See some slight tw at the end of the chapter (scroll down if you want to see, for all others I wanted to keep it spoiler free x)

Since they last met, the leaves outside had long turned red. A brief letter transfer followed where Virgilia thanked him for attending. She had hesitated in implying too much appreciation for his company, and had stuck to the same formal description addressed to other political friends of her husband. It didn't fit the smile that had crept on her lips when receiving his brief response a few days later. He thanked her for the invitation. Awfully formal, too, and she concluded he must have been equally hesitant in his penmanship.

It was likely a good tone to pursue: while she had little evidence, it only made sense that most letters were opened before reaching her, and it seemed unwise to mention the dance inside her stomach when he had looked her way or the emptiness in every fibre of his when Mr. Heavensbee had departed.

They hadn't come up with another afternoon to meet once more by the time the trees outside her windows, looming in front of the greenhouse, had lost their leaves. He had been awfully busy, he explained, and she knew better than to be deemed desperate.

It wasn't far into November, then, when Coriolanus had excused himself early from the breakfast table one fateful morning. News on the upcoming victory tour sparked the morning show's attention and implied ever more work for the final dinner at their mansion. Virgilia had never enjoyed those tours — not that she did not care for festivities! — but the air seemed different during those nights. Too many bold stylists who had risen to prominence for making a few good dresses and proceeded in their advances to move further upward in the society; including advances made toward her. During one year, an odd looking mentor had emptied the contents of his stomach in places of the mansion she rather not remember. The source had been easy to find, but the stench remained there for several weeks afterward.

The calendar had noted another celebration ahead, not unlike several more this week, but this one had prompted her to decorate the living room, move along avoces doing their work and gaze toward the entrance hall too many times. Coriolanus reassured her monthly that inviting the spouses of his allies was as important as any other such meeting. It didn't always feel like that, reduced to drinking coffee or tea and exchanging current gossip. Easy, vital information underneath its dialogue, but other times all that was conversed were plastered smiles and laughter. No one like Mr. Heavensbee would find his way onto the guest list, surely, and any potential spouse had not been invited. Good.

If one played their cards right, those moments were an opportunity. Today was no different.

An avoces tapped at her shoulder, pointed once more to the guest list and they reassured that the guest room had been prepared with tea and pleasantries. Formally, more spouses were invited than showed up. Some had made the habit of coming every time, being rather chatty or observant or both, and making for conversation partners of various difficulties. Others only stopped by if they required a favour from the Snow's. The guest room would only be filled to its brink if a particular scandal rocked the boat of the Capitol's elte. Today was no such day.

The last meet up had been about expectations on upcoming fashion collections, which, while not being the most thrilling topic at hand, were conversations Virgilia was good at. Not as thrilling as discussing the meaning of paintings, but she was decent at following the consistent streams pattering away at rumours. Only catching the most important bits while her focus shifted from face to shoulder to the backdrop behind the conversation. She never worried to say something plunging any of them into confusion, despair, or trying to gather interest. No, those conversations rarely were challenging.

The guests poured through the entrance in waves. Those who frequented regularly were the first to arrive, finding their usual seats along couches and chairs. Others arrived fashionably late and with newly acquired rumours plastered on their lips. There was something new to discuss, and worthwhile enough for twenty and more to have gathered.

Wine poured into their drinks whenever the glasses emptied, excitement was voiced about the upcoming victory tour (would brother and sister arrive together?), but the newest rumours about drama within the Capitolite tied their attention to fabrications of affairs and to family feuds that could ruin a whole career. Virgilia had heard plenty about such matters, yet new information surfaced right before her ears.

What a vast flood of information! Too much that it could all be remembered, but interesting and useful all at once.

It could happen to any of them next, an intricate ocean eating away at its inhabitants, and who knew what visitor names would be hastily scratched out next time they would meet again. While scandalous in nature, there had only been a handful of rumours that had turned out to be untrue.

Mr. Heavensbee had been free of any such scandals. Yet. She had managed to push him into the back of her mind, resurfacing more often than she would have liked. Him and her. They were mere acquaintances. Friends, at the best of guesses.

Tyro Crane finished their final observation on a recent inheritance scandal. Several heads nodded. Crane took a sip. Virgilia shuffled in her seat, flattening the skirt against her legs and cleared her throat.

Twenty three faces turned in her direction.

A prickling burn right underneath Virgilia's cheeks arose before her voice could begin. Hands dug into the seam of her dress, view moving between the most familiar of faces. Those who came regularly, whose sharp eyes escaped nothing and whose mouths passed on so much wisdom.

There was a good method to gather information. Every ounce of truth came with an equal amount of a lie.

"Mr. Heavensbee knew the family quite well." The truth.

"I've heard him … m-mention them during dinner with Coriolanus. He spoke about-about grandchildren. I suppose the money could be handed to them." The lie.

Finally, the information required: "Mr. Heavensbee … he is the trustworthy type, wouldn't y-you say?"

She had witnessed the reactions that followed a few times. Toward herself, when many had rushed to congratulate her on her engagement and subsequent marriage. Quite recently, once more, following the Games on television, remaining survivors had rushed to gather food, weapons, and clothing from a dead tribute. The reactions from the twenty three guests was not unlike either of those moments. Vultures ravaging what they could acquire. Today, that was any and all information on Mr. Heavensbee. Next month, someone else would be eaten alive.

Some remarks were rather plain and obvious. Virgilia remembered having to sit down, blonde hair gliding across her shoulder, and sticking her nose in a book on pre-war families and their significance. The Heavensbee's had been among those families - all in contrast to her own, and she recalled the tug of jealousy when her fingers glided across those family names and paused at significant women who had been allowed to learn more than family lineages.

Following the Dark Days, the Heavensbees had revolutionised themselves into becoming a Gamemaking family. Too many names had been shot into the room that her head felt faint at remembering any of their first names, but a Heavensbee had not stood far from the Training Centre ever since its existence. Some voices ruled that Mr. Heavensbee's success therefore was no surprising one, but the sneer fell short with more voices exploring Mr. Heavensbee's trustworthiness on Virgilia's half-truth. Nepotism was not frowned upon among most spouses; many would likely not have been present here if not for the help of a family member or two.

Perhaps more staggering was that the Heavensbee line had thinned out, much to Virgilia's surprise, and her Mr. Heavensbee was the remaining heir. This dire need of continuing the family line led to one simple assumption.

"He should be married," Virgilia stated despite the passionate jabber about his supposed wealth. Expecting glances met some of her conspirators. An unmarried person of that age usually had to hide something. She faintly recalled the list of possible suitors when her family had decided it was time to find her a partner. A Heavensbee had not been among that list — she was certain of that. Unless he was married and she had made a fool of herself, something was not quite right in her world of intricate marriages and political gains.

The guests were furious in their attempts to solve the riddle.

"Maybe he is gay."

"No, Price and him used to be an item when he was in the academy. I've heard it from Septimus myself."

"Ill-performing?"

That struck a laugh. Not from Virgilia.

"You know those men. They are married to the Games and that is all they aspire to be."

The spouse of a Gamemaker was the first one to sulk, their arms crossed firmly before their stomach: "That is not true."

"Maybe he has a secret," Virgilia didn't make out whose voice this observation belonged to, but it stayed with her. Longer than the conversation, self-pitied in its lack of a solution, had returned to the inheritance scandal and flooded along to a new wedding rumour. What secret could that be? It seemed so unlike him. With all his family ties, what more could one aspire to be?

His lack of a significant other continued to buzz inside her head and awoke ever so often while the chatter drowned into a quiet silence as her guests flooded away. Of all information gathered, this had been its most noteworthy one. Certainly not of personal interest, no. Was she not a happily married woman herself? To a husband whose efforts in the marriage were utmost certainly the best he could do? Questions that flooded her own mind, intruded and refused to leave as it eroded the inner works of her self. Nothing inside there should have included thinking about whether another man was in a happy relationship — or not.

She settled on being noble when wishing the last guest a goodbye and the room had dried into a dead desert. Hopeful for him to find someone. Was he not too sweet, certainly making a good match for any woman within the Capitol? That thought chewed on her, though, thinking about how it seemed too simple. He seemed too simply explained. Only child, though she recalled there had been another young Heavensbee, possibly a cousin of the same age. Sent to the Peacekeeping forces, most likely. Career driven and successful at that. Surely he must have learned about his duties at a young age.

Had he needed to sit inside a gloomy place as a young boy, studying all about Panem's history only to look outside onto the green grass and wish he could lay down, have his naked feet tickle the grass and look up at the clouds?

She thought about what type of secrets he must have for not being married.

They were quiet when they hushed inside. Two avoces, black strings having grown across their faces weaving up from their cheeks over their ears and up their head. Only their mouths remained uncovered, an uncommon occasion. Their hands reached to gather tea cups and plates and hovered along as she sat there, rendered quiet herself at their hand gestures for her to stay still. How haunting it was, seeing them at their work leaving a cold shiver along her spine. There was little contact allowed with any of the avoces, and it was wisest to ignore them altogether, for betraying the Capitol was perhaps the worst crime possible. It was hard seeing either of them as two criminals, however. A slender young woman and a short man. What kind of betrayal had they done? Or was it a mere empty accusation? And why did it matter to her, now, when she should know better? Traitors were traitors, and that was that.

Marble hallways echoed as her heels moved along, wounding her up a staircase and drifting along the windows. A brief glimpse outside to the gardens, her husband had busied himself with his white roses. They caught themselves in his dark-gloved hands, separated from the remaining bits, and stripped of petals he deemed unnecessary. He inspected each of them several times as if to gauge their perfection, and worked at them until they must have been deemed suitable enough. By the second rose, a long and tedious process, Virgilia tore her gaze away. Her mind had begun to think of others, once more, and looking at her husband while such thoughts entered her mind had made her feel all kinds of queasy.

She still wondered, though, and settled that, maybe, Mr. Heavensbee was married to his work.

It certainly sounded better than if he were snogging Mrs. Price.

The portrait of her husband's ancestors moulded into images of Mr. Heavensbee arm in arm with Mrs. Price, there to taunt her, to make her wonder, and grow her head dizzy in jealousy and shame. Behind the next corner she expected the long shadows of a sculpture to turn into two people, arm in arm. Nothing about this made sense.

Virgilia halted. The path ahead was littered with vases and statues and paintings along the walls, a warm carpet rolled out, and the long wooden door opened enough for rays of orange and yellow to speckle along her dress and skin. The library was no forbidden place, no. Nothing within the mansion was truly forbidden, just as nothing within the Capitol was not forbidden. Yet avoces existed, and there were spaces she did not frequent. Surely, her tongue would not be cut out if she were to enter her husband's office or the library, but her presence seemed so entirely unfit there that she was certain a scornful gaze and pitiful words were the lightest of penalties. There was a small selection of books in her personal quarters, of course, but those had been read until its spines had peeled off.

The strange pull to move inside lingered as the sun was moving closer to its horizon. Orange and yellow warmed the ground and floor inside. Almost as if it had been built intentionally to catch the last sun rays before the darkness would enshroud the room.

Floorboards creaked as she went along. Her eyes moved to see if any guard or staff member would jump from the shadows. That somehow her thoughts had been proven right and she did not belong in a place holding such knowledge. But shadows remained shadows, and Virgilia found herself in the heart of the library.

The place did not smell like the rebellious change she had expected, though. Old wood overwhelmed by the scent of old paper. What kind of books did her husband even keep inside? What was worth reading and most important of all: Where would she find those books? The few ones she kept had remained in the same order since she had moved in, and blindly grabbing them would yield a consistent result.

Here, the book shelves loomed above her, containing hundreds of tales she was entirely unaware of and wisdom she would never acquire. If she had already overstepped a boundary by existing within this space, it was most certainly reached when touching the leather bathed in sunlight. Below her fingertips was lettering protruding the book cover. Her ears caught her own footsteps that sounded along the floor and muffled when she stepped onto a larger carpet along the bookshelves.

Breathe in.

Any book would do, she thought, tracing along as she moved. Fingers stopped at a spine, its one word title printed on a dark background. She slipped to the endband, touched the compressed pages that fit two fingers, and pushed it to the edge of the shelf. It tipped over and moved into her palm.

Breathe out.

The seating area hosted several chairs and a couch, and she sat right up in the chair closest to the windows. The sun turned the pages golden, and her fingers touched upon the first word. A few pages in, she knew this book was nothing akin to what awaited her in her quarters. No romance of a young woman anticipating her future spouse. No handsome man whose reputation would become hers and who loved her despite the arrangement that had bound them together. She had used to believe in the truth of those tales, but they had faltered and felt all too wrong when the marriage she led felt so different.

Virgilia could not recall at what point she had lost herself in this book, when she had decided to undo her shoes and lean into the chair or when she had decided to fold her legs on the cushions. Time had passed long enough for the sky to be filled in all kinds of colours and the lamp on the wooden stand nearby needing to aid in her reading.

She had thought herself as part of the heroic tale laid out before her eyes, the hero of an imagined time long past who had been prophesied to kill his own father. Whose tale was a long and enduring one and success only happened once rebelling with his kin. Change, she lingered at that, could never happen alone. Merely like that she had forgotten that the hero's journey was not hers, and Virgiia awoke in the same mansion in the same country. The air felt heavy moving in and out of her lungs, and she felt the naked feet at a place quite different, but not one in the present or in writing. The chirping birds in the garden of her family's home, feet in the grass and her nose in a book promising a happy marriage to future brides of Panem. Her future had been certain to be bright and wonderful. What kind of unsatisfying prophecy was that?

The heroes of the novel had a similar non-shattering belief. One day, all will turn out good and their tales aided the cause of all. Almost finished, the conclusion laying there right before her eyes. The defeat of the father ahead. She turned the page, the final chapter number large on the next page.

"I never see you around here," his deep voice pierced through the images she had conjured in her mind. The adventures of the travellers who had moved into the final battle evaporated as her husband moved into frame.

It was an accusation. A reminder that, no, she was never here because this was not her place. Feet returned back to the ground, bottom of her dress smoothed into place, and the book moved to the side table. Was her hair straightened? All not to worry about as her hands folded into her lap, nails pinched into her skin and she hoped not to have disappointed. "I thought of trying something new… I'm … I'm sorry."

He eyed her, head slightly tilted despite standing so tall before her. He always was - taller than her, that was. Even with her heels on, he easily stood above her. Then, his shoulders eased and glance looked above her, past the gardens and stood in line with the trees. He was thinking, that much she knew about him. Always, never letting anyone into his mind. Virgilia had tried for a while, not that her words were any more worthwhile than that of his many advisors.

"I didn't take you as someone who tries something new," a simple observation.

Her heart beat quite so rapidly in her chest it must have tried to jump out of her throat had she not kept her mouth shut. Virgilia turned her sweaty hands within her palms. It was hard thinking by his side, head swelling with what she had read, why she had decided to try something new, how she had gotten lost in fantasy when her duties were more important. Worst of all, she worried what more new he saw in her. Was there a change to her as his wife? Had she disappointed?

"I -" Lump stuck in her throat, fingers hardened around each other that she was certain they had drained all blood from her hands and turned them into rigid stones. "My books got … I've read them p-plenty of times…"

"I see," His tone was void of emotion.

Jolting back to her feet, Virgilia remained smaller than his imposing height. Her hands straightened the dress, touched upon her braided hair and eventually folded together in front of her. Knuckles strained until turned into white hills above a pale structure of veins and bones. Collecting her thoughts into a proper sentences in its correct order seemed more difficult than usual: "Do - do you need the … library to yourself? I-I was about to finish…"

The bitterness of frost had always been present in his voice. At first, Virgilia had thought it was part of his charm. A cold that alternated with the warmth she had felt inside her, but the cold restrained the warmth and dulled its spirit. At least his attention was not directed at her entirely. Coriolanus' gaze lingered somewhere else, somewhere next to her.

The book. The book. Half opened on the side table, its stories flowing over the pages. The tale of a heroic man and his rebellion, the fight against a bigger entity and the need to free his kin. It lay bare before his eyes. And just like that, it was no longer hers alone.

"Evening work, yes," he explained and tore his gaze away from the book.

"I wish you good speed, then," a faint hand rested on the side of his arm as she passed him, head tilted enough to make out his side, but enough to move forward and past him.

He stopped her with the mere sound of his words.

"I will see you tonight, then?"

It was no question even though he coined it as such. She knew her duties. A quiet mutter of approval, the faintest noise, passed her lips as she looked at him. His blue eyes had grown faint with age. No more the assertive colour she had used to know. However, if anything, it made their request stronger. Because she had never declined him, never dared to even consider such an offence.

Wobbly legs moved along the hallway. It wasn't that it bothered her to visit his bedroom ever so often, no. It was part of their marriage, was it not? A duty she obliged to, because he was such a kind husband in return, was he not?

When she had been younger, she had been certain he could read her mind. Coriolanus was a wise man, one whose eyes, once more piercing than today, had seemed to see so completely through her that she was convinced his wisdom had come from reading her bare. Her thoughts had had to be pure, not messy, to befit her role. What had been nothing but imagination — she had caught herself thinking a few bad thoughts of him ever so often and he had never complained — seemed quite so true once more this evening.

He had seemed to look into her, right through, and seen every thought she had had about the tale, about the feelings to have wandered into his library, and about the knot in her stomach when thinking about Mr. Heavensbee's potential love life.

Lightheaded, Virgilia knew she was doomed altogether.

Getting ready for him was tedious. She made her hair again to assure it would not slip, and she turned to her wardrobe to find the same white nightgown. Long silk, with a pattern around her chest. Nothing too revealing, but the fabric moved into her body and hugged her coldly. Virgilia knew to rid herself of it later, when returning to her chambers, as she always did, and finding a comfortable gown for the night. With age, he had not requested her presence as much as he used to, and at times it had stung her heart. More often, she was glad about the lonely nights.

Virgilia left her bedroom through her personal living quarters, arranged to welcome guests and write letters. The desk in an enclave of the room always suited a singular rose as did the table around the seating arrangements. She passed by the latter, fingers touching the tip of the rose, pulling at a blossom and fidgeting with it in her hand.

The petal remained in her fingers when she hovered along the upstairs hallway. Twisted but never squeezed as she stepped along the black-and-white floor, blindly and notwithstanding the lack of light along the hallways. The moon had lifted its face across the landscape, casting long lights of blue along her face, her skin, her nightgown. It blurred together as she looked along the light source from her husband's office. Working late, she knew. The sky outside was more worthy of any attention.

Stars that decorated the night and drew pictures with the clouds moving along. It seemed reminiscent of the sky the hero had slept underneath. It all must have turned out well. Her hands leaned onto the window aisle, wrist turned as her fingers bolstered her weight to inch ever so much closer to the free night. She had never known much about finding constellations, but her imagination created her own. A crow wandering along the night. A wave in the ocean. They all casted a ghostly light upon her, covering the nightgown and her hair. That, too, was free for once, and would move along the wind if she could feel any of it on her face. If only the window were open.

A door opened in the near vicinity, and Virgilia turned to greet her husband.

But this was not her husband.

"Mr. Heavensbee," she muttered, turning around and away from the window. He was equally pale dipped into the moonlight, albeit his dark clothes manifested him in reality.

"Mrs. Snow," his voice etched at something, cut her surname into a stutter all unlike him, and looked at her with an open mouth and widened eyes. He seemed as if he had seen a ghost.

Albeit her husband must have invited him, he had not been invited to speak with her. Despite the thought of him usually causing a rather lighthearted feeling in her chest, anger flooded her veins and pinched her ears. He was not supposed to see her with her hair down, covered in only a dress and waiting for the inevitable. Worse all, the pitiful gleam she wasn't sure if imagined or certainly a part of his expression. He was not allowed to look at her with a notion of pity.

"Good night, Mr. Heavensbee."

He, too, mumbled his goodbye as she drifted past. But the blood pumped in her chest, overturned all other noises, and refused to listen.

Virgilia fell into her bed no twenty minutes after. The sheets were cold, but familiar in their welcoming loneliness. Shadows cast from trees and clouds crept along her bedroom the entire night as she moved from one side to the next, pinching her eyes shut without any release to the exhaustion. The shadows painted images of the heroes in the book and grew into Mr. Heavensbee's surprised face until he turned away to hold another figure while the darkness consumed her. The white rose's petal stayed close on her nightstand.

tw - Snow and Virgilia talk with one another and this chapter alludes to them having sex. It's not written out.