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Peeta shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. You've got skills, and even more, you've got the right pedigree. It doesn't matter that your mom technically broke tradition. She's still a Merchant, and so are you, according to the laws of District Twelve. That means you qualify to get an apprenticeship and even own a shop."
"I do?" I haven't looked too closely into the laws that govern the Merchant class. I haven't needed to. I'm Seam. But Peeta's words open up a whole realm of possibilities I've never considered.
"Yup. I practically memorized those laws when I was arguing with my mom about taking over the bakery, telling her that there was nothing written saying I couldn't inherit." The more he speaks, the more excited he gets. It's sort of cute. Not that I'd ever tell him that. He continues, thankfully ignorant of my internal dialogue. "No, this is an idea. Let me ask around. See what I can come up with."
I struggle not to get my hopes up too much, and I say, "It doesn't hurt to try."
oOo
Damaged, Broken, and Unhinged
by RoseFyre & FanficAllergy
oOo
Chapter Fourteen: Opportunity Does Not Knock
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"Opportunity does not knock, it presents itself when you beat down the door."
― Kyle Chandler
oOo
Bolstered by Peeta's words, I bring a basket of some of the more esoteric herbs my mother has - the ones I don't know how to use - to the Apothecary. Belladonna. Foxglove. Poppy. Deadly poisons in the wrong person's hand. Namely mine. But potentially useful to someone skilled in the trade.
I know from trading in town that my aunt and cousin typically take tea with the florist and her daughters on Wednesday afternoons. My uncle in the wild card, but I've heard whispers, hushed whispers, he's got a drinking problem he doesn't want his wife to find out about. It's a vice, and my source - Delly, naturally - murmurs that he's a mean drunk. The kind that'll take a swing at anyone who crosses his path.
So like the hunter I am, I find a secluded spot where I can watch for my prey, my uncle, without attracting attention.
Sure enough, less than ten minutes after my aunt and cousin leave, my uncle saunters out of the back door, pulling on his coat. He makes a beeline for the edge of town and the Merchants-only saloon that operates there. That means it's just Chet watching the store. Perfect. That means it's safe. I wait a few heartbeats more before screwing up my courage and slipping into the shop.
As I open the door, a bell jangles and Chet pops up from behind the counter. "Katniss! What are you doing here?"
I brandish the basket. "Peeta said I could trade with you?" It's a question. A hope.
"Quick." He motions for me to come behind the counter. "Step away from the window so you won't get seen."
I do as I'm told, but not without a little dig. "Can't have the neighbors talking, huh? They might get the wrong idea." After all, it's fairly well-known what I've had to do to keep my family alive. It wouldn't be out of place for me to have a Merchant client as well as Peacekeeper ones.
"What?" He stares at me. Then realization dawns. "Oh! No! Ew! No! How can you even think that? You're my cousin!"
"Not technically." I look around the front of the store, breathing in the confusing scents of dried herbs and essential oils. It reminds me of my mother's cabinet. The one I've been raiding all winter to keep up the fiction that she's fine.
He waves away my words. "It's close enough. No, Mr. Fraser, the greengrocer, is a horrible gossip and my mother-in-law's cousin. His store is literally right across the street from ours. And he likes to ask customers in passing what they're getting at our shop. I've told Imogen," he says, referring to my aunt, "that they need to put something up in the windows to keep him from looking in, but she thinks it ruins the ambience." He shrugs. "Not like you need to borrow my problems." Chet motions to the basket clutched tightly in my hands. "So what'd you bring me?"
My heart lightens. He will trade with me. Thank goodness.
I show him what's in my basket, and he makes little humming noises of approval.
"I don't really need the poppy. We've got a reciprocal agreement with the Glynns," he says, referring to the florist. "And typically that's true of the foxglove, but unfortunately they got an aphid infestation a couple months ago, and they haven't been able to regrow their stock. It's not a popular flower, you see."
He's giving me more information than I really wanted to know, but I let him talk, because he seems to need to. I wonder what his relationships are like here. From Peeta, I know he loves his wife, but that doesn't necessarily mean he loves her family. Not that I blame him. They're my family and I can't stand them.
When I think he's done I ask, "How much do you think you'll be able to give me?"
He fixes me with a shrewd look. "I'm surprised your mother is letting you sell these." He holds up one of the poppy pods.
"We have a surplus," I say shortly. "And we need to make room for the new spring herbs." If my mother were well, it wouldn't even have been a lie. She used to go through her herb stocks multiple times a year, throwing out the old to make room for the new.
He shrugs, apparently satisfied with my explanation. "I'm going to be honest with you. Normally, what you've got is worth about thirty coin."
I nod. I can see the prices on the wall and know that he's telling the truth. There's a mark up, there always is, but it's not astronomical so I know he's not trying to cheat me.
Taking my nod as the indication to continue, he says, "Unfortunately, there's no way I'm going to be able to give you that much all at once without raising suspicion. So you've got a couple of options." He holds up a finger. "One, you can leave the stock with me and I pay you in installments."
I don't like that idea, so I say, "Or?"
"Or two, I take what I actually need," he pulls out the belladonna and about half of the foxglove, "and I give you ten now."
"But you said this was worth thirty."
"Yes, but the poppy is the most expensive item you've got. Take it or leave it."
I want to bargain. But both Chet and I know I don't have any good choices, my glance at the pricelist tells me that. I don't know what Peeta's told him about my mother. I'm hoping nothing. But even so, I'm afraid I won't get this opportunity again and the herbs - these expensive herbs - will go to waste, so instead I say, "I'll take it." Ten is better than nothing.
"Great. Wait here," he motions to the far side of the counter, "and I'll be right back with your money."
I do what he asks, holding the basket in front of me nervously. I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For something to happen.
And as if summoned, something does.
The front door to the Apothecary opens with a jingle and my uncle stumbles in. He can't have been at the saloon for more than twenty minutes, but his nose is red and his breath reeks of liquor, strong enough that I can smell it halfway across the shop. He's drunk, and I'm immediately on edge. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees me, and for an instant I swear the man flinches, before an expression of utter anger and disgust blankets his features. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"
I don't want to get Chet in trouble and ruin my chances for any future trades, so I say, "I'm here to buy something. Sleep syrup. For my brother." He'll never accept me selling, but maybe he'll accept me buying. Coin is just as good whether it comes from a beggar or President Snow.
An expression of relief flashes in my uncle's eyes before an ugly red flush creeps up his neck to his cheeks. "What have we told you about coming here? You're not welcome. You're not wanted."
"But I'm here to buy."
"No! Never! You're up to something." He shoves his finger toward me. "I know you are. Laurel put you up to this, didn't she?" he asks, referring to my mother. "Well, you can tell my perfect sister to go to hell! We'll just burn the place down before we let you have it!"
I stare at him in confusion. Where did this come from? What is he talking about?
He continues, seemingly completely unaware of my disbelief. "You're just a traitor. You and that bitch mother of yours. You deserve everything that's happened to you! Why, you deserve worse than having a few of your windows smashed! You're not even worth my piss!" He advances on me, his hands outstretched.
I don't wait for him to say more. I dart around him, doing my best to stay out of his reach, and bolt through the door. I don't want to think about what my uncle was about to do, but it looked like he was going to strangle me. On my way out, I see Chet staring at me, his mouth agape, as if this is a side of his in-laws he's never seen before.
I don't dare say anything to warn him. I have to hope he'll play along with the story I spun, assuming he gets a chance to say anything at all. A thread of concern for Peeta's brother worms into my heart, but I push it away. Chet can take care of himself. He's had lots of practice. I need to take care of me.
I dart down the street to the safest place I can think of: the bakery. I slip around the side and stutter to a stop beside the back door, waiting for my heart to stop pounding. My uncle tried to kill me. I know that's what he was planning. I could see the murder in his eyes. He hates me. Almost as much as he hates my mother.
There's more to my mother's tale than what she told me growing up. There has to be. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the invectives and aspersions that came out of my uncle's mouth give me pause. I just can't figure out why. I wonder what secrets my mother's been keeping, and until she breaks out of her fugue-like state, I'll never get the answers I need.
My heart slows to a normal rhythm. But my worry over Chet intensifies. I need to say something to someone and, since I'm here, Peeta is the most obvious choice.
Thankfully, he opens the door at my knock and I don't have to worry about dealing with his mother. "Katniss! I didn't expect to see you."
"Can I come in?" I glance over my shoulder, checking to make sure my uncle didn't follow me. I should have thought about it before, but I didn't. I remedy that oversight now.
Nothing. Not even an interested child.
Peeta must see my anxiousness because he steps to one side immediately, not even asking what's set me off. "Sure. I'm just putting a batch of cookies in the oven, and I just pulled out some cheese buns. Do you want one?" I know what he's doing, he's trying to distract me.
And it's working. Unable to say no, I nod.
"So what brings you here?" He tosses me the smallest bun, still steaming from the oven.
I bounce it back and forth between my hands, waiting for it to cool. "I went to trade with your brother."
"Oh! How did that go?"
"Badly." I tell him about my failed trade attempt and what my uncle said and did.
Peeta frowns. "Weird. I'll talk to Chet about it later."
"Sooner please. I want to make sure he's okay."
A little flicker of an emotion I can't identify races across Peeta's eyes. "I'm sure he will be. His wife adores him and so does his mother-in-law."
"But not my uncle."
"Your uncle isn't an easy man to like." He slides a tray of cookies into the oven. "He's bitter, holds grudges, and thinks the world is out to screw him over personally. That kind of person doesn't make friends. They collect cronies. Yes men and women, because they can't handle it when people tell them no."
Peeta has a point. But that doesn't mean Chet is safe, and I say so.
"Chet knows how to handle people like that. He's had a lot of practice."
"Your mom," I hazard a guess.
But Peeta shakes his head. "Mom can handle it when people tell her no. She may not like it. No one does. But she won't swear revenge and piss in the teapot, ruining her tea and everyone else's just because she didn't get her way. I wouldn't be heir if she did. My grandfather on the other hand…" he trails off, letting me draw my own conclusions.
"So your brother will be okay?" I ask, mostly so I can stop feeling guilty for running away.
"He'll be fine. He might have to grovel for a bit, but that's not the end of the world."
Good. That brings another question into focus. "Do you think I'll be able to trade with him?" I've still got the herbs, and I still need the money.
Peeta makes a face and considers it. "It might be best if you give me what you want to sell and I trade it with Chet," he says after a long moment. "I'm fairly certain your aunt and uncle don't hate me."
"You'd do that?"
A shrug. "Sure, if you trust me to."
I can't help but feel that this is a test. And I do trust Peeta, at least mostly. But I don't trust anyone but myself - rarely even Prim - with what little money we have. At the same time, I don't have a lot of options. In a show of trust, I hand him the basket. "Chet was going to give me thirty for this, spread out over time. I'm sure you can do better. After all, you're his brother."
He laughs. "Yeah, his annoying kid brother. But I'll do my best." He pauses for a moment, indecision flittering across his face. "I might have mentioned that you were looking for an apprenticeship to Nata."
To cover my surprise, I take a bite of the cheese bun. "Oh?" I say around a mouthful of cheesy bread goodness.
"I didn't tell her it was for you, but I'm pretty sure she guessed. She told me that her family's not looking for anyone, nor are any of their suppliers."
I nod, not really sure where he's going with this.
"I just-" he stutters. "I just wanted to give you an update. Let you know that I'm doing my best."
"I know you are." I want to reach out and touch his arm, to give him a little bit of comfort. He's doing so much for me, trying so hard. I need to do something to show my appreciation. I tear a piece off of the bread that he shared with me. "Cheese bun?"
"Sure." He smiles at me as he takes it. "Thanks."
"That's my line."
oOo
I stay at the bakery as long as I can, but not nearly as long as I want to. Peeta has to work, and if his mother catches me, there'll be hell to pay.
Re-energized from the cheese bun and the conversation, I try a bunch of the businesses, especially those where I think I actually have a chance. The greengrocer. The dry goods store. The butcher.
At the last, I get my only real nibble. Rooba looks me over with some interest and asks what seems to be a very important series of questions, the only questions I've been asked at each place I looked before being told no. "You engaged?"
"No."
"Indentured?"
"No."
"Contracted?"
"No." I'm not even half-sure what most of these words mean, but I figure I'd know what it was if I was indentured or contracted. So I must not be.
"Good," she says, jumping right to the heart of the matter, "I'll be frank. I could use some help. Especially come the end of summer. But right now? I ain't got shit for you to do. Most of our butchering takes place in October and November when the animals are at their fattest. Now, in late winter and early spring, it's just chickens and the random goat that's gone dry. The three of us can cover that," she says, referring to her husband and son. "Come talk to me in August or September. We could figure out something for you to do."
The words are harsh, but at the same time kind, and she tempers them with a thin stick of dried sausage that I pocket quickly. It's the best offer I've gotten all day, but it's still not enough. We might not make it to April, let alone August.
Dejected but determined not to show it, I say my goodbyes, and head back out into the town. I take my bearings, noting that I'm on the very edge of the town itself, about as far from the Seam as you can get. Maybe a hundred yards away are the arching bars signaling the entrance to the Victor's Village.
An idea pops into my head out of the clear winter sky.
Haymitch.
I stare at the gates, weighing my options. On one hand, I know Haymitch has money. On the other, who knows what he'll need? He wasn't on Cray's list of people who needed housekeepers, and if anybody would know what the drunken Victor would need, it would be Cray, his drinking buddy. From the rumors in town, he doesn't employ anyone. Not even a laundress or cook. Definitely not a housekeeper.
On the plus side, I'm mostly certain he won't ask me to have sex. As far as I know, he's never paid any woman to have sex with him, and no woman has come forward and admitted to being Haymitch's lover, paid or otherwise. There are whispers that he's close to our district escort, Effie Trinket, but I discount those. The woman has very exacting tastes. I can't imagine her being into someone as sloppy and slovenly as Haymitch.
Deciding that it wouldn't hurt to ask our only Victor for work, I square my shoulders and march determinedly toward Haymitch's house. Victor's Village is small, but the houses are huge. Twelve of them, all but one standing empty, a testament to how poorly District Twelve has done in the Hunger Games.
Even the dirt pathways are overgrown. Pale yellow strands of grass poke up through the melting snow, evidence of just how neglected the Victor's Village has become. Each house has its own huge yard - over four times the size of the largest merchant lot - as well as its own kitchen garden out back. In the yards are trees of all varieties. My gatherer's eye spots several fruit trees: cherry, apple, pear. And even more maples. From the shriveled up fruit hanging from the trees, I surmise that no one has dared to forage here.
Haymitch's house is the very last house in the Village. The only house that has a lived in feel and grimy windows. Beyond it, I can make out the small uniform headstones of the tribute garden. Thom has a sister buried here. The twin of the sister who ended up going to Cray. It's not talked about much, but every person in the Seam has lost someone to the Hunger Games. My father lost a cousin. Gale lost his childhood best friend. Bran Hatfield lost his aunt. But as far as I know, no one visits their graves. It's like they're doubly lost. First they lost their lives and then they disappeared from everyone's memories.
I can't help but wonder why Haymitch would pick this house. It seems like it would be the least desirable one. Farthest from the living, closest to the dead. It's like he's the guardian of the souls he couldn't save, maddened into grief by his failure.
With a heaviness I can't describe, I climb the ice-packed steps leading to Haymitch's door. I can tell no one has even shoveled a path, that the only footsteps that have trod these boards are Haymitch's. No one comes here. It's like no one cares.
Before knocking on the door, I peek inside the window, trying to spot a glimpse of Twelve's lone Victor. What I see shocks me. Bottles, both broken and not, are strewn everywhere. There's trash all over the furniture, and a smear of mud across the floor. The couch is slashed, like someone attacked it with a knife, and I can see a chair, or maybe more than one, broken into pieces. The interior of Haymitch's house looks nothing less than like a warzone. I can barely make out the floor through the mess.
Something inside me twists. I want to say sympathy, but that's not quite right. More like understanding.
Haymitch needs somebody. Someone to bring some order to his chaos and insanity. He doesn't need a wife. He doesn't need a lover. He needs a housekeeper.
That housekeeper might as well be me.
With renewed determination, I knock on the door and wait.
No answer.
I knock again, louder this time, putting my shoulder into each thump on the door. Once again I wait, but this time I hear the unmistakable sounds of someone trying to wade through the mess of glass and who knows what.
Eventually Haymitch opens the door, a fetid stench almost knocking me off my feet. I'm so bowled over by the smell, I almost don't register Haymitch's shouted, "Go away!"
I do register, however, the slam of the door in my face.
I stand out in the cold, a half-smile forming on my lips. "You'll have to make me."
oOo
AN:
Written: 7/29/18
Revised: 9/3/18
Katniss and Peeta - so pretty much their whole courtship is them sharing food. Food is life to them. Food is stability. Food is flirtation. So we're doing the same.
You can get more information about our original writing here:
Website: RoseLarkPublishing
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