms around me. "Look at you!" She rests her hands on my shoulders, shaking me a little. "You did it!"

Fra's praises are more subdued, thank the stars, because I'm already uncomfortable with the difference between their reactions for my score and Jace's. Of course I never mind being the centre of attention, and it always feels good when people are happy for you, but I feel terrible that he didn't get the same excitement from a team that's supposed to support both of us.

My Mentor is sensible, and he understands this. He's prouder than either Rhodendra or Vo, prouder than both of them put together, but all he gives is a smile that crinkles his eyes and puts a lump in my throat.

When I look back at the screen it's already on to Perth from Eleven, who scores a five. I'm glad that the scores just keep coming, giving me something to focus on besides Clyse muttering "Carrie the Career" under his breath, just loudly enough that he knows I can hear.

There's only one score I want to see next, but it's the last one of the night. This time everyone in the room holds their breath—and probably in every room in the Capitol, if not the entire country.

Prim scores a seven.

I bite my tongue. She beat Jace. Shit.

I remind myself I don't owe either of them anything—that I do not want either of them to do well, because they only do well at my expense. But there's no disliking Primrose Everdeen, and Jace… he's not a bad kid. He just doesn't deserve this.

None of us do.

I stop that thought immediately. I'm really not a stickler for ideals, and I'd rather be a survivor at all costs than a martyr for any. And this is certainly not the time to grow a bleeding heart. Not when my life is on the line.

I look back at the screen as it shifts to show Caesar Flickermann, about to start a little commentary session on the scores before launching into the Pair Scores.

A little smile comes to my face as the first faces appear on screen. You know what? Farley probably deserves this.

I'm sure the Hunger Games are often an isolating, lonely experience. With very few exceptions, Tributes are pulled away from their families and friends and introduced to vaguely-familiar strangers who accompany them to a city unlike any place they've ever been where the people couldn't be more alien if they actually came from outer space. Even if there wasn't the arena and almost-certain death at the end of it all, it would be a lot to handle.

Somehow, despite all this, time alone is hard to come by. Meals are eaten with your District team, training is done with twenty-three other Tributes, and on days where you don't have training you're with your styling team all day. Most moments in-between are spent with your Mentor, discussing strategies and survival tactics, and if not your Mentor then your partner.

It's probably not all bad. Time alone can be time to get lost in thought, and facing what we're facing, those thoughts aren't always good company. Nevertheless, when I wake up especially early the day we prep for our interviews, I see the opportunity for some quality alone time and seize it with both hands.

It's the first morning I don't have to be preparing for the day ahead, since I won't be leaving the apartments. The day before the interviews is always the day Tributes prepare with their Mentors and Escorts, and this year is no exception, but since the interviews are together Pairs will also be preparing together. Brutus and Cato will meet us up here at nine, and together with Fra we'll be determining a thematic approach for our interview. Then after lunch Rhodendra will return from the sixth floor and bring with her Yvain, the District Two Escort, to teach us "etiquette and charm." Which should be… really something. Between that and an entire morning spent with Brutus, I'm really not sure which will be more painful.

But all that is many hours away, and it's nice to just lay in bed where it's cozy and soft, and pretend that I have the whole day to do nothing but this. Or better yet, that when I walk out the door of my bedroom my family will be there sitting around the table, living in some alternate reality where this is our life—sleeping in, breakfasts of crêpes and fresh orange juice, and beds with twenty pillows per person. I can imagine that my day would progress with meeting up with Dack, Nal, Tristan, and Laney on our way to a school where they have a textbook for every student, where the chairs wouldn't teeter on uneven legs, and where we wouldn't sweat to death on the hottest days of the school year in a building with hardly any windows.

Is that how it works for the families in the Capitol? It feels weird to think of groups of kids moving through the streets of this city on their way to school. They don't often show people from the Capitol on television outside from ones involved in the Games, and none of those people are kids. But there must be kids in the Capitol, right? And they must go to school somewhere… right?

Do they? Or do they just hang out all day doing… whatever it is people do during the day in the Capitol?

These musings carry me from bed and all through a long, hot shower, and as I'm stepping out and pressing my hand to the drying panel, I decide I should just ask Rhodendra about Capitol life this afternoon. I'm sure I'll need some sort of back-up plan for when our "etiquette and charm" session grows terribly uncomfortable, and I suspect getting the Escorts talking about their lives will be just the ticket.

It's nearly six by the time I'm dressed and already bored of being in my room. I have a book on unconventional first aid and survival skills to get through before the arena, so I decide to take it up to the roof to read in the gardens while the sun comes up.

I grab a giant sweater from the closet and head to the kitchen for a bagel and a bottle of water to bring to the roof. I hem and haw about getting a cup of coffee as well—I drink it sometimes at home, but not that often since I don't find it tastes all that good—and end up deciding to give it a try. After all, I'm in the Capitol, so I can add sugar to my coffee if I want to make it taste better.

The coffee that comes from the tube in the wall is the perfect temperature for drinking once you add a dollop of milk, and after stirring in a teaspoon of sugar I take a first, tentative sip.

Oh.

I take another.

Oh.

"What is this?" I whisper, looking into the cup. It can't be coffee—this tastes nothing like the coffee my mom makes every morning. What do they do to it here to make it taste like that?

I drink the entire cup standing there in the kitchen. I really shouldn't be surprised that the coffee powder the Capitol has is so much better than ours at home, but still I'm shocked. It's amazing. It doesn't even need the sugar!

I end up taking an entire thermos—brewed extra warm—up to the roof with me, adding it to the little basket that already contains my book and pre-breakfast. I'm feeling pretty chipper and eager to get started with my quiet morning when I leave the stairwell, almost thinking I won't need the sweater when I feel the fresh, perfectly calm morning air settled over the gardens.

It's absolutely beautiful. Sunrise was just over half an hour ago, and the Capitol must like to sleep in, because even the streets below are quiet. The only sounds in the world seem to be the gurgling of the fountains and ponds, and the chirping of birds and bugs in the foliage. The early light is a cool, pale yellow, and everything seems still, just starting to wake up.

I'm distracted admiring the peaceful, glittering beauty of it all when I enter the gazebo, which is probably why I don't notice it's already occupied.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise—" I back up, as Katniss Everdeen stands, her grey eyes staring me down from across the gazebo. If she had her bow right now, I'm sure she would be trying to kill me with more than just that glare. Although the glare might be successful; it's too soon to tell.

"What are you doing here?" She demands.

My embarrassment temporarily subsides as it sinks in that it really is Katniss Everdeen standing in front of me. Even in her state of unbridled animosity, I can't help but feel a little star-struck. She's… well, she's Katniss Everdeen.

She's shorter than I thought she was. I knew she wasn't tall, but I at least thought she was taller than me.

But she's also much scarier than I thought—with no cameras or husband around there's nothing short of hostility in her expression. I'm not sure what exactly I've interrupted, but my presence is plainly very unwelcome.

"I'm sorry," I repeat, taking a step back. "I didn't think there would be anyone up here. I just came to read." I lift my basket, showing her its contents as proof. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

She says nothing, still scowling at me.

I barely manage to keep from running out of the gazebo like she's going to start shooting at me any second. But while it would be nice to walk right over to the edge of the roof and throw myself off of it, if there's some way to keep Katniss Everdeen from telling every sponsor in this city that I'm an oblivious idiot who won't possibly be able to keep herself alive for five minutes in the arena, I'd like to do that. I know she already doesn't like me from my time training with her sister, so I think a little damage control could be beneficial.

I try not to fidget with the basket. "Would you pass on to Prim congratulations about her scores? I know that's weird," I add quickly, "but I… I really enjoyed training with her. She's a great girl and she doesn't deserve—" I stop myself. Twice in twenty-four hours I'm talking about who deserves to be a Tribute? What is wrong with me? "She deserves to do well."

Her scowl is unwavering. Mother mercy, I didn't realise just how right I was to compare her to my Career—the resemblance is uncanny.

"I'll tell her," she says suddenly. There's zero chance I look anything other than shocked. "She'll be happy to hear that."

"Oh, thanks!" I say, much too loudly. "Really, I'm happy for her." Okay, now seems like a good time to turn tail and run as far from this gazebo as I can get. "Thanks again."

"Wait,"

I turn around, sure this is the moment she'll pull a knife from her boot and land it in my eye. "Yeah?"

She shifts her weight, looking down for a second, then back up at me. "Thank you," she repeats. "For training with Prim. I know she enjoyed it too, and I'm… well, she doesn't like to be alone."

I try a smile, but she doesn't return it. "Well, it's good she's got Thane, then."

She hesitates, then nods.

"I hope he protects her," I blurt before I can stop myself. "Really, I do."

For the first time, her expression softens a little. "Me too."

I don't make a graceful exit, that's for sure. And my attempts to console myself that at least no one saw me make a fool of myself fall flat when I see an exceptionally large figure standing over by the corner of the roof.

He hears me stomp over, but doesn't turn around as I come up beside him. "Nice chat?"

I take a deep breath. "Oh, just the nicest." Really, the sarcasm is unwarranted. Katniss didn't even really try to kill me.

I turn to look up at Cato, but he keeps his eyes trained outward on the city. "Did you know I was up here?"

"No."

"Oh. Well I won't take up much of your time, since I'll very shortly be finding a rock to crawl under until I'm no longer about to die of embarrassment." I grab the thermos from my basket, burning my tongue on the coffee when I take an unnecessarily long drink.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "Coffee? I thought you were a morning person?"

I'm kind of impressed he remembers that. "Yeah. But I've never had coffee this good." I hold out the thermos. "Want some?"

He looks about to spit it out as soon as he takes a sip. "Fuck Caerwyn," he hands it back. "Ever heard of sugar?"

"I like it better without sugar," I admit. "I had a cup this morning with sugar in it and it was too sweet."

Now he finally turns to look at me. "You've already had a cup of coffee this morning?"

"Yeah."

He snatches the thermos from my hands. "I really don't want to spend all day with you buzzed on that much caffeine. You already talk so fast and loud it's hard to understand you."

"Wow, no need to hold back to protect my feelings, Cato; tell me what you really think."

He turns back toward the city, and I try to think of a plan to grab the thermos back that doesn't end with him throwing it or me over the edge.

None comes. But he's probably right about the caffeine.

Oh! Speaking of being right: "Congrats on the eleven, by the way. What's that, the third in District Two history?" And the seventh in Hunger Games history, but I mean who's counting?

Unfortunately he no longer seems even remotely impressed with my knowledge of Hunger Games statistics. He just nods. "Yeah."

"That's got to be good for the whole you-versus-Farley situation," I add.

He shifts one shoulder in what I think is supposed to be a shrug. "It won't hurt."

I look out at the city, hoping to see what it is in particular that he can't stop staring at. I have to look away almost immediately. It is beautiful… but we're really up very high, and standing far too close to the edge of the roof. "Are you… not happy about it?"

He scoffs. "Of course I am."

I roll my eyes. "Right—what a dumb question. The smiling and positive body language should have given that away. Forget I asked."

He turns again, leaning against the low wall encircling the roof. I'm sure there's something besides waist-high concrete to keep him from plummeting thirteen stories to the streets below, but watching him test those measures makes me very uncomfortable. Is he not even a little worried he's going to fall? "What was that about finding a rock to crawl under?"

"There's no need to be rude," I say, crossing my arms. "I just wanted to offer sincere congratulations. Really. I thought you'd be thrilled."

"Who says I'm not?"

"Oh, so you're thrilled?"

He shrugs—this time with both shoulders. "I worked hard. I earned this."

That wasn't the question, but whatever. "I know."

There's a beat of silence.

"Congrats on the eight," he says.

I smile. "Thanks. I'm thrilled."

He snorts. "I'm sure you are. Is that why you went over to talk to Girl on Fire? To share your excitement with anybody you can find?"

"That's exactly right. I actually came up to the roof in the first place so I could scream about it to the entire Capitol."

"With your voice they'd probably all hear you."

"See, you say that like it's an insult, but there are lots of benefits to a loud voice."

"Not in the arena."

"Well, not for hiding in the arena, but for calling for help, which I might need to do more than once, it will be valuable."

"I have a serious question for you." He leans further over the edge, far enough I realise he must have noticed my apprehension. Bastard. "Have you ever once just been wrong about something?"

I lift my chin. "Not if I can help it."

He leans even further out, then takes another sip of coffee. He makes a face. "That is fucking nasty." He hands it back. "Why are you up here, anyway?"

"I came up to read." I lift the book from my basket. "And like you said: I'm a morning person—I thought it would be nice to just spend some quiet time up here before the day." I take another sip of coffee, sighing happily. "What about you? I thought you told me you hated mornings?"

He did tell me that—five nights ago during the interrogation session after the Pairing. He's an evening person. Apparently some days he would head to the Academy after school and train until four or five in the morning. Which sounds horrible, really.

"Farley's getting an early start with Logan today." I've heard people say you can smile with only your eyes, so I'm going to go ahead and call the look on his face right now a smile. It's probably as close as he gets. "I guess after scoring an eight they have their work cut out for them."

The Pair scores really were an interesting part of the night—Farley and Logan scoring tens had been a low blow, but the fact that as a Pair they scored two points lower than that was cause for celebration. Vo actually did hit her glass to mine so hard she spilled champagne all over the sofa.

I smile back at him, and I notice for the first time his ring, partially obscured by the bandages on his left hand. "Well, it was nice of you to leave them alone to work through their issues. You're welcome, by the way."

"For what?"

"For making sure our score was so high."

He scoffs, but I don't let it dim my enthusiasm. We scored a ten, and were one of only two Pairs who did. And twist my arm if you have to, but I'd be willing to accept the credit for that.

"Right. I've got no idea how I would have impressed sponsors without your help."

"Oh don't be so modest; I'm sure you'd have found some way."

"It probably would have involved less fucking around in a chariot."

"Hey, listen. Don't pretend like just anyone would have had the guts to fuck around in a chariot while naked and covered in glitter. And far fewer people would have been able to make it work."

"I made it work," he says, crossing his arms. "You would have eaten shit if I hadn't caught you."

"It was all part of my plan!" I insist. "Really. It was on purpose. I told you that."

He doesn't seem to be convinced—not that I could tell if he was. "Well, what's your big plan for today?"

I exhale loudly. "I don't know. Get through it? I have no idea what today is supposed to look like—I just know that to me it looks like a group project. And I've always hated group projects."

"Me too. And Brutus isn't great to work with at the best of times."

"Is this not the best of times?" I ask, already wary of the answer.

"He'll be hungover," he says, confirming my suspicions. "He got pretty shitfaced last night during the scores."

Right. Well, that's just… great. "Well, my Mentor is uniquely gifted at handling drunk and hungover Victors. It might be okay."

Cato doesn't say anything.

I try looking out over the city again, this time with slightly more success. I've never been up this high—except for the evenings we've been up here, but we weren't close to the edge—and I had no idea that heights had this kind of effect on me. It feels like my heart has jumped into my throat. It feels like my body wants to throw itself off the edge, even though I know I don't actually want to.

I turn around, tentatively leaning against the short wall. If I don't think about it, it's okay. Then I can just drink my coffee and eat my bagel while looking at the gardens and pretend I'm on the ground. It's fine. Just enjoying a nice breakfast in a garden. Totally fine. Totally totally totally fi—

"You really shouldn't drink all that."

I set the thermos back in the basket. It's nearly empty. "But it's so good. And I'll probably need it to deal with hungover Brutus. Or Brutus at all."

"You'd need something stronger than coffee," he says humourlessly. "Fill the thermos with whiskey and you might have a chance."

"That's not a bad idea," I muse. "Fra would kill me, though. But maybe Brutus just won't show up. Wouldn't that be great? Hey, actually there is one thing I wanted to talk to you about."

Damn. I hate to prove him right about the caffeine.

He raises one eyebrow, but thankfully doesn't comment on that exceptionally-scattered train of thought. "You have all day to tell me stuff."

"No… this I have to tell you before it all gets started. It's kind of my last chance to be honest with you."

He gives a short, humourless laugh. "Are you going to be lying to me from now on?"

"Well, kind of."

I can tell this surprises him.

"Not all the time, but that's kind of part of the strategy," I explain. "It's not like I'm planning on lying to you, I just know that sometimes I will. I figured I'd give you a head's up. And," I put my hands on my hips, "I wanted to make it clear that if you catch me lying to you in the arena, for the love of all that is good do not call me on it."

He nods. "I see."

"Is that okay?"

"Yes? Why wouldn't it be?"

I shrug. "Oh, I don't know. Some people don't like being lied to. Weird right?"

"I don't care," he says, and I actually believe him. "Do what you think you have to do."

I expected this conversation to be a little longer. Why? I don't know, since looking at it now of course Cato wouldn't care. "Okay," I say, taking the last bite of my bagel. "Well, that's that, then."

"That's what you wanted to say?"

"Oh! No it wasn't." But where was I going with this? "I wanted to talk about the interview!"

On an over-caffeinated brain, it's a bit hard to focus on one train of thought and follow it through, but I think I'm able to be somewhat coherent as I give Cato pointers on how to behave so that we really drive home that we're getting along swimmingly. It's a bit harder to explain how to be friendly and likable, since those things tend to come naturally or they don't, but it's pretty easy to tell him that if I lean forward in my seat to put his arm across the back behind me, or to look at me when I'm talking instead of the audience or Caesar.

"And try to smile. Two smiles would be absolutely fantastic. Three and I might burst into tears I'll be so happy."

"I'm not going to smile at nothing."

"Okay, try to have a little faith that I could say something passably funny at some point during the interview," I say. "Maybe even two funny things. I know it's crazy."

"I'll smile if it feels right."

Well, there's that plan out the window.

"I guess that's the best I can hope for," I mutter. At least he'll be wearing the damn ring.

I thought I was joking around when I suggested maybe Brutus just wouldn't show up, but it turns out I was actually being a little prophetic.

We wait in the parlour, actively trying to talk about Hunger Games-related things without actually starting to plan for the interviews, but once fifteen minutes have passed we decide just to get started. If Brutus is hungover then he'll probably be in a bad mood no matter what when he gets here, and the fact that we've gone ahead without him can't make it that much worse. Or so the logic goes.

I say as much to Fra. It earns me a scowl from the Career.

It is nice that we can move ahead without him though, honestly. With just Fra I feel much more comfortable, not having to put on a performance of any kind to convince Brutus I'm both an airhead and an asset. Fra knows about our strategy, obviously, so the frankness with which we're able to proceed is refreshing. There will be plenty of time for faking it in two days when we're in the arena, and it's nice to relax and actually get stuff done.

Cato seems less relaxed, sitting like a Peacekeeper on guard beside me on the sofa, saying little but listening closely to Fra's words of advice. And while he frowns the entire time, at least he's paying attention.

Fra's advice is similar to my points from the roof about being attentive to each other during the interview and trying to seem somewhat warm and likable. I'm not sure such a set of instructions has ever been given to a District Two Tribute for their interview before, but Cato doesn't protest. I can't imagine it's too terrible to be told you're not supposed to act like an unhinged psychopath in front of the cameras.

It's nearly lunch time by the time Brutus actually shows up, stomping into our meeting looking disheveled and kind of dirty and mad enough to spit.

"The fuck couldn't you come get me?" He demands, jabbing a finger at Cato.

I would have to laugh at the shocked look on Fra's face if the murderous one on Brutus's wasn't legitimately terrified.

Cato alone seems completely unfazed. "I didn't think you needed me to get you up in the morning."

"Well what did you think was going on when I didn't show up, huh?" He paces around the room like a caged animal, all but foaming at the mouth. Speaking of unhinged psychopaths…

"I thought you'd found something better to do."

Brutus whirls on him. "Don't be smart with me, boyo," he snarls. "You messed with my alarm!"

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't fucking know!"

It's painfully obvious to everyone except Brutus that there are people on his floor who have access to his alarm system and who also have reason to want to mess things up for Cato. But apparently suspecting Farley or Enobaria doesn't cross his mind.

Although I feel like I owe whichever one of them did this a thank you. Sure he's a terror now, but a morning of planning without Brutus was delightful.

"I didn't fuck with your alarm," Cato says coolly. "When you didn't show I figured something must have come up."

No one mentions that Brutus's absence wasn't treated as a problem. Not once all morning did anyone say a word about going to look for him, not even Cato.

Brutus continues to steam for a couple more minutes, but eventually seems to see sense and calm down. I know it's too much to hope that he'll decide we were doing fine without him and go back downstairs, but still my heart sinks a little when he drops into the chair beside Fra with a grunt. "Alright, let's get started."

Very little gets accomplished from this point forward. Fra, wisely, lets Brutus make his demands and try to undo everything we've spent all morning working on. If Brutus had his way, I would stay silent the entire interview and let Cato take over with the classic brutal and bloodthirsty madness that has marked many District Two interviews. He makes this abundantly clear.

But I just smile and nod and plan to ignore everything he says. Cato barely moves a muscle throughout the hour-long tirade—I wonder if he's hearing a word of it. Probably not—he seems like the sort of person who excels at tuning other people out.

His monologuing makes us late for lunch, which comes as a welcome respite after a miserable end to the morning. I don't think I'll ever complain about Clyse again, I think, watching Brutus glare at his Tribute throughout the meal, chewing with his mouth open all the while.

I get the chance to corner Cato in the dining room before we head back out for the rest of preparing. Time for more damage control.

I've barely opened my mouth to speak before the Career cuts me off. "I'm not going to listen to him," he says, scowling. "You don't need to check up on me."

Well, that's good to know, even if it is a bit unsettling that he was able to guess my train of thought. "Well, Brutus is doing his best to tear our plan to shreds, so I thought it couldn't hurt to make sure."

"I wish he'd stayed asleep."

I manage to stifle my laughter by the time we make it back to the parlour to wait for the afternoon to begin.

Rhodendra and Yvain show up at the exact same time, at one pm on the dot. Brutus disappears without a word, while Fra tells us he's headed to the Mentor plaza and makes a point of wishing us both a pleasant afternoon.

Which leaves the two of us sitting on the sofa like children in the principal's office as Yvain and Rhodendra launch into a detailed and complicated plan for the afternoon.

"We'll begin with proper manners," Rhodendra says.

"And posture," Yvain adds. "Then some practice speaking clearly."

"And slowly," Rhodendra says, giving me a pointed look.

The list of things to remember goes on and on, and I know we won't need most of it, albeit for very different reasons. I certainly don't need anyone to teach me tricks to keep a conversation from going stale, and both Escorts are fooling themselves if they think Cato cares one bit about their instructions for how to sit properly.

It's all a bit much, not that I'm surprised. Escorts are notoriously intense and particular, and they remind me a little of the dogs we use in Ten to herd sheep, barking and nipping at our heels until we're pointed in exactly the right direction. And like those sheep, I'm really not sure where we're supposed to be going or why. I mean, is it really important that I cross my right ankle behind the left and not the other way around?

I never thought I would ever say it, but I'm actually glad when Rhodendra disappears for a minute and returns with a pair of high heels. This I actually do need practise with.

I take off my socks and slip the shoes on, feeling only a little silly to be wearing such fancy shoes with a pair of leggings and a big t-shirt.

"Is this a nice look or what?" I ask Cato, giving a mock spin.

Both Escorts start talking at the exact same time, and while I can't pick out a word from the cacophony, they wear matching expressions of shock and horror when I turn back around.

"…was it that bad?" I ask, dismayed.

Cato, unhelpfully, nods.

Rhodendra recovers more quickly, plastering on a smile. "Well, we'll keep working on that. You were doing so well on the train… I know we can get back to that."

Yvain looks less convinced. Actually, he looks like he's trying to figure out how he—for decades the illustrious District Two Escort—found himself working with a Tribute from Ten who can't even twirl properly.

"Maybe Caesar won't even ask any of us to twirl. It was kind of Katniss's thing," I say, trying to be helpful.

Rhodendra bites her lip, her smile barely wavering. "Better to be prepared," she says. "Let's move to the hallway, shall we?"

The hallway gives us space to practise on a long stretch of hardwood, more similar to the interview stage than the parlour. Rhodendra makes me march up and down several times until she's satisfied I'm not about to embarrass her again. Yvain works with Cato, continuing to instruct him on the finer points of posture. I thought Cato's posture was fine, but apparently he has a tendency to "loom threateningly," which, as soon as the Escort says it, I realise is absolutely true.

"You're not a Peacekeeper on-duty," I hear Yvain say, "you may relax your shoulders. And lower your chin a speck; there's no need to appear taller than you already are."

I pretend to cough to cover my laughter.

"Focus, Caerwyn!" Rhodendra barks, bringing my attention back to her. "You're too unpracticed to get distracted!"

So much for this being the good part of training.

Mercifully, it lasts fewer than fifteen minutes.

"Now, you'll be entering the stage together, so let's give that a try," Yvain says, shooing us away with his hands. "To the top of the hallway, both of you."

They spend five whole minutes instructing us how to stand, the exact angle Cato should hold his arm, how tight my grip should (or shouldn't) be, and a hundred things that seem completely unnecessary given that the stage is not a kilometer long and crossing it will take all of seven seconds. But evidently it takes an awful lot of expertise to look natural. Who would have thought?

Even when I think we've finally nailed every last one of their pointers, they still don't look satisfied. I try to figure out what the problem is. I look at Cato's elbow. Looks like ninety degrees to me…

Rhodendra clicks her tongue, pressing her fingers to her lips. "Something still doesn't look right."

Yvain frowns pensively for a long moment. Finally he throws up his hands. "She's simply too short!"

Rhodendra gasps, snapping her fingers. "That's it!" she says. "Well that's fixable… we'll just have to get her some better shoes."

I look down at the ones I'm already wearing. They add nearly ten centimetres to my height. "I don't think the problem is my height," I say, giving a pointed look at my Career.

He shrugs. "They can't exactly make me shorter."

True enough. But there's only so much taller they can make me without things getting ridiculous. Although this is the Capitol, and stilts probably isn't completely out of the question.

"Another inch or two, do you think?" Rhodendra asks.

Yvain considers, then nods. "If we can get the top of her head to the same height as his chin, that would be marvelous."

I look up at Cato. "Look at all the trouble you're causing."

He doesn't say anything. He just turns to me—making a point of tilting his head way down—and smiles.

Asshole.

"Alright, I'll go get some better shoes. And I'll call down to Vo and let her know to make adjustments for her shoes and dress for tomorrow," Rhodendra says.

Yvain gasps. "Oh, you're working with Vo? That's such a treat; she is such a promising young talent."

Rhodendra smiles knowingly. "I know, she's really just delightful, we're so lucky to have her."

Yvain bites his lip. "Ooh, and she's so much fun. The stories I could tell you about the after-party last Victory Tour…"

"Oh, but you shouldn't!"

I turn back to Cato, not all that interested in hearing whatever salacious tale is about to unfold at the other end of the hallway. "Do you think they'd notice if we snuck away?"

"Probably."

"Think it's worth a try anyway?"

He thinks for a moment. "Sure. I could eat something."

I make a face. "We just had lunch."

"An hour ago."

Well, I suppose I could go for dessert… "Alright. Quiet now…"

I choose a little fruit plate from the list of suggestions tacked beside the food chute. While Cato makes a more complicated order involving high-protein yogurt, almonds, and something called chia, I find myself wandering over to the coffee station like a moth drawn to a flame.

"Fuck no," he says, right as I'm about to push the button. "Not unless you get decaf."

I pull my hand back. "What?"

"Decaffeinated coffee," he says, like he's talking to a child. "You've practically been vibrating all morning. And you've been talking so quickly only your Mentor could understand a word you said."

I cross my arms. "Maybe it's you who needs to drink more coffee."

He rolls his eyes, but brings his food over and grabs a mug from the cupboard. He points to one of the buttons. "Decaf."

I scowl. "Fine."

I'm tempted to comment on the three spoons of sugar he dumps into his own cup, but decide against it. I think his nerves are a little fried from the day's activities, and we still have half an afternoon to go.

Still, I file that information away for later. For all his disdain of my love of sweets, with three scoops of sugar it's not even a coffee, it's a dessert. And I'm not about to just let that go unnoticed.

"When you were talking about honesty, on the roof," he says, startling me from my coffee-fueled reverie, "you meant the romance stuff, right?"

"Among other things, yeah," I say, curious about what's bringing this up now. "I mean, for strategy's sake, we should be flirting in the arena. Normally the arena is the last place in the world anyone should be flirting, so it seemed prudent to remind you again that… well it's all done with a goal in mind."

He nods slowly, and looks about to ask another question when he's interrupted by Rhodendra practically screeching for us to get back here!

Apparently gossip hour is over.

Cato polishes off his yogurt, and I throw back the last of my coffee. I barely got to start my fruit, so I grab a handful of grapes to bring with me.

His question sticks with me the rest of the afternoon, through all the ridiculous "drills" Yvain and Rhodendra run us through. I believed him on the roof when he said he really didn't care about the deceit that's implicit in our strategy, but him bringing it up later makes me think he's starting to suspect there's more to it than I've told him. He wouldn't be crazy to think so—everything that's happened so far has gone exactly according to my plan, from getting him as my partner to getting the highest Pair Score. If he were to wonder if there's more to that than just good luck… well, he'd be right.

He knows by now that I'm not a great planner. Or rather, he knows that I'm not good at sticking to a plan and prefer flexibility to improvise when necessary. So it might have struck him as odd that, despite this, when he told me of the rather serious threat from his team and the demand his father made that he not embarrass his District I didn't immediately backtrack and find a new strategy to get sponsors. I certainly could have. There's more than one way to keep a crowd entertained, after all, and while I did agree to make a few adjustments, I definitely made it clear that the budding-romance approach will continue despite the risks.

I'm sure that even if he is suspicious he doesn't think the answer lies in national unrest and a government-fueled desire for a second pair of lovers to distract from the first. In other words, he doesn't know the truth.

So what does he think is going on?

I watch him scowl his way through Yvain's pretend interview, my attention drawn once again to the ring on his baby finger. What is he thinking?

Maybe he thinks I'm clever, and picked a good strategy that works. Maybe he thinks we're just lucky.

I doubt it.

I have a feeling that no one who's spent much time with Karnus Emery puts stock in luck. The only criticism the Capitol may have had with Karnus's Games is how short they were. Besides that, he gave them everything they could have wanted; he was systematic, observant, bloody, and incredibly, brutally methodical. He was even a little charming at times. But never lucky. People like Karnus don't need luck.

So if Cato thinks this strategy has merit, it's probably because he trusts his own abilities. And maybe he's starting to trust mine, too.

Without asking him, I won't know for sure what he thinks about this strategy or why I'm so committed to it. And I'm not going to ask him. He'll think I'm crazy if I tell him the truth, and I don't have a plausible alternative. I can't risk everything falling apart. I need him if I'm going to be able to make this work. And he needs me, more than he could possibly know.

Because I know that we're not lucky. I know enough about probability to know when I've moved beyond its jurisdiction, and the odds of all this going our way? Of getting the partner I wanted, attracting plenty of sponsors, and being awarded amazing Training Scores? Despite me being from an outer District and Cato here somehow without the confidence and support of his own team?

No, each thing that goes right against its odds is like a bread crumb from that old fairy-tale: another marker on the trail, another sign I'm on the right track. And those crumbs weren't dropped by accident.

Majestie and Domas were the only others to receive a ten as their Pair Score. From the beginning I've thought she was our biggest threat, and every clue points to the fact that she too understands what's really going on here. The Capitol, President Snow, the Gamemakers, whoever—they need another pair of lovers. And they're going to get one, one way or another.

So the odds may not be in my favour. It hardly matters—this is the Quell, the rules have changed. And it's not about odds anymore.

6101719:

Caerwyn : "In two days we'll be in the arena"

Me : **record scratch** wait what?

Hello friends; thanks for sticking around for another chapter! I thought I was going to have a bit of a shorter chapter posted a couple weeks ago, but then I realised that I have no concept of time and it's almost ARENA TIME (who's excited? ME it's only taken 7 years) and unless I wanted to keep fucking the timeline I needed to get everything pre-interviews covered in one go and next thing you know I'm a couple weeks later than I thought but here with another monster of a chapter. Whew! Someday I might get back to posting more reasonably-sized chaps, and hopefully that will be accompanied by a somewhat regular posting schedule, but for now enjoy the penultimate pre-arena chapter (knock on wood) in all its gargantuan glory.

ALSO you all have the absolute angel DreamsandThoughts to thank for this chapter update. They send me the best review a couple days ago that convinced me I was going to finish this beast over the weekend even if it killed me (is that a terrible pun? It kind of feels like it).

Song lyrics from the beginning are from "Scream" by Halestorm. We've had two chapters of songs with Cato energy, but Halestorm features quite prominently on my Caerwyn playlist so it felt right to make this about her again (which she would appreciate I'm sure).

Much love!