Peeta didn't sleep most of the night, something about his day keeping him awake. The next morning, Peeta's already in the shower when I wake up. I know we have to talk today. I need to tell him about what's happened. I'm not sure where to go. We can't keep sneaking away to the utility stairwell or the Capitol will start to get suspicious, although two teenagers in love will draw less suspicion than Haymitch and me. I walk down to breakfast ahead of Peeta. Haymitch and Effie are already there, which has gotten to be routine. Off the alcohol, Haymitch has adopted somewhat of a normal sleeping pattern, although he's miserable to be around until the afternoon. I can tell Haymitch is anxious to talk about yesterday, but he waits until Peeta comes down.
I eat some oatmeal. Normally Peeta mixes it with maple syrup and nuts for me, but I don't know what I'm doing and it comes out too sweet and lumpy. I'm from 12, though, so I eat it begrudgingly. Peeta comes galloping down the stairs, a wide grin across his face. His hair is still wet from his shower. He says the drying mat doesn't work right since he lost a foot, so he just skips it altogether. "Morning," he says cheerfully to the group before plopping down beside me, grabbing an apple.
"Morning?" I say, one eyebrow cocked. What is he so happy about? Has he forgotten the impending threats on our lives and those of everyone we love? Or that we may be on the brink of a revolution that will take lives from both sides? That we don't know who will fall in the fight to save Panem?
"So, how'd everything go yesterday?" Haymitch asks. From what he said earlier, much of Peeta's bakery tour was televised, but it was mostly panoramic shots of the bakery focused on sweets and delicacies. Clearly the owner must be a friend of the president, because the way Haymitch describes it, it seems more like a commercial for his bakery than a piece on Peeta or our wedding.
"Oh, it was fine," Peeta says indifferently, stabbing a few pancakes with his fork and bringing them to his plate. I give him a skeptical look. Last night Peeta was pretty upset about his day. He catches my stare and looks confused. "What?" he asks, and looks around to find all of us staring at him. "I was upset last night, but the more I think about it, the more I think I did the right thing."
"What right thing?" Haymitch asks with a leading tone.
"I just told them I wasn't using their stupid bakery and my dad would make my wedding cake," he says, stuffing a large bite of pancakes into his mouth.
"You didn't!" Effie cries out. "Peeta, you don't know who that is. The owner at that bakery is the top pastry chef in Panem!"
Peeta snorts and gives her a wicked grin. "You only say that because you've never had my dad's meringue."
"He's President Snow's brother," Haymitch adds, and the color drains from Peeta's face. I feel a rock form in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly my heart is beating so fast I it's like I have a hummingbird trapped in my ribcage.
"You don't think you should have told me that?" Peeta cries out, pushing himself away from the table. I tell myself to go to him, but I just sit in my seat paralyzed. Would Snow destroy the bakery as retribution? His brother has been humiliated by some merchant kid. Passed over for a dirty old bakery in the poorest district in the nation. It would be easy. A gas leak. Faulty wiring in one of the old ovens. He could burn the Mellark bakery to the ground and no one would be the wiser. I know Peeta's mind is racing to the same conclusion. He drops to the floor.
"I didn't know until last night," Haymitch says almost soundlessly.
"I just wanted one thing about the wedding to be real, and now I…" he whispers, burying his head in his knees.
"Don't be silly, it's still official if you're married in the Capitol. It's still real," Effie insists, the whole situation flying completely over her head.
"We'll apologize," I manage, my words not entirely comforting. I'm grasping at straws.
"It wasn't on tape, right?" Haymitch asks.
Peeta shakes his head. "The cameras had already left. I wasn't rude or anything. I just… Every Mellark makes his own child's wedding cake. My grandfather made my dad's. I'll make my child's, someday…" As he rambles the look on his face grows even more despondent. He'll never have any children if he's forced to marry me. Or if Snow forces us to conceive, they'll never make it to their wedding day alive. They'll die in an Arena. There are no Mellark wedding cakes in his future.
"We'll go back today," I offer. "Together. We'll pick out a cake on live television. We can even do a cake tasting, right Effie?" I add.
"Oh that would be very popular indeed!" Effie chimes in.
"That would work, right Haymitch?" I throw my eyes to him desperately.
"Yeah, I think so. I need to make some calls," Haymitch says, rising from his seat. "Effie, you too. Cancel today's events. Let's make this happen."
They both swiftly leave. Peeta is still sitting on the floor. I sit next to him.
"He's going to kill my family," he says under his breath.
"We don't know that," I offer. I'm not the wordsmith Peeta is. All I can do is be here with him, so that's what I try to do.
"It's not real if my dad doesn't make the cake," he whispers. I can see him fighting back tears, and I look at my hands, trying to give him some privacy.
"It was never real, anyway," I say. It obviously doesn't help. He turns away from me. I rest my head on his back. I feel him trembling slightly. We're quiet. "When you marry me for real, your dad will make the cake. And I'll wear one of my mom's old dresses." I feel him stop breathing. I don't know if this will ever really happen. I don't know where these words are coming from. I wrap my arms around his waist. "Prim will have flowers in her hair. Rye will get you absolutely hammered the night before, and Bannock will sneak coffee in your room for your splitting headache." I hear him chuckle softly. "Your mom's not invited," I add, and he laughs in earnest.
Peeta clears his throat and stands up, offering me a hand. He pulls me from the floor. When I stand he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me hard. He knows what I said might not come true. But it's something to hope for. We're not without hope. "You're a good friend," he says softly. His voice is serious. Sincere. I hold him back, and I realize there is so much more between us than circumstance. Than chemistry. Than the situation we are in. Than even this romance we've found ourselves caught up in.
"So you'll never believe what I did at dinner," I say, and he pulls back.
"You didn't actually stab him, did you?" Peeta asks jokingly. The mood lightens. I tell him about the meal, about Plutarch's stupid fat face and his stupid wink and his stupid special fork. And how I ate the dinner like I'd been in the Arena a week without food. Peeta is crying laughing by the time I tell him I sucked the oysters from their shells, and picked my teeth with a knife, and scared off the busboy.
"There were no cameras," I shrug with a conniving smile.
We don't exactly know what's going on today, so I go to my room and shower. Peeta watches the footage on television meticulously, but neither of our indiscretions seem to have made any waves. "Turn it off," I beg after hours drag by.
When our prep teams show up, I take it as a good sign. Haymitch and Effie must have been able to work something out. My prep is low-key. I can tell Cinna is going for the young and innocent look again, as my make-up is soft and light. The dress they fit me in reminds me of vanilla and drops to my knees. I wonder if everything I wear will be some shade of white up until the wedding. I look at myself in the mirror. I look like myself. I look young. Sometimes I forget.
When Peeta comes out of his room, I can see Portia is going for the same thing. He's dressed in light colors. Linen. They've cut his hair, and it makes him look younger. Boyish. Between the way the two of us look, I wonder if the nation might start to agree with my mother. Wishful thinking…
When we come downstairs, Effie and Haymitch are waiting with Cinna and Portia. Peeta and I each go to our respective stylists. Cinna slides a tiny headband in my hair. I look demure. I know that's what he's trying to achieve. "Smile. Flirt. Eat lots of cake." He kisses my cheek and I feel better. Cinna believes we can do this. We can do this. Effie and Haymitch escort us to the bakery. It's almost like we have guardians. If anything, it reinforces the story. I don't complain. Haymitch doesn't give us advice in the car. We know what to do.
The bakery itself is stunning. The floors are marble, and it feels like there are miles of glass display cases, each featuring a new dessert. I saw the footage on television yesterday, but it's nothing compared to seeing it in person. Rows upon rows are chocolates – truffles and dipped exotic fruits and solid bars dusted with gold flakes. There is a bar of hot chocolates, and wall of cheesecakes. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling every twenty feet or so, and they refract colored light all over the room. It's the most stunning place I've been to. Normally I'd think Peeta would be in heaven here, but I feel him next to me. Everything about him is fake – his smile, his posture, his words. This is torture for him.
We are brought to a table of tiny cake samples, which are frankly exquisite. Between each sample, the chef explains to the camera the flavor and frosting. Decadent and airy white cake with a strawberry butter cream frosting. Marbled pistachio. Rum. Hazelnut cream with a crunchy toffee accent. Lemon poppy seed. Chocolate chiffon with mocha. My favorite is the red velvet with cream cheese. Peeta smiles and makes insightful and praise-filled compliments on each cake. He uses a self-deprecating humor that I'm sure plays well for the viewers but makes my heart hurt.
Snow's brother looks eerily like him, and I wonder how Peeta didn't notice the resemblance. He is healthier and more vibrant than Snow, even though they seem to be about the same age. His hair is white, but he has a fuller frame. He smiles easily, which puts me on edge. He seems to be genuinely kind, and his eyes twinkle, but I don't trust him. It's probably a front. When his niece skips up to him, I freeze. Her hair is tied in a braid like mine, running down the side of her tiny frame. She's small and bright. Her uncle beams and the cameras gobble it up. She's nervous to meet me, and hides behind her uncle, peeking out and giggling. She reminds me a little of Prim. "Go ahead," he coaxes, and she finally steps forward. She's too shy to say anything, so I offer her a piece of cake, which she eats bashfully, blushing as she watches me.
Snow's granddaughter. I make the connection.
"So, what have we decided?" the man asks, his hands open to us.
"You pick, Katniss. Bride's choice," Peeta says. Translation: I don't want to do this. Get me out of here.
"Red velvet it is," I say, and place a soft kiss on his mouth. It says ignore them. It says come home with me.
"Excellent choice!" the chef claps, and the cameras cut away. Peeta weaves his hand in mine and practically pulls me out of the shop. I look over my shoulder and catch one last glimpse of the little girl, smiling at me from behind the counter. I wave at her, and she nearly shrieks in glee. Outside, there are swarms of reporters from magazines not exclusive enough to have been given press passes for the tasting itself. Their camera bulbs flash and they shout questions at us. Peeta's face is red. I kiss him on the cheek in a girlish way, and then distract the reporters by showing them my ring and gossiping like one of those flighty women we see at Capitol events. I watch Peeta duck into the car. I go on and on about the proposal, how excited I am to try on dresses, how pretty Prim will look, until I get the cue from Haymitch. I make a quick exit and he slams the car door behind me. Inside, Peeta stares out the window at nothing. I know he's worried for his family. He's hoping he's done enough. It's that same emotion that has hung foreboding over us for the whole tour. Have we kept our loved ones safe? Alive? I weave my hand in his and rub it with my thumb, but his hand is limp, his mind elsewhere.
"It was good, really good," Haymitch says. "I could see audience reactions on one of the feedback monitors. Everyone ate it up. That bakery will be legendary after doing your wedding."
"Good," I sigh in relief, but Peeta's still distant. I don't think he'll believe he's fixed anything until he sees his family alive again. I can't blame him.
"We'll be home soon," I whisper. I don't mean the Tribute Center. I mean 12. We only have a couple more days in the Capitol.
"I know," he says, his voice distant. The rest of the ride back is silent.
Peeta dismisses himself to his room, and Haymitch, Effie, and I eat a light meal. Haymitch excused the staff before we left, so we throw together sandwiches in the kitchen. I make a plate for Peeta for later and set it aside. It's weird being so informal around Effie. I didn't think she'd ever eat a sandwich, but in the privacy of our suite, she kicks off her shoes and puts the plate on her lap. Obviously the day has been wearing. Effie's not stupid. She knows something is going on, but she's eternally optimistic and so she forces herself into thinking this day was about cake and nothing more.
"Do you really think it was good, Haymitch?" I ask. He doesn't normally sugarcoat things for us, but Peeta isn't himself and I wonder if he's glossing things over.
"I do, I think it went really well," he says, chewing his sandwich slowly.
"Good enough?" I ask. He knows what I mean. Did we smooth over our offense, or is Peeta's family going to burn? He nods. I see Effie eyeing us, but she says nothing. She merely eats her sandwich quietly. I don't know why, but I trust Effie. I know she's part of the system, and from the Capitol, but she cares about us. And I think her eyes are opening to the atrocity of it all.
"I have an idea," Effie says after a long silence. "I'm taking Peeta on a field trip. We'll be back later." She rises from her seat, slips on her heels, and clicks up the stairs to his room. Not long later, he follows her out, and waves at me before disappearing with Effie. I look at Haymitch, but he just shrugs his shoulders.
Peeta doesn't come back until late. I'm already in bed when the door to my room creaks open. I roll over and see him in my doorway. "Oh, sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I wasn't sleeping," I say, sitting up. He walks over to my bed and kisses my mouth softly. "There's a sandwich for you on my nightstand," I whisper.
"Oh, great! I'm starving. Can I use your shower? Or I can go back to my room..."
"No, go ahead. Use mine," I say. He raises his hands to my face and kisses my forehead. That's when I see paint smudged on his arm. Reds and blues and greens speckle his fingers, and I can see bright yellow scraped under his thumbnail. "Were you at the train?" I ask. He nods and turns to go to the shower.
Effie brought him to paint.
She knows more than she lets on.