Clara's the one that has nightmares, not me. When we first met, I had no idea how to handle them. Most times, I'd just shove a pillow over my head, grit my teeth, and wait for her to stop. It wasn't the most empathetic reaction, but I didn't know her back then. She was just the latest girl to be assigned to my small room. But then, one night, she screamed so loud I was sure Ms Violet would come down on us both, so I heaved myself out of bed and shook her awake. When her eyes flew open, she looked so terrified that I couldn't help but stay. We'd only known each other for a couple of days then, but when you're six-years-old, timing doesn't really come into it. The only thing that mattered is that I was there. Once she finally caught her breath, she confessed that she'd dreamt of her parents. Turns out they'd gone fishing one day and never come back. Clara wasn't there to see what happened, but she'd heard stories and now her brain was getting exceptionally good at filling in the blanks.

I didn't know how to respond to that, of course. So I just padded over to my bed, tossed open the covers, and offered to stay awake with her. I can still remember the look of relief that crossed her face as she agreed. And that's how we spent the night huddled together trading secrets under my worn duvet. I told her everything I knew about Medler House. All the best hiding spots, how to sneak an extra roll at lunch, and the easiest work rotations. In return, Clara told me about her life before Medler House. How her mother was an artist and her father spent every waking moment at the docks. I wish we could've stayed under my covers forever.

But we didn't, and now I'm the one screaming. Every time I close my eyes, I can feel Titus plunging a shard of glass into my middle over and over again. I see Marina fussing over my corpse as Cassandra mourns the state of my complexion. I hear Blythe's disembodied laughter and Clara's scream. Then comes the smell of blood and roses. By the morning, I'm tangled in my sheets and covered in a fine layer of sweat. And I can't find the will to move. I can't find the will to do anything except stare out the window blankly and count the number of clouds in the sky. Part of me thinks I could stay this way all day, but then an Avox appears with a fresh set of clothing in her hands.

I can sense that Marina has sent her here to drag me out for breakfast. Today is our last day in the Capitol. We'll spend it preparing for our interview with Caesar Flickerman, which will be our final opportunity to bag more sponsors before the games begin tomorrow. The thought of it alone is enough to give me a headache, and it must show on my face as the Avox makes her way over to my side.

She peels away my bedsheets in an instant and directs me to sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. And although she can't speak, her eyes are kind and creased with concern. She places a worn hand on top of mine and gives it a quick squeeze. The small gesture almost makes me cry.

"Thank you," I say, resisting the urge to swipe at my eyes.

She looks at me for a long moment and then offers a small smile. Axel said the Avoxes were traitors to the Capitol, so what did she do to end up here? She doesn't look like a rebel, she just looks like a person, and a good one at that. As she helps me to slip into my outfit, I decide that it doesn't matter. I don't care what she's done, no one deserves this.

The reception I receive at the breakfast table is decidedly less friendly. Marina tuts at me on sight before launching into a lecture on punctuality. Finnick has already cleared his plate and filled my own.

"Overslept, Medler?" he asks, as I slip into my chair.

"Maybe," I shrug, raising my eyebrows at Titus' empty spot. "Is he late too?"

Marina frowns, before clearing her throat. "After last night's events, we believe it's in your best interests to be trained alone."

"Alone," I echo, buttering my toast. I can't seem to stop my knife from shaking.

"Yes, that's what I said," says Marina, as if I'm being deliberately slow. "Now, let's not dwell on such horrid business. Today is a very important day and you can't afford to waste a moment."

I look to Finnick for translation and he breaks down the schedule. First, I'll spend four hours with Marina working on etiquette, then I'll be sent to Finnick for a further four hours where we'll hammer out the finer details of my angle. I can't tell which is worse. Marina openly dislikes me, so I can't imagine either of us will be having the time of our lives. And then there's Finnick, who I still have no idea how to feel about. Right now our relationship is shaky at best, but we have come to a fragile resolution. He helps me to survive the arena, and I thank him by loathing his existence from the safety of victor's village. Simple enough.

"Think you can handle that, Medler?" asks Finnick once he's finished his run-through.

"Are you saying I have a choice?" I reply, picking at my toast.

Finnick pops a sugar cube into his mouth. "Not really, but it's great to see your enthusiasm."

I send him a smile with a mouth-full of food and Marina sighs, already half-way to defeat. Then Finnick gets out of his chair, wishes Marina luck, and sends me off with a pat on the head.

"Be good," he calls over his shoulder as he leaves. "And don't break Marina, she's here to help you."

What happens over the course of the next four hours certainly doesn't feel like help. It feels like torture. First, Marina slaps the toast out of my hands and pulls me over to the sitting room.

"That bread will have you bloated in no time," she explains, circling me like a hawk. "See I'm helping you already, darling."

We start with smiling, which I didn't know was something you could teach. It turns out, it's actually a skill, just sadly not one I possess.

"That's a scowl," says Marina, as my cheeks burn. "Now it's a grimace."

I try again, sending her my toothiest grin, but that's quickly declared to be downright unnerving. Seeing that we're making virtually no progress on the smiling front, we move onto walking. I almost scoff when Marina says it, but then she hands me a floor length gown and a pair of heels.

"You're not serious," I say, dangling them from my fingers.

Marina sighs, "I'm afraid I am."

She was right to be afraid. I can barely get the heels on, let alone walk in them. It feels like I'm about to break my ankle every time I take a step, so I cling to the couch and pull myself along.

"You can't drag yourself onto the stage tonight, darling," Marina says, making no effort to hide the irritation in her voice. "You need to walk with confidence."

I tighten my grip. "I would feel a lot more confident if I could take these things off."

"I'm sure you would," says Marina. "But that's not happening. Now, let's try this again."

One hour and about five close-calls later, Marina calls it quits with walking. I pretend not to notice as she makes a deliberately loud mental note to tell Cassandra that I can only wear flats going forwards. And for the first time since he attacked me last night, I think of Titus. More specifically about how I would much rather be him. Then I could do all the things I'm actually good at. I could stalk across the stage, glare at the audience, and refuse to so much as crack a smile. What I said wouldn't matter, my face would speak for itself. But, for better or worse, I'm not Titus. I'm someone who's going to have to actually work for this.

We move onto posture next and, astonishingly, this is the one area I excel in. Even Marina looks pleasantly surprised at the perfectly straight line of my back. Of course, she doesn't know that this is the side-effect of having a ruler cracked across my shoulders every time I slouched at Medler House. Maybe if she knew that, she wouldn't be so pleased. But it was rare for Marina to praise me in any capacity, so I decide to keep my mouth shut and wait for the hours to pass.

When they finally do, Marina claps her hands together and shoots me what I think must be one of those award-winning smiles she's been talking about.

"Well, I've done all that I can, darling," she says. "With any luck, tonight's interview won't be a complete disaster."

I'm not a huge fan of the complete-disaster part, but I accept her words as graciously as possible. There's no sense in sitting here and bickering with her, especially when I have another four hours of training to get through.

This time, it's with Finnick. I meet him in the screening room, where he's sitting with his arms folded across his chest.

"How'd it go with Marina," he asks, as I slip onto the couch opposite. "I didn't hear any yelling, so that's a good sign."

Under different circumstances, I would have laughed. But the stubborn part of me forces it down and I just say, "She's banned me from wearing heels."

"Oh yeah?" says Finnick, raising his eyebrows.

"And smiling."

"Well, at least you never did that too much in the first place," he says, teasing.

"I do!" I shoot back. "Just not here."

And why would I? It's not like the Capitol has given me much to be happy about. Finnick waves my anger away with his hand, determined to use every minute of our four-hour slot to perfect my angle.

"You remember what we talked about last night?" he says. "You need to get sponsors on your side."

"I know," I reply. "They need to like me."

"They need to invest in you," he corrects. "We could start by getting them to actually know you."

I don't like the sound of this. Not because I'm particularly protective of my private life, but because it isn't the sort of thing you'd want to broadcast to all of Panem, especially if you're the Capitol. On the surface, community homes are touted as a symbol of mercy, a last refuge for the most vulnerable among us. That's not really how it works in reality, though. All I know is that I've been dreaming of escaping Medler House for as long as I've been in it. So, how on earth am I supposed to spin that?

Finnick reads the hesitation on my face and decides to start smaller. "What's your favorite thing about Four?"

Well, for starters, no one in Four is actively trying to kill me, which is a plus. They're also not forcing me to win over the hearts of the same people who are betting on whether I'll live or die. But something tells me this isn't what he wants to hear, so I think harder.

"The docks are okay," I say, fiddling with the hem of my dress. "I like to sit there and watch the merchant ships."

Correction, I like to sit there and watch the merchant ships with Clara. We find the perfect spot, half-shade, half-sun and make up all sorts of stories about where the sailors are headed. One time, we spent hours coming up with ridiculous names for each boat. By the time the sun set, we were sunburnt and tripping over ourselves with laughter. She always says that was her favorite day. I was just giddy that it was one she spent with me.

"That's a good start," says Finnick. "Have you ever been sailing?"

I shake my head. "They only train the boys."

He frowns for a moment and then says, "I can teach you once you're back. If that's something you'd like."

There's something about Finnick that makes it exceptionally hard to hold a grudge. Maybe it's because it's obvious that he's genuinely trying to connect. Or maybe it's because he seems to be the only person that believes I'll still be alive and kicking in a week's time. Either way, I refuse to trip over myself to accept his offer, instead settling for a lukewarm nod. "Maybe."

"I'll take a maybe," says Finnick. "Now, back to strategy. You're going to be alone on that stage, and your one goal is to get them to remember you. That means you can't be hostile–"

"I'm not hostile!"

"Maybe not all the time, but you're not exactly an open book, either. I hardly know anything about you."

"That's not true," I protest, racking my brains for proof. "You know about Clara."

"Okay," he says. "But that's one thing, Medler, and we've known each other for nearly a week. Tonight, you'll only have two minutes."

Two minutes to win the Capitol's hearts. I thumb over memories of the tributes from previous years. Caesar Flickerman is a great host, always pulling the best from his guests, but they need to give him something to work with in the first place. Some sort of angle he can transform into a character people want to root for. I resist the urge to hang my head in defeat.

"You got people to like you," I say, remembering that Finnick bagged the most expensive sponsor gift since the games began. "Can't you just tell me what to do?"

"It doesn't work like that," he counters. "Look, I'll pretend to be the audience and you answer my questions. We can find your angle along the way."

"Okay," I say, already sounding dubious.

Then Finnick takes on the role of interviewer and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion. But he's right, I'm not an open book. Every time he asks about Four, I deflect. Then he moves onto interests which are a dead-end. Everything I like doing involves Clara and I can't stomach mentioning her now, letting alone in a live broadcast. Then comes my love life, which is as much of a mystery to me as it is to the rest of the world. The longer we go on, the shorter my answers become, until Finnick is basically talking to himself.

"Alright, that's enough," he says, running his hands through his hair. "This isn't working. How about you focus on the games?"

"The games?"

"You can't believe that a kid from Medler House is representing District Four. You've grown up watching the games and it's an honor to be here. You need to act humble enough that the audience likes you, but confident enough that they'll reach into their pockets when you need it."

The next few hours are rough. The Finnick that offered my sailing lessons is gone, replaced with a drill sergeant that shoots questions at me on rapid-fire. Every time I mess up, he starts the interviewer over, only pausing to offer me a detailed run-down of where I'm going wrong. By the time we manage to complete an interview, I can't tell who looks more exhausted.

"That wasn't too bad, Medler," he says. "You just need to relax."

Relax? I'm pretty sure that's at the top of my list of things that aren't going to happen, but there's no time to argue as Cassandra slinks into the room and drags me down to the remake center for my final fitting.

I approach this portion of the day with a quiet determination. I don't complain when Cassandra and my prep team agonize over pinning painfully tight ringlets into my hair. I don't say a word as they slip me into a dress that looks more like it was made for a doll than a human being. I don't even return Cassandra's dirty look when she passes me a pair of light-blue pumps, not heels.

"Well, what do you think?" Cassandra asks, shepherding me in front of a mirror.

I take a moment to observe myself. This dress is softer than the one I wore to the opening ceremony. It's not like a siren at all, it's more like the sea just before a storm breaks. Pale blue and eerily still. I turn slightly, noticing that the fabric seems to reflect light, like sunshine dappled on the water's surface.

"It's beautiful," I say.

Cassandra sniffs. "It would have looked better with heels."

The Interviews will take place on a stage that has been constructed just outside the training center. All twenty-four of us will sit in a big arc during the interviews, but first we must meet up with the District Four crowd.

Now that he's seen me in my dress and not scowling at him from across the training room, Finnick seems more confident about my odds.

"You've got this, Medler," he says as we make our way backstage. "Just focus on the games and the rest will follow."

I nod with a head that feels like it's been carved out of stone and follow his lead.

"I'll be in the crowd so just pretend that you're talking to me, okay?"

"Okay."

"And whatever the other tributes say, you stick to the plan. Don't let them get in your head."

"Right."

He pauses, just as we're about to split off to our assigned seats and takes my hand.

"I know we're still working on the whole trust thing," he says, voice low. "But I'm not going back to Four without you, okay?"

I look at him hard, unable to miss the note of desperation in his voice. It's so against the grain of what I've seen from Finnick that I can't help but nod.

"I've got this," I say, giving his hand a small squeeze. "You're a good mentor."

Whatever look I've forced onto my face must work as Finnick releases my hand and nods, satisfied.

I catch Tressa's eye as I find my seat. She's wearing a peach coloured satin number and shoots me a warm smile. Pierce is next to her and dressed in a matching suit that does nothing to make him seem older, if anything he looks younger than twelve. Then comes the pair from One who are draped in diamonds from head to toe. I watch in awe as their bodies glimmer under the studio lights. Blythe is dressed in a simple, crimson gown. It's strapless and sophisticated, the kind of thing that victors wear, not tributes. I notice that we're only two seats apart, which makes me want to high-tail it back to the elevators, but it's too late, Caesar Flickerman has already taken to the stage.

Like Blythe's dress, Caesar's suit is crimson. Only he doesn't look beautiful, he looks terrifying, almost like he's bleeding to death. He warms up the audience with a few jokes and then launches straight into the main show. I squirm in my seat, all too aware of Titus' body next to mine. He has decided to pretend that I don't exist, which is a much better alternative than trying to murder me, but I remain wary.

The female tribute always precedes the male, so Jewel takes to the stage first. My heart is already pounding as I watch her field Caesar's questions with finesse. At first, I expect her to play up the sexy angle, but does one better, making every effort to stress the fact that she volunteered alongside her twin brother. Caesar praises her sacrifice but then asks the question we've all been thinking.

"Why volunteer alongside your brother? Surely you know that only one victor can be crowned?"

Jewel savors the question, allowing a single tear to run down her cheek.

"Well, Caesar," she says, graciously patting it away with a perfectly manicured finger. "My brother and I have grown up watching the games together. We've always known that we were going to volunteer, it's the highest honor in District One. And if one of us can win, then the other's sacrifice won't have been in vain. It's our duty to Panem to try. It's our duty to each other."

The audience bursts into applause and some people even start weeping. She played it perfectly. A doomed set of patriotic twins? I'm sure the gamemakers are tripping over themselves with glee.

By the time we move onto the next round of tributes, I'm shaking. Is this stage fright? Finnick and I had spent so long agonizing over strategy that we never discussed this. I dig my fingernails into my palm hard and will it away. I need to concentrate now, especially as Blythe is the one taking to the stage.

She looks like she was born to be there, refusing Casear's offer to take a seat and glaring out at the audience.

"So, Blythe, it appears that we're matching tonight," says Caesar, playing for humor.

I hear the audience laugh but Blythe silences them with an icy stare.

"Oh," she says, sounding bored.

"Oh, indeed," replies Caesar, pressing on regardless. "Now I imagine there is an interesting story behind this look."

Blythe doesn't budge, inspecting her nails as if she'd rather be anywhere else.

"I'm sure there is," she says after a moment. "But it's not half as interesting as what I'm going to do in that arena tomorrow."

The audience leans forward, rapt with attention, and Blythe soaks it up. She pauses for a moment, and then lets a cold smile slip over her fingers.

"I think I'll start with Four over there," she says, pointing at me. "Or maybe Eight. I haven't made up my mind yet."

I freeze in my chair. This has never happened before. Tributes don't talk about other tributes, let alone threaten them. We only get two minutes, so why waste them on other people? But Blythe has never played by the rules.

I twist around to find Finnick's face in the crowd. There's nothing he can do but I can't fight the instinct. Not that it matters, though, because before I can spot him a second spotlight beams in my direction.

"Well," Caesar says, clearly caught off-guard. "Most of my guests don't disclose their plans so openly but I must say I admire your honesty."

"Most of your guests are idiots," Blythe shoots back, sauntering off the stage before her time is up.

Caesar is stunned. I am stunned. The whole of Panem is stunned. Blythe has just blown us all out of the water. Win or lose, no one will forget her now. She seems to know this too as she sends me a wink before settling back into her seat. I'm pretty sure my shudder is visible all the way from District Thirteen.

To distract myself, I pour every inch of my focus onto counting the crimson gems on Caesar's suit. Titus' elbow jostles against my own as he snickers but I cannot let this distract me. I made Clara a promise.

By the time the blood finally returns to my face, they're calling Wren Medler and I have no choice but to force myself to my feet and walk towards the stage. My legs feel as unsteady as they did that day in the reaping square and I'm convinced that I'm about to keel over and fall until Caesar grabs a hold of my forearm and directs me gently to my chair.

"So, Wren," he starts, already looking at me with something resembling pity. "I'm sure you were as surprised as we were when a certain tribute from District Two made some interesting comments about you tonight."

I find Blythe's face and watch as she raises her eyebrows in challenge.

"I'm not surprised, Caesar," I say, reaching for a lie.

"Oh, and why is that?"

I straighten out the fabric of my dress. "It's the Hunger Games, isn't it? Killing people is sort of the whole point."

It's macabre and completely against the grain of how I'm supposed to be presenting myself, but no one could have predicted Blythe's curveball, not even Finnick. And I'd rather be bold than spineless if those are the only options.

At least my words elicit a laugh from Caesar and I feel my shoulders relax as some of the audience members join in too.

"Well that's certainly one way to look at it," he says. "But enough about other people! We want to know about you. Tell me how it felt when you heard your name called out on reaping day."

I do find Finnick's face in the crowd now and he sends me a nod.

"Can I be honest with you, Caesar?" I ask, as if we are the only people in the room.

He places his hand across his heart. "Of course."

I take a deep breath. "I never expected this. I've always watched the games but I never dreamt of being here. I never thought it was possible, but ever since my name came out of that bowl–"

I cut myself off, sniffling softly. Caesar passes me his crimson pocket square.

"Do go on, Wren," he says, placing a hand on my knee.

I dab my eyes gently and peer out at the audience. "I've never had a family before. I grew up in a community home, but now things have changed and I've been allowing myself to hope."

"To hope for what?"

"To hope that maybe I can find a family here with all of you," I say, voice small, then shake my head. "You must think I'm being silly."

Caesar cuts me off with one of those award-winning smiles Marina was talking about and turns to face the audience.

"Of course not," Caesar replies. "Do you think that the lovely Wren Medler is being silly?"

The audience shake their heads vehemently, hollering cheers and words of reassurance. I smile back gratefully, sending a pointed look in Blythe's direction.

Once the crowd finally dies down, Caesar's mood quietens. He takes both my hands in his own and leans closer.

"Now, Wren, I'm afraid our time together is drawing to a close but before you go, I'd like to ask you one last question."

"Of course."

"As you know, you're entering the arena tomorrow. We've got an impressive line of competitors, so do you have a secret to success?"

I glance at the crowd and then return my gaze to Caesar's face.

"I don't have a secret," I admit. "I just have a promise."

Caesar nods, and it's so quiet I swear you could hear a pin drop in the city circle.

"What promise?"

I steel myself, find the nearest camera, and stare directly down the lens. Suddenly, I'm not on stage anymore. I'm not being broadcast live to the whole of Panem. I'm back in the Justice Building clutching onto Clara.

"That I'm not going to try, Caesar," I say. "I'm going to win."

Then the buzzer goes off signaling that my time is up and I exit the stage to a deafening applause. As I'm ushered back to my seat, I lock eyes with Finnick who sends me a look bordering somewhere between relief and pride. I hold onto it as I wait for my pounding heart rate to settle. Because there's something warm that has settled into the pit of my stomach. Something that wasn't there before.

Hope.