Chapter 3
Together, we make the small house on the edge of Town our own. Peeta's paintings and drawings decorate the walls, framed in bits of bent wood and admired by everyone who visits. Pots of herbs and glasses of wildflowers line the windowsills. Warm and welcoming. Happy. Home.
Married life isn't much different than the way things were before. We cook together and laugh together, hunt and gather together on Sundays, best friends and lovers both. But the privacy we now enjoy allows us to act more freely on the mutual attraction that crackles between us, any time we want. Every time we want.
Like the evening I'm chopping vegetables when I hear the front door open. An automatic smile spreads across my face, as it always does in Peeta's presence, and when I hear his heavy footsteps approaching, I glance over my shoulder to greet him.
"Hey," I say, but my face immediately falls at his hard expression. His eyes are cloudy, the skin pinches between his eyebrows, as he stalks toward me purposely. "What's wrong—"
The question sticks in my throat when his body pins mine against the counter, and he wraps his hands around my wrists, flexing them slightly to force me to drop the knife I am holding. He then flattens my hands to the counter and presses the full length of his body against my back. Shocked, I face forward; my eyes are trained on the small kitchen window, where I can see out across our backyard at the leafless, scrawny trees and soggy grass. His breath is hot on the back of my neck as he breathes heavily, making the tiny hairs on my skin stand up, but I'm not scared. I can feel the beginnings of his erection through his pants against the lower curve of my back.
"Peeta..." I try again, but my voice lacks any conviction. My body is pliable and yielding. He really doesn't even need to hold my hands down, but I give him this, sensing there's something he needs to work through, and coaching the wrestling squad after school hours won't do it.
"Spread your legs," he demands, already nudging my thighs apart with his knee. I comply, sliding my bare feet out across the hardwood floor. Peeta releases my wrists then, snaking them down to my waist where he unfastens my pants and pushes them down my hips. I brace myself against the counter as I step out of them with the aid of his eager hands, and then I resume my stance once he's kicked the offending garment out of the way. He grips my waist with his hands, my own flat against the counter still, and he presses his mouth to my ear. "You're gonna stand here while I taste you," he breathes.
My breath hitches in my chest, and I begin to tremble in anticipation of his tongue between my thighs. "Okay," I agree shakily, my hips already arching back against his erection, but he pushes me against the counter and drops to his knees behind me. My eyes close when his hands slide down my backside, his fingers disappearing under the edges of my underwear as he cups my ass cheeks firmly. When they dip between my thighs to tease my lower lips, I shudder; his fingers pass back and forth over my folds to ready me. I can feel the wetness starting to leak out of me in response, my clit fluttering with pleasure, and I exhale loudly, his name a soft sigh on my lips.
That is all the encouragement Peeta needs. I feel him stretch the crotch of my panties to the side, and then his tongue is gliding through my folds to lick up my arousal. "Shit," I hiss, squeezing my eyes shut as he dips his tongue inside me. The coarse whiskers of his thick beard tickle my lips with the movements of his mouth, and he cups my pelvis with his right hand, his thumb parting the apex of my folds to stroke my clit. "Mmmmhmmmmm….." I release a moan, which he echoes, the vibration resounding through my core, and I moan louder. His thumb begins rubbing tight circles on my clit, syncing with the flicks of his tongue through my lips. He stops to open his mouth over me wider, his tongue darting inside me to taste me better. I fist my hands around the edge of the counter to steady myself, hunching forward. My legs are trembling now from the exertion of holding myself up, from the delicious electric current his tongue sends through my body.
"Peeta," I whimper, panting hard. He moves his mouth toward the front of my mound to swipe his tongue over my clit, and I cry out, prompting him to furiously lap at the swollen bud in varied patterns until he is pleased with the response. My hips begin rocking against his face, my legs mostly useless as I use my arms to hold myself above him. "Peeta, I'm gonna come," I beg, as if it is a plea, and his tongue resumes tracing my folds while his thumb resumes its attack on my clit. The pleasure mounts mercilessly and swiftly at the command of his tongue and fingers, and I only manage a choked sob of relief when my orgasm hits. My clit throbs with each wave of ecstasy, and Peeta drinks up my arousal as it seeps out of me.
By that point, he is providing most of the support for my boneless body, and when he moves out from between my legs, I let my body slump down. He wraps his hands around my waist and lowers me to the ground, propping me up in his lap as he sits down with me. I hold onto his thighs as I catch my breath, willing my limbs to stop shaking, and he just buries his face against my neck. His erection is still hard against my ass, but he makes no move to undress himself or fuck me, and once my vision has stopped swimming and I've regained control of my motor functions, I twist in his arms to look at him.
"What was that for?" I ask breathlessly.
He smiles slightly, but his eyes are still cloudy. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?" he replies wryly, loosening his hold of me to lean back on one of his hands.
I scowl at him, but it's playful. "Yes, and I'd always tell them there are no horses in Twelve." Peeta chuckles lightly, then he huffs, blowing air through his lips to imitate a nickering sound, and I roll my eyes. My jaw sets in determination, however, and I regard him sternly. "Peeta, seriously. What's wrong?"
His expression shifts, his mouth drooping slightly, and he just shakes his head, averting his gaze to stare at the floor. He falls silent, and I reach up to caress the beard that shrouds his jaw, finally eliciting a sigh from him. He just shakes his head again. "Nothing new. Just the usual shit."
His mother. Of course. He must have run into her on his way home. As far as I know, Peeta hasn't seen either of us parents since his mother attacked him and he had to flee his own home, before we were even married. I wonder what was said, fearing for him, but my husband doesn't offer anything up and I don't pry.
My face falls, guilt blooming in my stomach as I stare at his forlorn face. Helpless, I offer the only thing I can think of at this point: Dropping my hand between his legs, I rub his erection through his pants suggestively. "Do you want me to do something for you?" I ask coyly. The corner of his mouth quirks before it tips into a crooked smirk, but he just gives me another resolute headshake.
"No, it's fine. You're in the middle of making dinner." With that, he pushes off the floor to stand up, gentlemanly helping me to me feet as well. I don't budge, however, searching his face, but he avoids my eyes. "I'm gonna go clean up, and then I'll help you with dinner," he murmurs, kissing my forehead before slinking out of the kitchen.
Despite my husband's despondency over his estrangement with his parents, he and I still manage to have fun together. In those weeks after his encounter with his mother, I become even more liberal in attending to him, making love in our bed and worshipping him like the devoted wife I should be. And though he's careful to pull out every time, there are a few occasions that are just too close for comfort. When I approach Mother a few weeks later, the tincture of Queen Anne's lace and pennyroyal is already waiting.
As Reaping Day approaches, my nightmares come back. They've never gone away completely, but in the months since our Toasting, in the months we've been sharing a bed every night, the terrors have been almost nonexistent. But it's the first Reaping that Prim will stand for where I won't be able to take her place. And while I had never actually thought about volunteering before, since volunteering is rare outside of the Career districts, I'm terrified now that the possibility has been taken away.
Peeta holds me and calms me, no matter how many times I wake him, but the nightmares don't slow again until Reaping Day is over, and Prim is safe. When I haltingly explain to him that this is why I can never have children he simply holds me more tightly. I know it saddens him, though he never tries to change my mind. He always tells her me I'm the only thing he needs.
Just weeks later, Libby and Rye announce they're expecting a child.
I am shy and ambivalent about the prospect of being an aunt. I've always figured that I would become one when Prim is old enough and marries, and I know I would dote on her children as much as I did her. I guess I should have realized that the possibility was there on the other side of the family I married into, one with three strapping brothers. Rye might be a bit of a clown, but I'm glad for him, and for Libby. For his part, Peeta seems overjoyed by the news, but I can see the disappointment he tries to keep from me. It lurks deep in his summer blue eyes. The knowledge that it'll never be him.
Babies with shining blonde curls and solemn grey eyes join my nightmares, Reaped and slaughtered while I watch, powerless to protect them.
Brann takes to spending evenings with us in our cheerful little house, to escape the tension at the Bakery. He admits that since Rye and Libby's pregnancy announcement, his mother has been relentless in her pressure to get him married off too. To get Brann saddled to a wife who could take over some of the Bakery duties. Caring nothing for his own wishes, as usual. I sense my brother-in-law is getting close to his breaking point. But Peeta and I both enjoy his company, his companionship, and I feels good offering him a safe haven from the hell of his life, if only for a short time. And Peeta admits he feels closer to his eldest brother now than he ever did growing up.
On a moonless Saturday evening late in the fall, Peeta and I are working side by side in their kitchen, turning the last of the apples I've foraged into sauce, when there's a heavy knock on the door. We know without looking that it's Brann; he spends virtually every moment he's not needed in the Bakery either at our home, or with the blacksmith.
He's in a rare good mood, and joins his brother and sister-in-law in our tiny kitchen, where we work together comfortably. I can tell that Brann has something to tell us - he's practically vibrating with barely constrained excitement.
He doesn't make us wait long. "Starting Monday, I'll be officially apprenticed to the blacksmith," he says, eyes still on the cooked apples he's mashing. "I signed the papers today."
I crinkle my nose in confusion. "What about Brett?" I ask, referencing the blacksmith's son, who has been Brann's best friend for years and who would have been the logical choice to take over his father's business. Even though I am apprenticed to a Merchant myself, I would imagine the case of Mr. Cartwright selecting me over his own daughter (who had married into another business anyway) wouldn't be at all comparable to the blacksmith having a son all ready to take over the family trade.
"We'll run the shop together," Brann says, a shy smile playing on his lips. "I picked up my housing assignment this afternoon too." Being officially apprenticed to a Merchant entitles Brann to a house of his own, in Town.
"Is there enough business to support another household?" I ask. The blacksmith's wife is long gone, but it seems a stretch to imagine that they can make enough hinges and nails to support two young men and their future wives and families.
"There's enough for... one family," Brann says, his smile wide, almost twinkling.
"For real, finally?" Peeta asks, grabbing Brann by the shoulder, and at his nod the brothers are embracing. I watch, basking in their happiness but bewildered.
When the men break apart they both look at me expectantly, then Peeta breaks into laughter. I bristle. "What's so funny?"
"Brett and I have been dating for years," Brann explains gently, pushing his brother aside. "His father knows, but we've kept it from my parents. But now we are ready to make it official." I hug my brother-in-law tightly.
"Have you told them yet?" Peeta's voice floats over us and I feel Brann tense.
"No," he sighs, pulling back to regard Peeta sadly. "But we both know what Mother's reaction will be. I'm going to sneak as much of my stuff out of the apartment as I can tomorrow, while she's playing bridge. Then I'll tell them." The brothers share a look of understanding, and as always, my heart breaks for all that these kind young men have lived through at the hands of the people who should have protected them always.
"We're going to have a Toasting, next Saturday. Will you come?"
Same-gender marriages aren't recognized in Panem, at least not in the districts. The Capitol only grants licenses to partnerships that could produce offspring, produce future workers and future entrants for the Games. It's a sad, sick system. Brann and Brett won't be able to go sign papers in the Justice Building. But marriage in District Twelve has never really been about the paperwork anyway. It's the Toasting that counts.
"We wouldn't miss it," Peeta enthuses with a glance at me and I nod.
Brann and Brett's Toasting day is rainy and cold, but their new house, not far from Rye and Libby, is warm and bright and filled with love. Friends and loved ones crowd together to sing the wedding song and enjoy a bite of cake. The blacksmith makes a speech that brings everyone to tears.
Mr. and Mrs. Mellark are conspicuously absent.
Every time I see Rye and Libby in the weeks that follow, they are miserable. Rye tells us that he's being bombarded with advice and interference and expectations from his mother. She banned Brann from the Bakery as soon as he announced his apprenticeship, and now expects Rye to cover more and more shifts, in addition to what he's already putting in at his clerkship in the Justice Building, to work early in the morning and late in the evening. And Libby is always sick. She can't keep down food; she can't even get out of bed most days. Rye is beside himself - between the long hours he puts in at the Justice Building and the Bakery, he can't be there for his sick wife as much as she needs. I spend evenings helping Libby, but there's only so much I can do with my own job and the hunting I still do when the weather allows.
It all comes to a head the day in early December that the midwife tells Libby she's expecting twins, and warns her that she'll need to stay in bed if there's any hope of getting them here safely. Rye has always been his mother's favorite, but when he tells his parents he cannot work at the Bakery any longer, the resulting familial argument is, by all accounts, brutal. Delly, who lives two doors down from the Bakery, recounts all she heard the day after when she visits me and Mr. Cartwright in the shop.
Rye is quietly stoic, just like first Peeta and then Brann were, accepting his parents' rejection without complaint. But I can see the sadness that haunts all three brothers.
I expect to see the Baker take on an apprentice; the Bakery continues to be busy. But from what I can tell in walks past Mellark's and talk around the Square, he doesn't. Winter comes, and I sometimes see him shoveling snow from the Bakery steps. Sometimes feels his gaze on my retreating back. Nothing more.
The twins are born two days into the New Year, early but healthy. Two tiny boys who seem to patch the rift between Rye and his folks.
It takes two full weeks before Peeta and I can meet our nephews. Mrs. Mellark practically takes up residence at Rye's house, and Peeta won't risk upsetting Libby or the babies by showing his face around his mother. I ache with the unfairness of it. But when Peeta finally holds one of the babies, his large hand cupping a tiny, downy head reverently, I ache in a different way. I find myself, in quiet moments, dreaming of a different world. A world, somewhere in the future, with no Games and no Capitol. A world where Peeta's child could be safe.
Spring is still a month away the night Rye appears on our doorstep, pale and shaking. He blurts out his message before we've even ushered him over the threshold.
Mrs. Mellark is dead.
Apoplexy, he tells them. A stroke. She was in the Bakery, shouting as usual. Then simply stopped. Dead before she even hit the floor.
I bundle up and walk through the silent streets to fetch Brann. The three Mellark brothers, half orphans now, sit dazed in the little house on the border of Town and the Seam. They pass a bottle of white liquor among them and talk in hushed tones deep into the night, long after I retire.
I awaken when Peeta climbs into our bed only an hour before dawn. I gather him in my arms, holding him tightly as sobs shake his body. I understand that he's not mourning his mother, not the woman she was anyway. But I know him, know his optimistic nature, know he'd hoped that someday his mother might apologize, might become the mother he deserved. I comfort him while he mourns that lost dream.
Only Rye goes to the burial. He tells us of the too-shallow hole carved from the still-frozen ground, the plain pine box, the desolate graveyard where only he, his father, and the gravedigger bore witness to her interment.
Just days later, Peeta's father shows up on our doorstep. I'm not surprised, but I have nothing to say to the man who abandoned his son - my husband - more than two years earlier. I grab my shawl, intending on walking to the Seam, to give Peeta and his father a chance to talk privately. But Peeta surprises me by grabbing my arm, a tacit entreaty for me to stay.
Peeta doesn't invite his father to sit down, doesn't offer any hospitality. They stand awkwardly just inside the door, with me hovering. Wordless. Peeta's firm grip on my hand begs me to stay with him, but also asks for my silence. Mr. Mellark is the first to speak. "Your mother," he begins, but Peeta cuts him off.
"We know." The words are clipped, like a thunderclap, sharper than anything I have ever heard him say. Mr. Mellark, too, seems taken aback, his eyes widening.
"I, well, ah," he struggles. Peeta regards his father with an impassive expression, but the death grip he has on my hand, and the pulse I see leaping in his throat, speak to his internal strife. Mr. Mellark doesn't seem to notice. "You can come back to the bakery now, Peeta," he says. "Now that she's gone, you can start preparing to take over for me." There's a smile playing around Mr. Mellark's lips. But I can feel the tension in Peeta's body, can feel the anger that has only grown with every one of his father's words.
"No."
Peeta's father physically recoils, surprise plain on his haggard face. He regards his son with shocked eyes, and I wonder what he sees. The man standing beside me is not the boy that was abandoned years ago. "But-" Mr. Mellark starts. Peeta again interrupts him.
"No," he repeats. "No, I won't work with you. I want nothing to do with you."
"The Bakery is your rightful place," he says. "You're a Mellark."
"If being a Mellark means turning your back on your child, then I want no part of the name!" Peeta snaps, and his father flinches. "You abandoned me. You let her use me as a punching bag. You chose her. No, you chose your own cowardice over your children."
"It wasn't my fault," Mr. Mellark whispers.
Peeta gasps, a tiny sound of shock and fury. "Get out," he says, storming towards the front door and holding it open until the icy air that leeches in jolts his dumbfounded father into leaving.
He closes the door deceptively softly, turns the bolt with a precise flick of his wrist. There's a pause, where the world seems to hold its breath. Then Peeta erupts. With a low growl, he strikes out at a lamp and knocks it across the room where it shatters, lamp oil seeping into the floorboards.
I've never seen him like this. My husband who has only ever radiated sweetness and light is utterly furious, his rage is visceral, flowing from him in waves. He paces, pulling his hair, cursing, words I've never heard pass his lips before. Wild-eyed, he lashes out again - this time it's a chair that bears the brunt of his wrath. The sound of splintering wood seems to pull him from his mania, and he slumps against the wall, breathing heavily.
I remain frozen, uncertain how to approach him. I'm not afraid; I know he'd never hurt me, never. Never hurt another person. But I'm wary nonetheless. It's only when his breathing hitches that I break free of my uncertainty, running the few steps between us on silent feet. He falls into my arms, shaking, and I hold his weight, hold him tightly through the emotional storm.
We somehow stagger to the sofa, still joined, and stay there together as the darkness creeps in, time immeasurable, lost to the comfort of each other's arms. It's cold and dark when Peeta's arms loosen, when he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "I'm so sorry," he rasps.
"It's just a lamp," I start, but he shakes his head.
"I shouldn't have said no to him. We'd have more money if I went back to the Bakery. It would be easier." I shake my head vehemently. We're not wealthy, but they're making ends meet, are even able to help Mother and Prim a little. And even if we weren't, I would never ask Peeta to go back to that place. His happiness is worth so much more to me than that.
"It'll be okay," I tell him. "We have each other."
Winter bleeds into spring. Peeta and I celebrate their first anniversary with a picnic in bed as thunderstorms rage through the district. He asks me if I have any regrets, and when I search my heart I can find none. He's filled my life in ways I hadn't dared dream of. I'm happier than she ever imagined possible. "You complete me," I whisper before pressing him into the pillows, showering him with gentle kisses.
"You complete me too," he pants into my flesh, over and over as the rain lashes outside our cozy nest.
Reaping Day for the 78th Games is sticky and sultry, the humid air pressing on the children standing miserably in the pens spread out across the square. Prim has five slips in the bowl this year, and while Katniss knows that's not much, especially compared to so many others in the Seam, she's still worried about my sweet little sister.
Prim isn't called. The chosen girl is Seam, they almost always are. But instead of walking to the stage with a shell-shocked expression, or shuffling and sobbing, she stands pat in the pens. Effie Trinket, the crazy-haired Capitol escort, calls her name four, five times before Peacekeepers descend to drag the girl to the stage. But it takes them a long while to find her, because the other children, indeed the entire district, stand silent instead of pointing her out.
They have to drag her to the stage, kicking, screaming like a banshee. It's takes three of them to hold her still while the clearly shaken escort selects the next name.
The same thing happens with the boy, also Seam. Peacekeepers start searching for him as soon as his name is called. When they find him he fights too, not just screaming, but shouting sedition. One of the Peacekeepers, a younger one, clearly sent to Twelve just for the Reaping, slams the butt of his gun into the young boy's head, silencing him, and they drag him, unconscious and bleeding, to the stage.
Murmurs in the crowd increase to shouts. One of the spectators throws a rock, and then it's pandemonium. Screaming children flee as Peacekeepers, faces covered and guns raised, storm into the crowd.
I run to Prim before I can even think about whether it's a good idea. Peeta and Mother are right behind, and the four of us hide out in the little house on the border of Town until things quiet down in the Square.
Reaping recaps during Mandatory Viewing explain that "technical difficulties" prevent the broadcast of the tribute selection in District Twelve.
An uncomfortable quiet falls over the district, a peace that's not peaceful. A feeling that something is coming, and that it can only be bad for everyone. When the two Seam kids make their debut on television in the tribute parade they're polished and uninjured, but completely vacant-eyed.
They both die in the first few minutes of the Hunger Games, slaughtered in the initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia.
I stand at Lucy Gray Baird train station (the site was named after our very first Victor from nearly seven decades ago) one eerily quiet afternoon about three weeks after the Reaping with Mr. Cartwright, waiting for a shipment of leather and supplies. At the sound of the approaching train, we look at each other in confusion. The sound is all wrong.
It quickly becomes apparent why. Instead of the small cargo train, a huge train pulls into the station, so many passenger cars that they stretch beyond the edges of the platform. When the first doors open a flood of white pours out. I gape, but Mr. Cartwright's hand gripping my shoulder hard jerks me out of my stupor. "The Hob," he hisses. "Run!"
I'm off before he can say anything else, but he doesn't need to anyway. We both know. An entire train full of Peacekeepers can only be bad for the district, and especially for those who live and work on the fringes. Like Peeta.
I'm breathless, nauseous when I burst through the doors of the Hob, startling the Seam folk gathered inside, silence quickly spreading through the assembly. The old warehouse is full, the early shift in the mines has let out and every stall is teeming with customers. But everyone freezes and turns to regard me warily. Peeta is beside me in a heartbeat, clutching at me, searching for injury. For some reason I've come running on a workday, terror in my eyes. "Peacekeepers," is all I manage to wheeze, but the effect is instantaneous. People start gathering what wares they can salvage. Throwing things into boxes and bags. Emptying the Hob and rushing out the back door.
Peeta holds me a few precious moments, helping to calm my racing heart. "Hundreds of them," I murmur. "On the train."
I'm not ready to let go when he pulls away, but I understand; we might only have minutes before the authorities arrive. People's livelihoods, people's very lives hang in the balance here. We both join our friends and neighbors in salvaging what we can. No one panics, but there's a heaviness to the mood.
It happens more quickly that I was expecting and it's worse than I could have imagined. Peacekeepers show up not with guns, but with torches.
When smoke starts curling in the windows, expressions turn grim. Every cranny and crevice of the old building is permeated with coal dust, which makes the place go up even faster. Fire is licking the walls before a quarter of the stalls have been emptied. Very quickly, clouds of ash block the few windows, and the Hob is shrouded in darkness.
Smoke scratches my throat, stings my eyes when Peeta pushes me towards the door, Sae's little granddaughter, Lila, clutched between us. He presses the child into my arms. "Get her to safety," he says.
"I can't leave you," I argue, but he kisses me quickly.
"I'll be right behind you."
I rush from the building, coughing as the thick, black smoke invades my lungs, making little Lila cry and gasp. Outside, it's chaos; flames leap from the roof of the abandoned warehouse that served as the Hob, bystanders mill around gawking and yelling. Madness. I search for Sae, or for someone to hand Lila off to, so I can find Peeta, but I only get twenty feet before the front of the warehouse collapses.
Screams ring and I'm only barely aware that they're coming from me.
It's all a blur. Arms grasp me, urgent voices implore me to stop, warn me that I'll attract the Peacekeepers, endanger us all. When my mind clears, I'm in my house, the little home I share with Peeta, without fully realizing how I got there.
Only that he's not there.
Prim is cradling me, murmuring soft nonsense in my ear. "Shh," she sighs. "It's going to be all right." But I can hear the tremor in my sister's voice that belies her words of comfort.
Time stops as I sit with my sister, eyes fixed unblinking on the door. Footsteps thunder by outside, at first near continually, then slowing to ones and twos. And finally, silence, deep and horrible. I've never believed in the gods of old, never trusted in anything I couldn't see or touch. Religion is expressly forbidden in Panem, anyhow. Yet as I sit on the floor in the summer heat, I pray with every shuddering breath. Please come back to me. Please, come back to me.
I think back more than nine years ago, imagine my mother huddled in horror, waiting for word of her husband. Word that never came. And in that brief moment of reflection, I forgive her, because I finally understand.
When Mother bursts through the front door, followed by three men carrying a fourth between them, I don't react immediately. Pots of water are set to boil on my stove while the men deposit someone on my kitchen table, grimy and smoke-streaked and far too still. I only snap out of my stupor when Mother begins attending to the man on the table, cutting away his trousers.
Grey linen, with frayed cuffs.
The ones I watched my husband mending just the night before, while we were sitting on the couch chatting.
I've had plenty of experience with injured miners being left on my mother's kitchen table, blackened and bloodied. Usually, I'd make a run for the woods, spend the day hunting. Only come back when the unfortunate soul had been attended to. Or had died.
But this is not my mother's kitchen table. And it's not a miner who lays unmoving in my kitchen.
The world whirls around me as I clutch the back of a chair, swaying. Prim and Mother work on their patient with grim expressions, boiling water and mixing herbs. The men in my kitchen provide explanations that I simply can't comprehend. In the middle of the flurry I meet Mother's eyes. "Mama?" I whimper, child-like, sounding nothing like the twenty-year-old woman I am. The older woman's expression softens with compassion.
"I gave him sleep syrup, Katniss." She offers nothing else, but it's enough for me to know that my husband is simply asleep, not gone. Not yet anyway, though I can tell by Mother's expression that Peeta's survival is by no means a sure thing. I nod, and Mother goes back to work. I remain, held motionless by some unknown force, unable to help but unable to run. I'd often wondered, in the past, why the families of the sick and wounded remained ringed around Mother's kitchen table, helplessly. Wondered why they didn't leave. Why they stayed to watch. And now I know. It's because there is no choice.
I allow myself, finally, to look at his face. My Peeta. He's covered in filth; sweat and tears have cut tracks through the mess, hinting at the pale skin beneath. I wet a cloth and methodically clean away the ash and grime. There's an angry red streak stretching from his neck to his temple, where he's been fire-bitten, and his right eyebrow has been half singed away. His hair has been singed too, the golden curls crispy and brittle under my fingers.
Through all of my ministrations, Peeta remains completely, terrifyingly still. Unresponsive. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest indicates he's there at all. It feels strange to me, to be so physically close to someone who's so distant. Peeta might as well be on the moon right now, he'd be no harder to reach. And though my kitchen is full of people, filled with the low hum of voices and shuffling feet, I've never felt lonelier.
Twilight bathes my kitchen in a surreal blue-ish glow when Peeta begins to stir. My joy at seeing brief glimpses of his pain-hazed eyes is tempered by the abject agony I can see he's in. Mother is still working on Peeta's leg, which was badly injured in the Hob's collapse, Prim is tending to his burns. Even in their expert hands, it takes a long time. Moans and pained cries escape each time they touch him. Prim goes through the meager store of painkillers in Mother's bag, the kind usually accessible only to doctors. They are hard to come by, expensive, and always in demand. They try to save the strongest ones for the worst pain, try to save them for those who are actually in the process of dying, to ease them out of the world. I know this, but I have no ability to watch suffering, especially when it's my husband.
Since Peeta is regaining consciousness, they decide instead on an herbal concoction he can take orally. "That won't be enough," I say. Prim and Mother turn in confusion, as if they'd forgotten I was there. "That won't be enough," I repeat. "That will barely knock out a headache."
"We'll combine it with sleep syrup, Katniss, and he'll manage it-" Mother begins calmly.
"Just give him the medicine!" I cry. "Give it to him! Who are you, anyway, to decide how much pain he can stand?!"
Peeta begins stirring at my voice, trying to reach me and groaning as each movement disrupts his shattered leg, shifts his burned skin. "He needs you to be calm, Katniss." Mother says more firmly. "He needs you to be the strong one now."
It's exactly the right thing to say to get through to me. I resume my vigil at the head of the table, stroking Peeta's hair, clutching his hand. "Shhh," I say softly, right next to his ear. "I'm here. Be still, Peeta. It's okay now."
I sing softly, just for him, as he drifts in and out of consciousness, the sleep syrup not quite enough to push him into complete oblivion.
The young Seam men who'd pulled Peeta from the burning rubble of the Hob stay the entire time, keeping watch, triaging other people who come by the little house looking for the healer. When Mother finally finishes splinting Peeta's leg, the men are again called on to help move him. Though they're as gentle as they can be, Peeta screams in agony. Prim holds me as I sob, sick to my stomach and useless.
Mother and Prim attend to the other men and women who have been patiently waiting in my kitchen and just outside the little house, but I pay them no attention. Once I've calmed, I kneel on the floor next to the bed, holding Peeta's hand, my face level with his, only inches apart. I stroke his hair, the rough stubble coming in on his jaw, the thick column of his neck on the unburned side. His eyes are closed but I know he's not asleep; his breathing is too shallow, too quick. "Katniss," he whispers.
"Shhh... save your strength," I say softly. I don't want him to stress himself. And truthfully, I'm not sure I'm ready to hear what he has to say. But he's undeterred.
"If I don't make it-"
"No," I whimper, my resolve to stay strong cracking along the seams. "You're going to be fine, Peeta. It's going to be okay."
"Please, Katniss," he begs.
"No!" I wail. "You're not leaving me here alone!"
"I'm sorry," he whispers, trembling so much that the bed shakes beneath him. Tears squeeze from beneath his tightly closed lids. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't give up," I beg, kissing away his tears, cradling his head against my chest as best I can without jarring him, but he whimpers in pain anyway.
It's fully dark when Mother pokes her head into our bedroom, holding a candle aloft. I glance up from my station on the floor, Peeta's hand still clutched tightly in my own. He has been alternating between a restless half-sleep and an agonized half-wake, never quite succumbing to the unconsciousness that would be its own form of escape. He moans or cries out with every movement, every sharp breath. I haven't dared to leave him, even for a moment. As if with my presence alone, I can safeguard his life, or at least ease his suffering a little. "There's someone here to see you," Mother says softly. "Shall I bring her in?" I don't want to see anyone, but I nod, too tired to fight.
A figure clad head to toe in black appears in the doorway. Only when she pulls back her hood and golden curls spill out do I realize it's Madge. I haven't seen much lately of the girl who used to be my closest school friend. Though the little house on the border of Town is much closer to the Mayor's mansion than my old house in the Seam, Madge has never visited. They'd grown apart after my Toasting, or maybe even before, I think sadly. But I'm so grateful to see my old friend now.
Mother moves to the bed. "Go," she whispers, then begins to fuss over her son-in-law, feeling his forehead and throat, peeking beneath bandages as he whimpers. I stand and walk over to Madge, casting an uneasy glance at Peeta as I do.
"I can't stay," Madge says quietly. "There's a new curfew, and Peacekeeper patrols everywhere." She presses a small, damp cardboard box into my hands. "But I wanted to bring you these." I slide the lid off the box, revealing half a dozen vials of clear liquid. "They're my mother's," Madge continues. "She said I could take them. Use them, please."
Mother steps over, taking the box with a shocked expression, and immediately bringing the contents to the bedside while Madge and I look on.
Peeta's teeth are gritted and his flesh shines with sweat. Mother fills a syringe with clear liquid from one of the vials and shoots it into his arm. Almost immediately, his face begins to relax.
"What is that stuff?" I ask, my eyes wide.
"It's from the Capitol. It's called morphling," Madge says. "I - I hope it's enough."
Tears prick at my eyes as I look at my husband, his breathing now calm and even. "Madge, I-" I start, but can't continue, overwhelmed by gratitude. And though it's been months since we last spoke, I don't hesitate to hug my friend. When Madge's arms wrap tightly around me, I break, tears spilling over, wetting Madge's golden curls.
I can hear Madge sniffle as we cling, like two terrified twelve-year-olds on Reaping Day. Madge strokes my hair, making soft, shushing sounds, and I relax, just a little. Finally we pull apart, and with a lingering kiss on the cheek, Madge disappears into the night.
The following days are tense. Peeta's injuries are grave, his leg crushed, his lungs damaged. He spends much of the time in a morphling haze, achy and nauseous when he's awake; asleep, he's plagued by nightmares he can't seem to escape from. I never leave his side, ever the dutiful wife, sleeping in short spurts on the floor beside our bed, unwilling to risk jostling him by climbing in beside him. And though I've never been like Prim and my mother, never had any healer leanings, I care for him with a single-minded focus.
Peeta improves, inch by excruciating inch. On the fourth morning after the attack, a gentle hand stroking my hair awakens me. I'd fallen asleep on the floor again, sitting upright this time, leaning against the bedframe with my head on the mattress beside him. "Peeta," I gasp as I meet his eyes, pain-filled but clear for the first time in what feels like forever.
"Hi," he whispers, his voice hoarse from smoke damage and disuse.
I scramble from the floor to stand over him. "Are you hungry?" I ask hopefully. I've only managed to get him to take water and a little broth since the accident; already, his cheeks look hollow. But he shakes his head.
"Lie with me, Katty girl," he says. I smile wetly at his pet name for me, even as the concern lingers in my stormy grey eyes.
"I don't want to hurt you," I protest, even as I look longingly at our bed, at the man I love so desperately lying in it. He shakes his head.
"Please. I need to hold you." It's all I need to hear. I climb in beside him, as carefully as I can. I see him flinch and grit his teeth, but when I try to slide off the bed again, he grabs my arm with surprising strength. "Please," he begs, scarcely a breath.
It takes some maneuvering to find a position where I'm not touching any of his burned skin, not hurting his leg, but finally we're wrapped in each other's arms, clinging. "Thank you for not giving up on me," he breathes against my hair, and my heart clenches.
"I never will," I say. Surely he knows that? But so many others in his life have abandoned him, and weak and terrified as he must be, I understand his need for reassurance. "I'll be here, always." Peeta presses his lips to my temple, and for the briefest of moments I can pretend that everything is back to normal.
But nothing is normal in District Twelve anymore, at least not the normal that I'm used to.
Though I'm terribly reluctant to leave Peeta, I have to go back to work. Our small cache of coins is nearly depleted, our cupboards frighteningly bare.
Mother arrives with the dawn to care for my husband with a sympathetic smile and a loaf of bread, and I head to the center of Town. Though only a little over a week has passed, the District has been transformed. Stockades and whipping posts and other devices of torment and torture have been erected in the Square. And those are only the most obvious differences.
Mr. Cartwright hugs me tightly when I slip into the shop, and I'm reminded again how fortunate I am to be his apprentice, to have the stability of a Merchant job now that Peeta is too maimed to work, at least right now. As we work side-by-side, repairing shoes using only Capitol-grade leather, he tells me in hushed tones about the more insidious happenings. Warning me.
I take the long way home that evening, walking through the Meadow to skirt along the edge of the fence. And though I'm not surprised to hear the fence humming, I'm disheartened. But I plaster on a brave face when I get home, and instead tell Peeta gentle stories about the miller's children while I make dinner.
The new Peacekeepers who arrived on the train that awful day don't leave; in fact, even more come, and each batch seems nastier than the one before. Armed patrols march through the Square day and night, harassing the populous. Old man Cray disappears, along with most of the previous Peacekeeping corps, replaced by a new Head Peacekeeper named Thread, a strict and imperious man with a decidedly sadistic bend. There's fear and unease everywhere. The installations in the Square see plenty of action as people are dragged in and punished for offenses so long overlooked we've forgotten that they are illegal.
The fence remains electrified, twenty-four hours a day.
Mother comes each morning to help Peeta. Prim reads to him from her textbooks after school. His brothers too make visits, although rarely, unwilling to attract too much attention from the Peacekeepers, lest Peeta's precarious position be revealed. At first, Peeta is so focused on healing that in his pain and exhaustion he barely asks anyone any questions about the world outside his bedroom walls, for which I'm grateful. But gradually, day-by-day, he gains strength. He's awake more, can move more without as much pain. He begins doing therapy exercises that Mother guides him through. As much as I want to shield him, I know I can't keep the truth from him forever.
We're struggling. Badly.
Wages in the mines get cut, then cut again. No one has money to spend in the Merchant shops, even for something as essential as shoe repair. The trains from the Capitol are frequently delayed, what supplies they do send are cut-rate and often defiled.
Peeta can't work, not as injured and virtually bedridden as he is. And even if he could, the Hob is gone, and no one in Twelve is crazy enough to try and rebuild with the new Peacekeepers monitoring their every move.
I'm careful and frugal; I've had to stretch supplies and make do with less practically my whole life. But this is a new level of poor. What coins I do bring in are nearly useless with the shops perpetually empty. The woods, full of food, are permanently off-limits now.
Only the small garden that Peeta had so lovingly attended before his accident provides us any relief. And even that isn't reliable. Other families are desperate enough to sneak into our tiny yard, steal the small squash unripe from the vine. Standing in the gathering gloom one evening, with only a handful of green tomatoes clinging to the plants, waves of hopelessness batter me. I feel stretched too thin, giving more than I can spare to ensure Prim doesn't have to take out tesserae, carefully arranging my own plate so that Peeta won't see how little I'm eating. I give him the majority of the food, knowing he needs the sustenance for healing. But it isn't enough, I know.
I realize that he knows too, despite how hard I've tried to keep it from him. "Stop," he says, standing behind me in our kitchen as I plate our meager meal. He's leaning on a crutch, designed by Mother and constructed by Brann. He can't yet put weight on his injured leg, and his burns still require daily treatments with the poultices my family makes, but he looks more like my Peeta now with his singed eyebrow growing back and the determined look on his handsome face as he turns me to face him, his hand on my shoulder gentle but insistent. "No more secrets, Katniss," he says steadily, but with no anger. "I know you're trying to protect me. But it stops now."
"What are we going to do?" I whisper, and he pulls me into his embrace, his arms not as steady as they once were, but still warm and strong.
"We're going to figure it out together."