Chapter 4: Lessons in Manners

"Daddy? We're home!"

No response as Enola pushes in the heavy metal door of the back loading dock. I follow blithely behind her into the Bakery. All is quiet as we move through the narrow back hallway that yawns out into the front of the shop. I quickly hone in on the sign attached to the door, the OPEN side facing me. No sign of Peeta. Not unusual. He keeps hours from early morning and will close down by mid-afternoon. Ever since I started as Enola's governess, she and I have never arrived home from school to find her father waiting up. He'll return from his evening supply runs likely in an hour or two.

It's strange, how comfortable I've become hanging around here since beginning with Enola. By now, with winter settling in, I think I'm sort of living here half the time, or at least, I'm here more often than I'm at home with Prim and Rory and the baby. Still, there is one line I have determined I will not cross unless invited, no matter how this is strangely starting to feel like a second home, and that is I have never ascended the steps to the upstairs landing. That's where the loft is.

Most Merchants live above their businesses, and Peeta and Enola are no exception. I understand and respect that father and daughter will need at least some privacy, which is why I am usually slipping off the back loading dock and walking home while Peeta tucks Enola into bed. I don't wish to usurp that from him unless asked, which is why I've never set foot upstairs. All I know is that Enola's bedroom window apparently overlooks the back alley where Peeta and I trade squirrel.

Now that I think on it, there hasn't been much trading, in squirrel or anything else, in some weeks. Hunting, whether with Gale or by myself, happens whenever I have a spare moment, and that's almost exclusively on Sundays at this point. My hunting partner has kept himself rather subdued since that day I slapped him for insulting Enola, the end of my first week as her governess. I've followed his lead, though eventually I will perhaps need to show him mercy and let us fall back into our pre-governess routine. Not that we see nearly as much of each other anymore. I see Peeta more often, though with how busy he is with his work that too is sporadic.

Maybe… maybe it's better that way. I've worked hard to forget the weirdly… charged moment we shared down in the bakery storeroom. It had to have meant nothing… didn't it?

I'm mercifully distracted by my charge coming across a note on the front counter, along with a small wad of sesterces – hard Capitol money. I don't think I've ever seen currency more valuable than coin in my entire life. "Daddy's at the train station picking up new shipments. He's getting everything he'll need there except for one thing. It's out of the way."

"So he's left an errand for us, has he?" I smile at her conspiratorially. "I don't know my way around Town well…. Where is it?"

Enola holds the note out to me and we peruse it between us. I frown, even while admiring Peeta's impeccable handwriting. "What's the… Pavilion?"

"Oh, it's our market!" And Enola is suddenly clutching at my skirts and jumping up and down. "Ca- May I show you, Katniss? Please?"

I smile affectionately at her. "Well, since you're learning to ask so nicely… I'd love to!"

We giggle, the joke only known to us two, as we hustle back out the rear metal door, chittering like two teenagers.

The Pavilion turns out to be a brick terrace, shaded by a shingled roof supported by four pylons. It dawns on me that I've never ventured this far to the east before, beyond the Justice Building and the school, beyond Lucy Gray Baird train station even, around a sharp sidestreet. Gale and I trade with selectively few Merchants, and we have no customers who draw us out this way, at this distance.

I can't help but stare at the neat little stalls, which somehow manage to catch what little dapple sunlight is poking through the overcast clouds of November. The Hob, the closest counterpart to this in the Seam, is set in a warehouse and the air is permeated with coal dust.

Feeling conspicuous, I instinctively reach for Enola's hand. She merely peers up at me, bemused.

"Are you all right, Katniss?"

"Yes, just… stay close," I coo to her.

"Why?" Her button nose scrunches up. "The Pavilion is perfectly safe."

"Just keep tight to me," I entreat her. "I haven't been here before."

She acquiesces judiciously, nodding as we enter the decently populated market, Merchants hawking their wares. I wonder if these are businesses that can't afford to purchase their own dwelling units, assigned by the Justice Building Housing Department. Most of the time, property deeds change hands either when a will is executed following a death or when a couple gets married and files marriage papers with the District Clerk so they may be seen as wed in the eyes of the district law. A civil wedding ceremony almost always precedes a Toasting, but it is the Toasting that truly counts. No one in Twelve feels truly married without it.

"…. Do you have a market?"

"What?" I blink, Enola shaking me from my thoughts.

"I asked if you have a market in the Seam?"

I nod absently, still feeling funny being here, in the midst of the richer folk. "Yes. It's called the Hob. But… I wouldn't exactly call it a market." More like a black market – black being the key descriptor.

"And that's where you do some of your other trading, right? Maybe you could take me there sometime."

"Absolutely not!" I state, regrettably too sharply. I quickly try to ease Enola by explaining. "The Hob… it's not really the place for children, Enola."

I brace myself for more probing questions, but the girl puts it out of her mind. I feel her tugging my hand as she leads me over to the stall we're clearly seeking.

"Good afternoon, my father informed me there's an order of greens waiting for him. It should be under the name Peeta Mellark," Enola requests.

The greengrocer studies me for a moment before nodding and turning away to procure the order. When he sets it down on the booth, Enola tugs at my skirts again.

"Do you have the sesterces?"

Thumbing through the pockets of my frock, I hand her the wad of cash, my eyes sweeping about this place. I hear Enola make the payment, even as she tosses back a "Thank you, Katniss," to me.

"You thank your servant?"

We both snap our heads towards where the greengrocer is peering between Enola and me, clearly amused.

"It's good manners," Enola shrugs. "And she's not my servant. She's my governess."

The greengrocer merely chuckles in an 'Aren't-You-Adorable?' kind of fashion. "Enola, sweetie, I know you mean well, but it's really not necessary. You don't need manners when talking to someone of a lower class."

I feel a burning sensation rise in my cheeks, humiliation zapping me. Enola considers this, tilting her head.

"Huh. Then I guess I don't need manners when I'm talking to you."

It's almost funny to watch a full-grown man nearly choke on his own saliva. Even better, a small posse of Peacekeepers posted a couple stalls down overhears the absolutely brutal burn and start roaring with laughter. One of the cadets even makes a dramatic show of circling an empty barstool before collapsing into it with grandiose shock.

Enola merely smiles beatifically. "Good day," and with that, she turns on her heel. "Come on, Katniss, let's go." I follow her, taking her in with wonder. I'm too dazed to even register just what kind of vegetables we picked up.

We make the trip back to the Bakery in silence, letting ourselves back in via the loading dock. The place is still quiet. I surreptitiously watch Enola as she places what might be a pair of green peppers on the counter. Catching me staring, she smiles shyly.

"Daddy sometimes likes to experiment with his breads."

I'm still stuck in a cloud of bewilderment. "So he's tried using…. Peppers?"

"For flavors. Seasoning. We chop them up into bits and mix them in with the yeast. Jury's still out whether it adds anything."

A brief silence as Enola retrieves a glass of water for herself. She holds out a cup to me, but I silently beg off. Finally, I work up the nerve to speak.

"Thank you. For what you said back there."

Enola brushes it off. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours, right?" I still marvel at the fact that she is only ten, yet she speaks the way I did when I was sixteen. My little charge lays her hands flat on the countertop, head bowed, turned inward suddenly. "I guess I should thank you too. For standing up for me. Daddy told me you… slapped your brother-in-law?"

I chuckle. "No, I slapped my brother-in-law's brother."

She blinks. "Well, doesn't that make him your brother-in-law too?"

"I…." I shake my head after a moment when I realize I'm unable to answer her. "I don't know!"

We suddenly collapse into peals of giggles. Mine very quickly turns into a happy shriek when Enola suddenly flings out a fistful of dough from seemingly nowhere. I hardly know my way around a kitchen, let alone one specialized for a Bakery, so I lunge for an upright bag of baking soda and hurl my own ammunition at her. Pretty soon, a hail of powder and white stuff is falling down all around us, and we're squeaking with laughter, in between some violent sneezes on the part of the baking soda.

Enola and I stare at each other, catching our breath, exchanging small smiles. There's a smudge of something (I can't now quite tell what) on my little charge's cheek, perched along her one dimple as she beams.

"You wanna see my room?" she blurts out excitedly.

I hedge. "Well, I don't know if your daddy would want me up there…"

"He won't mind! Really!" And taking both my hands, she begins to tug me towards the rear narrow hallway. The stairs leading up to the loft are just off the small office where Peeta keeps the account books. Smiling bemusedly, I allow Enola and her bright enthusiasm to guide me. I don't even get a moment to prepare as we emerge into a little girl's room.

I know for certain that Prim and I didn't have nearly such nice things when we were growing up. There are stuffed animals piled on the pink bedspread. A kiddie's vanity is braced against one wall. Enola's eyes go to it and her face falls a little. "Daddy says I'm not allowed to wear makeup until I'm older."

I've never owned make-up in my life, could never afford it, though I did know girls in school who wore it religiously. I never understood the appeal of it – of anything, really, that didn't serve a purely utilitarian purpose. Prim appreciated it more; she managed to rustle up a tube of lipstick and blush for her Toasting to Rory. Not that my striking sister has ever needed such enhancements.

I smile down at Enola. "Tell you what: if you promise to take a quick bath, I'll let you show me more of your room. Where's the tub?"

"Right through here," and she opens an adjoining door leading to a small washroom. I stride for the dresser pushed against the far wall, and pull out drawers until I come across a fresh set of pajamas.

"Take these," I pass them to her. Enola turns to enter the bathroom and then pauses on the threshold. She turns back to me.

"I told you the first day we met I didn't need a governess…." The corners of her mouth turn up. "Well maybe I do." And she disappears inside.

I'm left to that thought for a few minutes until I hear the water turn off and the rustling of towling. When Enola emerges in her jammies, I am running my hand over an exquisitely carved piece of furniture with matching bench. The whole piece fits just under the windowsill, with her bed just off of this.

It's only thanks to some afterschool memories that I can identify it. "You play piano?"

Enola flushes pink and curls into herself. "Music helps me relax," she mumbles.

"Me too!" The brightness in my voice makes her glance up sharply.

"Do you play?"

"Not very well. When I was a girl, I'd sometimes go with Madge – Mayor Undersee now – to her house in the Justice Building. I'd sit for hours listening to her play. She taught me some basic scales…."

Enola eagerly sits down on the piano bench, lifting the polished cover over the keys of the instrument. She pats the empty space next to her. "Sit by me! I need to practice my arpeggios anyway." She shows me the sheet music. I would say I am a mediocre sight-reader on account of the choral elective I took in school. In moments, I am taking Enola through the exercises.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, nueve…" I trill, Enola matching me beat for beat. "Good. Un, deux, trois, quatre…"

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq (un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…) six, sept, huit, nueve (six, sept, huit, nueve)."

I thrum my fingers over the keys. "Sept, huit, nueve…"

"Sept, huit, nueve…" Enola dutifully tries to mimic me.

"Sept, huit nueve."

"Sept, huit, nueve."

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE!" We land on the last note jarringly and a little nasally; our faces close together and silly, before collapsing into peals of giggles.

"Wow…" Enola gasps when she's finally caught her breath. "Your voice is really pretty…"

I beam, an inexplicable warmth filling me. "Thank you."

"Do you sing?"

"I… used to, when I was a little girl. Not so much anymore, unless it's my nephew's lullaby."

"Oh, please sing something for me!" Enola clasps her hands together, beatific, and Panem help me, how can I refuse a face like that?

Taking a deep breath, I begin:

"Down in the valley, the valley so low, hear the train blow, love, hear the train blow. The train, love, here the train blow…" I don't get very far before I stop, flustered. Enola doesn't seem to mind – indeed, it is as though she has been shocked into stillness.

"…. Just like he said…" she breathes. At least, that's what I think I heard.

"Huh? What are you talking about, baby?"

Before I can get an answer out of her, a door slams shut from downstairs. The footsteps of a heavy tread. "That'll be your father," I smile simply. A second later, a holler wafts up to us.

"What the…? KATNISS? ENOLA!"

Enola and I patter downstairs, sporting twin winces at the sight of Peeta standing ankle deep in beige goop behind his own counter.

Enola cringes. "Sorry, Daddy. We got into a food fight after bringing home the peppers."

Peeta's face crunches up in hapless frustration. I decide to head him off with a slight lie. "She was teaching me how to bake. I… I asked her to."

The smile is fighting to crawl onto Peeta's lips – those lips that I'm suddenly focusing on too much. "Hmm. Evidently, not very well." The dry amusement seeps from his voice. A pause, and then he suddenly beckons me closer to the counter. "You must learn properly – though Enola, my dear, I admire your pluck." I feel a spark of electricity suddenly shoot through the bones of my hips as Peeta maneuvers me by my waist so I am in front of the counter, with him behind me. I stare down into the piece of dough awaiting me and will myself to drown in it.

"Let's start small," Peeta instructs. "You have to get your hands really dirty in the dough in order to knead it. Like this…" I freeze as he overlays his large palms over mine. And then his fingers are guiding mine, teaching me how to handle the dough. I can only stare at our enjoined hands. He has such massive hands… they dwarf mine….

My hearing feels like it is underwater and when I come up for air, I turn to find Peeta still directly behind me. His impossibly blue eyes search my face curiously.

"Katty, are you all right?" Off to the side, I sense Enola glancing between us, like she's trying to figure something out.

Too long of a silence. Enola finally breaks it, and with it, the spell that has descended on her father and me.

"Your face is all red."

"Is it?" I draw back, unable to take my eyes off of Peeta. I feel mortified, unclean somehow. "I think I would know if I've ever gotten as flustered as this."

Peeta takes a crucial step back and diplomatically clears his throat. "Well, baking isn't for everyone…" he states delicately, and I am ever so grateful for his tact.

He's still looking at me like I'm… I'm…. I turn my face away, ashamed.