When Gale shows them their new, permanent shelter, exactly three things strike Madge immediately: they're saved; Gale had a right to be proud – this is ingenious; and he's gone back to Twelve.
She knows it because she knows that there's no way Gale could build this without tools. Lots of tools. He's smart, but he's not a miracle worker. So at some point, Gale has snuck back into Twelve to retrieve or barter for an axe, and probably an awl, and maybe even something else. (Madge doesn't know; she's no carpenter.) What she does know is Gale had jeopardized them all, especially himself. And he hadn't even bothered to say anything about it.
Gale is ushering his family in, proudly explaining his creative engineering. He's built their shelter up against a sharp, tall bank where the hillside had washed away so that he could build a house with an eight foot ceiling, one he could stand up in (he's so tall he could only crouch in their current structure). But he's nested it, like a Russian doll, to insulate them from the cold. And that's only part of his ingenuity.
The erosion has also enabled Gale to cloak their new shelter by building a faux hillside around and over it, so the gentle swell of the ridge looks like any other. This has obviously taken a lot of time, effort, and frustration because it means he's had to pack the foot gap between the inner and outer layers with dirt up to the roof to make the whole structure solid. Then, he's had to pack dirt over the roof in a mound that meets the original hillside. To keep this from washing away again, he's concocted a retaining wall built of interwoven branches and packed with mud to fortify it. (He's very proud of this part, she can tell.) How on earth he's managed to shape it like he needed, Madge will never understand.
The whole thing is covered with at least five year's worth of moldering leaves, and if Madge wasn't standing right in front of it, she'd swear it was a normal hillside. The tree canopy is thick overhead so with the leaves on the trees, any passing hovercraft wouldn't be able to see a thing. Even in another couple weeks when the leaves are all gone, nothing would look out of the ordinary from the sky. The outer wall has a little gate, built on an angle that reminds Madge of a submarine door from the history books she'd read in school. But once you duck inside, it's a cabin.
And that's how she knows.
The cabin is built seamlessly, fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle so well that even the chinking is almost even. It's tall and wide and roomy, compared to their current cramped conditions. It's all one room (for heating purposes, she supposes), but there is enough room for them to all sleep comfortably and still have space to store things and to eat without having to roll up their bedding every morning. In the corner is a stone fireplace.
Hazelle gasps when she sees it. "How on earth did you manage that, Gale?"
He beams like he's just hung the moon (and he might as well have). "That was the hardest part. Had to do it first and get it to taper off enough at the top so the hole in the ground wouldn't be too obvious, but not so much that it would stifle the fire. Took some practice to get it just right. But I helped Thom and Bristel patch up Greasy Sae's chimney two summers ago, so I knew the basics and how to mix the mortar."
Yet more proof he'd been back to Twelve for supplies.
Posy scampers in and out, fascinated by the double doors (the cabin door is sturdy and solid, they can even bar it) and complaining about how there are no windows. Gale laughs, scooping her up and telling her she won't be complaining once winter comes. "We can't afford to let any heat out," he explains. He turns to Hazelle and Madge. "The fire can't get too big. Someone'll notice the smoke. But if we keep it small enough, by the time the smoke clears the treetops, it should have pretty much disappeared."
He's thought of everything. They're going to make it through the winter. Gale has built them a sturdy, well insulated home with a fireplace. Madge has been working up furs like mad, and Hazelle had brought all their bedding from Twelve (it isn't much, but it's something). So altogether, they'll likely be warmer here than the Hawthornes had been in the Seam.
Still, a shiver goes down Madge's spine. He went back to Twelve, and that makes her inexplicably angry.
So when Hazelle dries her eyes and rounds up her children to go pack, Madge doesn't move. Can't move. Is rooted to this spot and the overwhelming sense of dread she feels building in her stomach and filling her blood. Gale pauses in the doorway. "You coming?"
Suddenly she is across the room and shoving him as hard as she can. He falls backwards, and lands rather roughly on the seat of his pants. Rory snickers outside. Madge doesn't. Any other time, it would be funny, but not now. Not after this.
"What the hell, Undersee?" Gale barks, glowering up at her and furiously brushing the dirt off his calf.
Madge forgets to flinch. "You went back in." It's not a question; the cabin itself is an answer.
He freezes. "Not now, Undersee." His voice is low and threatening. His eyes look like steel. She doesn't care.
"Why not now? Don't they have the right to know?" She jerks her chin toward his family.
But Hazelle's clammed up, just like she would if she were standing in the square on Reaping Day. She knows. She just wasn't going to call him on it. Rory probably knows; it would be hard to help Gale build this and not know. Only Vick and Posy don't.
"Didn't I have the right to know?" It comes out as a hiss. She's about to start crying; she always cries when she's this angry. But she'll die before she cries here, in front of Gale. So she lifts her chin, steps over him, and walks away.
She finds herself at the waterfall, because of course she does. But it's not as comforting now that it's tainted by memories of Gale. What she thought were memories of Gale starting to trust her, becoming friends even. She'd thought – had foolishly hoped – that they were a team. That she wasn't alone. That someone besides Katniss cared enough to actually talk to her for once.
She snorts as her vision blurs. What did she think? That she could ever be Katniss? That Gale would ever view her as an equal, a partner?
She brushes the tears from her eyes with her fists. She hates crying like this. She hates this. Hates Gale keeping this from her, hates that he did it in the first place, hates that he had to.
How had he even gone back? How could he have gotten back into Twelve, much less out again? Surely Thread and the new mayor had the fence on now. And patrols, probably, after her stunt with the Justice Building. And if they would have caught him, they'd have killed him. He would have been dead, and they would never have known what happened to him because he didn't even tell them what he was doing.
Or maybe he had. Maybe he just hadn't told her.
She throws as many rocks as she can fit in her hand as hard as she can. Most noisily tumble down the bank. But a few hit the water. She picks up more.
To be fair, Madge knows that Gale would have had to have done this early on in their exile – before their midnight confessions – but in some ways that makes it worse. Because what would they have done if he had died, back then? She supposes that was what all the lessons were about. But still, there was so much they couldn't have done on their own yet.
Not to mention that recapturing Gale would renew (or maybe even ignite) a search for the rest of them. Thread might have bought that Madge died in the fire and that Gale's body burned in the Justice Building where he'd been taken after the whipping, forgetting about Hazelle and the kids entirely. But if Gale went back and had been caught – Thread would have overturned every stone in this forest looking for them. They would have been shot on sight. Or worse.
"It had to be done."
Madge jumps, but doesn't turn. He's right, and she knows it. Knows that the likelihood of them surviving without the tools necessary to build a proper shelter was slim. Still, that seemed like the kind of decision she deserved to be a part of.
"So…what? You just decided what was best for all of us all on your own, and then decided that I wasn't even worth telling? What if you'd been caught, Gale? Was I just supposed to find out what happened while Thread was putting a noose around my neck? Or when they were cutting out Posy's tongue and making us watch?"
"Don't." It's more pleading than angry. He takes a deep breath.
Madge throws the last rock she can find into the center of the pool below. Bringing up Posy was a low blow, she knows, but that's exactly what they would have done, and he knows it.
"Sorry. But it could have been a disaster, Gale."
He comes to sit beside her. A crow flaps lazily over the creek, and they watch it.
"I know." Then his mouth twitches up. "But I didn't get caught." He's trying to joke with her. He's trying to joke with her.
Madge whirls around. "Oh, you think it's funny?" She forces a laugh. "Oh yes, Gale, you gambled with all our lives and didn't even care to consult us, much less inform us. Yeah, it's real freakin' hilarious."
His face drops into a snarl. "I've been risking my life for my family for years, Undersee. It's been up to me to decide how to take care of them on my own for years. I'm not about to start asking for your permission now." He stands up and gestures at her. "And this is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd go ballistic about it. Probably try to give me more morphling," he spits, "because you're too scared of what might happen to do something about what actually will."
Madge burns with her anger, so white-hot that in the next breath it feels cold – a spring inside her snaps, and suddenly she's on her feet, snarling back at him. "Right. Because that's exactly why I left you to die in a puddle of your own blood in the middle of town, where Thread would have left your corpse to rot for everyone to see. But I guess I might as well have, since you're so determined to end up there." He opens his mouth; she cuts him off. "Don't ever speak to me again, Hawthorne. That way I can pretend I was smart enough just to let you die then."
He looks like he's been slapped. Good. But the hurt is quickly replaced by hate. He spins on the ball of his foot and leaves. He doesn't look back.
Madge tells herself that's good too – that's what she wanted.
She sinks back down to the ground and curls her arms around her knees. The water crashes over the ledge like always, but it's not comforting. Today, Madge wants to crash over it too – can't remember a reason why she shouldn't.