District Eight is cold and cloudy, the overcast sky echoed in the drab buildings that make up their enclosed city. There's a bright splash of color on the eastern edge of town where the river flows with a rainbow swirl of dye colors that have presumably leaked from the nearby factories. Apparently they add stuff to the water to stop it freezing over as the nearby streets are coated with a thin layer of slushy ice. Thankfully I manage to keep my thick, warm jacket this time, ignoring Phineas' scowl as he loudly suggests I'd look much better in just the thin, partially unbuttoned shirt.

We get to spend lunch with Cecelia Gerchell, one of District Eight's more recent victors, and her husband and two kids. The boy Parker is nearly three and endlessly curious about everything. The girl is just a baby still, though I notice Mags gets a hold of her for the better part of the hour, bouncing little Jemmy on her lap and making her laugh.

I catch Cecelia's eye for a moment—I don't know if she was one of the mentors from last year who was forced to watch me kill her tribute—and she gives me a reassuring smile and nod. As Jemmy starts playing with Mags' bauble jewellery, Cecelia slides around the bench seat and gently clasps my shoulder.

"We're a forgiving district, for the most part. We're not…well you can relax here a little more than some of your other stops. We understand."

I doubt that carries over much to the families of the tributes I killed, but I appreciate hearing that she at least doesn't blame me for my brutal killing of Jannifer. My fight with Markus was about as fair as it gets in the Games, so I feel a little less bad about that one, though I'm still not looking forward to seeing their loved ones glaring me down during the Victory Rally.

I'd already made additions to the basic speech about Markus, praising his strength and competitive spirit—pretty standard for any volunteer talking about their final combat partner. I want to add something about the girl who I speared while she begged me for mercy, but again I can't think of anything that doesn't sound like gloating. It's probably for the best as, when I screw up the courage to glance near the front of the crowd I see two little girls making a valiant effort not to cry while their father hugs them against him, his face stoic and his eyes angry.

In contrast the man to their left, who I assume is Markus' father and three teenage girls who must have been his sisters, appear to be nodding. The man catches my eye as I specifically praise the dead boy from Eight for being a true fighter and even gives me a tight smile. My heart lifts a little—maybe Cecelia was right about her district—and I manage to finish the speech feeling almost giddy with relief.

The mood stays with me for the rest of the night and I actually enjoy the festive meal (and a few drinks, though I slow down the moment I start noticing the buzz). By the end of the night I'm curled up on a padded couch with three girls in their late teens, talking about Capitol fashions. The oldest girl is the niece of a Capitol Liason who is in charge of custom fabric orders, conveniently visiting her dear uncle just in time to score an invite to the Victory Tour dinner. Unlike most Capitol girls I've met, she doesn't try to throw herself all over me, content instead just to sit near and talk. I'm happy to listen to her disgusted rant about how outdated Phineas' style choices are. The second girl is District, shy and seems excited to be in such exalted company, hovering on the far edge of the couch as though someone is about to demand to know why she is here. The third, and most forward, who sprawls comfortably on the nearer armrest to me, her legs draping across mine and her arm, wrapped around the top of the sofa, occasionally brushing the top of my head, is Piper Spelt, District Eight's most recent victor. She seems to be something of a fashion expert in her own right, and happily turns the discussion to her favourite designers, including the cleverly layered dress she is currently wearing, which appears to flutter enticingly every time she moves.

She was only thirteen when she won, the youngest victor ever in the history of the Games, and was quickly snapped up as a teenage model for several fashion brands. She's got prettier over the last four years, with her delicate features, soft tawny hair and long eyelashes, though there's a dangerous edge to her, with her quick, sudden movements and cold, dark eyes. Maybe that's because I distinctly remember watching her string up several opponents in her Games, hiding above them and dropping a well-placed noose around their necks, then jumping off the other side of the bridge and letting her body-weight provide the force to strangle them. She was as good with her chosen weapon as I was with mine, her timing impeccable and her dexterity in the high trees almost inhuman.

The Capitol girl Callisto eventually gets called away by her uncle and, as the conversation turns to shopping malls and tourist sites, shy Tanna drifts away too, leaving just us two victors sitting uncomfortably close. Piper waits a few seconds, glancing around casually before leaning close, her chin resting on my shoulder as she murmurs into my ear, "You're not squirming at physical contact. That's a good start."

She twists her fingers gently into my shirt, just enough to prevent any attempt to pull away from her, not that I had any particular plans of doing so. "I don't know if you've spoken to your mentor or the other victors from Four about sponsors…"

She pauses questioningly. I hesitate, then nod once. "Mags has mentioned a…a few things."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she asks, "Before or after you spent your Games blowing kisses and ripping your clothes off?"

"Before," I tell her pointedly, wanting to refute any suggestion that Mags wasn't looking out for me.

She sits back a little to look me in the eye, then smiles coldly and gives a rueful laugh.

"Really? And you still…never mind. Your bed, you're sleeping in it. Or not, more often."

She flicks a tendril of hair out of her face, staring across the room to where Mags and Cecelia are sitting together, poring over a fancy camera.

"I wish Ce had said something to me. I guess she didn't think it would be necessary until it was too late. Ah well, I had a few years before they started on me. You've probably got a few months at best. You got someone back home?"

I shake my head and she leans closer again, so close that her breath tickles my ear, her voice a low purr that makes my skin tingle. "You might want to find someone. Some things should be done on your terms and Snow won't hesitate to-"

A loud bang makes us jump apart and we turn to see Boyd, one of the other victors from Eight, flailing drunkenly at the wall he just slammed into. People descend on him from all around the room, helping the big man to a chair and then, when he complains, outside. The rest of the room apparently takes this as a sign that the party is breaking up and people start drifting towards the doors themselves. Piper leans in and brushes a quick peck on my cheek, then ruffles my hair before twisting agilely to her feet to collect her jacket, the scent of her perfume lingering as the warmth from where her body was pressed against mine fades. It takes me a few seconds to think my head clear of the swirling sensation and I join Acanthus and Mags at the exit and throw one last look over my shoulder at the young victor, who gives me a pointed nod in return, leaving me to ponder her last words (and regret our abrupt parting). A part of me had hoped that Mags was overreacting, or outright wrong. That there was some small chance that I'd have fallen out of interest by the time I was old enough for people to see me as a man, not a boy. But if they still went after Piper several years on, and her not remotely close to my levels of popularity, it sounds like I have no choice.

I consider her last suggestion, that I find myself a girl or two of my own choice to experiment with before someone is chosen for me. I think about the girls I've been flirting with, how I've been hovering on the edge of indecision, perhaps subconsciously hoping that the lack of physical demonstrations might convince the good people of the Capitol that I'm not interested in those sorts of relationships. Now I realize there is no point holding back. So far I've had the opportunity to turn people away because I was uncomfortable or because they weren't all that attractive to me. It sounds like I won't get that choice in the future, so I might as well make the most of it now while I still can pick and choose. I decide I might not wait until the Victory Tour is over, if a suitable opportunity presents itself, and I just hope that Mags and Greta will understand.

~xXx~

District Seven is the northern-most district in Panem, and therefore the coldest in the middle of winter. Apparently Acanthus had a few words with my stylist, because I am issued with thermal underclothes and a tight-fitting but well-insulated jacket and a matching set of woollen gloves and thick, fluffy scarf. Still green, but I'll take what small victories I can get. The outfit certainly doesn't seem to put off the swarm of teenage girls (and one boy who it takes me most of the day to realize is also flirting with me) who have been assigned to show me around the town and to teach me the fine art of ice skating on the frozen lake that curves around the north-eastern quadrant of the main settlement.

It takes me a few tries to get the hang of balancing on the narrow blades, during which I'm forced to lean heavily on some of the taller, stronger girls (this arrangement doesn't seem to bother them in the slightest). Eventually I get the hang of shifting my weight, and by the time the light starts to fade – hours earlier here in the north - I'm at least able to take part in some of the races and not making a complete fool of myself when trying a simple spin.

My main teacher of the last skill is a broad-shouldered girl named Kaskin, who has cute dimples and a light dusting of freckles that match her light brown hair. Her eyes are an interesting golden-brown color, and I find myself spending more and more time appreciating them as the day wears on. Conveniently, her mother is the chief operator of the largest paper mill and is therefore sufficiently important to be invited to the dinner that night.

I'm seated between their Mayor and a former victor, Blight (apparently this isn't actually his name, but he tipsily waves away my offer to use the proper pronunciation), while Kaskin is sitting at a lower table half way across the room, but facing my general direction. Whenever my table companions fall silent, I take the opportunity to pull faces at my skating instructor, who returns them in kind.

I start to consider a hazy plan about a moonlit walk after dessert, maybe a private tour of some of the nearby woods. Sadly, some of the dinner guests have other plans, and Kaskin's mother herds her teenaged daughter towards the exit hall and the pile of jackets, scarves and hats before I have a chance. While I watch their retreating backs a Capitol Liason, Ms. Epperenia Colwin who looks to be in her mid-thirties, though it's hard to tell by the layers of caked make-up, steps in front of me and latches onto my arm with surprising force.

"Oh Finnick, I'm so pleased to be able to meet you," she gushes, fluttering her absurdly long eye-lashes as her green pointed nails dig into my arm.

I give her my charming smile and try to work myself free of her grip, but she's having none of that.

"My darling boy, I'm sure you've had enough of being pawed at by these back-country hicks." She jerks her head at the surrounding people, not bothering to lower her voice. "A gorgeous young thing like you deserves better than that."

She leans into my space, her ample chest pressing against my upper arm as the eyelashes flutter again. She has tiny jewel pieces stuck along her eyelids and in the corners of her eyes which flicker with light as she moves her head, and I'm reminded of a colorful insect, darting and fluttering in the air before a fish leaps from the water to gobble it up.

I almost laugh at the mental image, until her nasal voice and the four nail-points still digging into my arm bring me back to reality.

"-I would be delighted to show you the sights. What do you say?"

"I, er…"

I blink, realizing I've missed something and don't want to make any promises I might be forced to keep.

"Finnick, there you are! Come on boy, we need to get you back to the train. We're up at eight tomorrow for a drive out to one of the lumber camps, and Pelagius needs to fix your skin up before the Rally."

I try not to look to relieved when my wonderful escort bulls his way in-between myself and the limpet-dragonfly-lady, prying her off like I'd pare a periwinkle from a rock with a sharp knife.

He throws his arm around my shoulder and leads me to the door, scolding me for letting my lips get so chapped that the style team will throw a tantrum. I sneak a glance back as we make our escape and see the lady glaring daggers at his back, her nails tapping against her own folded arms.

~xXx~

Sadly I don't get to see the adorably-dimpled Kaskin again while I'm in District Seven. Nor do I find anyone who catches my attention similarly in the ugly, utilitarian District Six. The people here are as dour as their surroundings, and my one attempt to modify my lines—a brief comment about Solphis' unwavering solidarity and protection of his district partner—falls completely flat. I can't follow half of what our tour-guide says about trains and trucks and cars and the factories that make them and the food at the dinner that night is undercooked and bland. Phineas has me wearing a shirt that is so tight I can barely breathe without it pinching, and my shoes have a pointed tip which squishes my toes in on themselves. By the time dessert arrives (a gelatinous dish of some sort that looks inedible even to someone with my sweet tooth) I'm grumpy, sore and one fraying strand away from ripping the stupid shiny boots off and hurling them into the ornate fire-place. At least there they would be of some use to stoke up the dying coals. Then again, the stuff they're made out of is probably toxic and I'd just be adding some more deaths.

My mood doesn't improve when I get cornered by one of the Capitol Liaison's wives, who looks easily old enough to be my mother, which means she's probably even older again. She pinches my cheeks and tells me all about how glad she is that a 'superb specimen of youthful beauty' managed to pull through, and how I was her 'very favorite from the very start'. This makes most of the room glare at both of us, and I shoot Acanthus a pleading look over the lady's head, willing him to come over and interrupt.

Apparently he doesn't get the hint. Either that, or he decides his conversation with the mayor is more important, because I have to put up with the pawing old bat for what feels like forever. Finally Mags spots me and hauls in to drag Ivanna off on a tangent conversation, letting me make my escape. I'm seriously considering bolting for the exit, when Acanthus finally starts doing his job, only he insists I go say my polite farewells to all the important people rather than just walking out the door.

I snap at him during the brief car-ride back to the gigantic train station, demanding to know what he thought was more important than looking after me, which turns into an argument when he points out that she wasn't acting any differently than the girls in District Seven, and I didn't seem to have a problem with them. I yell back that there's a big difference between hot girls my age and middle-aged witches and Mags pinches my ear and tells me to stop acting like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.

I don't talk to either of them for the rest of the short journey, and pull away from the hand that rests on my arm as we climb the three steps into the main carriage. I'm faster and stronger than anyone else on board, so no-one can catch me when I run down the corridor of the adjacent carriage, until I reach the safety of my compartment, and slam the door closed. I fall onto the bed, twisting and scratching at the stupid tight shirt, and end up ripping it off. I can still feel the old lady's fingers on my arm, my face, and the smell of her perfume lingers on the fabric of the balled-up shirt that I hurl into the other corner of the room.

I end up sitting in the shower, letting the warm water pound down on my head and shoulders, until I feel the train slowly grind into motion and the water temperature slowly peters off to cold. I grab one of the thick fluffy towels and roughly dry myself before climbing in between the silky bedsheets naked, not caring what damage my wet hair and damp skin will do to them. Like everything in the Capitol, they'll have spares to replace them.

As I dry-swallow the sleeping pills one of the staffers left in the top drawer of the night stand, I try very hard not to think about my past conversations with Mags and Piper about what my future entertaining rich Capitol ladies might hold.