I clasp the flask between my hands even though the warmth from the tea has long since leached into the frozen air. My muscles are clenched tight against the cold. I should get up, move around, and work the stiffness from my limbs. But instead, I sit, motionless as the rock beneath me, while the dawn begins to lighten the field. I can't fight the sun. I can only watch helplessly as it drags me into a day that I've been dreading for months.
By noon they will all be at my new house in the Victor's Village. The reporters, the camera crew, even Mica Blake, my old escort, will have made their way to District 9 from the Capitol. I wonder if Mica will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or if she'll be sporting some other unnatural color, especially for the Victory Tour. There will be others waiting, too. A staff to cater to my every need on the long train trip. A prep team to beautify me for public appearances. My stylist, Teak, who designed the gorgeous outfits that first made the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games.
If it were up to me, I would try to forget the Hunger Games entirely. Never speak of them. Pretend they were nothing but a bad dream. But the Victory Tour makes that impossible. Strategically placed almost midway between the annual Games, it is the Capitol's way of keeping the horror fresh and immediate. Not only are we in the districts forced to remember the iron grip of the Capitol's power each year, we are forced to celebrate it. And this year, I am the star of the show. I will travel from district to district, to stand before the cheering crowds who secretly loathe me, to look down into the faces of the families whose children I have killed...
The sun persists in rising, so I make myself stand. All my joints complain, and my left leg has been asleep for so long that it takes several minutes of pacing to bring feeling back into it. I've been on the porch of my house for three hours, but I've made no real attempt to go anywhere. My mother can now afford to buy butcher meat in town, and she can buy us new clothes.
By the time I actually start moving, the sun is well up. We still get to keep our home because, technically, it is still the designated dwelling of my mother. If I should drop dead right now, she would have to return to it. But at present, she is happily installed in the new house in the Victor's Village, and I'm the only one who uses the squat little place where I was raised. To me, it's my real home.
I go there now to switch my clothes. Exchange my father's old leather jacket for a fine wool coat that always seems too tight in the shoulders. Leave my soft, worn boots for a pair of expensive machine-made shoes that my mother thinks are more appropriate for someone of my status. Although time is ticking away, I allow myself a few minutes to sit in the kitchen. It has an abandoned quality with no fire hearth, no cloth on the tables. I mourn my old life here. We barely scraped by, but I knew where I fit in. I knew what my place was in the tightly interwoven fabric that was our life. I wish I could go back to it because, in retrospect, it seems so secure compared with now when I am so rich and so famous and so hated by the authorities in the Capitol.
The shoes pinch my toes, and I crunch along the cider street. Cutting down alleys and through backyards gets me to my house faster. Although they never mention it, I owe the people of District 9. My mother told me that an older woman who serves soup started a collection to sponsor me and Monty during the Games. It was supposed to be just the place she worked at, but a lot of other people heard about it and chipped in. I don't know exactly how much it was, and the price of any gift in the arena was exorbitant. But for all I know, it made the difference between life and death.
A light snow starts to fall as I make my way to the Victor's Village. Knowing that it was that time of the year that snow came, the anxious feeling settled in. I started thinking of the Games, how me and Monty reacted the first day it snowed, to Monty and Calyptus dying. I have to close my eyes and take in a breath to remind myself that I am out of the Games.
It's about half a mile walk from the square in the center of town, but it seems like another world entirely. It's a separate community built around a beautiful green, dotted with flowering bushes. There are twelve houses, each large enough to hold ten of the one I was raised in. Nine stands empty, as they always have. The three in use belong to Nolan, Willow, and me.
The house inhabited by my family gives off a warm glow of life. Lit windows, smoke from the chimneys, bunches of brightly colored corn affixed to the front door as decoration for the upcoming Harvest Festival. However, Nolan and Willow's houses, despite the care taken by the groundskeeper, exudes an air of abandonment and neglect.
The snow has begun to stick and I leave behind a trail of footprints behind me. At the front door, I pause to knock the wet stuff from my shoes before I go in. My mother's been working day and night to make everything perfect for the cameras, so it's no time to be tracking up her shiny floors. I've barely stepped inside when she's there, holding my arm as if to stop me.
"Don't worry, I'm taking them off here," I say, leaving my shoes on the mat.
My mother gives me an odd, breathy laugh and removes the bag loaded with supplies from my shoulder. "It's just snow. Did you have a nice walk?"
"Walk?" She knows that I sometimes venture out to the wood, and that was where I was for half of the night. Then I see the man standing behind her in the kitchen doorway. One look at his tailored suit and surgically perfected features, and I know he's from the Capitol. Something is wrong. "It was more like skating. It's really getting slippery out there."
"Someone's here to see you," says my mother. Her face is too pale, and I can hear the anxiety she's trying to hide.
"I thought they weren't due until noon." I pretend not to notice her state. "Did Teak come early to help me get ready?"
"No, Ember, it's 𑁋," my mother begins.
"This way, please, Miss Graves," says the man. He gestures down the hallway. It's weird to be ushers around your own home, but I know better than to comment on it.
As I go, I give my mother a reassuring smile over my shoulders. "Probably more instructions for the tour." They've been sending me all kinds of stuff about my itinerary and what protocol will be observed in each district. But as I walk toward the door of the study, a door I have never seen closed until this moment, I can feel my mind begin to race. Who is here? What do they want? Why is my mother so pale?
"Go right in," says the Capitol man, who has followed me down the hallway.
I twist the polished brass knob and step inside. My nose resisters the conflicting scents of roses and blood. A small, white-haired man who seems vaguely familiar is reading a book. He holds up a finger as if to say, "Give me a moment." Then he turns, and my heart skips a beat.
I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Snow.
In my mind, President Snow should be viewed in front of marble pillars hung with oversized flags. It's jarring to him surrounded by the ordinary objects in the room. Like taking the lid off a pot and finding a fanged viper instead of stew.
What could he be doing here? My mind rushes back to the opening days of other Victory Tours. I remember seeing the winning tributes with their mentors and stylists, even some high government officials have made an appearance occasionally. But I have never seen President Snow. He attends celebrations in the Capitol. Period.
If he's made the journey all the way from his city, it can only mean one thing. I'm in serious trouble. And if I am, so is my family. A shiver goes through me when I think of the proximity of my mother to this man who despises me. Will always despise me. Because I outsmarted his sadistic Hunger Games, made the Capitol look foolish, and consequently undermined his control.
All I was doing was trying to keep my friends and myself alive. Any act of rebellion was purely coincidental. Perhaps it is the newness of the house or the shock of seeing him, or the mutual understanding that he could have me killed in a second that makes me feel like the intruder. As if this is his home and I'm the uninvited party. So I don't welcome him or offer him a chair. I don't say anything. In fact, I treat him as if he's a real snake, the venomous kind. I stand motionless, my eyes locked on him, considering plans of retreat.
"I think we'll make this whole situation a lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other," he says. "What do you think?"
I think my tongue has frozen, and speech will be impossible, so I surprise myself by answering in a steady voice, "Yes, I think that would save time."
President Snow smiles, and I notice his lips for the first time. I'm expecting snake lips, which is to say none. But his are overly full. The skin stretched too tight. I have to wonder if his mouth has been altered to make him more appealing. If so, it was a waste of time and money, because he is not appealing at all. "My advisors were concerned you would be difficult, but you're not planning on being difficult, are you?" he asks.
"No," I answer.
"That's what I told them. I said any girl who goes to such length to preserve her life isn't going to be interested in throwing it away with both hands. And then there's her family to think of."
Well, it's on the table now. Maybe that's better. I don't do well with ambiguous threats. I'd much rather know the score.
"Let's sit." President Snow takes a seat at the large desk of polished wood where my other budget the money. Like our home, this is a place that he has no right, but ultimately every right, to occupy. I sit in front of the desk on one of the carved, straight-backed chairs. It's made for someone taller than I am, so only my toes rest on the ground.
"I have a problem, Miss Graves," says President Snow. "A problem that began the moment of the Opening Ceremony."
I was not expecting him to say this. I was expecting him to talk about the Games and condemn me for what I did to survive. I wonder what he could possibly be talking about. What did I do during the Opening Ceremonies that would have caused a problem?
"The citizens of the Capitol adore you," he says. "And I am under the impression that you just turned sixteen, is that correct?" he asks.
I nod my head. There was that question again regarding my age. First, Caesar Flickerman asked me during the victory interview, and now President Snow is asking. I have a bad feeling about it, but I don't voice it. The smell of roses and blood has grown stronger now that only a desk separates us. There's a rose in President Snow's lapel, which at least suggests a source of the flower perfume, but it must be genetically enhanced, because no real rose reeks like that. As for the blood ... I don't know.
Then he switches his topic to the Games, "Because of what you did, Ember, you have to be punished. It's ironic, isn't it? How your actions caused an ember in the flames to rise up in the people. An uprising is brewing, but it can't without a spark, and that ember can turn to a spark. I need you to snuff it out."
It takes a moment for his words to sink in. Then the full weight of it hits me. "There have been uprisings?" I ask, both chilled and somewhat elated by the possibility.
"Not yet, they need a spark, and a spark will form if things don't change." President Snow rubs a spot over his left eyebrow, the very spot where I find myself get headaches. "Do you have any idea what that would mean? How many people would die? What conditions those left would have to face? Whatever problems anyone may have with the Capitol, believe me when I say that if I released its grip on the districts for even a short time, the entire system would collapse."
I'm taken aback by the directness and even the sincerity of this speech. As if his primary concern was the welfare of the Citizens of Panem when nothing could be further from the truth. There's a knock on the door, the Capitol man sticks his head in. "Her mother wants to know if you want tea."
"I would. I would like tea," says President Snow. The door opens wider, and there stands my mother, holding a tray with a china tea set she bought from the store when she married. "Set it here, please." He places his book on the corner of the desk and pats the center.
My mother sets the tray on the desk. It holds a china teapot and cups, creams and sugar, and a plate of cookies. They are beautifully iced with softly colored flowers.
"What a welcome sight. You, know, it's funny how often people forget the president needs to eat, too." President Snow says charmingly. Well, it seems to relax my mother a bit, anyway.
"Can I get you anything else? I can cook something more substantiation if you're hungry," she offers.
"No, this could not be more perfect. Thank you," he says, clearly dismissing her. My mother, nods, shoots me a glance, and goes. President Snow pours tea for both of us and fills his with cream and sugar, then takes a long time stirring. I sense he has had his say and is waiting for me to respond.
"What did I do at the Opening Ceremony?" I ask. I know that it is a risky question, but it bothers me because I don't know what I could have possibly done that would have caused a problem.
He smiles at me, "That is why I am here, Miss Graves." he says. "You did nothing wrong at the Opening Ceremony, but the people in the Capitol love you. The problem is that they want you, and I intend to give them what they want." he takes a sip of his tea as if he didn't just say something so drastic.
I focus on his words, wondering what he means, but I stay silent. "They find you desirable," he says and then leans forward and stares directly into my eyes. "If you don't do exactly as I say, I will kill you mother and everyone you ever loved, and then when their lives are lost, I will move down the line and find every single person you came into contact with at school. I will obliterate District Nine if I have to." He stares at me with his snakelike eyes, and the message is clear, everyone is in danger. "Do you understand, Miss Graves, or would you like to test my word?"
I nod, my chest hollow and fingertips cold with dread. My hands that were previously trembling have gone slack in my lap. I feel heavy like a crushing weight has just been dropped on my shoulders, and I have been forced to buckle underneath it.
"Say the words, Miss Graves."
And before I realize that I don't know what I'm even agreeing to, I clear my throat and say in a loud yet wavering voice, "I understand, Mr. President."
"Good." Snow's lips stretch into a crooked grin. I want to stab one of the rose thorns through his eye, then inwardly shudder at my own dark thoughts, violent thoughts. He leans back in his chair, and I am grateful for the minuscule addition of distance. "You will become one of the most prized possessions of the Capitol. The job is what we call a desirable, and it is only given to the victors that we see most fit."
He doesn't have to say it. My curves and strikingly green eyes have made some people look twice, but now they're going to nail her coffin.
"You will be assigned to various patrons in the Capitol," he continues. "Some will be loyal to me. Some, you have to... convince to rethink any thoughts of treason. You will be assigned an agent who will work with you on how to present yourself and organize the clients you will see. Your stylist, Teak, has already been informed and will begin working on your outfits immediately. I already have your first customer lined up."
I wait with abated breath.
"More information will come when you arrive in the Capitol after the Victory Tour." he stands up from his chair, "I will see you then," he says, and then he walks out of the room, leaving me there pondering over his words over and over.