Later that night, Dixie gushes over Peeta and Allysia's spectacular performance, stopping every so often to beam at the stylists and begin her spiel of praise all over again. I'm just happy to be back with Cinna, his soft voice and his hazel eyes and his golden eyeliner. I can tell he hates her as much as I do. Eventually I bid the stylists goodnight, and allow Dixie to lead us up to the penthouse apartment, before leaving abruptly to allow me to brief the tributes about the next morning. Then I poke my head into Haymitch's room, trying not to gag at the smell, and tell him in a furious whisper that he must be in a better state tomorrow or I swear to God I'll run him through with a butter knife.
Surprisingly, I sleep well, my dreams haunted by that voice which I know now to be Peeta's, and my father in the woods. When I get down to breakfast, I find Peeta and Allysia already sat at the table dressed in their training gear, with Dixie and most surprising of all, Haymitch. He looks dreadful, but at least he's concious and sober enough to butter toast. Maybe he took my threat seriously last night, because he looks at me darkly and holds onto the knife he's using even after he's finished.
I beam at him, and he rolls his eyes and starts spreading a layer of jam so thick that I swear the jar is half finished by the time he's done. I try not to think about how a jar that size can last a five people for two months in District 12, how ridiculously excited all the children were the day that a tiny pot of jam arrived for each family on parcel day last month. I squeeze my eyes tight for a moment to try and block this out. It isn't Haymitch's fault. He used to be just like the rest of us.
I look at around and realise that Peeta has been watching me that whole time. I'm startled for a moment and feel my cheeks colour before I can stop them. Damn. I have no idea why he has this effect on me. For some reason, all I can think about is his voice in my dreams.
I nod my good morning in their direction and take a seat opposite Haymitch, before helping myself to a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice. This time last year, I had never seen Capitol food before and was stuffing myself, trying to prolong my stamina in the Games. You would think that that would be strange for me to remember, shovelling food down my throat in an attempt to keep myself alive for the next few days, with no idea where my next meal was coming from, now that I have all this money and invitations to dine in the Capitol every year. Truth is, I was much more used to being hungry than I am to being well-fed. It feels unnatural to me. It took a while before I learnt, after becoming victor, not to gorge myself every time we eat. I reckon it comes from some kind of primal urge inside of me, from all those years hunting for hours just to put something on the table. I won't let myself believe that the next meal won't be a struggle to find. I've just about learnt now, though.
I was up for a while last night, thinking about what I'm going to do with my tributes. Well I guess Peeta isn't really my tribute now, is he, because Haymitch is better? So I guess I only have Allysia to consider. But just as I'm thinking this, Haymitch's eyes roll backwards in his head and he crashes face first into the butter dish.
By the time the avoxes have fetched the medical staff, the medical staff have fetched Haymitch and taken him to the infirmary here in the Capitol, it's almost time for Peeta and Allysia to be at training.
"So" I ask them, just as Haymitch asked me last year, "do you have any kind of special skills?"
Peeta looks at me, turning red and looking up at me before turning his face towards the ground. "Um" he answers "not really". And when his bright blue eyes meet mine, the almost familiar shock runs through me again and I find myself saying, without any kind of second thought:
"That's not true. You're strong. You can throw a hundred pound sack of flour right over your head, and you can wrestle".
I hear the words come out of my mouth as though a stranger has said them, but immediately I know them to be true. I have seen it, I can picture it in my head now, Peeta in the market lifting the huge sacks, the muscles in his upper arms straining—
The level of detail in this memory surprises me. I remember the wrestling as well; he beat half the school, came second only to his brother. I seem to have kept track of the boy with the bread.
Peeta is looking at me in shock, mouth slightly open and confusion in his eyes, as well as something else I can't quite make out.
"And you?" I say suddenly, turning quickly to Allysia in a desperate attempt to change the subject as much as possible. "What can you do?"
Her olive skin turns faintly pink and she mutters something inaudible. When I ask her to repeat it, her voice is clear and quiet, and surprisingly confident, and her answer shocks me.
"Are you serious?" I say, staring at her in disbelief. Something that faintly resembles a smile flits across her face and she nods