A/N: Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oo!
Yeah, I'm over 600. This is awesome.
Thanks for being fantastic.
Also, I've been getting some questions about me and what I'm like, so I'll give you a brief run down and help you put a name to a face. I'm an eighteen year old freshman in college pursuing a major in English (surprise, surprise). I'm a 5'8 brunette with a sassy attitude and only laugh at things that are funny. I have an extremely dry sense of humor (sarcasm is my best friend). I tend to give 'shop til you drop' a whole new meaning (seriously, wear comfortable shoes if you ever shop with me). My taste in music can range from Eminem to Beethoven, but I really like hair bands. Bon Jovi, Scorpions, Def Leppard, Journey, AC/DC, with the occasional Black Sabbath thrown into the mix. However, my all-time love is Jazz. Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald own my heart, along with Glenn Miller. I tend to start my day with "In the Mood" playing loud and clear and my morning is not complete without it. All-time favorite Jazz song is "Dream A Little Dream Of Me." All-time favorite song in general is Eric Clapton's acoustic version of "Layla." Listen to it and sigh contentedly. As you can see, all I really do in life is shop, listen to music, and read and write. Which, by the way, I'm a huge HP and LOTR fan. I think Twilight is ridiculous because vampires should not sparkle, though I admit that I have a soft spot for Alice and Jasper. My favorite book of all-time is Wuthering Heights. My favorite musical is Les Miserables. Oh, and I LOVE superheroes! Iron Man rocks my socks off.
So that's a little about me. It's kinda jumpy, but that's just how my brain works. Tangents and I get along great.
Back to the story, I'm thrilled that all of you liked Peeta's proposal. He's got some really romantic tricks up his sleeve in this story. The proposal is only one of many. :)
But, in this chapter, Peeta gets to be the possessive, overprotective Peeta that we all know and love.
Movie quote for today comes from The Avengers.
Random Disclaimer: I do not own CF, though I do own a rather fantastic fedora; "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"; "Why is the rum always gone?"; "Why so serious?"; "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!"; "I am Asneeze, father of Achoo."; "Dobby did not mean to kill . . . only to maim . . . or seriously injure."; "My precious!"; "Puny god"; "So that's what it feels like"; "Yeah, I can fly."; "There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."
Chapter 11
You would think that after receiving such bad news that I, in turn, would feel bad. After all, President Snow just told me, wordlessly of course, that Peeta and I have failed to live up to his expectations. We have not subdued the districts. You would think that this would upset me.
Oddly enough, I feel relieved.
Simply because it's over, because I don't have to worry about it anymore. What will come, will come, and all I can do is try to prepare myself for it. Peeta and I had both acknowledged that our quest in tempering the uprisings was doomed to fail. President Snow's dissenting verdict doesn't surprise me. Aside from the dissention in District 11, with their very public display of rebellion, other districts also showed signs of unrest. Most specifically in Districts 8, 4, and 3. The people wore genuine expressions of elation when they saw us, and beneath that elation was an equally genuine sense of fury. When they called our names, it was more a chant for vengeance than a simple cheer. When the Peacekeepers pushed them, they pushed back instead of shrinking away. No amount of love could stop this. Instead, it seems to be fueling it.
So I'm not going to worry. I believe what Haymitch said, about Snow going after us before our families. It doesn't make sense to waste that much time torturing us when he has much bigger things to deal with. There's nothing that I can do.
President Snow offers us his personal congratulations, even wrapping an arm around me and facing the audience before saying, "What do you think about us throwing them a wedding right here in the Capitol?"
Anyone who says that I can't act is a liar because at Snow's words I manage a hideously girlish shriek that actually sounds genuine. Even I'm impressed—slightly mortified that I am capable of producing such a ghastly sound—but still impressed.
The audience goes wild at Snow's suggestion, and once they quiet down, Caesar Flickerman asks the president if he has a date in mind. I'm stunned when Snow produces a hearty chuckle and says, "Oh, before we set a date, we better clear it with Katniss's mother."
Oh, my mother. I haven't really thought about it much, but I know I'm going to get a firm talking-to when I get home. And she'll probably talk to Peeta, too. Oh, the joy this thought brings me.
"You'll probably have to pass a new law," I say with a giggle, but on the inside there's a part of me that's not really joking.
"If that's what it takes," Snow says humorously, and the audience cheers him on.
Yep. Me and Snow could definitely work a comedy act.
When Snow finally releases me, I immediately latch onto Peeta, hugging his arm, and I don't plan on letting go anytime soon. I'm also resisting the urge to take off my dress and burn it because Snow touched it. Two things stop me. One, I really don't feel like attending the Capitol's party in my underwear. And two, I don't think Cinna, or myself for that matter, would ever forgive me for destroying such a gorgeous dress.
Peeta takes my hand and we're led to the party. It's held in the gloriousness of President Snow's mansion, and it's truly magnificent. Forty-foot high ceilings. Towering columns. A marble floor. Dozens of fine, plush couches and chairs litter the banquet hall, surrounding fireplaces or small ponds filled with exotic fish.
But the food is what gets me. Table upon table upon table of food line the walls. In just one cursory glance of all the food nearest me, I see every dish that I've ever had while in the Capitol. But for every dish that is familiar to me, there are probably at least thirty that I don't recognize. All the stress from the Tour caused me to lose a little weight, Cinna even had to take in a few of my dresses at the waist.
Somehow I think that I'll manage to put that weight back on tonight.
"I want to taste everything," I tell Peeta and he looks at me curiously, no doubt wondering why I appear to be in such a good mood when death is dangling over our heads. Imminent threats make me slightly giddy. One of these days I'm just going to crack and declare myself insane.
However, his eyes only convey their slight confusion briefly because the cameras are on us. "Then you'd better pace yourself," he chuckles as he looks at all the food.
"Okay then," I say as I lead us toward the first table that is laden with at least twenty different soups. "One bite of each dish."
Peeta and I slowly work our way through the tables. Everything is delicious of course, but some things seem practically divine. A pink soup dotted with raspberries. A frothy pumpkin flavored concoction sprinkled with silver seeds. Bits of baked chicken and noodles in a creamy white sauce. Chocolate covered strawberries. The endlessness of the food is daunting and we've barely made it through three tables before I can't eat another bite.
But I force myself to make room for a piece of meat from a small bird. Orange sauce bursts into my mouth as I take a bite and I close my eyes to savor it. I give the rest to Peeta for him to eat. Neither of us believes in wasting food. Living in District 12, it's something that no one would ever dare of doing.
Peeta and I make no move to mingle, but it doesn't matter. The guests of the party flock to congratulate us and almost always find some way to work in a word or two about the Games. They prattle on and on about their favorite moments, and I'm regretting the amount of food I ate when someone tells me that they thought it was the coolest thing ever when I stabbed Glimmer in the chest with my arrow before loading it in my bow and firing it at Clove.
All of the people that surround us begin to make me feel claustrophobic, but what is infinitely worse is how clingy the Capitol people are. They see no problem in just coming up and hugging a complete stranger. This bothers me in a way I can't accurately describe. I've never been a touchy-feely person. I'm not used to being touched. So when someone, a Capitol someone dressed in a flamboyantly pink and green suit with metallic gold hair comes up and tries to wrap an arm around me, I mold myself to Peeta's side, rejoicing when his arm wraps firmly and possessively around my waist, his hand resting low on my hip.
The possessiveness doesn't even bother me. The protective way he stands slightly in front of me doesn't even bother me. I would rather deal with that (annoying as it is) than keep having to dodge and avoid clingy Capitol people and their wandering hands. Peeta is having the same problem I am, though strangely enough, all his admirers seem to be females, dressed as provocatively as possible. I even heard one of them ask him to sign her breast.
I gave her my best glare and she shrank away so quickly it was like she feared for her life. Good. It had been my intention.
It's safe to say that not even an hour into the party, Peeta and I are practically trembling with the need to escape. The hours pass tortuously slow, and my need for escape grows exponentially with each passing minute. The more the men drink, the more they leer at me in a way that makes me acutely uncomfortable and Peeta hold me even closer. The situation is also true for Peeta, except it's the females that keep drinking and leering and at one point it infuriates me so much that right when another flock of giggly girls come up to talk to Peeta, I kiss him so thoroughly that it's indecent in such a public setting.
The kiss leaves Peeta staring at me dazedly and the girls scurrying away. Mission accomplished.
I reach up on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear, "Let's get out of here."
Peeta wraps both arms around me, pulling me flush against his chest, so it looks to the cameras like we're having a moment. He gives me a kiss before whispering against my lips, "Best idea you've ever had," he replies and I smile.
Now the only question is how in the hell we're going to execute our plan. How do we slip away without anyone noticing?
My eyes scan the room, looking for any doors that lead out of this torture chamber. Okay, that's a little bit dramatic, but if I see one more person with crazy-colored hair coming after me I'm going to punch whoever it is in the face. Somehow, I don't think that my actions would go over well.
Finally, I see an opening. In the far corner of the room there is an exit door. Of course, I have no idea where this door leads, but I don't contemplate that little factoid much. All I care about is escaping, if only for five minutes. After all, it'll be a miracle if we can be gone ten minutes without someone noticing. Still, that's ten minutes of reprieve, and I'll take it.
"Far corner of the room," I whisper before Peeta gives me another kiss.
When we pull away, he gives me a smile before taking my hand and slowly leading us toward the door. We have to navigate our escape route delicately because it's not as though we can just make a beeline for the exit door. People would notice. So we weave through the room, taking far too long for my liking to even reach the far corner of the room. There aren't many people over here since all the alcohol and food is up front. When the coast is clear, Peeta and I dart through the door and quickly shut it behind us.
Both of us lean against the door and exhale loudly in relief. I look up at him with a grin, "You hear that?" I ask.
Peeta frowns. "No."
"Exactly."
Peeta chuckles as he quickly catches on to my little joke. He wraps his arms around me and I drape my arms over his shoulders, my fingers playing idly with the hair at the nape of his neck as I rest my head against his chest. "I was afraid I was going to punch someone," I say breaking the silence that had settled.
"You were going to punch someone?" Peeta buries his face in my hair, his arms tightening around me. "Some of those guys are lucky to still be walking."
I can't help but smile. It's always funny when Peeta threatens people, mainly because he's such a good person you can't imagine him being violent. Of course, I know differently. All I have to do is remember watching the recap of the Games, watching his fights at the Cornucopia and with Cato.
"I mean, I get that you're beautiful," he continues. "And I understand appreciating beauty. As long as it's from afar. Very far. And not looking at you like you're something to eat."
"It's pretty unnerving," I admit. "Of course, if one more girl looks like she's about to drag you out of here to have her way with you, heads are going to roll."
Peeta chuckles. "I'm glad I can count on you to protect me."
"You better be," I say lightly. We're silent for another moment before I whisper, "I want to go home, Peeta."
"We'll be there soon enough," Peeta replies softly, placing a feather-soft kiss on my temple.
Both of us freeze when we hear voices. I immediately take a step away from Peeta and examine my surroundings quickly. We're in some sort of hallway, a plush carpet beneath our feet and large, ornately framed pictures line the walls. The voices are getting louder, and I glance at Peeta, panicking. It sounds like they're right around the corner.
Peeta glances around, and I see the narrow door at the same time he does. Peeta has just quietly shut the door behind us when I hear footsteps coming closer and closer. I can hear the voices clearly because they're standing right on the other side of the door. I have a brief flashback of me and Peeta in the sleeping bag up in the willow tree while the Careers talk right beneath us.
I can't see Peeta in the dark, but it doesn't matter. We must be in some small closet because I'm pressed right up against him, my hands resting on his chest, and for once the feel of his taut muscles beneath my hands doesn't stir any reaction within me.
I'm too focused on what the two Capitol men are discussing.
"It's trouble," one man says. "If things are already this way in 8, it's a sure thing that other districts will follow."
"It was only a riot," the other replies. "Just a couple people throwing bricks at Peacekeepers."
"A couple people? There were hundreds of factory workers in that square. There's talk about a strike. And you know how uneasy things are in 3 and 4. All it takes is for one district to rebel and the others will follow."
"The president will have it under control. You know how he'll fix this. It's simple."
"What? Killing Everdeen and Mellark?" Peeta and I are statues. "I don't think that would do much good. They're too involved in the entire thing. Kill them and the uprising districts will just see it as a sacrifice and give them more reason to fight back."
My head is spinning with this new information. There was an uprising in District 8? They're anticipating similar actions in Districts 3 and 4? And what's this about Peeta and I? It's not like either of us weren't expecting Snow to come after us, but it's one thing to think it. It's another to know it. To hear the words said by people on the inside.
"It would be better if we could get them to show their allegiance to the Capitol," one of the men says. I can't even keep them straight in my mind. They're voices are just blurring together. "Propos. Get Mellark to say something. The kid can talk."
My hands fist in Peeta's shirt, as if he's going to vanish or be taken from me any second.
"Everdeen would be better," the other one argues. "She started this whole mess. She has the symbol."
I know what they mean. My mockingjay pin seems to have become a new fashion staple because I've seen it everywhere tonight. Belt buckles. Tattoos. Jewelry. Embroidered into silk lapels. My symbol is everywhere, and I can't help but wonder how greatly it infuriates President Snow.
Well, at least I know how much trouble it's causing.
"We shouldn't even be talking about this here," one says. "Let's get back to the party."
"Oh yes, I'm dying to have some of that chowder from 4."
And just like that they leave.
I don't know how long Peeta and I stay squished together in the closet, but eventually I open the door and peek out. Seeing the coast is clear, I step out and Peeta follows me. We lock eyes, and I can tell that neither of us knows exactly what to say, but whatever it is we can't say anything here.
"Home," Peeta says and I nod. Yes. We'll definitely be talking about this at home. Probably with Haymitch.
"Let's go," I say. "Get this over with."
However, I pause when I see the state of his shirt. It's wrinkled and scrunched up from where I've fisted my hands in it, and I take a moment to try and smooth it out. Once I've done the best I can, Peeta and I cautiously step back into the party, and luck is for once on our side because no one is even within twenty feet of the door.
It takes a while, but eventually we manage to work our way back into the crowd. At first there's a deluge of people wanting to speak with us, like the ten minutes we were gone and unable to be found only increased their desire to talk to us. Peeta, bless him, does most of the talking as usual, and you can't tell that we just overheard a conversation about conspiracy and rebellion. Oh, and people casually talking about our deaths. That's always great to hear.
We make it back up to the food where my prep team spots us and stumble drunkenly toward us. "Why aren't you eating?" Octavia asks, a big, drunken smile on her face. "It's a feast! You must eat at a feast!"
"Oh, I can't eat another bite," I say, shaking my head, and Venia tuts disapprovingly.
"Nonsense, Katniss!" Flavius drags us over to a table that is laden with flutes filled with a clear liquid. "Drink this!"
Peeta picks up a glass to take a sip, and Venia exclaims, "No, not here!" she says. "In there!" She points to the doors leading to the toilets. "Otherwise you'll get it all over the floor!"
"You mean this will make me puke?" Peeta asks with a frown, staring at it warily as he puts two and two together.
My prep team giggles, nodding in reply. "How else could you have fun at a feast?" Flavius asks with a laugh.
"I've already been twice already!" Octavia adds as if this is funny, when in fact to someone from the Seam, or just District 12 in general, this isn't funny at all.
Peeta, thinking the same thing I am, puts the glass back on the table with such precision you'd have thought it was going to explode. "Come on, Katniss," he says as he takes my hand. "Let's dance."
He leads me out onto the dance floor that takes up the middle of the room and immediately pulls me into his arms. I lay my head on his shoulder and sigh as we begin to move. It's not like we're really dancing. We're simply turning in a small, slow circle, and that is definitely okay with me. Effie taught us some of the more common dances here in the Capitol, but I don't feel like suffering through them at the moment. It would be inevitable that I'd miss a step because my mind would not be focused on the dance.
I know that Peeta is thinking along the same lines when he whispers, "You go along, thinking you can deal with it, thinking that they're not so bad, and then you hear them say something like that."
In my mind, all I see are the malnourished, emaciated bodies of children in District 12. Their equally skinny families bringing them to my mother, only having her prescribe the remedy that they already knew they needed. More food. It's only been the past few months where my mother could really do anything about these cases, sending the family home with some food and maybe even a few coins. But in the past, before the Games, all she could do was turn them away. The children were usually past saving anyway. This is what happens at home, in District 12, were food is precious and not to be wasted, where every bite is cherished.
And here in the Capitol, people are purposely vomiting just so they can fill their stomachs again and again. They have no thought that all of this food could do wonders in a place like 12. That all this food could probably feed more than half the district. They just eat because they can. They take measures to allow themselves to eat more and more. It disgusts me.
"Peeta, they bring us here to fight to the death for their entertainment," I remind him quietly. "Really, this is nothing by comparison."
"I know," Peeta sighs. "I know that. It's just sometimes I can't stand it anymore. And with everything that's happening . . . I don't know what I'll do."
I give him a look of warning. I know what he's thinking about, remembering the conversation that we overheard between the two Capitol men. "Home," I remind him, and he nods before holding me tighter.
We dance until Portia approaches us, a large man with her that looks familiar to me, though I can't quite place him. She introduces him as Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker. I force myself not to look at Peeta, because we both know why he got a promotion. Seneca Crane, the last Head Gamemaker, was killed by President Snow because he allowed both Peeta and I to win the Games.
I wonder if Plutarch Heavensbee even gave this fact a thought when he assumed his new title.
I'm drawn from my inner wonderings when Plutarch turns to Peeta, "Would you mind if I shared a dance with your lovely fiancée? I promise I'll return her safe and sound."
Peeta smiles, but I bet I'm the only one who can tell how forced it is. "Ask Katniss."
Plutarch turns his blindingly white smile to me, and while I inwardly cringe, I force myself to smile. "I'd love to," I lie, and Plutarch takes my hand.
But before we're too far away, I hear Peeta call, "Don't get too attached, Plutarch," he threatens with a smile, causing Plutarch to laugh and assure Peeta that he won't.
I wonder if he realizes how serious Peeta actually is . . . probably not.
I'm drawn from my thoughts when I feel Plutarch rest his hand on my waist as we begin to dance. I force myself to smile and not think about how he's touching me. As I've said before, I do not like being touched. And I rate Gamemakers somewhere around maggots in terms of wanting their hands touching my skin. However, the new Head Gamemaker seems to sense this and keeps me at arm's length.
We make small talk, a task that I find tremendously troublesome unless I'm talking with Peeta or Prim. We discuss the party, the entertainment, the engagement, the food, but when he makes a joke about avoiding the punch, I suddenly remember how I recognized him.
During my private session with the Gamemakers, a fifteen minute period where each tribute shows off their skills to be rated on a scale from one to twelve, I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers because they were more interested in their roast pig than a girl fighting for her life. Of course, I didn't literally shoot at them. I hit exactly what I'd aimed for. That damn apple in the roast pig's mouth.
Naturally, my action caused all the Gamemakers to jump and exclaim. And one, that I now know to be Plutarch Heavensbee, fell backward into the punch bowl.
I still can't help but laugh. "Oh! So you were the one who—"
"Yes," Plutarch sighs good-naturedly. "And you'll be pleased to know that I've never recovered."
"So you're the new Head Gamemaker?" I say. "It must be an honor."
"Between you and me, there weren't many takers for the job," Plutarch replies and I resist snorting derisively. Of course there weren't many vying for the job. Considering that the last guy who had the job was executed. But that's not the reason Plutarch has for there being so few takers. "So much responsibility as to how the Games turn out."
I figure that as long as I have him talking, I might as well find out as much as I can about the upcoming Games. After all, I'll be mentoring. "Are you planning the Quarter Quell Games already?"
"Oh, yes," he replies quickly. "We've been getting ready for years actually. Arena's aren't built in a day, you know." Plutarch chuckles. "But the, shall we say, flavor of the Games is being determined now. Believe it or not, I've got a strategy meeting tonight."
He takes a step back from me and retrieves a gold pocket watch from his vest. He flips it open and sees the time, "I'll have to be going soon," he frowns. He angles the watch face toward me so that I can see the time. "It starts at midnight."
Midnight? Odd. "That seems late—" I begin before my sharp eyes focus on the watch face. Plutarch has run his thumb over the glass face of the watch and for a second I see my mockingjay, gold and glowing.
It disappears as quickly as it appeared, and Plutarch snaps the watch shut and returns it to his vest pocket. "That's very pretty," I say, trying to keep my voice even.
"It's one of a kind," Plutarch replies before adding, "If anyone asks about me, say I've gone to bed. The meetings are supposed to be kept secret, but I thought it'd be safe to tell you."
"Of course," I say immediately, with a small smile. "Your secret's safe with me."
Plutarch shakes my hand, gives me a small bow, and then leaves the dance floor. My eyes are already searching for Peeta, and I quickly spot him over by the cakes. As I make my way to him, I try to dodge Capitol citizens that obviously want to talk to me, but I fail in my intentions twice, having to smile and pretend that I don't despise them as they babble about how excited they are for me and how Peeta and I are perfect for each other and how they just can't wait until the wedding. These questions, however grueling, are nothing compared to what I'm asked by a woman with sky blue skin and matching blue eyes. She asks, in a very excited, high-pitched tone, when Peeta and I are going to start a family.
The question causes me to freeze, and it takes me a moment before I'm able to overcome my rapid heart rate and fight back the dizzy feeling in my head before I'm able to answer her. Miraculously, I manage a smile and say, "I think that's a while down the road. Excuse me."
I make a beeline for Peeta, walking as fast as I can without drawing unwanted attention. I immediately take his hand, and I can tell that Peeta realizes something is wrong because he wraps up his conversation with some bakers from other districts and turns to me.
"What's wrong?" he asks softly.
"Someone asked about when we were going to have kids," I answer, my voice a strained whisper.
It's always been my biggest fear, bringing an innocent child into this terrible world. I refuse to put myself through the pain of watching my children go through the reaping, praying that their name isn't called. And now that I'm a victor, now that Peeta is a victor, any child we have is going into the Games. There's no avoiding it. Victor's children always have an increased risk of being chosen. And a child of two victors? Well, that's just too good a chance to pass up for the Capitol.
Peeta knows this fear and shares it with me. After all, it's actually only been a little over a week since we last discussed it. "Forget about it," he says before giving me a soft kiss. There's really nothing more he can say. "Come on." He wraps an arm around my waist and steers us toward Effie, who appears to be searching the crowd for us. "I think we're about to bust out of here."
He's right. When Effie spots us, she hurries over and begins to lead us around the room so we can say goodbye and thank very important people. This process manages to last an entire grueling hour, but finally we're out of President Snow's mansion and on the train, pulling out of the station at precisely one o' clock, just as Effie had scheduled.
I wonder how we'd get anywhere on time without Effie Trinket.
Peeta and I make sure that a nearly-passed-out-drunk Haymitch is deposited in his room, before we go straight to Peeta's room, not even bothering to be surreptitious about it. We're both quiet as we undress. Peeta, as usual, tosses his clothes in whatever direction he's facing. His tie ends up in the far corner of the room. His suit jacket lands on a chair. His shirt quickly follows. Normally, this would amuse me, but not tonight. Peeta helps me out of my dress without saying a word, though his fingers do linger on my bare back.
I grab a shirt from his dresser and pull it on over my head, and when I turn to the bed Peeta is already under the covers, though his head is turned toward me, waiting. I climb in beside him, and he immediately pulls me into his arms. Our lips meet and we kiss in a slow, languid way that comforts me more than words would in this moment. Even though I'm beyond tired, my mind is racing. So many things happened tonight that Peeta and I need to discuss. The conversation we overheard about the uprisings being one of the most important.
And yet, what troubles me even more is the vanishing mockingjay on the crystal face of Head Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee's pocket watch.
So, they you have it! Another chapter down, only . . . 24 more to go!
I really have to thank you guys again for being so awesome with reviewing. Honestly, I can't believe we're already over 600! That's insane in the best way possible. I owe you guys, but the only way I can think to repay you is to keep posting. So . . . a new chapter will be up Friday!
It's been a long time since I gave you guys a Mockingjay update, and so I will now proceed to do so. I've finally fully settled into college and my dorm room is now an acceptable writing cave. So, I wrote two chapters the other day, chapters 10 & 11. And something wonderful happened . . . PK were reunited! I almost cried. One of my favorite scenes I've written to date. So, word count is already at 70,000 words! I don't quite know how many chapters it will turn out being, though I'm guessing it will be around 20 or 22. So things are going great for Mockingjay! For me at least. Things kind of suck for PK at the moment, particuarly Peeta . . . and oh, the dark ideas I have for him. So sad. Poor Katniss. She's going to have a lot to deal with . . .
And, the quote from the next chapter is from a very special character, dear to all of us . . . Rye!
"Well, hey there, sweetcheeks!"
Lots of love,
AC
