"Momma." I hear the word in the back of my mind, along with the pressure of two small palms on my shoulder. "Momma."

I wake up to two bright blue eyes staring into mine, my daughter's mile-long eyelashes batting as she blinks. "Senna," I say, jolted from sleep.

"Momma, you're awake!" she exclaims in a whisper. "Guess what? There's a pumpkin on our steps."

I rub one hand over my eyes and inhale deeply, smelling warm bread as I do. Peeta's side of the bed is made-up and empty, meaning he must be in the kitchen - with Lark, if the high-pitched babbling I hear from downstairs is any indicator.

"A pumpkin?" I ask, still groggy.

"Daddy sweared he didn't put it there," she says, moving to sit on my stomach and straddle me with her knees. "It's big and orange, Momma. You have to see. Come downstairs and wake up and see!" She presses my cheeks in with both hands and says, "Also Daddy and Larkie are making rolls for breakfast and I did the jam!"

My four-year-old leaps off of me and lands gracefully on the hardwood floor, her feet making the tiniest of sounds as she scurries across the room. I sit up, supported by both elbows, and simply watch her as she looks back at me from the doorway.

"Come on, Momma!" she urges.

"Alright," I say, wrapping my arms around myself after slipping out from under the covers. It's late October, and cold in the mornings. I have goosebumps all over my arms to show for it.

I slip on a well-worn cardigan of Peeta's and follow Senna down the stairs, finding her jittering with excitement by the front door. Just as she opens it, I hear the heavy footfalls of our son bounding up behind me, his chubby legs announcing his presence long before his voice does.

"Momma!" he squeals, and I lift his chunky, two-year-old body onto my hip and kiss him all over his cheeks and neck. He giggles and throws his head back, and I can't help but smile at his joy. He's so much like Peeta - it comes easily to him.

"Larkie, we're gonna show Momma the pumpkin," Senna says, taking my hand and leading me out the door. We stand on the porch, all of us barefoot and chilly, and Senna points at the great round thing - it's sitting on the steps like it's meant to be there. "See!"

"Huh," I say, walking closer to nudge it with my toe. Obviously, it doesn't do anything. It's a pumpkin.

Lark leans over to try and touch it, squirming his way out of my arms as he does. I let him down and he smacks his palms on top of the orange surface, grinning widely as he does. "Punkin," he says, beaming.

"Guess what Uncle Hay said?" Senna asks, grabbing her brother around the waist. She struggles to lift him, but eventually gets his feet off the ground to cart him inside and back to the warmth that I usher them towards.

"What?"

"He said the pumpkin is for Hello-ween," Senna says, eyes round as she relays the information.

I furrow my eyebrows at the word - Halloween, she means, and I've heard it before. I know it's a holiday that used to be celebrated every October 31st; it was skimmed over in school, we never spent much time on it because it didn't matter. I do know the Capitol citizens used to love it because it was yet another excuse to dress up in outlandish, garish costumes - as if they needed a change from their outlandish, garish wear of everyday life.

But never once did we celebrate it growing up. The pumpkins that grew were sold or eaten, never set out for decoration. It was seen as wasteful then. And it seems a little silly now.

"Senna Ray!" Peeta calls from the kitchen. "The rolls are ready for jam."

Senna gasps excitedly, sets Lark down gently with a little kiss to the nose, then races to the kitchen to help Peeta. I pick our little boy up again, kissing him in the same spot that Senna did, and follow her to where the sweet smells are coming from.

When I walk into the kitchen, Senna is perched on the sturdy kitchen island with her legs folded under her, carefully spreading jam onto four rolls. She dips one finger into the jar and sticks it in her mouth, smirking while Peeta gives her a knowing look. She knows and I know that he'd let her get away with pretty much anything.

"Morning," Peeta says, catching my eye.

"Hi," I say, sidling up beside him and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He smells like he always does - cinnamon and dill. It makes warmth settle in my chest and spread out all the way to the tips of my fingers. "Thanks for letting me sleep in."

"Mm-hmm," he murmurs, lips in my hair. "Would've been longer, but this one just couldn't wait to tell you about the pumpkin."

"Yeah, what's that about?" I ask, tipping my chin up to look him in the eyes.

He swipes a thumb over the apple of my cheek and gives me a soft kiss on the lips. "I have no idea," he says. "I honestly don't."

"Haymitch knows something," I say, wrapping my free arm around the small of Peeta's back. "Senna said he told her that the pumpkin is for Halloween."

"Hello-ween, Momma," Senna says, keeping her eyes on the rolls. She's trying her best to spread the jam - working with just as much concentration as Peeta uses to frost the cakes he still sometimes makes.

"Hello-ween, sorry," I say, the corner of my lips lifting with a small grin.

"He stopped by this morning when I was changing Lark," Peeta says. "He didn't stay. He only talked to Sen." He lays a flat hand on top of Senna's dark hair. "Did Uncle Hay leave the pumpkin, Sen?"

"I think he sneaked it onto our porch," she says, confirming.

"What is this about?" I ask, hitching Lark higher as he'd begun to droop. "We've never done Halloween. I don't think my mother ever did. Maybe not even my grandmother."

"Could be Effie's influence," Peeta says, shrugging lightly. "We never celebrated, either. But what's the harm? It could be fun."

"It's pointless," I say.

"Fun doesn't have to have a point," he tells me, raising his eyebrows. "I think these two would like to dress up."

"I want to play dress-up!" Senna cuts in.

I glance at our daughter, then back to her father. "Peeta," I say quietly. "It's a Capitol holiday."

"It doesn't have to be," he says. "It didn't start out as one."

I sigh deeply and wrap my arms tighter around Lark, and he tucks his curly blonde head under my chin, pressing his crown against my neck. "I don't know," I say tersely.

"Momma, yes," Senna sayas. "Know."

"It's only the 24th," Peeta says, comforting as always. "We have a week to decide."

…

Later that day, Peeta heads into town for flour and I stay at home with Senna - and Lark, who's napping in the sling on my chest. He's getting a little big for it, but he still fits since Peeta adjusted it to fit his toddler size.

We're sitting on the porch as the day has gotten a bit warmer since the sun came out. I've got my knitting needles, intent as I work on a scarf for Senna that's the color of the inside of a nectarine. She'll need it once the snow falls, and I've found that I enjoy working with my hands like this. It was something I never thought I'd have the patience for, but I surprised myself with it after she was born.

Senna sits at my feet with a gathering of rocks and twigs, arranging them in patterns on the wooden slats of the porch while singing softly to herself. She has a light, melodic voice with perfect pitch, so it's always a treat to hear her little songs. It reminds me of Prim singing to herself when we were both small.

For a while, the only sound is that of my needles clicking, Senna's sweet voice, and birdsong in the trees. But before long, I hear footsteps and lift my head just as Haymitch says, "Well, hello, sweetheart."

Senna gasps and jumps up, but remembers to stay quiet so Lark doesn't wake. "Uncle Hay!" she cheers - in a whisper, then flies into his arms. He lifts her with a grunt and she presses a pudgy finger to his lips. "Shhh. Larkie's sleeping."

"I'll keep my voice down," he assures her, then sets her back on her feet before looking at me. "That boy's almost bigger than you are. You're gonna break your back carrying him like that."

I shoot him a look and roll my eyes lightly. Haymitch likes to chide me and Peeta both for spoiling our children, when we're all very aware that he spoils them much worse.

I don't bother acknowledging the comment, but instead raise my eyebrows towards the pumpkin that still sits on the steps, fat and orange. It reminds me of Buttercup before he died, when Peeta got into the habit of feeding him four or five times a day, whenever the greedy thing asked.

"Care to explain yourself?" I say.

Haymitch glances at the pumpkin with a grin, then shoots Senna a conspiratorial look. "Festive, huh?" he says. "Now, all you've gotta do is carve it."

"What's 'carve it'?" Senna asks.

"We've never celebrated Halloween," I say, one steadying hand in the middle of Lark's back. I continue to rock, and he continues to breathe deep and full.

"What's 'carve it' mean, Momma?" Senna asks again, refusing to be ignored.

"You have your daddy draw a face on that big old pumpkin," Haymitch says, leaning against the porch railing. "And maybe he'll let you help him cut it out. Then, you set a candle inside and light it at night. Keeping it there will ward off evil spirits." He makes his voice spooky at the end and waggles his fingers at Senna, who gives him a suspicious, narrow-eyed once-over.

"What's 'evil'?"

"Haymitch, please," I say, scoffing. "It's all just stories."

"Stories, legend, folklore, isn't that the fun of it all?" he says. "Stop worrying, sweetheart. Have a little fun. You've earned it, at this point."

"How is any of that fun?"

He gestures towards Senna, who's parked herself in front of the pumpkin and is miming the act of drawing a face on it with one of her twigs. Haymitch looks back to me, shrugs one shoulder, but I won't give him the pleasure of admitting that he might be right.

…

When Peeta gets home, I'm in the dining room sitting on the bench seat, and Lark and Senna are both on the table with their hair tied away from their faces. I put Senna's into a braid all the time, but Lark's is getting so long - I need to trim it soon - that I decided to put it up in a little ponytail.

As Peeta walks in, a sack of flour tucked under his arm, the kids greet him with smiles and squeals like always. He gives them each a kiss, then drops one to the top of my head, all the while eyeing the orange guest of honor.

"What's the pumpkin doing on our table?" he asks.

Senna and Lark burst into a fit of giggles. No one can make them laugh like Peeta can.

"Daddy!" Senna says, winding her arms around his neck after standing up. He lifts her onto his hip, and soon brings Lark to join. "Momma said we could carve it."

Peeta raises his eyebrows at me and I shake my head minutely, telling him without words that I gave in. For this small amount of festivity, I gave in.

"Blame Haymitch," I say.

"I'll get the knives," Peeta says, clearly excited. "Who wants to help me draw the face?"

…

Peeta and the kids carve a smiling face into the pumpkin and I save the seeds to dry and roast later. While they worked on creating a masterpiece, I tried my best to stop thinking about how wasteful it all was. Senna and Lark's smiling faces are powerful forces; I couldn't stay in a slump for long after being influenced by their happiness.

In bed that night, Peeta turns onto his side and runs one finger down my spine. I'm still sitting up, unweaving my hair from its ever-present braid. "Senna said she wants to dress up as something scary," he says.

I glance at him over my shoulder. "When did she say that?"

"When I was tucking her in. She wants to be a goblin."

"A goblin?" I say. "Where did she hear about goblins?"

"Haymitch, I'm guessing."

"I'm going to have to talk to him," I mutter, shaking out my hair. "I don't know how I feel about her being something scary. Or dressing up at all."

"Oh, come on," Peeta says. "They both want to do it so badly. Lark wants to be a flower - at least he's not interested in spooks yet."

"A flower? He said that?"

"Maybe he meant flour. I'm honestly not sure. The thumb was in the mouth."

We both laugh, and I scoot closer to his warmth under the covers as the October breeze filters in through the cracked-open window. He extends an arm and I curl into his side, tucking my face into the crook of his neck, smelling the cinnamon on his skin that lingers even after the shower he took before bed.

When I wake in the morning, I feel one small body folded against my chest and another cuddled against my back, a wiry arm draped over my middle. Lark's blonde spirals tickle my chin, and Senna's hand twitches with a dream, boneless and slack as it rests on my stomach. I don't move, but I don't have to - I already know Peeta's eyes are on us, because I can feel them.

"Morning," he says, kissing the back of my head.

"Morning," I reply, my voice raspy with sleep. Senna wriggles closer, pressing her forehead to the space between my shoulder blades. Lark, our heavy sleeper, doesn't budge.

"When did these two sneak in?" Peeta asks.

"I don't know," I say. "I didn't even feel them."

Roused by the sound of our voices, Senna stirs further and starts talking the moment she opens her eyes. "I want to be a fairy," she says, then burrows beneath my nightshirt. "Momma, I am in your shirt."

Peeta snorts with laughter and I chuckle, too. "What happened to being a goblin?" Peeta asks.

"I want to be a fairy now," she says. "For Hello-ween. Fairies have wings and crowns. Can I have wings and crowns?"

I take a deep breath and Senna must feel it, being that she's still inside my shirt, because she wraps both arms around my middle and speaks again.

"I want to be a fairy because I am a fairy. For dress-up and Hello-ween. Right, Momma?"

Before I can answer, Lark lifts his head and rubs his sky blue eyes with two pudgy fists. I hold his face and kiss his cheeks, continuing until he giggles and pulls away, those bouncy curls falling over his forehead. "I a cat," he says. "Meow, meow."

I can hear the smile in Peeta's voice when he asks, "You want to be a kitty-cat for Halloween, Lark?"

"Meow, meow!" Lark says.

Senna unearths herself from my shirt and pops out with messy hair. "Good idea, Larkie!" she says. "Isn't that a good idea for Larkie, Daddy?"

"I love it," Peeta says.

"Daddy, what are you gonna be?" Senna asks.

Peeta stops to think, but only for a moment. "Well, I'll be pretty busy on Halloween," he says. "I'm going to have to paint all of your guys' faces. Momma should be the one who dresses up."

"No," I answer quickly.

"Yes!" Senna counters. "Yes, Momma, for Hello-ween! You can be a cat, too. Like Larkie. But no one else gets to be a fairy, because I'm the only fairy out of everyone."

"Momma, kitty!" Lark squeals, plopping his full weight onto my stomach where he finds a comfortable seat.

"I don't know," I say, glancing at Peeta to find his eyes glinting with mischief. "I'm still not sure if we're doing this."

"I'm going to tell Uncle Hay!" Senna shouts, jumping off the bed to land gracefully on the hardwood floor. She jets out of the room wearing her powder blue nightgown, and I hear her footsteps descend the stairs, then the sound of the front door coming open. She knows not to leave the porch, so she takes to calling Haymitch's name from the entryway. "Uncle Hay!" she yells. "I'm being a fairy for Hello-ween!"

…

The next day, the pumpkin muffins that Peeta put in the oven make the whole kitchen smell like heaven. I'm standing at the sink, washing the pumpkin seeds that have been waiting for a few days, and the kids are both taking their afternoon naps. For once, in their own rooms. The house is silent and calm.

Before long, Peeta sidles up behind me and slides his arms around my waist, latching his fingers together low on my stomach. He kisses the side of my neck and I smirk to myself, tipping my head to one side as his hands slip beneath the wool of my soft green sweater.

He hugs my middle tightly, taking a deep breath with his nose pressed to the space beneath my ear. "Were you outside?" he asks. "You smell like outside."

"For a little bit," I say, tracing the veins on top of his hands. "I went and planted a few seeds."

I feel his smile on my neck as he nuzzles my skin with his nose. "You planted some?" he says. "So we can have pumpkins next year, too?"

"No, so we can make soup, muffins, and roast the seeds."

"So we can carve jack-o-lanterns and make our kids happy…"

I raise my eyebrows. "Jack-o-lanterns?" I repeat. "Is that what they're called?" He nods. "How did you find that out?"

"Haymitch lent me a book."

"When did he start reading?"

We both laugh and Peeta trails his fingers up my arms, giving me goosebumps as he does. "There's a lot of interesting stuff in there," he says. "You should read it. Like, did you know that it wasn't pumpkins that were originally carved? It was turnips."

"You should've told me sooner. I would've planted turnips."

He chuckles and drops a firm kiss to the round of my shoulder, squeezing my waist in the comforting way he always does. Before he can tell me another fun fact, the oven timer dings, signaling that the muffins are through cooking, and he unwinds himself from me to get them out and place them on the cooling rack.

I watch him as he works, something I love to do when I get the chance, and he glances at me over his shoulder. After a few moments, he takes the first muffin off the rack, one hand cupped underneath it, and brings it to my mouth to let me take a bite. When I do, cream cheese oozes from the center and drips down my chin, and Peeta catches it with his thumb so I can suck it off. We lock eyes and he smirks, eyes sparkling, and swipes my lower lip before dropping a slow, wet kiss to my mouth.

I drape my arms over his shoulders and pull myself close, and he pins my lower back against the solid edge of the counter. "I'm giving in, you know," I murmur.

Peeta tugs on the end of my loose braid and says, "I know."

…

On the days leading up to Halloween, I do my best to gather materials that will work for Senna and Lark's costumes. Lark's is easy - I set aside a pair of black sweatpants, a black sweater that once belonged to his sister, a little tail, and craft a pair of triangle cat ears out of wire and felt. As for Senna, I bought fabric from the market and crafted something of a pink fairy dress - I've never been the best at creating, just repairing - but I do my best. To her, it's something magical, and that's what matters. The wings I made out of tulle, wire, and elastic. They're uneven, but Peeta assures me I'm the only one who notices.

She makes the crown herself out of pliable twigs, dandelions, and ribbon. She has an eye for art in the same way her father does.

Her father, who has placed Senna and Lark on the dining room table so he can paint their faces with water-based colors from his set. For Senna, he draws deep green vines with an expert hand, twining them near her temples and the soft curve of her jaw. He decorates them with tiny yellow flowers and dusts her cheeks with pink. For Lark, he paints thin, black whiskers and a small pink triangle on his nose.

My children insist, since I found a black outfit for myself complete with a bigger pair of ears, that Peeta should paint my face, too.

"Momma, you need your whiskers!" Senna says, hopping from foot to foot in her full costume.

In one hand, she holds a brown bag meant for collecting candy - a tradition that Haymitch was more than happy to tell her about. He joked that he would toss tiny liquor bottles in Senna and Lark's candy bags, which made me roll my eyes - he's been sober for over a decade, yet he can't seem to drop the alcohol-based humor. Peeta claims that he saw hordes of candy piled on Haymitch's front table, and because Senna and Lark are two of the very few children in 12, it's safe to say that most will be going home with them.

"I've got enough paint to make you kitty-Katniss," Peeta says, quite pleased with himself.

I look up with a deadpan stare, blinking slowly. "Don't push it," I say, and he can't keep from smiling wider. He knows I'm going to let him, and I know it too.

I close my eyes while he presses the feather-light brush to my cheekbones, swiping whiskers in the same spot he placed Lark's. He smudges a bit of pink on the end of my nose, and I open my eyes to find him grinning once the paintbrush leaves my skin.

"Perfect," he says.

Lark pulls himself onto my lap and shrieks with glee. "Kitty, Momma!" he squeals, clapping his fat little hands together.

"A kitty, just like you," I say, standing and hoisting my boy onto my hip.

"And Buttercup, who you loved so much," Peeta says.

"Yes, my favorite creature in the whole world," I say, which makes Peeta chuckle under his breath.

We head out into the night, and while Lark would rather stay attached to my side, Senna asks to run ahead and we let her. The glow coming from Haymitch's front porch washes over her, and she looks back at us with an excited grin once she reaches his steps. Peeta urges her on, encouraging her to knock on the door, and she does so with vigor.

"Trick or treat!" she calls, loud enough to make the geese stir in the yard.

We're close behind her, and Lark repeats the sentiment with a shy: "Ticker teat."

Haymitch opens the door with a bedsheet draped around his shoulders. "Hey, sweetheart," he says to Senna, who's gazing up at him and extending her brown bag with both hands.

"Uncle Hay, are you a ghost?" she asks.

He laughs and pulls the sheet over his head - I can see now that he went to the trouble of cutting out two circles for eyes. "You got it," he says. "Boo!"

"You're not very scary," Senna tells him matter-of-factly.

He pulls the sheet off and shakes his head, narrowing his eyes jokingly at our daughter before looking at me. "She's too much like you," he grumbles, then drops a handful of candy into her bag. "C'mere, Larkie," he says, and Lark gives Haymitch his brown bag while keeping one thumb in his mouth and his head on my shoulder. "At least he's not calling my bluff yet."

"Next year, be a wolf!" Senna says, jumping up and down. "Be scary."

"Alright," Haymitch says. "I'll try and figure that out."

"Next year?" I repeat, adjusting Senna's crown. "We're doing this again next year?"

She looks back at me with wide blue eyes and nods enthusiastically. "Yes, Momma. It's Hello-ween next year, and the next year, and the next year, and forever. And we are always going to do it!"

With a soft sigh, I turn to Peeta and find him already smiling. Seeing that, I can't help but mirror the expression, which makes him grin wider and say, "Happy Hello-ween."