Haymitch knocks on the door early the next morning. It doesn't much matter, neither of us really slept. We head downstairs for breakfast. The table has more food than we could possibly eat, and I get frustrated when I remember there are children in the Seam who would put an extra slip in the Reaping bowl for just one of these pastries. It amazes me how quickly I fall into indifference. I eat food I didn't kill or cook. I wear clothes I didn't buy or make. I have more shoes than I could ever need. I take long showers like I don't know how precious water is. I don't even recognize myself. I wonder if Snow won. If he turned me into something I'm not.
Peeta doesn't eat, and I wonder if he's feeling the same thing. He mixes my coffee and sets it in front of me, and then drinks his black. He never sweetens his drinks. I don't know how anyone could purposefully ingest coffee without doing something to it, but he told me he's had enough sugar for one lifetime. I can't argue with him.
Effie rattles on about the day. The morning will be filled with spectacle on the television. A segment with Cinna on my gown. A segment with Cheshire about the meal. Sneak peeks with the many interior designers and party planners and the fireworks technician. Peeta and I are the main attraction, so luckily we don't have to be on camera all day. It's all in anticipation of our grand appearance tonight.
Peeta and I decided we'd give it our all today, although revolutionary thoughts still boil in our minds. Tonight we will be the star-crossed lovers. Tell the story everyone wants to hear. I thought it might be a little easier given how close we've grown off camera, but if anything it's made it worse. I feel like they are taking something from me. Something new and personal and intimate and secret, and they are exploiting it. Exposing it and contorting it until I don't recognize my own life staring back at me. But I put on the brave face. I pretend it doesn't hurt, because I need to save my best friend. I need to save my sister.
Peeta squeezes my hand before following Portia and his team from the room. Peeta tells me his prep team doesn't really talk to him anymore. Not since we won. Before the Games, they were personable and talkative, albeit it flighty, but since he became a Victor, they are too star-struck to even speak to him. They call him "sir" or "Mr. Mellark" and dote on him like he's some kind of prince. He says his prep sessions are very lonely and isolating. Luckily he doesn't need as much work as me, so they are normally brief. He adores Portia. I never really understood how close they were until that first night Peeta and I stayed up talking. He smiles when he mentions her, always inserting her into stories or telling me what she thinks about this or that. She fills a void in his life. Not maternally, but sort of like that. She's the one person here who has always Peeta ahead of me, and I respect that. He deserves someone in his corner.
After hours of prep, we meet in the breezeway of the suite. Haymitch, who normally attends these events in whatever button-up shirt Effie has managed to force on him, is in a full Capitol tuxedo. Effie's gown is extraordinary. Weird, but extraordinary. The dress covers her body in flowing, structured ruffles. A collar that takes up nearly the entire bodice protrudes from the body like a reverse mushroom cap. Her wig is a perfectly matched shade of cobalt. I've been spending too much time with Cinna.
My dress is long and midnight black and hugs every curve of my body. I'm straight and skinny as a rule, but this dress makes me look like a woman. The front cuts low, and feathers run along the neckline. I blushed when I first saw the amount of skin I was exposing, but Cinna is playing an angle here. The shoulders each have a fire-red feather piece that almost reminds me of armor. Cinna told me he calls the look "the phoenix" after an old folk tale of a bird that rose from the ashes. He said it felt fitting. Portia gave Peeta an all-black, fitted tuxedo with accents matching mine. We don't look like the meek and modest children that went to the bakery. We look fierce. We look deadly. This is a warning to Snow. You want us with you, not against you. It's the best move we can do now.
We all head to the party as a group, although Haymitch, Cinna, Portia, and our prep teams go ahead and mingle for a while. Effie will escort us in. As we walk down the marble path leading up to the outdoor event, my jaw drops. I've been to Capitol parties. I thought I'd seen extravagance. Waste. But this is at a whole new level. The evening will end indoors in the ballroom, Effie tells us. I wonder how we will do an outdoor event, given the cold temperatures, but I soon realize the lights are providing some sort of warmth, like sunshine on your skin. I hear Effie clicking on – event of the year, smile, chins up, be a lady, close your mouth – but I can't stop looking around me.
This event has no equal. Effie gives us a quick tour, greeting guests along the way. We end in the ballroom. If I didn't know better I'd think I was still outside. The ceilings, at least forty feet in the air, have been transformed into the night sky, with stars sparkling like crystals.
"Are these cathedral ceilings, Effie?" I ask.
She gives a high-pitched giggle. "Oh goodness no, but I do appreciate the effort, Katniss."
The outdoor party is stunning. There are flower gardens with exotic blooms, ponds with vibrant fish with fins that float behind them like the satin train of a dress. There are fireplaces and musicians and even a horse-drawn carriage for guests that are too drunk or lazy to walk from one side of the party to the other.
Food. The main event of this party is food. There are tables upon tables upon tables of it. Every delicacy I've ever tasted, and then hundreds more, line the tables that spread across the space. Animals roasted and turning on spits. Platters bursting with fruits and cheeses and meats. An entire table dedicated to different ocean delicacies. I see Plutarch coming to and from this table repeatedly, like a bird at a feeder. I keep note to avoid the seafood table. In this moment I've forgotten why we came here. I am the starving little girl in 12.
"I want to taste everything," I tell Peeta. He grins at me.
"You'd better pace yourself then," he says, looking around and taking in the unachievable task.
"Okay, no more than one bite of each dish," I reply, but when we visit the first table, I'm already begging for seconds and thirds. Peeta is forced to finish everything I can't since neither of us willing to waste food, and soon we are both busting at the seam. All night different Capitolites socialize with us, and we give it our all. Apparently my token has inspired some sort of fashion craze, as everyone is making a point to show me how they have a mockingjay embroidered on their tie or hammered into silver and dangling from their ears. Unlike the districts, here we are a smashing sensation. Everyone believes our love story and is vying to leave a good impression in hopes of an invitation to our wedding. When we spy a camera immediately to our left, Peeta turns and kisses me slowly. I can feel every move of his mouth against mine, and I think of our families back home, watching us. My cheeks burn in a blush, but it actually reads well and the cameraman gives us a big thumbs up from behind the lens.
We return for more food, moving slowly from table to table, but too soon I'm waiving my hands in defeat. Peeta looks grateful that he doesn't have to finish off another one of my plates, when I see my prep team fluttering up to me. I'm thankful for familiar faces, although I soon regret it. Being around other people from the Capitol has erased what progress they'd made toward acting somewhat normal. As if they weren't difficult enough to understand normally, their Capitol accents are slurred with the effects of too many cocktails. Their faces are flushed under the pale powder they patted on each other earlier. My team is drunk.
"Why aren't you eating?" Octavia asks, gesticulating with her hands more than she normally does, which is saying something.
"I can't eat another bite. I'm stuffed," I moan. The team laughs almost in unison, as if there is some joke Peeta and I aren't a part of.
"Here, drink this!" Flavius offers, handing me a tiny stemmed glass with a clear liquid in it. As I bring it to my lips, they all start waving their hands wildly and making incomprehensible sounds that I think are supposed to be words.
"Not here!" shrieks Octavia.
"You have to go in there, otherwise you'll get it all over the floor!" Venia adds, pointing to the bathrooms.
Peeta takes the glass from my hands. "You mean this will make her sick?" he asks.
"Not sick, it will just make you vomit. So you can keep eating!" Octavia says.
"I've been twice already," Venia brags. "How else would you have any fun at a feast?"
Peeta grabs my hand firmly, like he might detonate if he stands there a moment longer. "Come on, Katniss, let's dance," he says before we make our way to the dance floor. I can see the storm brewing in his eyes. I feel it too, rumbling in my chest, but now is not the time. He pulls me into him and we sway slowly on the dancefloor, barely moving. "Just when you think you can deal with it. Just when you think they're not so bad…" he voice is strained, but he cuts himself off. He knows we can't talk about this here. But we both see it. We look around and watch as these rich, desirous people gorge themselves, while back home mothers dote on starving children, counting their ribs and hating themselves. I feel guilty for the food in my stomach, and I feel it turn sour. I was only here for five minutes before I forgot who I was. I wasn't an alien in the middle of a circus, I was right there alongside them, feasting as if food weren't a luxury. I feel sick. He pulls himself close to me, and pretends to whisper salacious secrets in my ear. I giggle and flirt, but his words make me burn inside. "Maybe we were wrong."
Portia interrupts us, and Peeta pulls away from me reluctantly.
"Peeta, I don't believe you've met the Head Gamemaker, Plutarch Heavensbee," she says brightly, gesturing to the pompous man standing beside her, a plate of seafood in one hand.
"Ah, the man who stole my fiancée from me for an evening," Peeta jests, offering his hand. He holds mine in an iron vice in his other. We've been calling each other fiancée all night, as if we don't have real names or individual identities. Every time we do someone swoons or coos at us, but Plutarch is nonreactive.
"Well, who can blame me? She's simply enchanting," he smiles at me. I was certainly anything but enchanting that night. "I was hoping I might steal her again, take her for a whirl around the dancefloor."
Neither Peeta nor I are very interested in that proposition, but behind Plutarch we see Portia nodding in encouragement. Peeta good-naturedly passes me over, warning the man not to get too attached. I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family or my prep team.
"I must say, our dinner was not quite what I expected, Miss Everdeen," Plutarch says as we move around the other dancing patrons.
"Oh?" I ask, nonplussed.
"Well, most Victors spend their time sucking up to me. Brownnosing, as we called it when I was a boy," he adds. I've never heard that phrase before, but I can't help but find it funny and chuckle a little to myself.
"That's not me," I say coolly.
"I find it rather refreshing, I must admit. Like you are somehow being more honest with me," Plutarch replies. I don't like the idea of him thinking he knows the real me. "So, let's say I owe you a truth," he says, and my feet slow. Is he going to tell me something about the Games? Something that might save Prim's life?
"Is my sister going to be reaped?" I ask quietly.
"No, Primrose will be perfectly safe, at least for the Quarter Quell," Plutarch answers, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Then we've done it. We've convinced Snow. He's not taking Prim after all. I can feel myself beaming in Plutarch's arms, and he swiftly delivers me back to Peeta.
I grab Peeta's hand and drag him away from the crowd. We stand behind a magnificent ice sculpture of the seal of Panem, light gleaming from underneath and transforming colors every few moments, shifting from blood red, to burnt orange, to a bright yellow sunrise.
"We did it," I whisper as quietly as I can, excitement bubbling in my voice like champagne.
"How do you know?" he asks, keeping himself guarded, wary.
I draw myself closer to him. I can't image any listening device could hear us whispering over the din of the partygoers, but I want to be sure. I press my mouth to his ear. "Plutarch said Prim is not going to be reaped." I pull my face back and he stares at me wide-eyed, then a giant grin washes over his face. He lifts me by the waist and swirls me around in the air until I'm dizzy. When he drops me to my feet, the room keeps spinning around me and I clutch his jacket for balance. Peeta cups my face in his hands and kisses me. This is not a party kiss. This is a moment of joy, shared by two people who haven't seen much of it. The moment is short-lived, however, when the brass instruments in the band begin blaring the anthem of Panem.
Snow steps out onto a balcony overlooking the party. Peeta and I step out from behind the statue and make our way toward the front of the crowd, hands clasped tightly together so as not to be separated by the needy hands of our admirers.
"Thank you all for coming to celebrate the glory and splendor of Panem!" Snow states, his voice booming over the crowd through some unseen sound system. It makes me wonder if the listening devices at this party are invisible, too. "Tonight, on this the last day of their tour abroad, I want to welcome our two victors. Two young people who embody our ideals of strength and valor. And I personally want to congratulate them on the announcement of their engagement. Your love has inspired us. And I know it will go on inspiring us, every day, for as long as you may live." President Snow raises a glass in celebration, and across the hundreds of feet that separate us, we lock eyes. He raises his glass to me, and in a gesture that would be imperceptible to the average partygoer, he shakes his head no.
No. We haven't done it. We have not convinced Snow. Plutarch lied to my face, and I let myself believe him. Peeta saw it too, because I feel his body go rigid next to mine. He knows he has to control himself, but I can see his hand shaking as he tries not to throw the crystal flute of champagne he just received across the room. We both smile as those near us offer their congratulations, as if we'd go through with the wedding now. Tell us how delighted they are at our victory in the Games, as if that's something I should be proud of. Ask what shade of lipstick I'm wearing, as if that's important enough to know. I feel like my pulse is ringing in my ears.
I see Peeta step away from them and follow. He stops in front of a table of elaborately decorated cakes. Bakers from the kitchen swarm to tell him about frosting and this new flour sifter they use, but I see him lost there, just staring at flowers made of frosting. Thinking of home, of what we've lost. He smiles cordially, never rude, but he's not present with the people that surround him. He squeezes my hand so hard I think my fingers might break, but I squeeze his back with the same intensity. Keep me here, he's saying. Keep me with you.
They send Peeta off with some small cakes packed in elaborate boxes. "Effie said we have to be on the train at one. I wonder what time it is," he says, glancing around. As if on cue, Effie flutters toward us, every ruffle of her dress still perfectly in place.
"Time to say thank you and farewell!" trills Effie at my elbow. It's one of those moments when I just love her compulsive punctuality. She collects the rest of our team and ushers us around to bid our farewells. I thought we were going back to our rooms in the Tribute Center first, but I am grateful when Effie tells me our belongings have already been moved to the train.
"Shouldn't we thank President Snow?" asks Peeta. "It's his house."
"Oh, he's not a big one for parties. Too busy," says Effie. "I've already arranged for the necessary notes and gifts to be sent to him tomorrow." She escorts us to the front of the Mansion, where a row of luxury cars is lined up to escort us back to the train. Peeta and I are placed in the first car. A drunken Haymitch is tossed in the car behind us, Effie climbing in behind him. So much for his sobriety. Portia and Cinna take the third car, and our prep teams take the final two.
The caravan is slow moving through the thick crowd of Capitolites celebrating in the streets. The party itself was very exclusive, but the entire city is alive tonight with festivities. As they see our cars, I almost feel like I'm in another parade. They press their bodies against the vehicles, trying to see through the darkened glass to catch a view of the star-crossed lovers. Peeta and I say nothing. We ride in silence, our hands clasped tightly between us.
On the train I take the familiar path straight to my room. Peeta follows, and no one says anything to us. Once we are both inside I slam the door behind me, and everything I've been pushing down comes bubbling to the surface. I catch myself in the mirror – dress dangerous and ablaze, hair pinned, face painted. This isn't me. "Get it off," I breathe, the dress suddenly feeling like it's suffocating me. Like it's burning my skin. "Get it off!" I scream, as I start ripping at the fabric frantically. Peeta's fingers fumble through the concealed clasps on the back. Finally he just rips and I feel the fabric give way, the dress collapsing at my feet. I look at him and I feel as though his tie is choking him. I tug at it, pulling until it's loose. I throw his tie on my dress. Peeta steps forward and lifts me in the air, pulling me away from the pile of fabric on the floor. He steps into the bathroom.
He takes one pin from my hair after another, until it falls down around my shoulders. I unbutton his shirt and pull it away from his body. His chest is covered with scars from his beating, healed but marring his skin like a reminder. A warning. I kiss each one I see, as if I could mend him with my mouth. I feel his body trembling under my lips. He unsnaps my structured undergarments and pulls them away from me. Our hands have done so much exploring, but he's never seen my body bare before. This moment isn't sexual, though. It's about comfort. It's intimate. It's cathartic. We are both so broken, but we're broken together. I pull his pants and shorts away from him, and we step into the shower.
Peeta turns the water as hot as we can stand it, and we hold each other. The steam fills the room and envelops us. Hides us from a world too cruel to be a part of. He runs shampoo through my hair and I let the makeup fall away from my face. I cover his body with soapy suds. We let the water pour over us, and finally shut it off and let it drip down the drain.
Peeta takes a warm towel and wraps it around my body. He presses his mouth to mine, and we feel the train start to move away from here. Home.