Chapter 3: You Took A Job For…?

"So: a little mockingjay told me a real rip-roaring joke the other day –"

"Which little mockingjay are we talking about: my sister or your kid brother?"

Gale grins teasingly as he lifts a tree branch for us to duck under. It's the Sunday morning following my rainy conversation with Enola over lamb stew. "If I say our nephew, will you spare me the punchline?"

"No, because our nephew can barely make unintelligible sounds." I round on him, arms folded over my hunting jacket and cock an annoyed eyebrow. Aspen's birth really did bring about a whole new interesting dynamic to Gale's and my hunting partnership. The moment he came into the world prematurely, screaming his little head off, it dawned on us just what having our siblings marry each other meant.

Gale chuffs. "Fair enough. Rory told me a real doozy that involves you dressing up and keeping house for the Baker and his kid?" A smirk is tugging at his lips, as though he's waiting for me to bust up laughing at the good joke so he can too.

I keep my face in a flat affect. "It's no doozy. I've started minding the Baker's daughter every day. I'm her governess."

Gale looks momentarily speechless and in the interim, I turn heel and flounce deeper into the woods. I trust that he will follow me; we need to reinforce our snare lines. "You're her what?!"

"I told you. I'm her governess."

"You mean nanny."

"Semantics," I brush off. "And whaddaya know, a simple country boy like you actually knows his synonyms!"

Gale is gawping at me as though I've just shot him clean through the temple. Next second, his face clenches into something truly angry, almost like he's… insulted. I try not to have my eyes widen too much, as I realize: Snow's Roses. That was very passive-aggressive. One week, and I'm already starting to sound like Enola. "Yes, Catnip, I happen to understand context clues enough to roughly guess what governess means! It means you're a glorified babysitter, raising someone else's kid!" He shakes his head at me, baffled. "How did you even end up with this gig anyway? Did Mellark hold you at gunpoint on your squirrel trade?"

I whirl on him, brown braid snapping over my shoulder like a whip to glower at him. "If you must know, your sister-in-law read an ad for it in that rag our district calls a paper and begged me to apply."

"Prim told you to…. Why?" Gale is gazing at me as though he's never seen me before.

I shrug. "Money is tight. She and Rory need the coin for the baby. Plus, in her meddling way, she must have thought it would give me something to do."

"Other than traipsing through the woods with me. To feed our family." Gale has a hard edge to his voice, expression leery.

I snort. "Well, when you put it like that…"

"Did Prim?"

"Of course not!" I scold him. "She knows what we have to do!"

"Yeah, and I hope she's darn grateful! If it weren't for us, she and Rory… and I guess you would all be trying to wean an infant while living with Posy and my mother."

I shake my head. "You're impossible. You really should have more faith in your brother than that."

"Don't change the subject, Catnip. What – other than the fact that you give like a house of cards when Prim asks you for anything – possessed you to call on the Baker and apply to be his governess?" He draws out the Capitolite word loftily, and it oddly grates on my nerves.

I stamp to a halt, and shoot him a sideways, warning glare. "Nothing possessed me. Prim pleaded; I felt I had to oblige."

Something dark and…. heavy has passed over Gale, like a cloud, though the tension in his face has eased a bit into something resembling sympathy. "Prim's still cut up about…?"

"Don't," I bite, warning. "Don't say it."

A pregnant pause. Finally, Gale points out: "It wasn't her fault."

I sigh heavily. "I know that and you know that…. but Prim doesn't. She'll always think…"

"I get it."

I shoot him a pointed look, while absently reaching for the first snare line and giving it an inspective tug. "Do you?"

Another slight beat. "Yeah. I do. In her line of work, she's seen almost as much as we miners." Gale tosses his head to clear it. "But if Prim is still feeling that…. why didn't she take the job?"

"Because she already has a child to raise?" I lilt my voice into a self-evident question. "Oh, and a business to run. She asked me to apply, for her sake."

"So the Baker actually hired you."

I turn away as far as I can, scrutinizing another snare so he doesn't see how warm my face has gotten. "He didn't exactly interview me. He just…. made the employment offer."

I turn back to find Gale still appearing lost and confused. "And you actually took the job? You hate kids!"

I roll my eyes, trying and failing to tamp down an indulgent smile. "I don't hate them…."

"Apparently, you've never loved them enough to want to have ones of your own."

Stillness in these woods. I cast a sad yet determined glance back at Gale. The awkwardness between us is thick as butter. "No. I don't. And I won't."

I hate the guilt that tears through me at the crestfallen expression Gale now sports – one that I've seen before. I have to tell myself I can't help that. When it comes to family, Gale and I both want different things out of our adult lives, and never the twain shall meet. I made that clear long ago.

"Then…. why bother wiping the snot off Mellark's kid?"

"Gale, she's not that helpless!" I chide, annoyed. "She's not even a problem. She's just a girl!"

"Sure – the girl of a Merchant whose never looked twice at us…!"

I gawk at him, shocked. "Peeta has been nothing but generous when we've traded….!"

"…. And you're going back for more like a chump, and for what? All to act as an indentured servant while coddling some snot-nosed, uppity, spoiled Townie brat!"

SMACK!

My hand flies out and stings his cheek without warning or forethought. Next second, I have drawn both hands, including my tingling right, to my mouth in mortified horror. Gale looks utterly stunned. I finally lower my hands, my emotions shifting like the fall leaves skittering at our feet while carried by the wind. I'll gladly apologize for slapping him – that was out of line. But, and I find it dawning on me with slight amazement: I will never apologize for defending Enola.

"Don't you ever talk about that little girl like that again." I state it coldly. There's a bizarre growl to my voice that makes me sound like a bear-mutt. Gale tries to glare at me, though he's been cowed.

"What, so you're a Townie-lover now?"

"Don't be vulgar," I counter him. "My mother was a 'Townie,' as you've so eloquently stated." I try to soften by adding gently, "You're a better man than that."

He doesn't answer me, finding it a struggle to look me in the eye. If things were awkward before, they're downright uncomfortable now.

I glance to the sun. It's getting low in the sky. "I have to go. I need what sleep I can get with Aspen up and teething half the night, then I start early to take Enola to school."

"Oh, so that's her name?" Gale calls to my retreating back. "Do you dress her for school too?"

I turn dangerously slowly and simply stare Gale down. When he finally blinks first and forfeits the staring contest, I spin on my heel and march out of the woods.

I return the next morning from dropping Enola off at school to find Peeta's brother, Rye, manning the front counter. I've always perceived the middle Mellark son to be a bit of a turkey, empty-headed and crass – sometimes crasser than Gale.

"Hey. Uh… Everdeen, right?"

I frown. "It's Katniss."

He nods, appraising me in my frock. "You oughta be careful wearing dresses like that. 'Keepers will wanna get fresh with you."

I blow a raspberry as I huff. "I think I can handle myself."

"In bed or in general?"

I shoot him a baleful look. I'm satisfied when he immediately raises his hands in surrender. "OK, OK. Did my niece at least get to school all right?"

"That would be more her father's concern, not yours, if you'd just kindly point me to where he is."

Rye jerks his thumb. "Down in the basement, taking inventory."

"Thank you," I sniff, sweeping away with my nose in the air. Though I would never openly admit to it, I've kept tabs on the Mellark family as I've grown into womanhood. The eldest brother, Leven, has been married to the undertaker's daughter since before Peeta, Prim and I were past Reaping age. Rye, on the other hand, has remained a stubborn bachelor, and thank the State for that! I couldn't imagine any girl crazy enough to Toast the bread with the likes of him.

And Peeta… well, most everyone in the district knows the story.

The Baker's youngest son married young, less than a month after standing for our final Reaping. From what I understand, the wedding was very hurried. But that seemed to match the…. liveliness of the bride in question. Delly Cartwright was the only daughter of the Merchant cobbler in Town. I wouldn't have voluntarily gotten to know her – Delly made friends largely by foisting herself on then, chittering a mile a minute. As a largely taciturn person with anyone besides my sister and Gale, it was difficult to be immersed in such large quantities by the force that was Delly. She was so…. happy all the time, without having really any business to be. Not in a district like Twelve, where most everyone else can starve to death in safety.

By the dim light of a single bulb, I halt on the bottom landing as I take in the cellar doubling as the Bakery's storeroom. Casks of what I presume are milk to make yeast ready for rising line the walls. Bags of flour are stacked high in piles amidst these. I've seen Peeta handle them often enough since we were kids – in our later school years, he could (and likely still can) throw a sack weighing a hundred pounds right over his head. It always… amazed me. Then again, he was the runner-up for wrestling champion our year, and he lost the title second only to his own brother.

I watch Peeta now, with his back to me, bending over to swing a flour sack down on one pile. He'd mentioned he had needed to make a rare early morning supply run to Lucy Gray Baird train station this morning, hence his asking me upon arriving home Saturday evening if I might escort Enola to school.

I feel for him, having to work so hard, to provide for his child, all alone…. I try to imagine Rory, the closest point of reference I have, raising Aspen without my sister: in spite of how quick I was to defend him to Gale, I have a feeling in that scenario, the younger Hawthorne would be sharing a roof with his mother.

These thoughts run through me as I oddly have chosen to fixate my gaze on the flexing in Peeta's jeans around his taut, curved – I blush, and jerk out of my ogling in the moment directly before Peeta senses that he's being watched. He turns, the dim light from the single bulb on the stair somehow enhancing his…. I don't know what or how to describe it. I think I would be scandalized if I attempted to.

"Katniss…."

I perform an odd clearing of the throat. "Enola got to school safely."

He beams genuinely at me. "Thank you." It is strange to hear him offer his gratitude to me, when really it should be the other way around. The sound of it bounces in my brain. Thank you. Like he savors the words, as though they're not the thoughtless platitude anyone else would throw around willy-nilly. Sometimes, good grammar, good manners, loses meaning in just how often we say them. But Peeta is different. He appreciates people, no matter if they're Merchant or Seam. And he's certainly never been anything but kind and appreciative to me since I started caring for his daughter.

I nervously play with the skirts of my frock. "How… how has work been going?"

I marvel at how he heaves out a sigh with a smile on his face. "It's…. going." He smiles tiredly. "Snow's Roses, sometimes I can hardly keep up with the orders!"

"I'm sure Enola helps," I float out, trying to be helpful.

"Well…." Peeta scratches at the back of his neck, and an inexplicable spasm courses through me. "I've been teaching her. It's…. been an experience, but she's eager to learn. She'll get there."

I smile softly. "I know she will. She's a good little girl."

"Why thank you…." And Peeta gazes at me appreciatively. "I must agree with you there." We hold the stare for a beat too long and then hurriedly glance away. Peeta's focus must zero in on my palm for he suddenly blurts out:

"Is it the really terrible lighting in here, or is your hand red?"

I quickly skirt my eyes down to turn over my right hand and study its lingering angry shade from when I slapped Gale yesterday morning.

"Oh no, it's… it's fine, really…" I try to grin weakly in sloughing it off.

"It's not fine. Katty…." And suddenly Peeta's large, calloused hand is cradling my own.

It's involuntary. I suck in a sharp breath, gasping. Unfortunately, Peeta must think I make the sound in pain for he tssks. "You really need ointment on this…" Lifting his eyes to mine, he smirks. "How is it that you live with the district healer and yet don't think to raid her stores?"

I laugh softly. "I never bother Prim with that stuff, unless it's a real emergency."

"A burned hand isn't an emergency in your book? I'd love to know what is…"

"It doesn't burn," I parry back, tensing as I remember just what made my hand get like this. "It stings."

"From a bee?" It's adorable how panicked Peeta looks for me.

"No," I chuckle. "More like a slap."

Silence. Peeta is eyeing me with gallant concern. "Who did you slap? More to the point, what did they do to you that you had to…?" I'm struck by how the timbre in Peeta's voice has shifted into something low, something almost…. protective.

I gulp. "Gale," I breathe.

"Your hunting partner?" I suddenly shiver as Peeta takes a critical step into me. "What did he say to you?" There is something oddly thrilling in how…. demanding he is in his inquiry, his need to know. Something else flickers across his handsome face. "Did he kiss you?"

"No!" I gawp, repulsed at the very thought.

"Did he touch you?" Peeta's growl sounds eerily similar to the one that came out of me at the mere hearing of unkind words towards Enola.

"No," I state quickly again. "He…. he actually said something disparaging about… about Enola."

Peeta seems to fill the room with his…. his incredibly vast presence as he draws himself to his full height. I am heartened to see the papa bear stirring in him. "And what did Hawthorne deign to say about my daughter?"

I'm actually trembling, and I'm not even the one in trouble. "I'd… I'd rather not say…"

"Tell me."

I lift my gaze to his, gulping. "He called her a spoiled brat."

"And you hit him?" He seems a little in disbelief.

I nod.

Suddenly, he is standing much too close. Is the basement really cold enough that I could be shivering? I quiver as I feel the same calloused hand that was just a moment ago in mine now…. brush against my face, tucking the curtain of chestnut hair back behind my ear.

"Thank you…." Peeta breathes out the words of gratitude to me, but there is something in his tone that is far more than gratitude. It frightens me. Deeply.

"I…. I have to go…." I all but lunge for the next basement stair.

"Katty girl…" I freeze in the middle of turning around. I swivel my head back to…. bask in him.

"What did you just call me?"

Even in this, to use his words, terribly dim lighting, I think he blushes. "It's, I…. I've heard Prim call you 'Katty' when she's stopped by sometimes with Aspen in his pram. And well, I kinda tacked on my own – a little…" he can't finish. "You probably hate pet names like that…"

I smile warmly. "The only name I hate is my full one. It's too…. traditional."

Peeta tilts his head the way a puppy would. "Really? And that would be…?"

I squirm at how he's going to make me say it. "Katniss Magenta." Pleasant surprise washes over him and I wriggle again. "Seam… Seam fathers often name their daughters after the plants and the rainbow."

"And your dad picked Magenta? Was that your favorite color as a baby?"

I make a face. "By the State, no!" We both rumble out a laugh.

"What is your favorite color then?"

I study him a moment before answering. "…. Green. What's yours?"

"Orange."

I bark out a shocked laugh, the sound rich and musical. "Like Effie Trinket's hair?"

"Noooooooo, not that kind of orange!" And he makes me giggle again. "More like a…. more like a sunset kind of orange."

I mouth the word, running it over my synapses. Sunset…

Perfect. Peeta twitches and I realize he must have heard me actually speak this aloud.

We're still gazing into each other's eyes when the spell is suddenly broken by the door at the top of the landing banging open, revealing Rye.

"Peeta? You have that lard yet?"

"Yes, we were just talking," I turn my head to call up the stairs. Shifting back to Peeta, I murmur quietly, "I'll make sure Enola is home promptly at 3:15."

"OK," Peeta echoes me, voice oddly soft as well.

I grant myself one last look, then flee up the stairs.