Beholden

Think he'd have made the list. Him being your cousin and all. - Greasy Sae

Part 6

The District Twelve escort turns up to call Katniss away. Effie Trinket leaves me a bit breathless as she manages to actually spin on her heels away from my doorframe, ushering Katniss onward. I get a brief glimpse of Peeta now in his formalwear before they're funneled down the hallway. He offers Katniss his arm before they fully disappear from view.

I stay upstairs as long as I can to delay joining Cole. I even consider tying bedsheets together and climbing out my window to make a run for it. Only, I know how that would really go for me. I doubt the snow will be deep enough or soft enough when I land in an indecorous heap.

And besides, I'd miss my opportunity to express my gratitude to Katniss's cousin for his role in what happened yesterday. A part of me feels nothing but dread, especially now that I've been stripped of my armor. But I have an obligation.

Then there's Dad who has to play host all by himself. Even with the new strain between us, I can't abandon him. So I square my shoulders and leave the bedroom.

Halfway down the staircase, I get a good view of the house filling with guests. I've never seen the house so full of people or heard it so full of sound. Possessiveness of my home and relief that the space no longer feels so empty vie for dominance within me. The double front doors stand open, letting in anyone with an invitation along with most of the cold air. A good reminder to anyone with sense…not my father or Cole…that I'm wearing a summer dress.

From my perch, I scan the growing crowd. Some Seam folk have huddled along the edge of the large hall just off of the entryway. None of them are Katniss's "cousins," as far as I can tell. That doesn't mean anything. Most of the guests may have been shepherded to their tables in the dining room already and I've simply missed their arrival.

I spot my father near the bottom of the stairs with his back to the banister. He's in full statesman mode, the old campaigner. Once an attendant takes guests' coats, more staff shuffle them directly toward the mayor and whatever other dignitaries the event coordinator drummed up to stand in the receiving line.

Dad greets every visitor with a handshake or sometimes a squeeze of the arm if he knows them already, like Mr. Burdick and his wife. But then I feel for the folks from the Seam who don't see my father on a regular basis or up close. He's a large man in a fine house, wearing a formal suit, with the next thing to a Capitol job. It's a bit much, at first. Maybe even intimidating? Not everyone knows that he's an unpretentious man, the way I do.

Some of the guests shuffling by wear school uniforms because that's their best outfit. One man who's clearly a miner keeps staring up at the vaulted ceiling and accidentally bumping into other guests. The spaciousness must truly be a novelty for him.

When Dad shakes hands with a man with a silver buzz cut, it takes me a minute to place the person. I don't normally get to see the tops of other people's heads. And I've never seen Cray in a dress uniform. Not even for reapings.

I freeze to the railing. Judging from his tone, he's complaining to my father about something, but the noise in the entryway obscures the words. My hands begin to shake, even though I know my father is clueless and has nothing to say to the Head Peacekeeper about what happened to me the day before.

Dad turns and looks up, sensing my presence behind him. He sees me clutching the banister. Cray follows his gaze, looking me up and down with a critical glance I don't appreciate but also haven't felt surprised by since I turned fourteen — the age when nature realized I had catching up to do with the other girls.

"Oh, there you are, Madge." My father excuses himself from Cray, coming to stand at the bottom of the stairs. "Cole arrived about fifteen minutes ago."

I let go of the banister but use the advantage of the stair's height to scan the growing crowd for Cole Binns. I find him glued to the wall near the doorway into the ballroom. He's hard to miss. That's the point of a scarecrow.

"I know Hanna didn't let the Capitol's crew spread pitch on the stairs like in one of those tales," I hear Dad saying.

I blink down at him. "Huh?"

"You look stuck," he clarifies.

"Oh."

And I realize I must also look ridiculous — and certainly conspicuous — standing at the halfway point on the staircase. I can't seem to bring myself to reach the bottom though. It feels like how I imagine walking the plank would be in those old adventure novels growing mold in the tiny library in town. Only, instead of a shark circling in the water below, it's Cole leaning against the wall like a forgotten shovel.

"And you missed Katniss and Peeta's big entrance."

"Sorry." And even though it's not technically the reason for my delay, I add, "I had a last minute wardrobe change." I give my father a pointed look.

"Oh, er, yes. You look very nice." Dad braces his arms behind his back, puffing out his stomach. Something like mischief colors his usual benign expression. "Perhaps Cole could come help you figure out the rest of the stairs?"

I take the remaining steps at a sprint. Only sliding down the banister would have gotten me to the bottom faster. I stop and sway next to my father, feeling embarrassed that his tactic worked. The old campaigner.

Dad nudges me. "Do you want me to walk you over?"

My ears heat up. "Don't you think I'm a little old for that?" I give him a dry look. He hasn't walked me to school in years. I think I can cross the hall. Then something else occurs to me. "Or are you afraid I'll make a run for it if you don't?"

Dad exhales slowly through his nose. Neither of us are used to being at odds with each other. I can tell he doesn't like it any more than I do. And even though I love him, I need to remember that he's a scheming Undersee. Like me.

He says, "It would have to be bad to make you run."

"Hey." I frown at him. What's that supposed to mean? I'm not a bad runner. I just don't do it outside of PE

Dad squeezes my shoulder. "I only meant that you aren't a hasty person and that I can count on you to do your duty." He coughs. "Usually."

"Oh." I square my shoulders and exhale some of the tension out of my body. "I can walk myself. Just…don't watch," I tell him. I don't want an audience as I walk the plank.

Dad shakes his head like I'm being silly, but he complies. Once I know he's gone back to greeting guests, I press my way through the hall toward the dining room. Dad may not be watching me, but Cole is. Dressed in a black suit, he looks like an umbrella stand with a tall umbrella perched inside. I pretend that there's something really interesting on the floor and wish he would too.

I keep going until his shoes fill my field of vision.

"Hello, Cole," I say to the shiny leather uppers once I can't avoid speaking.

"Good evening, Miss Margaret," he replies gravely to the top of my head.

"No one calls me Margaret, really," I remind him for the thousandth time. Except now, when I'm in trouble with my dad, I think to myself.

I take a deep breath, then glance up. I'm not sure what I expected upon seeing Cole tonight. But he doesn't look "broke down with joy," as Hanna would say. Maybe just broke down with nerves. For example, his bowtie is slightly askew, which is unusual for him.

Cole's eyes are a pale, watered down blue. Not gray, but not the color of an October sky, either. He's staring at a point just above my eyebrows, like he's trying for the appearance of making eye contact without having to actually do it. The tactic works better on an audience that's larger than one. It makes me feel like there's static building between my eyebrows.

"Mr. Weidenbach calls you Margaret," he points out eventually. "On Tuesdays when you bring Mayor Undersee's dinner before district board meetings."

I blink at Cole, nonplussed by his attention to detail. "Well…that's because he signed and filed my birth certificate."

"Mrs. Stukley also calls you Margaret."

My mouth pops open. "How did you know that? Wait, don't tell me."

I don't want to know how Cole can have that information when we've never been in the sweet shop together ever. In fact, I haven't been inside that establishment in months, let alone spoken to its proprietors. It's a little creepy.

"Really, just Madge is fine."

Cole's eyes dip down from my forehead to my actual eyes for a moment. His forehead looks a bit clammy.

"I wouldn't presume." Because I'm the mayor's daughter seems to be implied.

"Okay." I squint up at him. "Do you want me to call you Mr. Binns tonight?"

"Whatever your p-pleasure," he says stiffly.

Oh brother. I'm used to having a trigger response blush, but he's so nervous and formal that there's nothing left for me. I guess that's better than the alternative.

He swallows convulsively. "You look…."

"Thank you," I interject, sparing us both from meaningless adjectives by cutting him off. "Uh, so do you."

Cole looks confused and mildly disturbed, so I guess I should have let him finish his thought. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Dad isn't watching me make his junior clerk turn green. He looks away just seconds after I catch him observing us.

The people around us seem to be heading for the dining room. With the lull in the conversation, if it can be called that, it seems fortuitous to move rather than to speak. And to get out of my father's line of sight for a moment.

"Should we go in?" I suggest.

Cole offers me his arm to escort me to our places. For some reason the gesture makes it feel like the not-date is officially beginning. The reluctance that glued me to the stairs returns. And I wonder if it would be boorish to refuse to take his arm.

It would.

So I take it. He's mostly bone under the layers of sleeves, so I keep my touch light in case the more brittle parts of him snap off by accident. I wonder if he's part bird as we join the queue entering the dining room. An ostrich, for example.

Through the doorway, I scan the dining room for someone else who is also easy to find because of height. Except when he's not around, which seems to be the case. Maybe he's late? But the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me otherwise. A bruised feeling fills my chest. It never occurred to me that he wouldn't attend tonight.

I consider for the first time that maybe the engagement news might have been too much for him, despite the promise of food he doesn't have to trap himself. It feels like something in my chest's being crushed like an aluminum can as I realize how much my bias has clouded my judgement. He doesn't have the advantage of congratulating Katniss to know that he has nothing to worry about.

How could he turn up here after the mandatory Victory Tour programming, watching what he'd have to watch? I guess I wanted him to show up so badly I wasn't thinking straight. I feel a bit foolish then and not a little sorry for him. It must be rough if he'd pass up on the food. It's the reason about 90% of the guests will tolerate tonight's programming and the Capitol's presence.

Cole and I are seated near the head table that's reserved for the victors and Capitol officials. Katniss and Peeta are already seated with their entourage. Haymitch looks like he's going to fall into a drunken stupor on Effie Trinket's gilded dinner plate. Which means he has no intention of speaking to me tonight, mockingjays or no mockingjays. We have a rule.

Our table has a spot for my father which he won't get to enjoy much tonight, and several other minor Capitol officials who have nothing to say to anyone from the district. Cole pulls out my chair for me and I thank him in a distracted way as I scan the room to see who else has attended from the lists.

Several of our classmates share a table near the Mellark family. Delly Cartwright waves to me. She's a good friend of Peeta's, but she's friendly to everyone. I raise my hand in answer to her wave. But when she points at Cole and I and then uses her fingers to draw a heart in the air with a question mark, I decide I've had enough of Delly for a lifetime and turn away.

Dad joins us, greeting the Capitol officials by name. I'm startled to find that one of them is none other than Nero Ashfield, one of Snow's secretaries. I've never met anyone that far up the chain of command. In fact, he's Cray's boss. Or his boss's boss's boss. In charge of maintaining the peace in the districts. What would draw him to the poorest district in Panem? Surely our little entertainment tonight doesn't compare to the lavish spreads in District 1 or 2?

I check my fingertips for residual newspaper ink and wonder if the man can smell my guilt. Then I glance at Haymitch, who's definitely leaning on Ms. Trinket now. No wonder he's drunk.

As the soup course is served, my father has to make a speech that involves phrases like "district pride" and "unprecedented victory." He opts not to congratulate the victors on their engagement. He does thank President Snow and the Hunger Games committee for generously sponsoring the evening.

Then Katniss and Peeta have a turn. Peeta does most of the talking, thanking the district for its support during their Games, especially those who helped sponsor them. They're reading from cards and it feels very rote, which surprises me for Peeta…less so for Katniss. I don't hear any more of it as my eyes wander the room.

Some people help themselves to hors d'oeuvres and desserts at different sideboards when the talking goes on too long. A few faces from the Seam catch my attention. I recognize one bony older woman with graying hair from my trips with Katniss. She sells soup in the Hob, I guess. There are some children I watch curiously as they pile finger foods onto heaped plates.

One little girl with straight black hair points animatedly to different trays while her accomplice, an urchin-looking little boy, uses his bare hands to pick up little delicacies for her. The serving tongs seem lost on him as a concept. It makes me laugh to myself when I see one of the Capitol officials stare down his nose at the boy in disgust, then go in search for a different tray of food that hasn't been groped by some grubby kids.

I know from the guest list that Gale has siblings. Katniss told me once that she thought about teaching one of the younger cousins to shoot. So he'd have to be older, right? There's another older boy trailing Prim around the room who looks familiar, though younger and shorter and much skinnier than Gale. It can be hard to tell though. There's a reason people are deceived by the cousin story. Folks in the Seam can have very similar features. Then further obscure their features under layers of coal dust and it's anyone's guess who's who, let alone who they're related to.

The speeches close and the fish course comes around. Most of the guests pick at their plates with distrust. Usually by the time fish reach District 12 they're either in a can or very ripe. You'd think that ingredients shipped right from the Capitol for this event would be fresh, but as I pick at the rubbery crab cake, I suspect it came from a can. Why would that be when everything we've had so far contained fresh ingredients?

At the head table, Katniss doesn't look like she's concerned either by fish or by any absences on the guest list. But then, the cameras are rolling. Peeta feeds her something from his plate and I have to look away. I think romantic gestures are sweet, but that's too much even for me, especially given Katniss's response to my congratulations.

Speaking of romantic gestures, I haven't said a word to Cole since we sat down. Or vice versa. And I feel like I need to clear the air before my dad comes back.

"Listen, Cole, about my dad calling you last minute to arrange all of this. I'm sorry, I…"

Cole stops sorting capers from the crabmeat on his plate to look at me. "It's all right. I can understand why you wouldn't want to ask me yourself."

"You can?" That's a relief. Then he knows that I had nothing to do with this not-date and that I'm not harboring any romantic feelings toward him. The tension begins to melt in my shoulders.

He sniffs. "Of course. Everyone knows how shy you can be."

My mouth drops open. Everyone?

Cole smiles a little. It gives him a smug aspect. "I thought perhaps you were working up the nerve in front of the Justice Building yesterday."

All I can do is stare at him as my momentary relief fizzles away. What did I do or say that would have given him that impression?

"And given how young you are, I wouldn't have felt right without your father sanctioning it."

"Cole, I had no intention of asking you," I can't help informing him.

He nods. "Your reputation for modesty is well known."

Eurgh. I'm beginning to regret the makeup. Because Cole, whether he realizes it or not, just means that people think I'm a prude. Or a snob. Piggy's words from yesterday come back to me like a slap. What? Too proud to talk to me?

"Cole, if I had wanted to invite you when we spoke at the Justice Building, I would have. None of this was my —"

Dad joins us before I can finish that thought. Cole congratulates him on his speech.

"Are you two enjoying yourselves?" Dad asks after thanking Cole.

I take a drink of water to avoid answering. Because I'm not enjoying myself and I'm definitely concerned that Cole has read more into this evening than I'd like.

"What was it you were saying about the Justice Building?" Dad asks.

"Oh, I just reassured Miss Margaret that I'm not offended that you invited me today instead of her asking me personally yesterday when we met in front of the Justice Building."

Dad looks at me with interest. "You ran into each other yesterday, hm?"

"Was that yesterday?" I deflect, hoping both of them will drop the subject. Dad's clearly interested in drawing connections to any of my movements.

"Don't you remember?" Cole says to me, looking concerned. "You had your shopping basket."

Dad blinks. "She did?"

"Yes, she had just come out of Hammonds."

Dad and I look at one another. The cloth napkin on my lap becomes mangled in my hands. I can manage this revelation. It wouldn't be inaccurate to say that the groceries ended up "donated" if Dad decides to press me for an explanation later.

He says, "Was she alone?"

"Dad!"

Cole looks confused. "Yes, until I joined her."

Dad looks at Cole like he's seeing him for the first time.

"Oh really." Then he looks at me, though he's addressing Cole. "Did she step inside with you?"

I give Dad a vinegar look which I hope he interprets as a plea to stop fishing for information.

"No," Cole answers, oblivious. "She went to the butcher's."

Dad looks to me to confirm or deny this.

"What did Cray want earlier?" I quietly ask instead.

Servers come around with entrées, which further help turn the conversation, though Dad gives me a look that suggests we're going to reprise our conversation from earlier. Maybe Katniss will let me spend afternoons after school at her home for the foreseeable future.

Dad drapes his cloth napkin over his lap, murmuring, "He's claiming he was short-staffed the evening of the infamous engagement and so his Peacekeepers were outnumbered."

"Or they were part of the crowds," I suggest…because it's likely true.

Dad and Cole stare at me.

I swallow. "Just a thought."

"A thought perhaps best kept to one's self," Dad says with a meaningful glance at the other guests at our table.

He's right, of course. I look away and pick at my dinner.

By the time the vegetable course is served, it's anyone's guess who's supposed to be on this not-date. I mentally opt out when Dad and Cole discuss the operating budget versus the capital budget and what that will mean for the current action plan. It seems like a really complicated way to describe if the district can afford to replace broken street lights or add snow removal at time and a half on Sundays.

The dessert course hasn't been served yet, but I have no stomach for it now. I manage to escape from Cole's side with a euphemism about using the bathroom. I want to run up to my room with my disappointment and frustration, but then the opening strains of Strutio's Blood Waltz leak out into the front hall. So I slip into the ballroom instead to listen as the musicians warm up.

In fact, it's the first real pleasure I take in the evening now that my plans have shattered. It's so rare to hear an orchestra live in District Twelve. They've even had a piano shipped in specially. I sit on the arm of a sofa pushed against the wall in the farthest corner and listen. The instrument's certainly more expertly tuned than mine. When I hear the opening notes of another popular title, I shiver with pleasure. It's Blinkerson's Farewell Waltz, which I've played many times.

In the last few years, I've had to progress in my studies by watching vids, having outstripped the teacher in Twelve. I've done what I can, but as I listen, I know something's lacking in my performance. I leave my perch on the sofa arm and collapse onto the seat cushions to wallow. The Capitol doesn't send its best to District Twelve. If these are the pitiful players they deigned to send for the banquet, then I've got my work cut out for me.

I knew the goal to get picked up by a professional orchestra in the Capitol was a long shot, but it made the future seem like something worth sticking around for and maybe even interesting. I could see places beyond the district, which feels horribly cramped, and finally see my mother healthy and engaged.

I've been mistaking dreams for goals.

I get that cold feeling in my stomach whenever I try to picture life five, ten years down the road. What will I do with myself? And who will still be around? Mom? Katniss? Dad, likely. The Cole Binns of the district.

I can't work in the mayor's office. The woman who owns the sweet shop, Mrs. Stukley, has no children. Maybe she'd take me on as an apprentice then sell me the business one day. Not because I have some burning desire to sell candy that few people can afford here, but it might help me still feel connected to my family someday when it's just me.

Who knows? Maybe candy could aid the resistance. I could send coded messages in the wrappers. That thought makes me smile a little.

While I try to develop my own coded language, the camera crew and the victors are ushered into the room before the rest of the guests to set up the best publicity shots. I'm not immediately spotted, so I get a good view of what the behind-the-scenes work looks like for victors. I wonder if all the flash photography will ruin their eyesight over time. It seems painful.

Peeta notices me first. Since the camera seems less enthralled by him than by Katniss, he's able to shuffle toward my corner of the room.

"I thought I glimpsed you upstairs earlier talking to Portia," he says, giving me that friendly smile that can put anyone at ease.

I nod, giving him a dry smile of my own. "I asked her for some fashion advice," I quip.

He nods. "You look nice. That's a pretty dress."

My eyes widen and I make a strangled sound before I can help it.

A concerned frown replaces the smile. "Did I say the wrong thing?" he asks, scratching his head.

"No, I'm being silly," I assure him. He has no way of knowing who he's quoting. "But thank you."

He perches on the sofa arm, hands resting on his cane like he's some venerable uncle. He looks around the space. "I had no idea the mayor's house had all these rooms."

I shrug. "They haven't been used in our lifetime. Dad does his campaigning and glad-handing at the Justice Building so that my mom has some peace."

"Did you ever sneak in here to play? It's perfect for tag."

I shake my head. "It's sort of creepy when you're alone."

"I guess I could see that." Peeta looks around, then back at me. "So, I saw you seated with Cole Binns at dinner. He graduated with Leven."

I didn't realize that Cole and Peeta's eldest brother were the same year in school. But then, I don't tend to pay attention to the classes beyond a year or two above ours.

"He has a sister in Bran's class," Peeta adds. "She does the shopping at the bakery. They have strong opinions about caraway in the rye bread."

"For or against?" I ask.

"For," Peeta answers with wrinkled nose. "She says we skimp." He scratches the top of his head again. "She wanted to know the exact weight in grams that we use in the recipe."

What he wants me to do with this information, I'm uncertain. So I just say, "That's odd."

"Yeah. Who wants to pick even more seeds out of their teeth all day?"

I laugh half-heartedly.

Peeta studies his cane. "Your family doesn't buy rye."

On some level this might be interesting trivia, but I just couldn't care less about Cole Binns or any other Binns. Or how their bakery preferences compare to the Undersee's. Then I realize that this is what fishing for information sounds like.

I snag a throw pillow and hug it to my ribs. "My dad set me up with him tonight, Peeta. I'm…" I frown. "It's sort of a hostage situation."

It's true, isn't it? And my cooperation is the only currency that's recognized to pay the ransom.

Peeta gives me a commiserating look. "So you're hiding in here?"

Well, I did really want to hear the players warm up. But I say, "It would be rude to hide in my bedroom all night, wouldn't it?"

Peeta smiles. And because it's supposed to be a smile I can see that there's a lot of sad behind it. I know the feeling. I just don't understand why he's feeling it. Not when he's gotten the one thing victors from the same district never get: a return trip with their fellow tribute. Declarations of love. A wedding someday. On camera, he's a bright ray of sunshine. The picture of "love triumphant." So what happened once they got off the train here?

Did Mrs. Everdeen secretly call it off? Or tell them they have to wait fifteen years? Or is my observation about Katniss both before the tour and from this afternoon correct? I don't know. But this isn't the place to ask direct questions.

So I apply the same litmus test as before. "Congratulations, by the way."

Peeta swallows. His gaze wanders back to Katniss. Ms. Trinket's adjusting the angle of her elbow for the perfect pose. Then Effie backs away. Katniss's smile brightens by a few watts as the camera flashes. But Peeta's eyes look bruised.

"Thanks," he says.

The camera crew, event planner, and Ms. Trinket begin a circular debate about the lighting, which gives Katniss the ability to stalk over and give her face a rest from pulling neon grins. She still looks off, yet more relaxed now that the speeches are over and nobody's feeding her off of his plate.

She flounces down next to me on the couch and exhales sharply.

"We'll wrinkle our dresses," I muse before I think about it.

"Who cares?"

I grin at her deadpan response because I couldn't agree more. She smirks back.

One of the double doors opens for someone rolling Haymitch into the room on a dessert trolley, which is really too much for Ms. Trinket's equanimity. She goes on a rant about irresponsible staff over-serving, despite her instructions to only give him club soda.

I feel bad for her, in a way, for all the expended energy and wasted effort. Maybe in another district giving instructions like that would work. But everyone here knows about Haymitch. If anyone gave him alcohol tonight, it's folks from home. The disruptions in the district sometimes impact the liquor and wine coming into Twelve. People like the woman Ripper with their own bootleg stills can't keep up with the demand on their own, especially if not enough grain comes through with shipments. I haven't seen Haymitch go through withdrawal, but I don't have to. Darius's second hand stories paint a vivid enough picture.

"Where do you want him?" The attendant asks.

"Oh, dump him in a corner somewhere. He's useless for the camera now." She flourishes her manicured hand in a random direction, which happens to be where we're sitting. She sees her victors congregating on the sofa and that's the end of the peace for Peeta and Katniss.

I stay where I am as they're dragged back to the center of the room for final shots together. The sunlight returns to Peeta's face as he poses with Katniss in his arms like they're waltzing. It stays there for the rest of the evening.

Haymitch, still on the trolley, has joined me in the corner. He's passed out and snoring against the metal bar for steering the cart. This is the closest we've been together in almost six months, so of course he's unconscious.

In a way, I'm glad. Part of me feels afraid that his continued standoffishness means he's going to bench me soon, now that he has two victors under his wings. Darius will always be useful to him because of his position with the Peacekeepers. But me? What are newspapers compared to invitations from the Capitol? I wonder if he's spoken to either Katniss or Peeta about the resistance effort?

My worries over being cut off from the resistance continue to percolate when the music flourishes, jolting me back to the present. Attendants open the double doors for the guests to enter. It dawns on me slowly that although I haven't been rude enough to hide in my bedroom, I have been away from the table where my not-date has been waiting for a while…definitely long enough for my father to notice, I fear. He said earlier that he could trust me to do my duty, but I seem suddenly to be finding ways to disappoint him over and over.

And when my father does stand in front of me, I know I've done it. By snubbing his guest. By disappearing. But at least I'm alone and not keeping some other guy company.

Whoops, actually.

I gesture toward Haymitch just as he passes gas.

"I only wanted to hear the musicians warm up for a bit, but it looked like Mr. Abernathy could use some watching."

It's a horrible alibi. And a total lie. Haymitch is a gaseous paperweight who isn't going anywhere.

"You've embarrassed Cole," is all my father says. He walks away, taking all the heat out of the room.

It's enough to make me feel like something left on the slag heap. My stomach twists as shame sets in. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings tonight. I just can't seem to attend to my own without doing so.

An ember of anger ignites along with my defenses. I didn't ask for this. There's a whole lot I haven't ask for since yesterday. Why can't I protect people without it coming back to burn me?

The music sounds wooden to my ears now. In the center of the room, guests have been bullied into dancing so that Katniss and Peeta have a nice backdrop of fellow celebrants for the cameras. Those who couldn't be bullied are being offered drinks in crystal stemware.

I glance at Haymitch, oblivious to the world. He might have the right idea. I make sure my father isn't looking, then I snatch a glass of sparkling wine from a passing server. The bubbles rise in soothing succession up the fluted glass and I just watch them for a moment while the chilled beverage warms in my hand.

Cole materializes at my side just as I raise the glass to my lips. I see the profile of his nose before anything else. He sniffs disapprovingly.

Rats.

To be concluded. Thanks for reading!

OCs and medea!verse character names:
"Alyss" or "Alyssum" Everdeen: Katniss's mother
"Bran" Mellark: Peeta's middle brother
Cletus Burdick: distinguished notary public
Cole Binns: An iteration of Geeky_DMHG_Fan's Cole Phillips, resident Gale!foil / Unfortunate Soul
Drunk Peacekeepers: Felix, Gaius, Niels
"Gram" Mellark: Peeta's father
Hammond family: green grocers
Hanna: the Undersees' housekeeper
"Henry" Undersee: Madge's father, district mayor
"Leven" Mellark: Peeta's oldest brother
"Marigold" Undersee: Madge's mother
"Margaret" or "Maggie" Donner: Madge's maternal grandmother
Mrs. Stukley: sweet shop owner
Nero Ashfield: A secretary in Snow's council
Rufus Weidenbach: District Clerk (referenced in Dustland Fairytale)