Author's Note:

Hooray! An update in less than two weeks! (Okay, not by much, but hey – this is good for me lately!) Topped 400 reviews – thanks to PPerfect this time – so amazing! As always, thank to all my readers for reading and all my reviewers for reviewing… you're the only reason I've made it this far!

Sunday morning, I oversleep. Even on weekends when I don't have to get to school, I'm still up fairly early to take care of my mother. Apparently, a few weeks' worth of not resting properly caught up with me. It feels lovely, I have to admit, though I feel selfish for doing it even accidentally. I can hear raindrops against my window, and through the narrow part in the curtains I can see that the sky outside is gray, which makes me want to stay in bed even longer.

Even though my mother was feeling well again yesterday, there is no telling what nightmares haunted her overnight. It is always possible that she could relapse on any given morning, especially while the Games are still ongoing. So I get up and tiptoe down the hall, careful not to make any noise that will attract the attention of our guests. I don't really want to interact with them any more than I have to. At least the last team made up for being a pain by sharing valuable information.

When I peek into my mother's room, I find it empty, but the bed is actually made which I interpret as a good sign. She must still be feeling better if she bothered to make her bed when she got out of it. I waver for a minute, consider going downstairs to play the piano, think better of it as my left hand aches from yesterday's bruises, and decide that I've earned the chance to rest a little, dammit. So I go back to bed.

Sleep proves evasive again, though, since my mind returned to its usual racing swirl after waking completely. My hand makes me think of Gale (not that I really need a reminder) but for once, though thoughts of him are never far away, he is not the only thing on my mind. Learning my mother's story has added more – and weightier – debris to the maelstrom. Remembering that I had so easily dismissed her as weak and defeated brings a sharp pang of pain to the surface; her fragility was never an act but the strength and determination beneath it is the reason that we will have two Victors this year.

She'd said that early on it had been difficult to convince herself that she ought to live life at all; it was a struggle to get out of bed each day, eat a meal, go to school. Haymitch Abernathy had even made an effort to offer her condolences after he returned home – he hadn't always been a drunken boor, I suppose – but she had refused to accept any semblance of kindness from him and instead they argued bitterly, though she would not tell me what awful words were exchanged between them. Time made everyday life if not easier at least less jarring (hadn't her sister taken her place so she could go on, after all?), but the sadness and guilt never faded.

Then she had seen a mockingjay on television while watching the news with my father, while he was still a calculating, observant clerk in the Justice building with hopes of being promoted to a position where he could begin changing things. It had suddenly, inexplicably sparked an uneasy hope in her – not because it was a mockingjay, but because it was the same exact mockingjay she had seen the day before on screen. So she watched everything obsessively for weeks, making sure that it was true, considering the consequences if it was, confiding in her husband that she suspected that things were not exactly as the Capitol led everyone to believe. It wasn't until Dad was appointed Mayor, and became privy to more carefully guarded information, that they knew with certainty that the Capitol had not been entirely truthful about the outcome of the last war. And finally, she decided that she needed someone who knew (and hated) not only the Capitol but also the Hunger Games, which meant that she had to get back on speaking terms with Haymitch Abernathy.

This newfound knowledge has strengthened my confidence in our plans and eased some of the worry I've had about whether the Capitol has begun to suspect that there is more going on in the Games than meets the eye. I can rest a little easier knowing that a rebellion has more backing it than a handful of traitors and weakened citizens. We have an entire District – a very powerful one – that isn't supposed to exist. A district that exists because it already had the Capitol completely cowed once before.

….

I wait in a comfortable tree with my bow, and today I feel like I might actually be able to shoot something. No one was waiting for me in the kitchen when I got out of bed this morning, which is the best start to a day that I've had in a while. I'll take what I can get at this point.

I had expected the hunting to be difficult today, after her death. She isn't actually dead in the literal sense, true, but that is how I think of yesterday's events, because the Katniss I know is gone. Instead, I have found renewed resolve in this place, as if determined not to allow her to take everything else dear to me with her.

Katniss is alive and relatively safe again, snuggled up in a damp little cave with her recovering-yet-useless ball-and-chain, which is quite honestly a lot more than she deserves in my opinion. She's still alive, and can still come home to Prim. No harm, no foul, right? If only. She doesn't have to see the look on her (forgotten) sister's face. She doesn't have to feel how much it hurts to hate someone you love.

So I try really hard to remember that this is a good thing, she can still win. Really fucking hard. Because I know that even if she does, things will not go back to the way they were before.

I ready my bow and pause for a clear shot, and put an arrow through a grouse. The commotion startles a second one from the undergrowth and I take it as well. As I slide down from my perch I scan the ground for a nest, but I don't expect to find much since it's so late in the summer. Grouse nests are great if it's the right time of year; they usually yield a dozen eggs and you don't have to climb a tree to get to them. Though there is no nest to be found, my effort is rewarded when I find that the brambles where the birds were hiding are full of raspberries. Halfway through picking the bush clean, a third arrow finds a squirrel (looks like we'll have bread for dinner again), and I decide that I definitely do not feel bad about robbing the baker blind with our trading arrangement.

The air smells like rain as I follow an old deer run through the woods, and sure enough by the time I come to the place where I know I can always find strawberries I hear the drops start to hit the leaves of the trees above me. It isn't hard enough to came through the canopy yet, so I don't feel it until I'm crouched in the small clearing for a few minutes searching for ripe fruit, and even then it's only a cool drop or two. Only a handful of berries are red enough to pick, even after I scour the plants more thoroughly than usual, and I find myself debating whether or not a handful is worth making a stop at the Mayor's home. Probably not, since I don't think I've ever sold less than a pint at a time. I don't realize that I'm a little disappointed until I start trying to figure a way to make it work. Maybe, if I add in some of the raspberries. Then there would be enough to sell, and with six people to feed at home I need every sale I can get. But would that change the price then? If so, by how much? I consider the numbers for a while, and decide that it should probably just even out to the usual amount.

The rain picks up just a little as I crawl under the fence and back inside the district, but it still isn't enough that I need to pull up the hood of my jacket, and I have to admit that making excuses to sell a handful of strawberries doesn't have a damn thing to do with the price. Especially after last time I did it I didn't even count the money. Besides, if that were the reason, all I'd have to do is wait a week and by then there would probably be two pints worth to pick.

And this is after I'd written it all off two days ago. What the hell am I doing?

At the edge of town I finally need my hood up, but it's still far from bad enough to keep me from going about my Sunday rounds. At the Hob, I sweet-talk Greasy Sae into giving me a free breakfast by giving her a break on the price of the weasel I have for her, then make her smile by promising not to tell anyone that it was a weasel tomorrow and dropping what I would have paid for the bowl of stew in her Hunger Games collection jar. I might be pissed off, but that doesn't change the fact that Prim needs her sister. The ever-elusive fox that I finally caught does in fact earn enough from the tanner to afford Rory's new shoes, but after staring blankly at a row of various sizes I decide to save the money and bring him with me because I haven't the slightest idea as to what will actually fit him. Plus, it'll be a starting point for getting back on his good side. I pick up a bar of soap for my mother, and a spool of thread for my arrows.

By the time I get to the square, it's raining pretty hard; the bottoms of my pants are wet nearly halfway to the knee from splashing, and water runs in streams off the edge of my hood. No thunder and lightning yet, though. I saved the pair of grouse for the butcher – they are one of the catches I can sell there for a decent price because the idea of eating wild poultry isn't as repulsive to merchant customers as eating a weasel. At the bakery, my squirrel fetches two loaves of bread and Katniss' trouble earns a sack of cheese buns for Prim. I try not to let it irk me. But to be honest, I don't try very hard.

When I unlatch the Undersee's garden gate, the memory of doing it on a very different occasion comes flooding back. Is now really so different? I listen carefully after I knock on the back door, wondering if I will hear playing on her piano again over the sound of the rain on the awning above me. She had a song for autumn, I muse to myself, distantly surprised that I care, and for stars…. Does she have a song for rain? Does she have a song for me? The question is so shocking that I nearly turn around and leave, but of course this is the moment that the lock on the knob rattles and I know I can't get away before the person opening it will see me.

Though Madge is dressed her clothes are a touch disheveled and her hair is down in a tousled mess, as if she was recently roused from bed. Her still-drowsy eyes light up when they land on me, and she brightens so radiantly into a smile that I forget why I'm here for a moment. She notices that the rain has become heavy enough that the porch can no longer offer adequate shelter, and insists that I come inside.

I hesitate, stuck between the way her lips form the sounds for my name and the lines of her silhouette form a pretty hourglass. She sighs and reaches out for a handful of my soggy jacket to pull me inside with her. Weeks ago, I might have recoiled despite the rain, but today I go without a second thought.

She taps a finger against her lips and jerks a thumb toward the room beyond the kitchen, and I assume that she is warning me that the media team is not far out of earshot. "I can't let you stand out there in that," Madge says softly.

"But I'm…. flooding your floor," I say, looking down at the buckets of water pooling around my boots. As easy as it was to let her bring me through the door, I find that now that I am here I would rather be back outside. But for once it's not because I don't want to be standing here with her; it's more because I'm putting the things I've taken apart back together, and it's a struggle to get my head around it while she's here being so… distracting.

"It's seen worse," she says with a shrug. I get that shy, expectant smile, but it fades when I wait too long to speak. One hand comes self-consciously to her temple and makes a vain attempt at smoothing the long waves of honey-colored hair that spill over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I probably look a mess... I overslept by accident, and I just got up…." she says, as if expecting me to be offended that she is less-than-put-together at the moment.

But I don't mind. So this is what you'd look like first thing in the morning…. I force myself to find my voice so I don't have to finish the thought. "I don't have much for you today," I say as I pull the package from my bag, wondering if I should have first reassured her that she is the loveliest mess I've ever seen. "So I don't know if you'll still want them. They're at least half raspberries this time."

Madge takes the package, but doesn't open the paper. Instead, she eyes me closely as if working out the solution to a difficult riddle. "If you didn't think I'd want them, why did you bring them?" she asks, and suddenly we aren't talking about buying strawberries anymore.

My eyes drift upward as I search for words, because it's easier to find them when I'm not looking at her. "Well, you never know. Worth a shot."

Then she turns slowly to retrieve the jar of money from the top shelf of the cupboard, and watching her stretch for it is excruciating. "I don't mind if they're more than half raspberries, you know," she says as she counts out a handful of coins, "or if there's none at all."

I understand that she is referring to the evening we spent in the meadow, the first time I'd ever sought her out without a sale or a debt for a reason, and it feels like a brick drops onto my chest. "Everything will be different tomorrow, you know," I warn. There will be no getting around the fact that merchant girls want nothing to do with miners.

She looks at me as if I'm crazy. She probably isn't far off the mark. "I won't be."

I just stare at her, surprised that she is so steadfast in the way she says this, so unwavering here next to me. Then we hear the sounds of shuffling feet and chattering voices in the next room, and now is not the time for Capitol reporters to catch me for an interview. "I should go before they see who's selling you fruit."

"But the rain-"

"I'd rather deal with the rain than them."

She stifles a small laugh. "I don't blame you. Be careful. Don't drown."

I'm at the bottom of the porch steps when I hear her voice behind me one more time, quiet and clear through the downpour around me. "And Gale? Don't disappear." I look over one shoulder and the hood of my jacket gets in my way, but I still catch a glimpse of the way she looks at me before she closes the door.

The summer rain feels suddenly cold now that I am no longer close to the warmth of her low smolder, so I pick up my pace. Not that it really matters, becaue it's coming down so hard that the fat drops sting wherever they hit bare skin, and even if I hurry I'll be soaked to the bone by the time I get home. It had hardly seemed like anything early this morning, just a few drops here and there but now…. Now I can only shake my head and wonder what happened. Falling, right as rain, so hard it hurts.

Footnotes:

For those who are curious, the information that Gale gives about grouse is accurate. Specifically, he would likely be hunting the ruffled grouse; it is a common game bird in Appalachia.

And for those wondering why he would buy a spool of thread for his arrows: feather fletchings can be affixed to an arrow shaft in several ways. Ideally, an archer uses a jig and glue to do it, which allows for easier and more accurate assembly, but I highly doubt that Gale would have something so fancy. Another way is to "tie" them on with thin strips of sinew from a kill by winding the strips around the shaft to keep the feathers in place. Since Katniss mentions that they keep their equipment in a hollow log in the woods, this didn't seem practical as it would invite critters to chew on their arrows. This method can be imitated by using thread, which seemed to me to be the most likely way that he would make a handmade arrow.