Chapter 1: Baker's Man
I am half-awake by the time the alarm clock rings, so it only manages to get through one chime before I slam my palm down on it. Throwing back the covers, I steal out of bed quietly, and tug back the sash at the window the tiniest bit: with the curtains drawn, it feels darker and earlier than it really is. On this winter's day, it is overcast, with only a little light managing to peek through the clouds.
Creeping down the stairs so as not to disturb the rest of my sleeping, sprawling family, I set to work. I stoke the ovens, ready the dough that we left to rise the night before and load the batches into the flames. Our ovens are powerful, Capitol-manufactured, and in no time at all, the bread has been leavened and baked. With the batch ready, I carefully distribute the lot into two separate packages; in one of them, I add a sprinkling of cheese buns, which I scoop off the pastry rack. Gathering the two bundles into my arms, I step out in the chilly winter air along the bakery's back loading dock. I briefly study our delivery truck parked in the alleyway. We're one of the few businesses in Twelve who are allowed to own a vehicle; driver's licenses are mostly reserved for the Mayor, Peacekeepers, and Victors of the Hunger Games. However, I've never known…. her or the drunk to have any desire to want to drive. Ultimately, I decide against using the truck. I need to wake up more, and the fresh air that only a walking constitution can bring will do that. Loading the packages into a wagon by the door (I have to shake my head in amusement; when will my nieces and nephews learn to pick up after themselves?), I wheel it out into the street and begin the long trek out towards the hill dotted with imposing estates in the distance.
It doesn't matter how early it is. It doesn't matter that there are ten other people under the same roof who could just as easily do the task. For the past almost 26 years, deliveries to Victors' Village have been my job. My brothers know better than to try and usurp this from me. My father and my sisters-in-law, Delly and Madge, observe my devotion with barely-concealed amusement. If my nieces and nephews suspect anything, they're not saying. I am sure my mother has plenty to say about it, but given that District 12's two Victors have remained some of our most reliable and well-paying customers for decades, she keeps her opinions to herself.
It gets harder to pull the wagon once I hit the incline of Victors' Hill, but I'm strong and push through the exertion. I've been known to throw one-hundred-pound sacks of flour right over my head; when my brothers' kids were little, I would often chuck sacks around for fun, just to prove I could do it, and delighting in the way they would shriek and giggle and clap their hands. All the same, I finally come over the crest half-wishing I had just used the delivery truck. Maybe it's a sign of my age, though I hope not; at not quite 42 (my birthday's in a few weeks), I like to think I haven't peaked yet.
The Village green in the center is always neatly trimmed, though the fountain which caps it off is broken, and has been for years. There are a dozen mansions here, six on either side… though only two have ever been occupied. District 12 had a third Victor, long ago, but she won an early edition of the Games and had allegedly disappeared by the time the first Victors' Villages were even beginning construction.
It's easy to identify the first of the two houses that have ever shown any sign of life. The porch looks like a bomb went off on it; the mess doesn't really look much different than what you might see on a family porch in the Seam, the poorer section of Twelve. Taking the first package and weighing it in my palm – no cheese buns inside, so this is the right box – I mount the porch and knock. I know from experience that knocking works best, aside from it being the polite thing to do. In my earliest deliveries here, I made the mistake of just letting myself in, only to have the drunk nearly attack me with a knife.
The front door yanks open suddenly, and I take a preemptive step back, willing myself not to flinch. Haymitch Abernathy has his trusty knife in one hand, but he doesn't use it, seeming to favor the bottle of whiskey in his other, dominant hand. At 66 years old, there are set lines in his face; the messy moptop of blonde hair has been steadily whitening over the past several years. A dirty undershirt is across his shoulders, and despite the years of abuse, not to mention advancing age, he is still lean and strong in muscle.
Haymitch's eyes cross as he attempts to focus in on me. "Oh, it's you, boy." Never mind that I have been an adult since just after the last Quarter Quell – Haymitch has only ever called me 'boy.' It must come from a place of affection for him, and considering Haymitch displays affection for a select few people, I suppose I should feel touched.
"Good morning to you, too," I quip, handing over the package. "Fresh from the oven!"
Haymitch's lips purse in that grim line it always makes, running his tongue over his top teeth. "And the yeast?"
I procure a bottle from the pocket of my overcoat, which I wisely chose to place in there the night before; I've been known to forget on previous runs. "As we agreed." Brewing is technically Haymitch's Victor talent, so we came to a mutually beneficial business transaction of my bakery supplying Haymitch with extra yeast to use in his concoctions of hard liquor. He's had to do much more brewing than in past years – Thread's regime has by now decimated the selling of hard, Capitol moonshine that one might find in the Hob, once upon a time.
"Thanks. Uhhh…. What do I owe you?"
I smirk in amusement. Haymitch is Seam born and raised, and the poorer folk have a strong insistence on paying back what they are owed. It's admirable, it's moral, if also a little eccentric. I learned a long time ago to roll with it. Still, for old time's sake, I make a half-hearted effort at begging off, already knowing it will do no good.
"You don't owe me anything…"
"Nah, nah, seriously, I've got a…. couple of sesterces in here…." Haymitch pads around his pockets before finally pulling out a small wad, which he presses into my hand.
"Well, if you insist…" I smile. "Do me one favor, though: try and pull back on the drinking, for the sake of the kids."
Haymitch's eyes shift to three doors down the street, and nods heavily. "Yeah, you're right. She's yelled at me sometimes when I've come to dinner drunk." He lifts his hand in an awkward salute. "See ya, boy." He staggers back inside.
Shaking my head with a chuckle, I head three doors down Haymitch's side of the street. The orientation of her house was probably a wise decision on her part, especially considering what has gone on in that house in the intervening years. I strike on the doorknocker and wait a moment.
I can hear a giggling shriek from behind the varnished wood, and then the door opens to reveal a striking young lady with bouncing blonde curls.
Primrose Hawthorne is attempting to wrangle her littlest (the youngest of four), who is squirming in her arms. "Yarrow! Behave!" she scolds, turning back to fix me with a smile. "Morning, Peeta! Sorry that it's so…. hectic…" She grunts a little under her son's weight, setting him down where he crawls about on the floor. "He's two and teething…"
"Ah, yes," I chuckle. "I remember it well. Bannock used to gnaw on the walls…"
"Oh, dear!" Prim laughs.
"Rory's already at work, then?"
"Yes…." Prim states distractedly, as two more little ones rush up around her skirts. Two of the triplets and aged about eight, they give me gap-toothed smiles and point.
"I know that dude!" Badan hollers. "It's the Baker man!"
Chrysanthemum – his sister and the only girl in the unit – beams at me and waves. "Hi, Mr. Mellark!" Her grin then becomes far too knowing for her few years and she hollers back into the house. "Auntie! Someone here to see you!"
"CAN'T CATCH ME!" The voice echoes down the foyer and Gladiolus soon appears, nudging into his brother. "What's going on, Baddy? Oh, hi, Peeta!"
"Glad!" Her voice carries, followed by the woman herself, as she bustles into the foyer. "If you want to be like your grandpa and run around shirtless in winter, that's your…"
Katniss Everdeen stops short and blinks upon seeing me. Then, a smile graces her lips and she tucks her signature braid back behind her ear. It might be from the chill we're letting in, but I could swear her cheeks turn rouge. "Oh. Morning, Peeta."
In all my living life, I've never seen anything so beautiful as Katniss Everdeen.
"Morning, Katty." I hold up the box. "Bread delivery." I reach around Prim and the kids to pass it to her. "Cheese buns included."
Katniss's face lights up at the sound of her favorite. "Thanks."
On the floor, Chrysanthemum is attempting to play a game with baby Yarrow. "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, bake me a cake as fast as you can. Roll it and pat it and mark it with a 'B,' and put it in the oven for baby and me!" She shoots her aunt a rather meaningful look for someone who's only eight, and I have to pray she doesn't understand the veiled innuendo within the old children's song.
"All right, you hellions! It's time for breakfast!" Prim is the perfect picture of a mother hen as she corrals Yarrow and the triplets back into the house, strategically leaving Katniss and I alone. I think I see the district healer smirk at us before she beats a hasty retreat.
Katniss and I stand in awkward silence for a moment. "How… how are you?" I ask.
"Fine, fine. The… the kids are being little devils again," she smiles weakly.
"I hope they're not giving Prim too much trouble in her work…"
"She gets regular customers up this way. Miners, colleagues of Rory's, mostly; the black lung is pretty bad this winter."
"I'd heard."
Another small pause.
"So, um…. how is your family? You've got nieces and nephews too, right…?"
"Two from Rye and two from Leven." I count them off on my fingers. "Bannock and Damper, about three years apart. And then there's Injera and Mananaan, the baby."
"Three boys and a girl!" Katniss chuckles. "And all under the same roof still?"
"You know how it's been with the housing shortages…. And bureaucracy slowing down contractors from the Capitol? It's a miracle we haven't killed each other yet…"
"Must be nice…" Katniss mumbles, smirking.
"Well, at least I know someone who can relate," I give her a wink. We laugh.
"I wish we could rent out these other ten houses. It could help," Katniss mumbles. "But…"
"But Thread won't let you," I finish. "Victors only. Maybe it's just as well. You and Haymitch will get a Victor soon."
She frowns cynically. "It's been almost 26 years, Peeta. I stopped hoping for a Victor about a decade ago. But you're sweet." She sighs. "Today's just gonna make it hard…"
"Yeah, the Victory Tour's swinging through Twelve today..."
"Effie's supposed to arrive from the station any minute. At least, the newest blood isn't a Career."
"Girl from Ten. Yeah, she earned it." Another prolonged pause, as I find myself gazing at the lovely face of the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. My age, unmarried, thank the State! Generous enough to put up her sister and her family.
"Well…. good luck. I know babysitting Haymitch can't be easy…"
"KATNISS! A little help?!"
Katniss's braid whips around as she glances back. "I gotta go," she smiles at me regretfully. "See…. see you around after? For trading?"
"You know it!" I grin. "Bye."
She closes the door behind her, and only then do I sense the pinching tent in my pants. I only hope she didn't notice. I turn away and clop down the steps to retrieve my wagon, tugging it to the Village gates just as a Capitol car comes rumbling over the crest of the hill and into the green. A long-legged escort steps out sporting a bubblegum pink wig, and I wave to her cheerfully.
"Hi, Miss Trinket!"
"Oh, Peeta! Hello, my boy! Making your deliveries, I see?"
"Yup." I point towards Haymitch's house. "You might wanna start with Abernathy first; the girls and the children are a little slow this morning."
"Duly noted. Thank you, darling!" I watch as Effie's heels clack down the street towards Haymitch's wreck of an abode, and chuckling, I slip out of the Village, pulling my wagon behind me.