"He spoke, and words more soft than rain […]

His action won such reverence sweet

As hid all measure of the feat."—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Character

Mathis comes to join me at the Rose home for dinner a few times in the past few months. Only once do they ask about our family and after sharing a quick look we are silently agree my birthday would be an appropriate time. I spend more time with Willow as a result of my constant presents at the library. We aren't close, not like a sister or anything but maybe something a kin to that of a close friend of Mathis; one who tolerates his younger sister. We speak of books and in all honesty of little else. Still she has a kind smile.

Birthdays are some of those rare occasions that my family has a sit-down dinner together. The main reason is extended family comes over and my mother likes to put on a show for them. Dinner is always more extravagant than what is expected and then what can be afforded by most is District 12. I am to help my mother in the kitchen preparing ham, roasted potatoes and rolls. I assume she started working on the bird's milk cake before she called me to help. She might have finished it. It's an old recipe that has been in her family before there even was a Panem.

Over the years my mother has begun to call me down to assist her earlier and earlier in the process. She's a wonderful cook and has no need for me my help but it's always been clear to me that as a Merchant woman my fate is clear. I will marry, have children and die; that is of course if I survive my reapings. It's a clear expectation of society. If I don't I am to hope my brother's future wife is okay with me living with them and I will work for them till I die.

My mother has been slowly grooming me to ensnare a husband since, well since I can remember. She has made sure that I am smart and well mannered, any negative thoughts are to stay inside my head and never see the light of day, at least publicly. I can play the piano better than most teenagers, at least according to my mother who often teaches. I am naturally artistic according to her as well, and my talent should thrive under the right conditioning. To be honest she sucks the fun out of art. I hold 'great promise of beauty'. I should have 'no trouble finding a husband' when I'm older. My only down falls are my lack of ambition and antisocial behavior.

Since it's my birthday and we'll have guests my mother insists my father be sober. My mother will be all smiles and polite shallow small talk. I hate my birthday. It's mostly fake, the genuine interaction from some of our guests feels cheapened by the hollow atmosphere.

In addition to the Rose's this year, our usual guest are in attendance, my grandfather Anton, my mother's father, and my Aunt Nicole, my mother's older sister. This is my first birthday without my grandmother Lucille. She was a kind older woman, my father's mother, as a small child she would sing to me songs in a foreign tongue or some long-forgotten language I don't know which. She said that her name was passed down with the lullaby she hoped I would do the same even if I never had a daughter and passed down my middle name I could pass on the songs. She sang them to me often, my favorite was about someone who was bathing in a spring only to come across a happy nightingale and they started crying over their beloved who left after they ignored a request for a bouquet of roses. Part of me was entranced by the idea that you could lose someone over something so trivial but it was the last line that broke my heart the narrator just wanted for the bush to keep the roses and for them to still have their beloved's heart.

My mother dresses me in burgundy taffeta dress there was nothing special about the dress except for the fabric, of course my mother would find a way to be extravagant without being showy, and new black patent leather Mary Janes my birthday gift from my mother, great new school shoes. Part of me wants to laugh, I might only wear this dress once.

The smell of wintergreen tickles my nose as I reach the bottom step, it is clean, crisp, and cool. Mother must have tossed the leaves from her tea into a small bowl near the door to act as potpourri. The scent mixes with the smell of hot cider on the stove top, laced with oranges and cloves. In theory the smells would contradict, something so cold and warm but it just seems more like winter. Cool wintergreen scent and the warmth of the spiced cider balance in a way only Mother would know. I make it just down just as our first guests arrive. My Grandpa is a relatively large man broad shoulders, graying hair, thin rimmed glasses, and a hearty laugh. "Well look at you Bright Eyes. I swear you look more and more like your mother every year. You look so much like her at your age."

"Thank you." I say politely as he looks me over than he envelopes me in a hug. His hugs always make me feel safe and loved. I honestly don't know how I feel about the comparison, I know it's meant to be a complement. My mother is easily one of the most beautiful women in the district, with golden hair I got from her, the shape of her chin which both Mathis and I inherited is just this side of square. Though in mine and Mathis's case we have a slightly dimpled chin, which we inherited from our father; mine tends to come out when I smile. She has bright blue upturned eyes, and glowing skin. Her nose a little too wide and a long for her face, her top lip too thin to match the bottom still she has a nice smile though it always seems plastered there. I can't recall the last real smile she gave me.

As she comes in my grandfather tells her "Doesn't Iris take after you Alexandra?"

She smiles that ever-present smile it flatters for the slightest of moments than its back before it really leaves. The smile doesn't touch her eyes. "I think your right dad." My mother says as she glances at me and puts her hands on my shoulders, standing behind me, she squeezes them. My mother only ever glances at me, looks through me, or stares at my forehead. As long as I can remember she's never looked me in the eye. Sometimes I swear that I catch a glimpse of distain and just as quickly guilt both wiped away so fast I find myself questioning ever seeing either.

Aunt Nicole agrees, she's a statuesque woman with pale blonde hair, sharing the same eyes as my mother, with a straight nose, and full lips, she's warmer than my mother but not by much. "Warren is going to have to beat the boys with a stick off her, alright."

"Iris why don't you take your gifts and place them on the coffee table then check on your brother." This is not a question or a request, but a statement. I take the parcels wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, and do as she demands. I help Mathis button the sleeves of his pale blue button down. By the time I come down with Mathis the Roses have arrived. Their gifts have joined the others on the coffee table, Mrs. Rose hands my mother ivory poinsettia, Mr. Rose hands her a bottle of what I assume is wine and a canister.

"Thank you. Dad would you mind getting Warren he should be in the office. I'll put this in the kitchen. Iris, Mathis would you help our guests with their coats?"

As we go to put their coats our mother pulls Mathis a side and touches his hair. "I asked you to get it cut, it looks like a mop. Why would you do this to me if you knew we had guests?"

"Sorry, but the barber didn't have a chance to get to me today."

"Just get it cut by the next time they see you. I don't want to look like I let my children run around looking like barbarians." The conversation is hushed whispers in the corner, no one notices. I know she wants to say more but she dares not risk drawing attention. Depending on how well tonight goes Mathis might not have to worry. Her fingers ghost over his hair, not actually touching it, she straightens herself as she huffs, hands in fists and walks away in such a graceful manner one would never guess she's anything other than pleased.

It's clearly not the case no one would think us barbarians. Mathis's hair is on the long side but it's not completely uncommon for boys his age to wear it as such. I think he looks handsome in his pale blue shirt, black slacks, and shiny loafers. My mother has her hair in an intricate up do, braids and curls tucked into a bun, a sleeve less layered V-neck knee length dress that accentuates her small waist. I haven't seen my father tonight but I'm sure she has made him presentable for company. Tonight is too important to her for us not to meet her standards. Mother was excited when I 'asked' if I could extend an invitation to them, knowing that she would say yes, her eyes gleamed with the idea of associating with a luxury family.

I don't pay much attention to my mother and her social endeavors but there is a social hierarchy amongst the Merchant class. There is us, the hard labor sector, we do manual labor which is looked down upon but it's hard and expensive work, we provide needed furniture whether it be from government contracts to personal orders or repairs. If a new home is being built, we furnish it, we make wooden toys, rockers for growing families, and the coffins for the children lost in the games. We are the bottom of the social totem pole.

There are the basic shop owners, the bakery, the textile shop, the shoe shop, grocers, tailor and the like; these shops as far as I can tell are either trying their best to survive or to move onto a different spot on the social ladder. Whether that be the wealth laborers, even on occasion the respected government workers, or the luxury shops. My mother clearly wanted to move to the luxury spot in society but oddly married a laborer. I don't know why if she was the pretty, well dressed daughter of the textile owners she probably could have married into whatever she wanted. My aunt married the tailor who died earlier this year when she was a few months pregnant. Now she runs the shop with my older cousin Roba who is three years younger than Mathis and raising five-year-old Cylus Jr. and new born Mitcham.

The luxury shops such as the creamery, sweets shop, jewelers, and florist shop although they have the least demand are just that luxurious, it's a statement just coming out with one of their products. You tell every other merchant that we are doing extremely well in life.

Government jobs are the silent back bone of our society, those who handle everything from filing orders to the Capitol to marriage, death, and birth records to tesserae applications and housing. These jobs are respected and usually pay well, although they are respected since it isn't anything you can pass down to family they aren't usually permeant. It's mostly sons waiting to take over the family shop, younger sons looking to marry into a shop, or girls with nothing to entice someone into marriage.

I know my mother expects me to marry well, as the only daughter of a laborer I should be able to marry anyone I want, from what I'm told I'm pretty, smart, and with my grandfather and aunt I am well dressed and I know my mother will start pressuring me when I'm older to make a good match. I'm sure she sees me married to the only son of a luxury family, though she has made it no secret that the mayor's only son is a few years older than me. I know ideally, I would marry into the most powerful family in the district but she'll take me becoming the florist's wife if she can get it in a heartbeat.

Father is dressed exactly how my mother would like, in a crisp, clean dark gray suit with a striped blue tie. His hair combed back, he even shaved twice today by the look of his still smooth face normally he has dark stubble covering his tan face. I wonder if the suit is new, I don't think I've seen it before. I wouldn't put it past Her Grace to have one made for him when she found out it wouldn't just be family. It must be new it's well fitting my father's sturdy build.

My mother is exactly how she is with people, she is polite, funny, and charming. She knows when to tone it down so she doesn't come on to strong and does it in just a way that you feel like reaching out and becoming her friend. I don't know if I'm jealous or if I'm in awe of her. I do know that I admire how charming she is, she's just as charming as I am awkward.

Dinner is wonderful, as any meal my mother cooks. The ham just right, juicy, mouth wateringly tender-it's practically falling off the bone, just the right amount of salty, with a touch of rich sweetness from the bourbon brown sugar glaze, the sugar adding a slight crunch to the crust and it is so aromatic I can't help but want more as I grow fuller. The rolls airy, soft, yet with a slightly crunchy golden crust, buttery, and fluffy. The smell of the rolls has made me want this dinner to happen although I don't want to be here. The roasted potatoes, the small red ones, are tender yet crispy, lightly covered with butter and herbs that I can't quite identify.

Our guests seem to agree with me, as they mummer at the first bite. I know my mother must me smirking behind that glass of wine but I don't care the food is just too good to care. Everyone is too focused on the meal in front of them to notice my mother purposely over filled their glasses so there would me none left for my father. My father drinks his hot cider with a look of disappointment, he'll remember little of the meal but he will remember how we was not given a drink at his own table. He looks at my mother with a glare my mother just raises her eyebrows at him as she takes a sip of her wine and turns her attention to our guests. Things won't go well when everyone leaves, at best he'll just drink himself to sleep.

"Iris how is school going?" My aunt asks between delicate bites of her food. My father was staring holes into my mother's head until Aunt Nicole's comment.

"Great." My parents say at the same time. They might antagonize each other but they both take pride in us. It might be them reliving their youth or a way of saying my child is better than yours, thus I am a good parent-I am better than you. I have no idea what goes on in their heads but I'm sure that it's not about what's best for me and Mathis.

"Iris has the top marks in her class." My mother continues, basking in it I am sure. Father goes back to playing his role in this farce.

"Do you spend too much time with your face in a book Iris?" My grandfather teases.

"That's how we met. I was in the library finishing some homework and she came to the rescue, when my finger tapping distracted her."

"If she wasn't around, I'm sure Cedar would never do his homework let alone study I'm sure of it." Mr. Rose jokes though you can tell there is a slight level of truth to his words.

"I think she understands half of my material better than I do." Cedar chimes in once again, his mother explains that he is two grades ahead of me.

My mother's eyes light up at his words, well she's happy about me spending time there.

My father nods in acknowledgement most likely happy that I'm studying and I that I am apparently advanced. "Math?" My father says speaks for the first time that night.

"Yes, sir." Cedar replies before turning back to his plate of food.

"She's always been good at math, I think she recognized numbers before she could speak." I don't know if I'd go that far but I do find the logic of math comforting. There is right and wrong in math, no exceptions, far less complicated than people. Father looks up from his ham and changes the subject. "Nicole is Roba watching the boys tonight?"

"Yes, she was nice enough to watch them. I'd hate to take Mitcham out in the cold unless I really need to and when my sitter ended up with a cold..." Mother than said something about how with them staying home she didn't have to get extra chairs for tonight than laughed. Another major difference between my parents my father comes off stiff and rehearsed, completely unnatural, and just bland, while my mother is my mother.

The conversation is light. Although I know how forced and artificial the night is I can't help but be happy to be in a room containing so many people that care about me.

Once dinner is over Mathis and I clear the table and my mother comes with hot chocolate and coffee. That must have been what was in the canister it wasn't out of our price range it was luxurious and my parents called it 'a waste of money on a child's drink'. Normally I wouldn't put it passed my mother to buy it as a way to show off to guesses but not on hot chocolate she wouldn't put that much thought into trying to win someone over with a 'child's drink'. Nor do I think she'd waste the money on it even if she did, it was too frivolous in her mind, but not a dress that might never get used again...

I sit down and Mathis returns with pitchy moloko, bird's milk cake. He places it in front of me it is beautiful gleaming with its shiny chocolate glaze. It hasn't even been cut but the aroma is already making my mouth water. My mother is done passing out drinks and before I look up from the cake my grandfather is calling a toast.

"Now I know it's a little unorthodox of me toasting to the birthday girl at dessert instead at the beginning of the meal but I can't resist toasting to bird's milk. Iris you are growing up into a smart, beautiful young lady I am sure you will grow up and do well in life. So, I give you this advice enjoy your last official year of childhood. Behave in the unladylike manor I am sure your mother is trying to instill in you and I know she will have a talk with you and me about how you should ignore me and how I shouldn't have opened my mouth in the first place. Enjoy the warm sun on your face, dance in the rain, and anything else you want I know it's your last year before you are force to enter the reaping so be a child before it all slips away. Now before this gets too heavy there is a story that goes with this cake for our guests who may not be familiar with it 'What could bring greater happiness to a man who already has everything?' a man asked himself only to think 'Maybe only bird's milk.' While we can't give you the world we can give you bird's milk. Happy birthday our darling girl." My grandfather sits down as the Roses and my aunt cheer and clap at his speech. My mother's eyes slits aimed at her father, my father has a smirk on his face, one eyebrow raised at her clearly, he is amused with the turn of events.

Mathis has a few small plates and a knife in hand to help me cut the cake. He places a kiss on the top of my head "Happy birthday Issy" he whispers into my hair before he helps pass out cake. It's so light, sponge cake, filled with an airy soufflé topped with a thin decadent chocolate glaze. I let the first bite practically melt on my tongue. Mother is showered with complements on cake. Mr. Rose comments how he, as the son of the former town baker, is not familiar with the cake and is sure if it were sold it would sell out. My grandfather tells him of when he was young a few years after the war the Capitol sent the grocer agar-agar by mistake his grandmother bought it all saying that's how the cake was meant to be made. It resulted in an airier more stable soufflé in the cake.

With the first sip of hot chocolate I can tell it is Mrs. Rose's homemade blend. It's rich and creamy, laced with a good helping of ground cinnamon and made with cane sugar. It's quickly becoming one of my favorites. Even the aroma congers a safe warm feeling of home, fall, cold nights and the promise of warmth, it makes me feel and odd satisfaction in my bones.

Once we were done with the cake I opened my gifts. I received a book of fairytales from grandpa with an inscription on the inside cover echoing his earlier words as well as some yellow fabric which Aunt Nicole offers to make into whatever I wish. Mathis got me oil pastels knowing I favored them, out of our mothers approved gifts, because of the mess it leaves my fingers in a slight spite to our mother. Watercolors from Aunt Nicole, a suggestion from mother I'm sure. From Mr. Rose a book on Greek Mythology and from Mrs. Rose yellow hair ribbon and a leather-bound diary.

Cedar hands me his gift, I open it to find a brass locket; oval a delicate border, intricate axis that lead to a diamond boarder connecting the two an enlarged version of the diamond in the middle that seems encased in a leaf pattern. Its sturdy looking but clearly delicate in nature, he tells me to open it. One of the sketches I did for him is on the opening flap the other has a piece of paper neatly folded. I give him a hug. "I love it. I'll read your note later."

The last gift is from my father. It's a large wooden dollhouse, painted a pale yellow it's incredibly detailed. "I found it amongst my mother's things when she died. I just fixed it up, added a new coat of paint and made some miniature furniture. I know you're too big to play with dolls but my mom would have wanted you to have it. Last year of childhood and all that." I look up to see my father with a tumbler of liquor, my mother throwing a hard look at his face.

Everyone leaves soon after, my grandpa hugs me on last time and whispers bayushki bayu then tells Mathis bai bai. Then the door closes behind them leaving a cold, harsh gust of winter in.

Over all I know my mother is pleased, I stayed quiet and gracious, Mathis was polite and helpful, most importantly my father was sober for 99% of the night.

Authors Notes: Bayushki bayu is a Russian term of endearment while it doesn't have literal translation it's used for younger children, similar to goodnight or sleep tight, while bai bai is used for older children it's closer to sleep well. While Iris is 11, the term seemed appropriate given the focus that her grandfather gave to her childhood.

Bird's milk cake is also a candy known under various names depending on the location, the story of that Anton tells is how Jan Wedel who first developed it named it. Agar-agar is made from algae and is very much like gelatin and is kind of a signature ingredient in pitchy moloko so it can be argued that this cake isn't really one.

I know it's a little far-fetched that after so many generations that there would be such a strong cultural history but I think things like food, lullabies and fables would survive.

The song that Iris was referring to is A La Claire Fontaine a personal favorite of mine.

I mentioned previously that I was working on a companion series of sorts Whispers From 12 should be up soon so keep an eye out for that, I'd like to think the first chapter is pretty funny. I would really appreciate it if you guys think I should upload it seperately or as little bonus chapters.

Now I know that Mr. and Mrs. Carver don't seem like completely horrible people but remember that they are on their best behavior. I hope I managed to convey how much of a social climber Mrs. Carver is and how isolated Mr. Carver is even from the rest of his family. I also hope you saw how antagonistic the relationship the two even though it was a small glimpse. I also hope you noticed how Iris only has one verbal line in this. Even her descriptive ones are well mannered responses. In fact, Cedar and Mathis did very little talking as well. Mrs. Carver has a 'children should be seen and not heard' way about her.

Mrs. Carver originally started off as a Southern mother who, wants her daughter to be accomplished, smart, and marry well. She's kind of morphed into something else, while similar she's become more dimensional than I originally intended.

90% of this chapter is to show the difference between the Carver household and everything else.

I didn't really go into it but the well-dressed part is because I would assume clothing would be an unwanted expense and if you had high quality close those would be passed on to one's children possibly grandchildren; like family heirlooms but more practical. In a way, it would be like a small dowry on its own. Even with the dress Iris wore, Mrs. Carver is low-key hoping for a granddaughter.

I also hope that the social hierarchy makes sense to everyone.

Again, thanks for reading, please feel free to follow, favorite and review.