Chapter 2: Sold Off Into Slavery

My knee bounces as my eyes refrain from glancing at the clock. If I had to guess, it's been roughly ten minutes since Miss Merwick ushered Prim and I into this room and told us to wait here before locking us in. When I dared to press her on why we had been called like this (a risky bet in and of itself), she had simply told us we would be meeting somebody.

I have no idea who would possibly want to meet with us. I can only think of one explanation: it's rare, or so I've heard from the scuttlebutt that runs round our fellow condemned in the Home, but every once in a blue moon, a Merchant family will come by and inspect the orphans and perhaps even adopt one to take home. On the rare occasion that this does occur, two things are well understood: an adoption usually happens because the Merchant couple in question is childless… and the adopting parents are almost always Merchants, because the orphans in the Home are – to a girl and boy – all Seam. I've hardly ever known a Merchant (Gale would call them 'Townies') to be altruistic, but for some, adopting a child of the lower class might be seen as an altruistic act to make themselves feel better about being one of the haves while all around them, there are scores and scores of have-nots.

If it is true that one of us is to be adopted, I dearly hope it's Prim. If it meant she might get out of here years ahead of schedule without even having to risk her name going in extra times in the Reaping Bowl, I will make the sacrifice gladly, with a grateful tear in my eye and a relieved smile on my face. I would be more than willing to stay behind for only a handful of months more, then hopefully breeze through my last Reaping and (should that happen) be free to make my own way.

Only one little snag makes my involuntarily hopeful thoughts take pause: should all this come to pass, I couldn't very well just take Prim back the moment I got out of the Community Home. The adopting couple would surely go before the District Clerk in the Justice Building to claim all legal rights to my sister. Prim would have to grow up, in another family, without me. The idea of this reality stings, but I will just have to suck it up and find ways to be with my sister once we are both on the outside. If it means Prim has a chance at a better life, than it's worth it. In any event, she'll eventually reach 18 and then she could move beyond her adoptive parents again. I would wait for that happy day, as long as it takes.

I hardly give a thought to the other possibility: that the adopting couple might take more of an interest in me. I brush it aside. They would be foolish to: I'm 17 years older; I'll be 18 in mere months' time and then I would strike out on my own without looking back once. Besides, if a Merchant man and his wife were to take an interest in me, I would be on my guard enough to understand that, where an adoptive father is concerned, they wouldn't be selecting me as a child to rear. I've heard of Merchant men who like to get fresh with Seam women, same as any Peacekeeper likes to cavort with the ladyfolk of the district. No, any adoptive father of mine would sooner likely want to take me as a mistress and just use adoption as a legal front to bed a willing (in my case, more unwilling) girl. Screw in bed with someone other than his wife. I'll have to prepare for that contingency, all while having the extra stress of trying to get Primrose out alive, safe and unmolested from the Home by the time of her 18th birthday, and likely sooner, if I have anything to say about it.

Prim snuggles up against me. She's so small in the little frock I picked out for her that one would be forgiven to think she's younger than 13.

"Why are we here, Katty?"

I bite my lip, trying to manage a small smile as I stroke her hair. "Well, sweetie…. I think we might be meeting with some people who could get you out of here."

Prim brightens. "You mean us."

I wrestle down a wince. No Merchant couple would take on two mouths to feed. I just don't see it happening. No, we stand a far greater chance of the couple choosing between us. In that instance, I'll make them take Prim and leave me. Hell, though, at this point, if their hearts would be wide enough to take us both, I'd gladly submit to whatever ulterior designs the husband would no doubt have for me, if it meant I could stay with my sister.

I hear the key turn in the lock, and I glance back apprehensively as Miss Merwick returns, bustling around our pair of chairs to circle the desk in the center of this room. Moving in right behind her is a hefty, hale man with specks of gray in his light hair, followed by a young man who looks to be about my age. Even though I only see him in profile as he circles the desk, I nonetheless recognize him: it is the Baker's youngest son, Peeta Mellark. I only know him because we were classmates in school, before I had to drop out. Outside of class lectures, we only interacted once and it was years ago. It was right after Daddy died and I was starving and withering away under the apple tree in the Baker's yard, where I had chosen to die. Then, in a driving rain, a handsome young man and I had locked eyes as he tossed me some burnt pieces of bread in the deluge. I never thanked him for his kindness.

The Baker lowers himself into a chair next to Miss Merwick and gives me what he must think is a kind smile. I curl into myself, acting more like a threatened animal. I draw Prim closer to me. No words have yet been spoken as to why any of us are here, yet already none of this impending interaction makes any sense. The Baker is the father of three, strapping young men, all of them nearly grown, and only the eldest son is past Reaping age, married and moved out, at least to the best of my knowledge. Even stranger, the youngest son who is here now, Peeta, refuses to take the empty chair, preferring instead to stare at the wall and thus remain maddeningly in profile. A bizarre, hidden part of me wishes he wouldn't.

Miss Merwick steeples her fingers and glances between us two sisters, clearly deep in thought. She finally gestures to the man seated next to her, her next words clearly directed at me:

"Miss Everdeen: do you know this man?"

I gulp. "He's Wheaton Mellark. The Merchant Baker. I… I've traded with him – used to trade with him – now and again." I wait for Miss Merwick to inquire as to what exactly I traded with him, but she does not. Not as though I would tell her anyway, even in the face of a beating for not answering a direct question. Should I reveal that I used to deal in illegally obtained squirrel with the Baker, I wouldn't put it past Miss Merwick to report me to the Peacekeepers so they could throw me in the stocks. It would be one less mouth to feed for her, plus it would force me away from Prim, and who can tell what Miss Merwick would do if she had Prim alone even for a second? The harpy will eventually, once I age out of the Home and am inevitably cast into the streets. Unless, as I stare at the Baker's kindly face, I can make one last desperate plea for humanity.

My grey eyes shift for just the barest instant to Peeta, who is still insisting on standing, and resolutely staring at the wall. My gaze lands on the Baker, and I swallow what little pride I have left and address this to him, imploringly: "Please, sir. If you are here to adopt either of us, please adopt my sister."

Miss Merwick's steely orbs fiercely glare at me, even as she laughs in amusement at the same time. It makes for a jarring juxtaposition. "What an imaginative child!" she drolls, trying to sound tickled in front of mixed company. "Adoption! The State preserve us, dear, what makes you think that's what the gentleman is here for?"

Now, I'm really perplexed, blinking dumbly as Miss Merwick almost absently turns to where Peeta Mellark is standing practically behind her chair. "Young man, wouldn't you like to sit down?"

"I'll stand," Peeta replies, politely yet tersely, without even turning his head. I see his eye – the one I can see, anyway, as it's the closest to me – slide in its socket to study me in his peripheral vision.

The Baker leans forward, still smiling at me kindly. "No, Katniss, as much as it pains me to say it, I am not here to adopt you. If I could afford it though, believe me when I say I would try – for both of you. I…. I was close with your mother once."

I wrinkle my nose suspiciously. In happier times, when my father was still alive, Mother would sometimes talk about her upbringing in Town, but…. "I didn't know you and she were friends."

The Baker's smile turns wistful. "All the way back to childhood. It was a…. better time."

I frown now, wishing he would get to the point. "So why are you here, then?"

He clears his throat; out of my own peripheral vision, I note how Peeta's head droops down, in something almost akin to…. shame. "Katniss…" the Baker speaks softly, as though conversing with a child closer to Prim's age, younger even. "Do you know what an indentured servant is?"

My grey orbs expand as it now all clicks into place. Now it all makes sense. I had forgotten how, sometimes, richer Merchant families will occasionally hire out kids from the Community Home to work in their homes and businesses. It essentially amounts to free labor and acts as in lieu of all the hassle of filing the legal paperwork involved in an adoption. To my admittedly limited understanding on the subject in question, the child hire will work hard, long hours to pay for his/her room and board. Still, the practice of indentured servitude is only marginally more common than an adoption out of the Home. Much of that reticence stems from sheer prejudice against anyone Seam. Because, really, what Seam family would have the resources to adopt or hire out one of their own? None that I know of.

"You don't want another child. You want a cook-and-clean." And perhaps, as I study the Baker now with a bit of revulsion, something more. I had always taken the Baker to be a kind, upstanding, respectful man – a rarity in this district. It therefore always marveled me how he got stuck in a clearly loveless marriage with the shrew whom everyone in the Seam (and probably even some in Town) call the Witch – always behind her back. How they came together to birth three sons is beyond me. But, if the man is clearly no longer sleeping with his wife, and he has such fond memories of my mother…. It is an effort to keep my disgust sub-level, below the look on my face, the horror in my eyes. Does the Baker mean to hire me out of the Home to be his mistress? To bed him when his harpy spouse inevitably turns him aside? Does he want me? Or, worse still: does he have such fond memories of my mother because he once lusted for her, and now that she is gone, he'll lust for and have her eldest daughter? The picture in my head, of this man on top of me, breathing on me, fucking me as he surely imagines it is my own mother pinned beneath him in lovemaking, is too horrible to contemplate.

The Baker cocks his head, the innocent face he puts on admirable and almost convincing. "You're shaking."

"I…. I can't believe…." I look to Miss Merwick almost desperately. "The Capitol's anti-child labor laws…" I have to cloak my real concern in euphemism, for there are surely also laws on both the district and Capitol books against sexual exploitation of minors. Children.

The Community Home's Headmistress merely shakes her head. "The Capitol's presence hardly exists out here, girl. I have to survive on my own somehow."

I turn back to the Baker, now disconsolate enough to appeal to his heart, should he have one left. "Please take my sister before you take me." I say this, on the slim chance that the Baker's clear plans for me would not immediately translate onto little Prim, despite the fact that between us Everdeen sisters, she possesses more of the beauty, as she favors our mother. "Or, if you must take me, please do so on the condition that I request – no, I demand – that you take us both."

At this, Miss Merwick scoffs. "What fantasies! No purse for an indenture is worth two child servants, not by a long shot! Do you think the gentleman a rich Capitolite, you foolish girl?! I can assure you, Mr. Mellark hasn't the sesterces to take on you both! Only coin, and coin only goes far enough to hire one of you out!"

"You needn't abuse her, Miss Merwick, or fault her for asking questions."

The retort steals over the room like a thunderclap. If my gaze hadn't been sweeping in his direction at that very moment, I would have wondered if he really had spoken. Peeta still won't look at any of us, but his posture has grown rigid, terribly strong, and I feel a truly insane thrill overtake my body as I look upon him. Even still maddeningly in profile, I see storm clouds gathering in his eye…. An eye as blue as a summer sky…

I'm at least pleased and grateful to Peeta that he has left Miss Merwick spluttering, clearly over how he presumes to lecture her on how to handle her own charges. "I'd respectfully advise you to mind your place, Young Master Mellark."

"And you mind yours," he bites back, showing no fear. I smirk even as I continue to ponder the young man almost admiringly. I've never, ever heard of a Merchant who would so willingly stand up for a Seam girl…

My gaze again meets that of the Baker, who is now smiling apologetically. "I'm afraid Miss Merwick is right, Katniss. I can only afford to take on one of you…. and I have chosen you."

I stare at him, shattering internally, and I try not to give away how crushed I am. The Baker clears his throat awkwardly. "Or, well, Peeta has chosen you. He asked for you personally…"

"Papa!" Peeta at last turns all the way around to gape at his father, and when I behold him, I freeze:

The complete right side of his face looks as though it has burned away. It is a terrifying vision of ugliness, and next to me, I hear Prim let out a tiny cry of fear and burrow into me. It is only now, looking upon this young man who was my classmate, that I remember: that terrible fire, that just about hollowed out the Bakery. It couldn't have been more than a year ago, so after I had dropped out of school, for the Peeta Mellark I remember from our days as students was quite a…. a handsome specimen.

From the way Peeta's entire body locks up, he has realized what he has inadvertently revealed, and he turns his face away. I will myself to be brave and not do the same, and it is my fortitude that allows me to realize: out of everything on the one side of his face that was immolated, the one thing untouched is his other eye, bright and as deep a pool of blue as its twin.

Even so, the horror comes roaring back, and a bubbling upchuck of bile along with it, though I hold this in. No, I am not to be the Baker's whore; rather, I am to let his disfigured son take me to bed and make me his bitch by night whilst I slave away for him and his family by day.

I wrestle down the revulsion I feel. "You don't want me. Primrose is far more equipped…. She's a Healer, she trained under our mother." I immediately regret my words from how Peeta flinches, as it could be implied that I offered this tidbit up as a possible solution to Peeta's…. disfigurement. And while it is true that Mother taught Prim how to treat burns seen on miners, I doubt Prim could work any kind of miracle on Peeta's face, even if he or his family were to want and take her up on it. I quickly move on, this time to demonstrate how abjectly unqualified I am. "I can't bake, or cook worth a damn. And what I can cook mostly involves hard venison, meat." That's something that the Bakery surely is in little supply of, aside from what I (until recently) provided in trade.

Peeta doesn't respond, or even look up. The Baker smiles sympathetically on behalf of his son. "Perhaps not, but you can hunt, or so I hear." He actually winks at his boy, who doesn't move to acknowledge, aside from an odd pink that lifts onto his cheeks, even downcast as they are now in shadow. "And as for baking, I take you to be an educated young district lady; you will learn. My Peeta will teach you."

Yes, and he'll probably be eager to teach me about much more than just baking, I think cynically. Another image, of this young man before me and I copulating like dogs in heat, floods my mind, though unlike when I imagined the father bedding me, an inexplicable spasm of pleasure mixes in with the horror I try to muster as I once again look upon the face of the man who is to be my employer and very likely my forced lover. Just as quickly as I bemoan this fortune, though, I banish it, feeling great shame. He may be ugly in face, though it's through no fault of his own, and besides, I always knew Peeta Mellark to be a kind boy within.

Miss Merwick looks delighted by this arrangement; she can't push the indentured servitude papers towards the Baker for signature fast enough. "Now, sir, is it amenable to you that she remain in her indentures until she is of no less than 21 years of age? Of course, that is the law, you know, but…"

"Quite all right." The Baker signs for me, then Miss Merwick pushes the paper towards me, sending me a hidden death glare. It isn't as though I really have a choice. If I refuse to enter this contract with the Baker…. Even so, I look to Prim for help, if not quite permission. I won't do this if she does not want me to. I'll risk any beating that comes of it later, if she only says the word for me to stay with her.

Prim looks up at me with eyes that are too big, too sunken. "Take it, Katty," she says in a small voice, to my shock. So, of course, because it's Prim, I obey, affixing my name to the parchment. Miss Merwick immediately rolls it up and swoops down on me, nudging me out of my seat towards my future.

"Splendid! I'm sure the young lady will make a fine addition to your household!" And she practically pushes me into Peeta's arms, so that my hands have to brace against his muscular forearms, his chest, for balance. Leaning back awkwardly, I lift my eyes, lashes fluttering nervously, to peer up into his marred face, his thankfully spared eyes…. Glancing back, for some reason still at rest in Peeta's arms, I see Miss Merwick pushing Prim none too gently towards the door.

"Wait!" I croak, in as commanding a voice as I can muster. Before Merwick can stop me, I dash forward, throw myself to my knees and embrace my precious little sister tightly.

"I'll come back for you!" I vow though my tears, choking off my voice. The promise in my whisper is deadly, gravely serious. "I'll buy you myself if I have to; I'll find a way." Stealing a look at how Merwick is glowering down at me impatiently, I secretly impart one last command. "Stay away from her, and anyone. Primrose, do you understand me?"

She nods imperceptibly, clever enough to know we are being watched. "I promise, Katniss."

I finally draw back, smiling wetly. "There's a good girl. Go…. Go with Miss Merwick now." It is the greatest struggle, to surrender my greatest treasure into the hands of someone I decidedly distrust. But I have to hope that Prim is equipped with enough of what I taught her that she can survive long enough for me to beg, borrow and steal her way out of here.

I rise daintily off my knees, trying to maintain some of the last of my dignity as I turn to face the Baker and his son. Properly, I allow Peeta to take me on his arm and we depart from this wretched place. Matching us step for step, the Baker is eyeing me and his son, a weird glint of amusement in his orbs. I don't deign to spare him a glance.

The first stop we make is to the Justice Building, to file the papers attesting to my indentures with the district clerk. I've only ever been inside the seat of government twice since I was a little girl: once to receive the Medal of Valor on my father's behalf following his death, and the other to sign up for tesserae for me and my family. Then it is off to the Bakery, my new home; it is my understanding that the Baker will send for my personal affects by way of Merwick and the Community Home in due course.

We enter the building by way of the back loading dock where the Baker and I used to make our trades. I take everything in appraisingly as it dawns on me that, though I have been in their back alley countless times, and fairly frequent times out front when Prim would tug at my skirts and beg me to fawn over the lovely cakes in the display window…. I have never actually been inside this place.

"Miriam! Set an extra place!" The Baker calls jovially. "We have a hired hand for our home; this is Katniss. You remember Belley's girl?"

A homely woman in a fading frock comes round the corner, holding a rolling pin. I've only ever caught glimpses of the Baker's wife, mostly when I've had the misfortune to knock on the back loading dock door only to have her answer instead of her husband. From the look she sends me, I can be sure of one thing: guaranteed hatred. Well, that can be mutually assured.

I try to hold my head high as the Witch now encircles me, appraising me with a discerning eye. "Dear me…. she's all skin and bones. Bad posture and skinny ankles." Next to me, still at my arm, I sense Peeta stiffen by the barest degree, like his mother's commentary enrages him.

The Baker chuckles awkwardly. "Oh, she is quite the skinny thing, my lovely, but she'll grow, Mrs. Mellark, she'll grow!"

"Hmm – I daresay she will!" The Witch bustles around to face me head-on, so that we are eye-to-eye and nearly nose-to-nose. "Well, girl, you can start by cleaning out the soot in the ovens. Then there's the flour for next day's batch down in the cellar, ready for shunting!"

I find the pride in me to stare right back at her. "My name is Katniss," I state simply. As I or anyone could have predicted, the hell-devil ignores me.