Dearest Diary,

I must apologize for my recent neglect. I promised myself that this would be a lighthearted record of my time in London, but I struggle to see any levity in these last few days. My concerns have shifted from the frivolities and amusements that seem so common here to grave matters indeed. Most concerning, I fear that one of those graves might be my own.

During a particularly long carriage ride, Katniss had once hypothesized that there were two types of panic. She had experienced the first and better-recognized variety while attempting to ride Daring. It was a sharp terror, the mind's knee-jerk reaction to the realization that it might be seconds away from death. The second came when collection letters arrived and there was no money with which to pay them. It stalked its prey for weeks, always lingering at the very edges of their vision, and when this panic sensed weakness, it pounced.

She now discovered a third, far rarer variety. It blossomed slowly, like a night lily in the moonlight, and one could watch, cognizant but helpless, as it devoured them. This panic rose with every step she took away from the room where Crane and his associate schemed, crystallizing as she began to understand the possible depths of the trouble she had found herself in. Katniss knew she must get away before Crane realized she had been listening in, but the corridors seemed to double back on themselves. The further she went, the closer she felt Crane to be, and Katniss found herself moving faster and faster until she was racing through the halls of the Trinkets' mansion. She passed countless artworks, all of them both familiar and alien at once. The texture beneath her feet changed from stone to wood to thick, luxurious carpeting and back again, and now she could not remember what it had been outside the ballroom.

Katniss' ankle rolled, and she stumbled to the ground. Her elbow dragged across the floor. It stung like hell, and she hissed at the pain, but Katniss scrambled back to her feet. She had made too much noise. If anyone was searching, they would be sure to find her now. She hitched her skirts up another inch and ran, constantly glancing back over her shoulder. Crane could linger in any shadow, lurk behind any door, be waiting for her at any corner. And perhaps he had her in his clutches now, for she heard voices, and Katniss had run so far that she must be several wings away from the party by now. She couldn't stop, though, despite her lungs' begging and the burning in her legs, for to do so would be to admit defeat, and –

Music. The string quartet. She rushed through the next set of doors, which led her back to the ladies' refreshing room. Katniss followed two unfamiliar back to the ballroom. She could have fainted in relief. Thankfully, she didn't have the chance to do so before she spotted a familiar face.

"Where have you been?" Hawthorne asked as he pushed towards her. "We were supposed to dance the last waltz together. I've been searching everywhere for you."

"The refreshing room." The words came out as little more than a squeak. As soon as he came within reach, Katniss clamped onto him, her knuckles turning white as she clutched his arms. "I apologize, I don't know where my dance card is."

Brown eyes grew worried. "Katniss, are you all right? Have you been hurt?"

She shook her head. People were starting to notice them, and Katniss forced herself to relax. "I would like some fresh air, please."

"Of course." He looped her arm through his, and they strolled towards the tall glass doors that separated the ballroom from the Trinkets' extensive gardens. Katniss felt eyes on them as they walked, but nobody openly watched them. The ton knew better than to be too open with their curiosity.

The night air greeted them, crisp and cool. She took a long, steadying breath of it, trying to still her pounding heart.

Hawthrone did not let go of her arm until she had a firm grasp on the railing. Even then, he moved only inches away, close enough to catch her should she faint. "Are you ill?"

"No, I'm fine." It was almost true. Fresh air did wonders for nerves.

"If someone has hurt you, I promise that I will kill him." Every line of his face was hard, and Katniss had no doubt he meant every word.

"That really won't be necessary." She liked the idea, though. A dead Crane couldn't sell Britain to the French, and he certainly couldn't ruin Prim's future along with his own. But she couldn't tell such a terrible lie, especially not to a man like Hawthorne, who, despite some of his recent behavior, did seem to honestly want to help her. Being decent had its occasional disadvantages.

But perhaps Hawthorne could help her in a different way. "You don't need to hurt anyone," she began, then dropped her voice. "I need to talk to you about Mr. Crane."

"I see." He frowned and motioned for her to follow him down the stairs, further away from the party. Hawthorne settled her on a stone bench and sat down beside her. They could still be seen, which should be enough to avoid the worst gossip, but no one would overhear their conversation. "Tell me what's wrong." He kept his voice low.

She glanced over her shoulder, terrified they were being watched, and moved closer so that the softest of whispers could travel between them. "I got lost and overheard Mr. Crane and another man talking."

"You shouldn't have been eavesdropping."

"I didn't intend to," Katniss protested, but she quickly relented. "At least, not at first. I originally thought I'd managed to find my way back to the party." That didn't matter now. "But they were talking about selling something in France."

"Oh, thank goodness." The furrows in his forehead disappeared as he relaxed. "Trading with France is illegal, and I don't approve, but he's hardly the only one."

She shook her head. "This didn't sound as if it was just business. I don't know what he's selling, but he's looking for a buyer, and he threatened the man if he couldn't find him one. Hawthorne – Gale – I need to tell –"

"Shh." He rose a finger to her lips. She wanted to bite it. "You overheard a business deal, and your imagination twisted it into something more. That's all it is."

"I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't held a clandestine meeting where I've threatened my associates. Of course, I should have realized that's all common practice."

"It's not the most savory type of business, but Mr. Crane has never struck me as the most savory sort of man."

"We should at least alert someone. The War Office would want to know of any one trading with France, wouldn't they?"

He shook his head. "The War Office does not have time to investigate hearsay." Hawthorne stopped her before she could protest. "I understand your concerns. Trust me, if I had any concerns that Mr. Crane was jeopardizing Britain in any way, I would be off the War Office this instant."

"Your concern for your country is incredible."

"Katniss." When she didn't respond, Hawthorne reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Please promise me you won't do anything brash."

She chose her words carefully. "I promise not to go to the War Office with only an overheard conversation."

It seemed to be enough for Hawthorne. "Thank you." He lifted her hand up towards his lips, but stopped halfway, instead twisting it to reveal a nasty red scrape that began at her elbow and extended halfway down her forearm. "I thought you weren't hurt?"

"I fell, but I didn't notice the scrape. It doesn't hurt overmuch."

"Would you allow me to escort you inside to find someone to wrap it?"

"That would be appreciated. Thank you."

At home, Katniss styled her hair by herself. Mother might argue that a single braid did not constitute styling one's hair, but the simple hairstyle kept her hair out of the way during her other duties, and that was all that mattered. The rare occasions that Katniss allowed her mother to pin back the braid into a tidy bun were cause for celebration. Here, though, style trumped efficiency, and Mother styling her daughters' hair became part of the Everdeens' morning routine. Katniss, who for years had shunned any physical contact with her mother, had even grown to enjoy it. Having gentle fingers running through one's hair was rather a lovely sensation, and it came with the assurance that Mother would not fuss over her hair for another twenty-four hours.

This morning, though, Katniss found herself too occupied with thoughts of France and Crane to enjoy the styling. For three days, her thoughts had raced about a constant circle. War Office would not investigate on her word alone, so she had to persuade a man of Crane's guilt. But to convince him, she needed evidence of the sort that only an investigation could provide. Like a snake devouring its own tail, it circled round and round, the course never changing.

Until, at last, it did. She knew one man who would listen. Whether he would agree to see her was unfortunately an entirely different matter. Never mind that. Home and country were at stake, and more importantly, Prim's future hung in the balance. He would see her. She would make him.

"What do I have to do to make a call on Mister Mellark appropriate?" Mother's hands stilled, and Katniss looked up to meet her eyes in the mirror. "I don't believe he will agree to meet with me here, and I need to speak with him privately without any chance of being overheard. How do I go about that in a way that doesn't threaten our family's reputation?"

The brush resumed its work on her tangles. Her mother deserved credit for that: those words, coming from their daughters, would have sent many mothers of weaker constitutions into hysterics. "Am I allowed to know why you need this privacy?"

"No." Best not to involve her in this mess. Katniss wished she hadn't become involved either, but it was too late for that.

"You're not in trouble?"

"Not the kind you're thinking of."

Eileen shook her head, relieved. "You are impossible."

"And I thought I was merely incorrigible."

Her mother smiled. In moments like this, Katniss caught glimpses of the beautiful young woman her father had so often described. "You were incorrigible by the time you turned four. I think we're well into impossible by now. Hold still for just a moment." She slid the final pin into place. "Move your head about."

Katniss obliged, and when her hair didn't slip from its bun, she turned to face her mother. "What should I do?"

"I suppose you've already written him and requested that he call on you."

"Well, no, but –"

"Then why do you assume he won't agree to it?"

"I've written him twice to apologize for a, well, a misunderstanding between the two of us, and he hasn't responded to either letter." And damn him for that. True, she deserved all of it and more, but it would almost be better if he'd scolded her, replied with a letter so full of invective that she would never want to look at him again. That would give closure. Silence was awash with possibilities. "He has ample reason to be upset with me," she admitted. Katniss braced herself for a rebuke, but none came.

Instead, Eileen set aside the hairbrush and sat down on the narrow bench beside her daughter. "You ought to try again. Ask him to meet you here. It cannot make anything worse."

"But I doubt it will do anything to improve the situation." Katniss was well-suited to neither melancholy nor the color pink. Naturally, both had chosen the same day to dig their claws into her.

"I think you might be surprised what a sincere apology along with a request to discuss the matter in person might gain you." Katniss shook her head, but Mother wasn't finished. "Men aren't as complicated as they've led you to think. If you want them, they'll come. When your father was courting me, I remember we had the worst argument. My father didn't approve of him, you know that, and somehow, though we both agreed that we wanted to be together, it turned into a quarrel between us, and we didn't even look at each other for two weeks." She snorted, a noise so unladylike Katniss hardly believed her mother produced it. "We were such fools. But eventually, I did ask him to come back."

"And back he came," Katniss supplied. She wanted to run before the mist gathering in Mother's eyes turned into full-fledged tears. Somehow, that didn't seem appropriate, so she instead settled for slowly scooting toward the edge of the bench.

Mother noticed. She had a bad habit of doing that. "I'm not going to cry, you know."

"Are you sure?"

"Entirely." The mist lingered. "I loved him."

Yes, and that was exactly why Katniss refused to fall in love. In the moment, it was beautiful, but all moments end. Father passed eleven years ago, and only in the last two years had Mother began to live again. Katniss could not imagine leaving herself so vulnerable.

Mother sniffed. "I reconsider. Perhaps I am going to cry." She wiped a year away with her finger, then reached over to Katniss' knee. "Off with you, now. Fetch your stationery. I won't have you moping about while there's better things to be done."

That begged the question of what constituted a worse use of time than sulking, but for once, Katniss stopped herself. She had a letter to write, and with any luck, a guest to entertain this afternoon.

She knew his carriage immediately. It should not have been obvious, for it was unmarked, and there were hundreds of plain black carriages in London, but this was unmistakably Peeta's. Katniss raced down to the first floor to find Mary letting him in.

"Peeta." The absolute stupidest of smiles came to her face.

He beamed up at her, and she felt it from the rots of her hair to the tips of her toes. "Katniss. It's good to see you again."

"You too." Had he robbed her of her entire vocabulary?

Mary saved her. "There is tea ready in the parlor, miss."

"Thank you." She offered a hand to Peeta, and he accepted it. That small contact melted away the awkwardness between them, and she dragged as much as led him to the parlor. "I am glad you could come at such short notice."

Katniss closed the door behind them, never letting go of his hand. Mother had arranged for Prim to meet a friend for an ice, and Mary was discreet, so nobody would remark on the lack of propriety.

"So it seems our snake is venomous."

She nodded. "Please help me. I don't know what to do."

"You should find someone else." Her heart dropped. "Hawthorne's made it very clear that we're not to be together."

"He contacted you?"

Peeta nodded. "Talked to me at our club. Your new suitor doesn't much care for me."

"He may think he's my suitor." And the instant he was no longer useful, Katniss promised herself, he would be disabused of that notion.

"I admit, I was wondering if your opinion on marriage had changed."

"No, and it's not going to. I don't belong to Hawthorne." She shifted her hand to thread her fingers through his. "And I don't care what he says. Peeta, please."

He studied their entwined hands for a long moment, and slowly, hesitantly brought her hand to his lips. His eyes met hers, and Peeta paused, waiting for permission. She could feel the warmth of his breath through the thin fabric of her glove, and her breath caught when he kissed the back of her hand. Her heart raced, and his eyes on her burned with a promise of far, far more. All too soon, he moved his lips away. "You have a plan?"

It took her a moment to remember how to speak. "The beginnings of one." The words came out breathless, and he was smirking at her, and Katniss couldn't bear being at such a disadvantage. She shifted her hand in his and kissed his palm. The change in his breath, the way his lips opened in a silent oh, it made her feel powerful and exhilarated all at once, and she allowed her lips to linger a hairbreadth from his skin after she broke the embrace. "It could change, though," she continued. "I'm open to suggestions."

He pushed away the haze that had settled over him. "And was that an original element?"

"Not exactly."

"Am I going to be equally as pleased with your other changes?"

Katniss pretended to consider it for a moment. "Probably not."