Chapter V: The Very Image of a Victor, Part II

The nausea subsides as quickly as it came, but the humiliation leaves a hangover.

I look up from the planter I had just heaved into, and the party has come to a halt on my behalf. Everyone, in their massive gowns and wigs, are looking at me as if I'm an animal in a menagerie. I suppose I am something novel to them, but that doesn't mean my sickness should be subject to public fascination.

I want to cry, or laugh, or sink into the floor. I can see Plutarch standing in the middle of the dance floor, an amused look on his face as he mercifully turns away. Everything begins to blur as I stumble to my feet.

About ten people simultaneously converge on me with fake sympathy, and I try not to choke on the claustrophobic air as they tighten in around me.

"Dear, are you alright?"

"You're only supposed to drink ONE of those!"

"You're supposed to wait until you're full, darling."

"The vomitoria are on the far side of the courtyard, silly!"

"That's enough!"

Plume breaks through the crowd and makes her way to me. "Really, the poor thing isn't used to all of this! Leave her be."

She puts a surprisingly matronly arm around my shoulder and leads me away, to a somewhat empty area behind an artificial tree painted a bright blue. I brace myself for a scolding, but one doesn't come. Instead, Plume looks at me with pity.

"How are you feeling now?"

I shrug silently, still processing the disaster.

"Well, I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about the Juice," she said quietly. "I hate it when the caterers put the Juice among the wines. It's dangerous when not used properly."

I still don't know what she's talking about. I must be getting pale, however, because Plume bites her lips and sighs woefully.

"If you don't wish to stay for the whole party, I can probably arrange for you to leave after the Presidential speech. These people will party until dawn whether or not you are among them. I imagine Snow will want to talk to you for a moment, but he will be wanted elsewhere before too long," Plume plans. "President Snow will give his address very shortly. In fact, I was called to bring you up to the steps."

I look where Plume indicates. A set of stone steps with a grand wrought-iron railing lead up to a threshold framed by two doric columns. The doorway is obscured by thick, red curtains.

"He will be welcoming the last guests in a moment, and then he'll deliver the brief address. You will be standing just next to him on the steps here," Plume begins directing me through the crowd, still displaying false sympathy for me while greedily taking in their third plates of chicken farfalle and stuffed lobster. For a brief moment, I'm thankful for the wide skirts. They do manage to give me some space. The crowd parts widely for Plume and I as we make our way to our places.

"It will be another moment or so—" Plume begins, before a small voice from directly behind her interrupts her thought.

A very small lady, dressed in a navy blue hobble skirt and white blouse with sleeves that look like they need an air pump to be puffed so large, comes out from behind Plume. Her most noticeable feature is her eyelashes, which are hot pink and extend far beyond her natural ones. They make her look untrustworthy.

Then again, I don't feel as if many Capitol citizens are so worthy of my trust.

"I'm sorry," she chirps with her melodic voice. "I wanted to meet you before my husband arrived. I'm Madame Tryphaena Snow, First Lady of Panem."

Madame Snow extends a hand to me, which is so delicate I am almost afraid to take it.

"She's a shy one, isn't she?" Madame Snow remarks to Plume, who smiles and nods.

"Might I say, Madame, you look wonderful," Plume responds. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the flattery.

"Yes! It took ages to lose the baby weight," Madame Snow sighs. "Two whole weeks."

Two weeks? In Three, such a feat would be impossible, although us citizens of Three never pay much attention to the aesthetics surrounding childbirth. Then again, Madame Snow was so tiny perhaps it wasn't as difficult for her.

Plume leans over to me in an aside. "Madame Snow gave birth to a son just before we left for the Tour. Cassio-Gaius Coriolanus. He is a darling!"

Madame Snow sticks her nose up with pride. "I gave him a boy on the first try! Berenice couldn't do that."

Plume nods and gives me another aside, as if she's acting as a translator between myself and someone speaking an entirely different language (which she may as well be). "Berenice was Snow's first wife. Died quite suddenly in her sleep, poor thing."

"After only giving my husband two girls," Madame Snow added. "After she died, he married me within the month. After all, what is more natural than a man who wants a son?"

Seems a little sudden, a young woman who dies as soon as she realizes she cannot give her husband what he wants, I think. But I hold my tongue.

"I imagine you are overwhelmed by our ways here," Madame Snow. "I was too at first. Allow me to let you in on a secret…I came from District One! I know what it is like to live on less. But you may want to get used to it, as you'll be here quite often from now on."

Hardships from District One? The only hardship I can imagine a girl suffering in One is not having enough sapphires to complement her eyes.

Before anything else can be said, fanfare sounds as people clear the doorway an raise the curtains. Immediately, Madame Snow stands to attention and puts on a Cheshire grin. After two escorts emerge, President Snow comes into view for a toast.

He is as imposing and intimidating as I remember from six months ago. His hair is graying, his beard sharply trimmed. He takes a moment after the fanfare ends to accept the thunderous applause from the crowds before gently throwing his hands up for silence. He looks briefly to me, then begins.

"Citizens of Panem, we have the privilege this evening to honor yet another brave soldier who fought valiantly in the Hunger Games, and now is a symbol of our great country. Since the Dark Times, each District citizen who comes to us and wins our favor has seen the truth of the Capitol's generosity and love, and tonight the honored comes to us from one of our most valued Districts: District Three, who provides us with essential technological advances, which make our lives easier every day. So I ask everyone to raise a glass in toasting our newest Victor, the lovely Wiress Ohmstead of District Three. May she ever remain a living symbol of the Capitol's courage and strength!"

"To Wiress!" some in the crowd cheer. Everyone, including Snow, takes a sip of champagne before applauding again.

After the brief speech, Snow approaches Plume and I. Madame Snow falls in line behind him, suddenly looking very sheepish.

"It is good to see you again, Miss Wiress," he says to me.

It takes my every ounce of my strength to look the man in the eye. I feel chilly.

"Are you still so quiet? As I recall, at your crowning ceremony you didn't speak a word to me."

Plume intercedes. "Her voice is recovered, but she is a bit intimidated by all of this."

"Yes, I imagine you are. But is silence such a bad thing? In Panem, peace comes from people knowing their places, and which cog in the wheel they represent. Speaking out of turn was what led to the Dark Days. Miss Wiress knows this," Snow reasons. I bow my head.

"Well, I won't keep you any longer. There is still so much for Miss Wiress to see. Have a pleasant evening. Do enjoy yourself." President Snow and his wife recede back through the curtains, which are drawn behind them.

I look at Plume desperately. I want nothing more than to leave this very minute. Luckily, she gets the hint.

"Indeed, perhaps you are exhausted. Let's get you home."

For the first time that evening, I exhibit some enthusiasm and pick up my skirts absentmindedly to descend the stairs, when Plume puts a firm hand on my shoulders, stopping me.

"Wiress, where are your heels?!"

"So they drink it so they can empty their stomachs for more food?" I ask with disbelief.

Beetee and I are sitting on the floor of my bedroom in the hospitality suite we share for this last leg of the Tour. The second I came back, I ripped off the marshmallow dress, threw the wig across the room so hard it broke a lamp, and slipped into a set of pajamas made out of a soft, fuzzy, warm material. It's as if I've gone from Hell to Heaven.

"It's true," Beetee affirms. "At least during my Tour, someone had the good sense to warn me before I drank any of it."

"Disgusting," I say softly.

"I know."

We sit in silence a moment until Beetee breaks it with a question. "How did she react? I notice you came home a bit earlier than I expected."

"She was more embarrassed when she discovered I wasn't wearing her shoes. Black and neon don't match," I say. Beetee laughs.

"You were quite a sight in that dress," he admits.

"She made me stay for Snow's speech and a handshake. Snow…he makes me feel uncomfortable."

Beetee shrugs. "Did you meet anyone interesting at all?"

I tell him about the man with the pocket watch who wanted to be a Gamemaker, and how he didn't seem like the rest of the party goers.

"Don't take it so seriously. Growing up in a place like this can affect every part of you," he assures me.

"It makes me wonder what Plume would be like if she grew up in Three." I try to imagine Plume without her multicolored wigs and dresses, wearing something simple like Mommy would. "I...I don't even know what her natural hair color is."

Beetee chuckles. "Do you want to know why they wear a lot of wigs? It's because back when hair dye was the fashion, the chemicals from repeated treatments would make their hair fall out entirely. That wasn't too long ago. She may be bald under those wigs."

"Seems entirely reasonable," I add.

Now I remember to ask Beetee about what he'd said before I left: "Why did you say I shouldn't present well tonight?"

Beetee remains silent a moment, then looks at me with pity.

"You don't need to worry about that now—"

"—NO!" I insist. "Please don't treat me like a child, you're the only one who doesn't! No one told me I was going to retch in front of the elite of Panem if I drank from the wrong glass. No one told me I was going to have to wear that ridiculous costume. Just tell me, okay?"

It may the first time since the Games I spoke so much in one breath. Even Beetee looks a little alarmed.

"That's fair. You're right, I'm sorry."

"Thank you," I respond. "Now tell me."

Beetee takes a breath in a manner that suggests he wants to restrain something inside him. "The past Victors you know of, the two of us aside…what do they have in common these days?"

It doesn't take me long to think of a few things. "They mentor other Tributes."

"Right. What else?"

"They visit the Capitol all the time, some of them even look like Capitol people now."

"Exactly."

I think of a few examples from what I'd seen in the summer. While the Victors from One and Two always looked like they belonged among the elites, many of the others, especially from more recent Games, were also polished and charismatic. A girl from Nine, whose Games were one of the first I was allowed to watch, had entered the Games looking like she came from a hovel in the middle of a prairie. A year later, she was strutting all over the Capitol in high fashion, enjoying her new status and relishing every second of every party she went to and every appearance she made on Dionysius Flickerman's show. I thought it odd at the time, but never dwelled on it.

"If the Capitol decides a Victor is desirable enough, they are given a different role…they are prostituted to whoever bids the highest for them," Beetee says, he voice getting low and soft.

I'd read enough stories to know what he was talking about.

"Can't they say no if they don't want to?"

Beetee solemnly shakes his head. "What do you think they would do to someone who refused?"

Immediately, I understood.

"Will they kill Edison and Daddy? If I say no?"

Before there's enough time to melt into the ground from anxiety at the very thought of my having sex for money and status with strange Capitol men and women, Beetee smiles and puts an arm around me.

"You retched in the middle of their party. I don't think any of them will be interested. They are, as you can imagine, shallow people."

I am instantly relieved. Beetee is correct. I did a fine job protecting myself tonight, and I didn't even mean to.

"Did they make you do that?" I ask. Beetee shakes his head.

"I'm not their type either," he says, a slight hint of mischief in his voice.

"What did you do? To stop their interest?"

Beetee laughs as he recalls his own Victory Party. "I guess you could say I did the opposite of what you did. I talked too much. Every time someone spoke to me, I leapt off into details about the Indestructible Conducting Wire I'm planning to create and what uses it could be applied to. I'll admit, a lot of it was improvised babbling, but it did the trick."

I will admit, that sounds like a Beetee solution.

"Anyways, Capitol citizens hope for big, strong, charismatic Victors. Gamemakers rarely count on winners using their minds as a weapon over their swords."

"I'm tired," I blurt out.

"The Victory Tour is exhausting. Would you like me to-?"

"—always," I reply. Beetee helps me too my feet, and we both crawl into the giant, too-soft bed. The light pollution coming from the window keeps the room almost as if the lamps were turned on, emanating from the party, still raging, at the Presidential mansion.

The train ride home takes an entire day and night, especially seeing as we are briefly delayed by the massive departure breakfast the Capitol throws for me. I decide, for once, to eat my fill. After all, I still have an empty stomach from the terrible night before, and I won't be eating this richly again for a while. I manage to finish a plate piled high with sausages, three different kind of omelet, and a rich toasted bread filled with dried fruit and spices (which is by far my favorite Capitol food yet). I wash it down with two cups of tea, which is overly sweetened the way the Capitol likes it to the point where the tea flavor is hardly detectable.

Eventually, the train arrives home, and I'm greeted at the station by well-wishers from my District, who admire Beetee and I for bringing them the rare glory of victory in the Games. Most of them are young. Sometimes I fear that a future volunteer is among them.

My apartment in Victor's Village is a welcome sight for us both. Beetee chooses to stay with me a few more hours before returning to his penthouse, I guess to make sure I'm adjusting to being home again. We retreat to my library, and as I lie back in my chaise, Beetee pulls up a seat of his own with a book he's grabbed off the shelf. It's an Americana-era classic, though it was written in a different country.

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day," he begins. I lean back and prepare to let my mind wander off to Thornfield Manor and the world of many centuries ago, when Beetee stops short and raises his hand to his jaw.

"Beetee?" I ask mildly.

"It's okay, I think I chipped my back molar on something in the Capitol," he answers. "I may summon your father up to my apartment tomorrow to have a look."

"You could go downstairs," I suggest.

Beetee shakes his head gently. "I think you know why that's a bad idea, Wire."

Every since my family moved into Victor's Village with me, Daddy has set up his office on the ground floor of the building with the Capitol's permission. It took some renovating, less to set up the office and more to ensure that there was no way for any patients to sneak into places where they aren't allowed (like our apartments).

Daddy's business has tripled in the six months since my Games, and that seems to be a large part of why I feel a rift grow between the two of us every day. Daddy seems to relish in his new success. It's almost Capitol-like in the way he behaves. I don't know if he's even the same man who, less than a year ago, nearly cried at my Reaping. It has been a dramatic shift in my life, the fact that my body and mind are repulsed by a lot of what my family has become. Second only to the Games themselves, my family has been the biggest hit to my sanity this year. Mom dismisses it as puberty and the shock of such major adjustments. I don't have the heart to tell her that it is hers and Daddy's fault.

"Just don't expect me to be there," I say. Beetee laughs.

"Of course not."