Chapter 15: The Victory Tour

I don't get any sleep that night after Danny and I kissed in the greengrocer's. A pounding knock (which I know all too well) wakes me just ahead of the rooster's crow. My blond hair a mess, I tug my nightgown around me as I open the door.

Brutus is on my front stoop with the biggest smile I have ever seen from him. "There's my Little Darling! My Victor!"

I rub at my bleary eyes. "Has anyone ever told you you're way too enthusiastic in the morning? And if you ever sound even remotely like my Daddy again, that…." And I point out my naginata on the wall. "…. is going in your stomach."

Brutus pouts. "C'mon, Maysie, don't be such a grump. I understand you're a bedhead right now, but that's no excuse." He swoops in to kiss my cheek lightly, lips just brushing the skin before I flinch. Like everything with Brutus and me, my mentor notices. "You all right?" he frowns, cobalt eyes probing.

I shrug flippantly. "Fine."

The ex-Career's face furrows all the more; he sees right through me, but gratefully doesn't press the point. I observe his eyes sweeping over the half-tidy sitting room, the champagne flutes from Danny's and my drinking the other night still on the coffee table. I forgot to clean up beyond re-stocking my fridge when I got home yesterday; my head was still spinning after Danny kissed me again. He sighs, shaking his head. "If you turn into a walking bar like old Chaff, I'll…."

"One time thing. Drinks with a friend after my sister's wedding." My reply is to the point, and the subtext is even clearer: Drop it.

Brutus brightens in what must be relief, but it's small. "Many happy returns. Who'd she get hitched to?"

"The Mayor's son; he's next in line to govern. They'll be living in the Justice Building."

Brutus whistles. "Your parents must be pleased: a Quarter Quell Victor in one daughter, and a future District First Lady in the other…." Plucking one of the champagne flutes from the coffee table, he examines it with a put-upon sigh. "All the same, if we get to District 11 and Chaff hands you anything with an alcoholic content of over 0.01 - dump it. I won't have you teeter tottering all over the country just because you clearly can't hold your liquor."

I scowl, hands on my hips. "I can so…"

"Sure you can. One flute in you and you're hee-hawing with some friend – oh, but it's supposedly a 'one-time thing.'" He air-quotes, as my face goes white. Once again, Brutus picks up on it. Bastard. His smile broadens with intrigue. "Nice to know you've moved on from jacking off to a dead man's ghost."

It takes everything I have not to level my naginata right at his pecs. "When are Dolly and the others getting here?"

"Awww…. sick of me already?"

I grind my teeth. "Yes."

"The stationmaster told me their train isn't due until half past ten."

"So I'm stuck here alone with you for three and a half hours. Great."

Brutus huffs. "Well, if you can't stand the sight of me, hit the showers, get changed into something suitable, or find something useful to do. Dolly and company will have to take care of the rest."

Huffing, I flounce upstairs and take a quick shower. Going through my closet of clothes, I ignore all the garments with more Capitol fashions in favor of my beige Reaping dress. In a strange way, it's almost like a piece of comfort clothes for me, and I sigh at how the fabric clings to my skin, cocooning me in soothing warmth. Braiding my hair, I head back downstairs to find Brutus watching the rerun of some Hunger Games on TV. He whoops as the eventual Victor takes down a difficult opponent in the boy from District 10.

"Man, the terrain they booked that year was dope!" Spying me, he grins and pats the empty cushion next to him. I gingerly lower myself onto the space, absently watching Claudius Templesmith give a rundown of the arena's landscape that has Brutus so jacked up.

"Now, for our viewers who don't know, these mazes of forests and deep ravines are part of a landscape called the Nantahala Wilderness, which was once a part of the American state known as North Carolina. Millennia ago, at the turn of the 21st century, a naughty little terrorist spent five years as a fugitive in these very woods…." Claudius chuckles as though the terrorist in question did little more than steal a cookie from his mother's cookie tin.

It's only just then that I notice Brutus side-eyeing me with a puzzled expression on his face. "So:" he breaks the silence. "This guy you bedded – he wouldn't happen to be the same guy who kissed you on Reaping Day while going steady with…?"

"Not answering that, Brutus," I spit.

"Was he at least competent in bed….?"

"Oh, shut up."

The three hours mercifully pass quickly, and we are just watching as Ben Cooper of District 9 becomes Victor of the 29th Hunger Games when there is a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," I firmly backhand Brutus into the couch cushions as he moves to get up. Crossing into the foyer, I brace myself as I open the door.

Dolly Evana's cry of delight quickly turns into a screech. "Oh, my starlet! What have you done to yourself?!"

"Took a shower…..?" I cock one eyebrow, even as I move to embrace her warmly.

"Well, not to worry, dear – Dolly's here!" She pinches my cheek like a mother hen and sweeps into the mansion. Quillia and Bette are right on her heels, and I give them my best valley girl smile as we kiss cheeks.

"We missed you too, honey." Quillia tells me.

"All right, let's go! Move it! We need to be out of here on the noon train!" Brutus bellows everyone to order.

It astonishes me how Dolly and her team can turn me into some kind of angel in less than 90 minutes. Before I can seemingly blink, we are on the platform in front of a cheering throng of nearly all of District 12, after a brief introduction in which I face once again the families of Gila Callan and Beech Berryhill. A separate stage is even erected for the Abernathys, although no one acknowledges why their platform is chillingly empty. As I prepare to step aboard the silver locomotive, my eyes spot Danny in the crowd. I feel my heart constrict in a way I've only been able to name when gazing at one other person, and I blow him a kiss. The crowd goes berserk, thinking the gesture is for all of them.

But with Danny's small smile, he and I both know that kiss was just for him. Just for… us.


We are already in District 11 by the time it's late afternoon. As soon as Brutus, Dolly and I step off the train, squads of Peacekeepers surround us and give us a military escort, hustling us into an armored car. They are just dancing on the line of manhandling us, and the roughness with which they conduct business here unnerves me. Even though he did ruin my sister's wedding reception, we in Twelve have all come to agree that Cray was just throwing his weight around. It's only been a couple of months, but we can already tell that our Head Peacekeeper has been settling in and appears to be slacking off after only a couple of demonstrations. We probably dodged a bullet with my taking out Cray's former commander – I have a feeling she would have been harsher. Just as harsh as these guys in Eleven.

Brutus smiles at me apologetically. "You may find that the atmosphere here is a bit different than in Twelve. These people are more…. hot-blooded." He presses some notecards into my hands. "Read exactly what's written here when you're cued. We'll be meeting with Mayor Ducey and the District 11 Victors in the Justice Building beforehand."

The armored cars stop at an imposing stone building, almost identical to the one in Twelve except for a classical dome, and admit us through a side entrance. I shake hands with Mayor Ducey, and laugh at how Chaff pushes him aside to envelop me in a big bear hug. There's a lady standing with him who looks to be about in her mid-thirties, whom Chaff introduces as Seeder, Victor of the 31st Hunger Games. Chaff and Seeder are the only two living Victors from this district, though they've had two others before them – a girl who won the 20th Games but died young and a boy who won the 3rd Games but hasn't been heard from in decades. He must be their Lucy Gray Baird, I ponder, as I stare up at fifteen-foot high tapestries depicting portraits of each of Eleven's four Victors.

Mayor Ducey ushers our group out onto a raised stage in front of the Justice Building. A chorus of voices goes up at the sight of me, tellingly with more boos and jeers than cheers. The reaction disquiets me, and I feel myself beginning to sway dangerously as I stare across the Square at the gathered families of the four dead tributes – tributes I didn't kill, didn't even know. I never encountered any of them in the arena. Three of them died in the bloodbath on the first day, and the fourth followed not long after. Even so, I will myself to concentrate on the names written on the notecards in Brutus's scrawl. I feel Chaff's one remaining hand nudge into the small of my back and stay there, keeping me upright; it's an anchor in this churning sea.

I find myself speaking the approved words woodenly, methodically. The most effort I can manage is not rushing through the speech too fast. Bedlam roars up once again as soon as I finish, and Mayor Ducey spirits us back into the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers are seen viciously holding the swell of angry people back before the oaken doors slam behind us.

I know I could have done better than the performance I just mailed in, but Brutus is the farthest thing from angry with me. Indeed, he pats my shoulder sympathetically.

"You're doing good, little darling. Even if it's all flat-lining from here on in, I'll be happy. This is stressful." He grimaces on the last word like he can't stand the taste of it. Or maybe it's not a strong enough word for what I'm being made to do.

I feel a warm aura of energy beside me, as Chaff stoops low to whisper in my ear: "How fast can you ditch Mr. Lend-Me-a-Bass?"

"What?" I turn to him, even though I heard the question perfectly well; Chaff just shakes his head. I get the subliminal messaging immediately: Not here. We're being watched. I should have known that the Justice Building would be bugged here, as it is in Twelve. Merle told me as much once that the Capitol's hidden microphone and camera technology is state-of-the-art.

Glancing ahead, I can see Seeder observing us from where she's been chatting with Brutus. My brow furrows as I try to think it out: Chaff needs to speak to me about something private, something important. But why does he feel that whatever he has to say, he can only say to me, and not to Brutus? Does the one-handed Victor not trust the ex-Career?

"Well," Chaff calls a little too loudly, slinging an arm over my shoulder. "Y'all got some time to kill before ya gotta get back on the road. Maysilee, how's about I give you a tour of our fantastic grain silos?"

I play along with ease. "Sure. That sounds like fun."

"Oh, good," Brutus turns back to us. "Never did get a proper look at Eleven on my Victory Tour myself. I'd love to see it…"

"Actually, Brutus," Seeder loops her arm through his. "I've been dying to show you our Victors' Village. Chaff's place is a dump, but I got some new décor recently that is just darling! Oh, and Orchus and Wren's mansions have been turned into museums – the curator is a master…." And she drags Brutus away, my mentor glancing back to me once hesitantly. Chaff just smiles winningly and shoos him.

"We kiddies'll have some fun, Brutus; she's in good hands!" Once Seeder and Brutus are gone, Chaff holds out his arm to me. "Shall we?"

Giggling, I take his arm and with Mayor Ducey in tow, we head through Eleven's main town to the largest grain silo in the district. The roar that greets us is almost deafening, and Mayor Ducey lifts his hands to his ears with a wince.

"If you've got her here, Chaff, I'll just head back to the office, if it's all the same to you!" He has to holler to make himself heard over the engines.

Chaff just gives him a thumbs-up, and Mayor Ducey departs with a lame wave. The minute he's gone, Chaff guides me into the shadow of one silo, slinging an arm about me and making a show of pointing up at the grain being cycled through. Then his lips are nearly in my ear, and he whispers to me:

"I'm sorry we had to lose old All-About-That-Bass, but I needed to get you alone, and I haven't gotten a read on Brutus yet and where he might stand. Anytime I ask you a Yes-or-No question, respond nonverbally and accordingly. Let's start with this one: did you murder your district's Head Peacekeeper fresh out of the box?"

I nod my head, making it look as though I'm comprehending something Chaff is pointing out to me about the silo. Turning my face to his, I whisper in his ear now:

"The bitch targeted Haymitch Abernathy's family for execution; I couldn't just do nothing."

Chaff shakes his head, regarding me in a way that makes it seem like he's impressed. "Poor guy. I always liked him. Forgive me for saying so, but I was rooting for him over you until y'all's other boy stabbed him. Laugh like I've said something funny."

I do, even though it isn't funny at all, and even while it fades, my smile lets Chaff know that I hold nothing against him.

"How did you know about it?" I hiss.

"It was all over national news," Chaff gets out in a rush. "You didn't hear about it?"

I shake my head. "I don't watch too much television."

"Yeah? Well, start. One of our techies fucked up and replayed the whole execution, right through you attacking the Peacekeeper bitch. The feed cut out after you slit her throat, but the point was left clear enough."

"Wow!" I say, making a show of gesturing to the whole expanse of the factory. Chaff imperceptibly nods in approval.

"You're a quick study. And you're a badass, Miss Donner. We could use a fighter like you."

"For what?" I breathe.

Chaff's eyes – dark as coals – are practically afire. "To eventually one day bring down the Capitol."

I stare at him for a moment before quickly glancing away and pretending to point out something about the mill.

"We're chomping at the bit here, but nowhere else is nearly ready yet. We know going in that it'll take years – maybe even a decade or more – but we need eyes and ears in Twelve to see if and when the people might be willing to rise up. See, the Victors are the only ones who can talk or travel anywhere between districts. Mind you, the travel part is limited to either Victory Tours or Games season, with maybe some…. summons mixed in, but we're the only people in Panem who could build up a network. You can help us do that, Maysie."

I worry my bottom lip. "There aren't many of us in Twelve – only about 8,000 total," I report, as I make another sweeping gesture with my hand. "And the dude who filled the Head Peacekeeper slot seems to be easing up. Thinks Twelve is a cushy assignment, and outside of a few brawls he instigates, he doesn't need to do much to subjugate us. If I were to do this, there are people I'd need to protect; my sister just got married." And it's more than just Kaydilyn, I silently tell myself. It's my brother-in-law, Merle… my parents… Belle, my best friend…. Danny…..

Chaff is listening to me intently. "I understand," he soothes. "Just think about it. Give me an answer when you come to mentor this summer for the Games. Deal?" He gives a jerk of his head, signaling me that it's time to go. I follow him out into the sunlight. But just before the roars of the engines fade away, I hiss to my new Victor friend:

"Deal."


After District 11, the rest of the Victory Tour seems to fly by in a blur.

The one thing that makes District 12 distinct is that any person who wins the Games from there only has to crisscross the country once, going district by district all the way to the Capitol in descending order. Only successful tributes from District 1 can say the same, except they swing through Panem in the opposite direction.

It is hardest for me to face the families of tributes I personally killed or witnessed dying, like in Districts 5, 6 and 9. But after secretly hobnobbing with Chaff, the most memorable moments of my Tour come when we arrive in the Career districts.

Brutus extolls the virtues of his homeland as we draw closer to Two, telling me that the people will shower me with praise and respect. I find that hard to believe, and hold out hope that perhaps my mentor's ten other fellow Victors will be the most welcoming.

On each of these points, we both prove to be somewhat wrong.

It is difficult for me to meet the eyes of the families on the left side of the Square. Both of the boys submitted as tribute from District 2 died at my hand: the younger boy at the bloodbath, and the other by poisoned dart to save Haymitch's life. Both of the families of these boys perform the traditional crossing of their chests while intoning Glory With Honor, but there is none of the warmth, respect and good sportsmanship that Brutus said I'd find there. Good sportsmanship… in a fight to the death, is there such a thing?

Brutus has always been perceptive enough to at least notice when something is off, most of all with me. From the pinched look on his face when I go back to join him in the Justice Building, he clearly perceived his homeland's lukewarm reception, and is embarrassed by it. He moves quickly to escort me on a grand tour of the district, showing off their Games training school, the stone quarries – and finally, the piece de resistance, Two's sprawling Victors' Village.

In a perfect reversal of my home's own Victors' Village (where all but one are empty), here all but one of the mansions are full. Eleven people live here, including Brutus, and they are each hoping that this coming summer will finally be the year that Two becomes the first district to fill every single house in its Village. If this community of ex-warriors that functions more like a dysfunctional family even knows what they'll do should a 13th Victor be someday added to their ranks, no one postulates on it.

And of these eleven, their reception of the newest Victor – though markedly better than that of their district at large – is still a pretty mixed bag.

A woman who appears middle-aged but already has silver lines in her hair, Boudicca, eyes me up and down, unimpressed. She is apparently the headmistress of the Training School where Brutus and every other Two Victor before him (save one) trained to become a cold-blooded killer. Bartimaeus Pastier, the ox-like, mostly silent man who triumphed thirteen years ago and coached both of the boys I killed (Ares Valerio mentored the girls), glowers at me with barely concealed resentment. Granyte Tanner, a man with whitening golden hair confined to a wheelchair after suffering a nearly fatal injury in the Games he won three decades before Brutus, is the friendliest of the bunch. But it is Ahenobarbus Romero, the first Victor ever, who lays down the final word: I am here. I am the Victor, and we should all welcome her, so shake hands, damnit. Ahenobarbus clearly takes the concept of Glory With Honor, of good sportsmanship such as it exists in a death match with pretty much no rules, as seriously as Brutus does. And from them both – District 2's first Victor and its latest – I learn an important lesson that I'll likely need to take with me when I start mentoring: the person who is the Victor is so because they deserved to be.

I nearly cry in relief when we arrive in District 1 – the last stop before the Capitol. As I give my speech, I find myself locking onto Opal's family the entire time, and the frosty glowering they direct at me chills my bones. I didn't kill Opal – Beech did, but that distinction probably doesn't mean a damn thing. Beech was my district partner, so in this family's eyes, District 12 as a whole is just as responsible for Opal not coming back, no matter which of its tributes actually delivered the deathblow.

An extravagant, wild rave is thrown for me in the finest garden in the Capitol, which is affectionately known as the Rose Garden and dates back centuries. Dolly and my prep team tell me breathlessly how much President Snow adores roses. In the middle of the celebration, when a Capitol attendant approaches and informs me that the President has requested an audience with me, my stylist is nearly sent into ecstasy.

When I ask, however, if Brutus can come with me – he is my mentor – the attendant says no, sorry, the President insisted this meeting be private. Brutus takes this slight much better than he did his own district's less-than-enthused behavior towards me, and squeezes my hand.

"I'll be right here when you get back."

The attendant guides me into the Presidential Mansion, past Peacekeepers wearing three-piece tuxedo suits and with really slick earpieces wrapped around their temples. These officers are apparently not referred to as Peacekeepers, but as 'agents' – an elite squadron of soldiers tasked with protecting the President. I am finally shown into an ornate office shaped in an oval and surrounded on all sides by windows. It is quite a panoramic view, capped by an exquisite mahogany desk.

The swivel chair is faced slightly away from me, President Snow's white beard casting a sharp profile as his eyes watch something down low on the floor. Craning my neck around the desk, I make out an antique television set, but the complete picture of whatever is playing is also obscured.

"Such bravery. Such…. spirit. Such…. passion," Snow drolls. He sounds like a strange cross between somebody's grandfather and a guy in a red suit whom I've heard stories about round this time of year, during the Winter Festival (I believe the name used is "Santa Claus"), but when he at last turns to face me, I don't find any warmth in this man's features. I gulp, trying to keep my voice as measured as possible.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. President?"

"Just an opportunity to formally greet Panem's most popular Victor. I did tell you at your final interview with Mr. Flickerman that the Capitol and I looked forward to getting to know you better. Of course, that was before…. you did this."

He abruptly turns the small television towards me with his foot, and my mouth drops open in horror: it is a playback of the execution of the Abernathys that cold, fall day in the Square. Chaff was right…. some techie really fucked up. I watch the Head Peacekeeper sinking to her knees, clawing at her throat after I draw the naginata across it.

"Vengeance can be a powerful tool, Miss Donner, there's no doubt about that, but to do it in the name of a schoolgirl crush…. an ode to lost love…." he tssks as if love, even when it births qualities most valuable in a Victor such as avenging an ally's death, is some kind of weakness. "If the people weren't enamored with you so, I would have had you locked up and executed for murder of an officer of the state."

I daren't speak it aloud, but I have a feeling that Snow is talking out of his ass and just hopes that I don't know he's bluffing. Chaff told me a story back in Eleven of how, not long after he came home from the arena, he was caught stealing some food from a prominent overseer and giving it to a starving family who wasn't making it on the meager wages picking cotton. When the theft was discovered, the family was beaten under the lash, even while Chaff – the actual culprit – went untouched. No, Victors pretty much have the run of their districts, and the Capitol can do next to nothing to stop us.

Snow circles the desk, looking down at me with that look I got from my father now and again when I was little and misbehaved. "Now, Miss Donner, I hope that you won't cause trouble for me. I know you don't want that. I need loyalty from my Victors. I expect it. And I need to know that you will do as you are told."

He crosses over to a portrait hanging on the curved walls of this Oval Office, staring up at it with admiration. "Would you like to meet one of my predecessors, Miss Donner?"

As if I have a choice. I drift over to the President's side. The man sneering down at us either had Antonia or someone talentless like her for a stylist (four words: Way. Too. Much. Bronzer), or spent an exorbitant amount of time tanning himself on the beaches I saw in Four. In either case, his pallor appears almost orange, like the smog color Caesar used for his fashion statement at my first interview.

"One of the American presidents," Snow explains to me. "Donald Trump was a very bold and daring man. Much like myself. He had power, and knew how to wield it. I aim to be like him – you could say he's a hero of mine."

I warily glance from this President long since dead to the current one standing beside me. "What happened to him?"

Snow sighs regretfully. "Panem was not ready to awaken yet. The people did not know what they needed. And unfortunately for him, Donald was not nearly as shrewd as he could have been. Tragic, really." He shakes his head, turning to look me directly in the eye. "I am not so dimwitted, Miss Donner."

Silence hangs thick in the air, and for a moment, I allow myself to ponder if he already knows what I am considering doing. What Chaff has been trying to recruit me to do. I keep my expression neutral, however, and eventually the President seems to relax, procuring a white envelope from his pocket, handing it to me.

"There are many people who would like to see you, Miss Donner. Of course, I had to instill in them patience, as this is your party, but I assured them that you would be available during the Games. They are anxious for you to…. entertain them, which I know you'll do well, given the marvelous display you and Mr. Abernathy graced us with. Such grander pornography Panem has never consumed. It may not have been appropriate for younger viewership, but folks here in the Capitol were quite taken with your performance."

I feel myself start to sweat. Clutching the envelope, I realize that even though I have not opened it, I can still smell the putrid aroma of roses that I detected on Snow the last time I was near him.

"Do you understand what is expected of you, Miss Donner?"

I nod slowly, trying not to let the tears leak out. "And what if I refuse?" My voice is too weak to make it a convincing challenge, but I feel the question still needs to be asked. To probe and see if there is a way out.

If there is, Snow emphatically seals off any escape. "Then your sister shall be Reaped at the earliest opportunity. You are twins, yes? It would be a pity – she seems like a perfect, blushing young bride. And that boyfriend of yours…." My heart nearly stops, for I know he's not talking about Haymitch.

"Danny's just a friend," I almost plead.

"Of course he is, my dear," Snow chuckles dolefully. "But I can make sure his death will still hurt. You might not be ready to admit it to yourself, but from what I've seen, I don't think you could stand to lose him." He clicks a remote I didn't even realize was in his palm, and the image on the TV shifts. My mouth drops open in horror and I nearly scream as I watch a hidden camera capture footage of Danny and I having sex on my sister's wedding night. So, my house is definitely bugged. But more disturbing than that, the President watched it all. What I do, and who I take to bed. Snow is taking on the persona of every mafia don we ever learned about in World History class: Nice not-quite-boyfriend you got there. Be a shame if anything happened to him.

I scarcely hear the President dismiss me with a curt nod of his head. "Good evening to you, Miss Donner. See you next summer."

I turn to exit the oval office in a fog. Just as I reach the door, the President turns back. "Oh: and happy Hunger Games."


I return to District 12 the following morning positively drained, the despair I feel conversely injecting me with a kind of invigoration as I step back onto my homeland's soil. In a panic, I pelt for my family's candy shop, nearly crying in relief when I spy Kaydilyn working the cash register through the glassy planes. My mind blips to random trains of thought, and I tear across the street to the bakery, knocking on the door frantically.

The minute Danny opens the door, as I hoped and prayed he would, I throw my arms around him, barely able to keep from sobbing.

"Thank Panem…."

He just chuckles and holds me, rocking me against him. "Welcome home," he rumbles. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Danny," I breathe into his shirtfront. "You have no idea how much." Stepping back out of the hug, I put on the bravest face that I can. "So: what did I miss?"

Danny's sparkling blue eyes dim sadly. "Well, it's official: Belle is going out with Glen Everdeen. She took me aside at the Winter Festival to let me down gently, but it seemed more like a formality at that point."

I smile at him pityingly. "Oh, Danny, I'm so sorry…."

"Stop," he shakes his head. "I think…. Belle and I had already parted ways; I was just too blind to see it." His warm gaze – warm like the ovens he works – peer at me. "Just promise me you won't leave me, won't you?"

I beam at him. "Here's my promise." And looping my arms about his neck, I reach up and mash my lips to his in a passionate kiss. Surprised and delighted, Danny's arms steal about my waist and pull me flush against him as he kisses me back.

When we finally break apart, our arms still wound about each other, I smile as bravely as I can at him. "I've been thinking: if you still want to… be with me, I'm the kind of Merchant girl who loves it when a boy takes her out to dinner, gives her flowers. That is, if you'll still have me."

Danny beams. "Of course I'll have you." He kisses me first now, softer this time, and I melt into it, the pair of us giggling at the strange, new and exhilarating feeling of two friends exploring what more could look like. When I draw away, I nearly swoon at the pure love with which Danny regards me.

"Marry me?"

I throw back my head and burst out laughing. "Let's go out on a proper date first. But if you want to work on that proposal…. ask me again in two years. After your last Reaping."

Danny swoops down and pecks my lips chastely. "Deal."

I grin at him, amused. "Then you'll stay with me?"

"Always," he croons.

I beam, radiant. "Just the answer I was hoping for." Danny smiles back, and we embrace and kiss.