Plutarch Heavensbee is standing in my doorway.
I didn't see that one coming.
"Sorry, sir, my mother is out. You'll have to come back another time." My tone clearly says this is not true – he must never come back. But Plutarch waves away my dismissal and says, "Dear boy, you love fashion, do you not?"
I raise an eyebrow. How he figured this out, I'm not quite sure. I'm not like the others here in the Capitol, who dye their skin, wear bright purple lipstick, and tattoo their face. My hair hasn't been touched and the only makeup I wear is a little gold eyeliner, to bring out the flecks of gold in my eyes.
"You were drawing in a sketchbook last time I was here. An outfit, with a beautiful flame design. Your mother told us of your interests the first time we visited. She said you have books filled with pictures of tributes in their opening ceremonies getup and interview outfits, and that you criticize the stylists for a lack of creativity or bad use of silk. You love fashion, do you not?"
"Come in, Mr. Heavensbee," I say, standing aside. If my mom found my books, then I know this conversation will be interesting and unexpected.
Plutarch settles himself on our couch and looks up at me, still standing stiffly in the door. His lackeys aren't with him this time.
"Well?" I ask. "Why are you here?"
Wasting no time, Plutarch rushes into his story. I have a feeling he can't wait to have this off his chest. "Your father was part of a small rebel group before his Games. He was expected to do much better than he did, from his rebel military training, until he fell out of a tree.
"We knew that you would be a valuable asset to our side, so when I deemed you old enough – although not technically an adult yet – I came to talk to your mother about it. I offered you a job as a Gamemaker intern. As you know, she refused."
"Wait," I cut in. "Rebelling against what?"
Plutarch is confused. "The Capitol, of course," he tells me. Clearly he thought this was obvious, but he continutes on without hesitation now. "When we discovered your love of fashion, we decided you may be of more use to us as a stylist – someone who can show the districts just what they need to see to make them want to rebel.
"Your mother still refused. She doesn't want you to have anything to do with the Hunger Games, because of your father."
I nod. This is quite obvious, as it is part of the reason she said yes to moving to the Capitol. That way, she wouldn't lose me to the Games.
"So, do you have any interest in being a stylist for the 74th Hunger Games?" Plutarch asks me.
"Two conditions. Let my friend Portia help me."
"Done," I'm told. "The other condition?"
"Give me District Twelve."