A/N: Hey guys! To all of my American readers, I wish you a belated Happy Thanksgiving! I hope all of you ate an egregious amount of food like I did. (And let me tell you, it was awesome.) Even if a few long jogs are in my future, it will be oh, so worth it.

And Black Friday shopping at two o'clock this morning was fun, too. :D

So, I've gotten four hours of sleep so far, and I plan on adding to that as soon as I finish typing this. A girl needs her Zzz's.

Movie quote of the day comes from Hitch.

"Any guy can sweep a girl off her feet; he just needs the right broom." - Will Smith

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."; "Your skin is pale white, you dress fashionably, and you abstain from sex. . . I know what you are . . . Jonas brother"; "Snakes. I hate snakes."; "When you marooned me on that god forsaken spit of land, you forgot one very important thing, mate: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."; "It's like Christmas, but with more . . . me."; "It's the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."; "It's beautiful isn't it, Harry? The moon."; "Hang on, everybody! I wanna try something I saw in a cartoon once!"; "Well that's as clean as it will ever be."; "Slimy, yet satisfying."; "You may not like it Minister, but you can't deny . . . Dumbledore's got style."; "Over that boy hand!"; "Don't ever hit your mother with a shovel. It leaves a dull impression on her mind."; "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!"; "There's a jungle cat in the bathroom!"; "Any guy can sweep a girl off her feet; he just needs the right broom."


Chapter 26

Shock. Horror. Disgust. Fear.

These are the expressions I see on the Gamemaker's faces as they look at the dummy, the dummy I've made to be Seneca Crane. Wine glasses are crushed in tight, shocked fists, the tinkling sound of the glass dancing across the floor. Food is forgotten or abandoned in route to one's mouth. It's like someone hit the freeze button for the universe. We all stare at each other, though I only have eyes for Plutarch, who looks impressively stoic. I know I must have caught him off guard, but he's managed to control his expression into a tight mask.

"You may go now, Ms. Everdeen," he says, his voice controlled.

I give them a respectful nod, and then turn to go. But I just can't resist adding a little bit more of a dramatic flair, and I absently toss the can of red berry juice over my shoulder. The Gamemakers gasp as the splash soaks the dummy, the can clanking to the floor.

Beat that, Peeta, I think.

While in the elevator, I ponder my actions. It wasn't my brightest move, but I don't regret it. In fact, I feel very satisfied. Peeta will be beyond pissed when he finds out what I've done, but I don't care. He should have known that I wouldn't let him shoulder all the danger. We're in this together, and together we'll stay. For better or worse.

When I step off the elevator, there's no one in sight. I decide that they must be getting ready for dinner, and so I go to my room to do the same. That refreshed, cleansed feeling I always get after taking a nice, long, hot shower always relaxes me. So when I step out of my steam-filled bathroom, I'm as cool as a cucumber. But at the same time, I can't help but think that this is just the calm before the storm.

I still have to yell at Peeta for being an overprotective fool.

He's not in his bedroom, but I hear the shower going in the bathroom, so I sit on his bed to wait. It's another minute or so before I hear the water shut off, and then another minute before my idiot of an overprotective husband finally makes an appearance.

A dark pair of jeans is slung low on his hips. In one hand is his shirt, and in the other is a towel, which he's currently using to dry his hair. On any other day, I would be very distracted, especially when I notice the little droplets of water that are slowly running down his chest.

But now I barely make a note of it. I'm much more interested in hearing him defend himself for being an idiot. "What did you do?" I question accusingly, and Peeta looks up mildly.

"Hello to you, too."

I scowl, and Peeta sighs in defeat. "I painted a picture." He holds up his hands, which are still stained in a multitude of colors, despite having obviously just gotten out of the shower. "Using the dyes."

"What did you paint?"

"Rue."

For a moment my ire fades as I remember sweet, little Rue, my ally in the arena when I was separated from Peeta. She was such a clever girl, reminding me so much of Prim. Peeta must see my silence as a prompt to continue, so he sits down on the bed beside me and explains, "I didn't know what I was going to do when I walked in. The morphlings hadn't left much to work with, but they'd left most of the dyes alone. There was this rich purple, and it reminded me of the flowers you placed around Rue, and I just got to thinking that her death was the most despicable, even if none of the deaths were very pretty. And so I just painted her, how you'd described to me, with a peaceful expression and a halo of flowers."

His explanation isn't what I expected. Of all the things that I thought he could have done, I didn't think he'd paint Rue. And so far he hasn't mentioned his actions having anything to do with me. "So . . . you weren't trying to draw attention away from me to protect me?"

Peeta chuckles. "Not initially. Of course, after I walked out the thought crossed my mind. Not a bad thing."

My anger is back. "It is a bad thing," I snap. Being close to him suddenly isn't so appealing, and so I get to my feet and spin around to face him, my arms folded across my chest. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"I'm trying to keep you alive," Peeta retorts, his eyes growing hard, and I know that he won't be swayed. "Everyone is going to be out to get us in the arena anyway, Gamemakers and tributes alike. So if I can do anything to make me look like a better target, I'm going to do it. And I don't care if you don't like it; you're going to get out of that arena alive, by any means necessary."

"I don't want you dying for me," I growl. "I never asked you to die for me."

"You didn't have to."

Peeta and I stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us willing to back down. We're both far too stubborn for our own good, and it makes nearly all our arguments end in a stalemate. I'm not the type to give in, and Peeta will never back down if he thinks he's right.

"So what did you do for your session?" Peeta finally asks, completely disregarding our argument, trying to change the subject because he knows neither of us is going to concede to the other.

Little does he know that this tactic isn't going to work. "I hung Seneca Crane."

"You what?" Peeta asks, anger and incredulity ringing in his tone.

"I was showing off my knot tying skills," I shrug casually. "Somehow he ended up on the end of the noose."

"And you're asking me if I have a death wish?" Peeta snaps. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that we're in this together!" I try to keep my voice down, but it's growing to be more and more difficult. I want nothing more than to shout at him at the top of my lungs. "We agreed! Promises were made, and I intend to hold you to them!"

Peeta opens his mouth to say something, but immediately shuts it. Instead, he quickly throws on his shirt, and grabs my hand, leading me out the door. I know without asking where we're going, and I jerk my hand from his to stomp up the stairs to the roof ahead of him. Good. We can say what we really want, without worrying about listening devices.

I spin around to face him the moment I'm in the garden, and Peeta is already glaring at me. "Listen," he snaps. "Things are different now. It's not just you and me! You can't go around just asking, no, begging, for Gamemakers to kill you. Last year with the arrow was one thing, but this year? Hanging Seneca Crane? Really, Katniss? Just what in the hell have you accomplished? Aside from painting a big red X over your face? I'm trying to protect you, but damn it, you're making it difficult!"

"I never asked for you to protect me!" I hiss. "I never asked for anyone to protect me. I can take care of myself!"

"But it's not just you anymore!" Peeta retorts, a pleading edge in his voice. "Don't you get it? Your actions no longer just affect you. If you die, our child dies, and I can't let that happen."

"You think I haven't thought of that?" I feel traitorous tears pricking in my eyes. Damn hormones. "Peeta, that's all I think about! Every minute of every day, that's all I think about! How do you think it feels? Knowing that I might have to choose between me and you? If the situation comes up in the arena, when I have to choose whether to save myself and our child instead of you—how do you think I feel knowing that might happen? I can't choose."

A light seems to shimmer in Peeta's eyes, and a sad smile appears on his face. "Yes you can," he says softly. "You already have."

That's what causes me to break, because he's right, no matter how much I wish I could deny it. I remember my dream the morning of the reaping. I had to choose between Peeta and our child. I chose our child. And, no matter how much pain rips through my chest at the thought, I know that I would make the same decision in real life. However, that doesn't mean that I have any intention of letting my worst nightmare come to fruition.

"I'm not going to make that decision." Determination fills me. We can't go into the Games worrying about what could happen. We have to focus on what is happening. Right now, we're both alive, and that's how it's going to stay. "We're going to survive. We're going to escape. And then we're going to make Snow regret the day he ever reaped our names."

"I'm not saying we won't," Peeta says gently. "And I have every intention of staying alive." His hand comes up to caress my cheek. "I did make a promise, and I intend to keep it. Leaving you is the last thing I want to do, but if the time comes when—"

"I know," I interrupt him, really not wanting to hear him talk any more about dying for me. Unable to stand the distance between us any longer, I step into his waiting arms and rest my head against his chest, listening to the wonderful, lively sound of his heartbeat.

"I really hate it when we fight," Peeta says quietly after a moment.

"Me too," I confess. "It's not fun."

"Good thing we don't fight too often."

I smile. "Only about every other day."

"Hey," Peeta objects. "Those aren't arguments! We bicker, okay? A lot."

"Bickering would imply that it's somewhat lighthearted," I argue.

"We bicker."

"Do not."

"Yeah, we do."

"No, we don't."

"All the time."

"No we don't."

"Kind of like now."

"This isn't bickering. This is just being ridiculous."

"Yeah," Peeta grins. "But it broke through all that tension."

I can't help but smile at his antics.

"Hungry?" I ask.

"Definitely." Peeta takes my hand and for a moment, the levity dissolves and the severity of before take its place. If the moment ever arises, Peeta will die for me, and I'll let him, no matter how much pain I know it will bring me. But, Peeta's right. Everything we do isn't for us anymore. It's all about our child. That's what all of this is for, our participation in the rebellion. It's all to make a better world for our child. That's what we're fighting for.

I tighten my hold on Peeta's hand, and together we go down to the dining room. Haymitch, Effie, Cinna, and Portia are waiting for us and it's obvious that they're slightly agitated. "Where have you two been?" Haymitch snaps.

Take that back, only Haymitch is agitated.

"On the roof," Peeta replies. "We had to talk, and we really didn't want to disturb everyone with our yelling."

"You had a fight?" Portia frowns. "Everything okay?"

No, everything is not okay. "Everything's fine," I say. "We were both being stubborn."

Haymitch huffs and mutters under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like, "Imagine that."

Our food is served, and for a moment everyone is quiet as we all focus on our dinner. Roasted pheasant with potatoes, which are thankfully not fried, and green beans sautéed in butter—all served with a big basket of rolls, which seem to be a staple for any meal in the Capitol. I'm picking off Peeta's plate, despite his mild protest, when Haymitch says, "So how were your sessions?"

Peeta and I both glance at each other before looking at the table, studiously ignoring our mentor's gaze. "I painted a picture," Peeta finally says, deciding to speak first.

"What did you paint, Peeta?" Effie asks, her eyes oddly misty. Why? "Was it a picture of Katniss? To show that you'll do anything to defend her? That's what everyone in the Capitol is expecting."

Of course, she would think Peeta drew a picture of me. To show his undying love and yada, yada, yada . . . it's times like these when I'm reminded that Effie, despite her quirks that I've gotten used to, is definitely from the Capitol. She's just as entrenched in our love story as everyone else.

"No, actually I painted Rue," Peeta answers. "How she looked after Katniss had covered her in flowers."

Everyone at the table is completely silent.

"I guess this is a bad time to tell you that I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it," I say and the silence at the table screams.

Finally, Cinna manages to collect himself. "You . . . hung . . . Seneca Crane?"

I give him the same excuse I gave Peeta. "Yes. I was showing off my new knot-tying skills, and he somehow ended up at the end of the noose."

"You'd have thought we planned it," Peeta says to me, his lips forming a ghost of a smile.

"Didn't you?" Portia asks, rubbing her temple with a delicate hand as though she has a headache.

"No," Peeta replies. "We didn't have a clue what we were going to do before we went in."

"You're both idiots," Haymitch says, giving us a hard look. We know exactly what he's thinking. We've only made things harder on ourselves, if it's even possible. Maybe I'm banking too much on the fact that Plutarch is on our side. After all, he controls the Games, but then again he can't do much without tipping his hand to Snow and revealing himself as a rebel. No doubt Snow is cracking down on those closest to him. But still, I don't regret my action, and I know that Peeta doesn't either.

"Yes, but we're your idiots," I tell him, prompting Haymitch to scowl like he can't stand the sight of us.

We finish eating in silence, and then move into the living room to see the training scores. Peeta and I share the couch with Cinna and Portia, while Effie sinks into the easy chair. Haymitch looks too mad to sit, instead choosing to stand. We watch the tributes faces pop up on the screen, their scores flashing underneath their names. Districts 1 through 12 flash by and all the scores are predictable. Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria, Brutus, and Finnick all score high, while the rest of the tributes are stuck with low to medium scores.

"Have they ever given a zero, before?" I wonder, glancing at Cinna.

"There's a first time for everything."

And his words prove to be true. For the first time ever in the history of the games, a perfect score of 12 is given. The two lucky tributes? Me and Peeta.

"Why would they do that?"

"So that the others will have no choice but to target you," Haymitch tells me flatly. "Go to bed. I can't stand to look at either one of you."

Without another word, Haymitch leaves, presumably to drink himself into oblivion, and Peeta and I go to my room. We're both quiet for a while, busying ourselves with getting ready for bed. It's funny how attuned we've become to each other. We easily stay out of each other's way, and somehow Peeta knows to toss me a shirt before I'm even able to think to ask for one.

I'm under the covers first, and the moment Peeta is within reach I grab his hand and pull him down to me. Our lips meet, and I sigh contentedly at the feel of Peeta's weight pressed gently against me. My hands slide up and down his back as Peeta's lips trail along my neck. I know that we won't do anything more than kiss, but that doesn't mean that I'm not enjoying every second. It reminds me of the early days in our relationship, when Peeta's hands stayed resolutely at my waist and never wandered, but I never really noticed because I was still overwhelmed by the feel of his lips against mine.

The thought causes me to smile, and Peeta pauses to glance at me. "What?"

"Just thinking," I say. "About the good old days. You know, when we just kissed and your hands never left my waist."

This prompts both Peeta and I to laugh because his hands are currently nowhere near my waist. "Do you realize how difficult that was?" he asks. "The girl of my dreams kissing me like her life depends on it, and I'm too terrified to do anything else because I really don't want to screw it up." Peeta grins. "But then again, I was also a hormonal teenage boy who was being kissed by the girl who I'd been in love with for years. Keeping my hands on your waist was an intense inner struggle."

I can't help but laugh. By now, Peeta is lying on his back, and my head is resting on his shoulder as I absently let my fingers dance across his chest. "We've come a long way," I say softly as his arms come up to surround me. "So much has changed."

"Yeah, just think of where we were this time last year," Peeta says and I scoff.

"You were not sleeping with me."

"Only in my dreams."

A thought occurs to me, and I lift my head from his chest so I can see his face. "The night before the games when I invited you into my room," I say. "What were you thinking?"

Peeta grins. "So many things that were not very gentlemanly."

I blush and hide my face in the crook of his neck. "I knew it," I mumble. "I did not mean it that way!"

"Hey, the girl I love secretly invites me into her room in the middle of the night? I'm a guy. My mind was racing with possibilities." Peeta holds me tighter as he continues, his voice soft and gentle, "But I was just hoping that maybe, just maybe, I might get to hold you."

I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

The next morning I awake to bright, early morning sun streaming through the windows. I'm able to relish the sun on my face for all of five seconds before I feel the beginnings of the nausea I've regrettably become intensely familiar with the past few weeks. I rush to the bathroom just in time to vomit. Gentle hands pull back my hair, but I motion for him to leave. "Go," I try to put some authority in my voice and fail spectacularly. "You don't need to see this."

"I'm not going anywhere," Peeta argues gently, and I groan in defeat.

After another bout of sickness, I finally begin to feel a little better, and this time when I shoo Peeta away, he does what I ask. Thank goodness. I brush my teeth twice, braid my hair, and splash some water on my face before returning to the bedroom.

"No coaching lessons," Peeta tells me when I step into the room.

My eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yeah." Peeta hands me a piece of paper and I see that it's a note from Effie. She says that both she and Haymitch think we've had enough practice on the Victory Tour to be able to act appropriately.

"So we have the whole day to ourselves?" I ask, excitement beginning to creep into my voice.

"Exactly," Peeta grins. "So what do you want to do?"

"Let's go on the roof," I decide. "And have a . . . picnic. With lots of food."

"Okay, here's the plan," Peeta says and I roll my eyes. Must he always have a plan? "I get the food, you get the blankets, meet you up there in ten?"

"Got it," I say and Peeta gives me a quick kiss and then hurries from the room, not bothering with a shirt.

Men.

I, on the other hand, get dressed properly and grab the blankets that I've been tasked with bringing up to the roof. I've just spread them out in the garden when Peeta appears, now wearing a shirt, with a whole tray of food, and the redheaded Avox girl carries another tray behind him.

I raise my eyebrows at the two trays laden with more food than we could possibly eat. Peeta sees my look, "You said to bring a lot of food."

My witty response is forgotten when I see chocolate-covered strawberries. "Never mind," I say as I take one, ignoring Peeta's laugh.

We spend the entire day lounging around, soaking up the sun and enjoying the light breeze. We kiss and share gentle touches. We eat more food than I would have thought possible. And we're able to entertain ourselves with a game that involves one of us tossing an apple against the force field and the other having to catch it. The game ends when I toss the apple and it hits Peeta in the head. I can't help but laugh at his short, yet very colorful cursing.

He spends the next five minutes chasing me for laughing at him.

Finally, we both collapse onto the blanket and settle into a peaceful silence. Peeta draws in his sketchbook, and I snag some vines and work on my newfound knot-tying skills. But eventually, both of us abandon our activities. I rest my head in his lap, and he gently takes my hair out of its braid and begins to play with it.

I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. Because for the time being, I can forget about everything that's happening and focus on what means the most. Sharing a day with Peeta, free from the Capitol's clutches, if only for a little while. For the first time in a long time, it's just me and Peeta.

"I wish I could freeze this moment," Peeta speaks for the first time in hours, his hands stilling in my hair. "Right here, right now, and live in it forever."

"I don't," I say softly. "Well, this isn't the moment I would choose, at least."

"Oh, really?" Peeta asks amused, but curious. "Which moment would you want to live in forever?"

"The day of our toasting." The answer comes easily to me, because honestly that was the best day of my life. One of the few where I had no worries at all and simply got to enjoy life. I played in the snow like a normal person. I married the man I love, and shared all of myself with him. "That would be the perfect moment."

I don't think I've ever seen Peeta smile this way before. Soft and loving, yet bittersweet. "I think you're right. Too bad we can't go back in time."

"But then we couldn't create new moments," I tell him, sitting up so that I can wrap my arms around his neck. "And that seems like such a waste."

"I think you're right, again," Peeta smiles before giving me a sweet kiss.

We watch the sunset, and I cherish ever second of its beauty. It's funny really. I prefer sunsets because they tell me that I've survived another day. Peeta prefers sunrises because it's the dawn of a new day, with new possibilities. Either way, both are beautiful.

The next day is filled with a flurry of activity as Peeta and I are prepped for our interviews with Caesar Flickerman. As he promised, it's apparent that Cinna talked to my prep team about controlling their emotions. And while I don't have to put up with their blubbering, their silence is almost just as bad. Octavia has to step out frequently. She's been a mess since we first started, especially when she found me and Peeta in the same bed again this morning. Flavius eventually abandons his scissors when his tears get the best of him, and it's up to Venia to finish prepping me. She sets her jaw determinedly and makes me over, her fingers flying due to the lack of help. When she declares that I'm done, she takes my hands in both of hers, and says, "We would all like you to know what a . . . privilege it has been to make you look your best."

Then she bolts from the room.

My prep team, while ignorant and childish, has slowly wormed their way into my heart. I wonder what will happen to them once the rebellion starts. Will they be punished because of their association with me? I don't know. What I do know is that they think I will not be returning. That may very well be true, but I sincerely hope it's not. I don't plan on dying any time soon. I refuse to give Snow that satisfaction.

Cinna comes in, a garment bag hung over his arm like always. There's no danger of tears from Cinna, though I know he thinks that my time on this earth is winding down. "So, what am I wearing tonight?" I ask.

"President Snow put in the dress order himself." I frown in confusion, and a sense of foreboding builds within me as he unzips the bag.

I scowl. It's a wedding dress.

Cinna sees my expression and explains. "Even though they announced the Quarter Quell the night of the photo shoot, people still voted for their favorite dress, and this was the winner. The president says you're to wear it tonight. Our objections were ignored."

"I bet they were," I say as I eye the dress. It's the pearl dress. Cascading creamy white silk and pearls. Everywhere the dress is studded with pearls. President Snow has turned my wedding dress into my shroud. How poetic of him.

Cinna helps me into the dress, and I sag under the weight of it for a moment before I get my bearings. "I don't remember it being this heavy," I say. The thing weighs a ton.

"I had to make some adjustments for lighting," Cinna replies, and I don't have time to question him further before he has me walk around, so I can get reacquainted with the dress.

"You're ravishing," he says with a small smile. "Now, Katniss, because this bodice is so fitted, I don't want you raising your arms above your head. Well, not until you twirl, anyway."

"I'm twirling, again?"

"I'm sure Caesar will ask you. And if he doesn't, you suggest it yourself. Only not right away. Save it for your big finale," he tells me, and I get the feeling that my twirling has a much greater significance that merely revisiting my previous interview and twirling for old time's sake.

"Alright," I agree. "You give me a signal so I know when."

"Any plans for the interview this year?" Cinna asks as we begin to make our way to the elevators to meet the rest of our District 12 entourage.

"No, I'm just going to wing it," I tell him honestly. "It's funny, actually. I'm not nervous at all."

And it's true. I'm not nervous. Why would I be? The cameras don't bother me anymore. Instead of making me nervous, they just annoy me. Besides, the audience doesn't intimidate me at all this year. I have them wrapped around my finger.

Cinna and I meet Peeta, Portia, and Haymitch at the elevator. Peeta is dressed in an elegant black tuxedo with white gloves, the proper attire for a groom according to the Capitol. And while Peeta looks handsome, I can't help but think he looked even better in the jeans and t-shirt he wore at our toasting.

"You're beautiful," Peeta says softly, smiling when he sees my blush.

"A blushing bride," Portia comments, prompting an even deeper blush to stain my cheeks. "You look lovely."

"Thanks." Peeta takes my hand and together we make our way to the back of the stage where we'll wait until it's time for the interviews.

While we're walking, Peeta looks down at me. "Katniss, do you trust me?"

"You know I do." I draw my eyebrows together in confusion. "Why are you asking?"

"You know when I said that I had a plan? On the train?" he asks.

"I remember you saying that you were working out a plan . . ."

"Yeah, well, it's been worked out." Peeta looks nervous, an emotion that I rarely see from him. "But I can't tell you, and you have to promise not to hate me afterward."

I pull on his hand, causing us both to stop walking. "What are you going to say?" I ask him seriously. "Nothing can top what you said last year."

"We'll see." Peeta shuffles his feet. Oh, great. He's fidgety. This is bad. "Just . . . trust me, okay?"

"Okay," I agree, wondering what in the world Peeta could plan to say that would make him this nervous. He was as calm as he could be last year. But before we do anything else, I have to set him straight on something. "And Peeta, no matter what you do, I could never hate you."

Peeta gives me a small smile, squeezing my hand. "Good to know."

When we arrive backstage, all attention is immediately on us. Silence permeates the air as their eyes fall on my wedding dress, glaring at it like its some fiend. Finally, Finnick breaks. "I can't believe Cinna put you in that thing."

"President Snow made him," I immediately defend. No one insults Cinna. "He didn't have a choice."

"Well, you look ridiculous!" Cashmere says with a flip of her hair before walking past us, grabbing her brother's hand and leading him to the front of the line. Being from District 1, they will be the first to walk onto the stage, while Peeta and I will bring up the rear.

The other tributes begin to follow suit, most of them completely ignoring us, except for Finnick, who claps Peeta on the shoulder and gives me a smile that holds none of its usual brightness, but it's still genuine. What surprises me the most is Johanna, who stops to straighten my pearl necklace and says, "Make him pay for it, okay?"

I truly realize the depth of Johanna's statement when we're all sitting on the stage, and the interviews have begun. The betrayal that the victors feel by being recalled to the arena is so apparent . . . and everyone is so, so brilliant with how they play it. Cashmere has an entire spiel about how she just can't seem to stop crying because she can't help but be tormented by the thought of the Capitol's suffering over how they will lose us. Gloss talks about the generosity of the Capitol and how he's always thought that they were the kindest people to both him and his sister. Beetee, in his quick, quiet voice, questions if the Quell is even legal. Finnick throws the audience into a state when he recites a poem for his one true love, causing nearly a hundred girls to faint because they just know that he's referring to them. Johanna wonders if something can be done about the Quell, because surely, no one could have anticipated the love between the victors and the Capitol. It would be cruel to cut such a deep bond. Seeder speaks of how everyone in District 11 thinks that President Snow is all-powerful and could change the Quell, and Chaff immediately follows up and insists that President Snow could do something, but he must not think it matters much to anyone.

And then Caesar calls my name.

Almost instantaneously, the audience is in an uproar. They've been crying and calling out, but the sight of me in my wedding gown causes them to completely breakdown. Shouts and anguished cries fill the air as I take my seat beside Caesar. Even Caesar, whose hair and makeup is lavender this year, has to resort to using all his years of professionalism as he tries to calm the wild audience. I can hear the three minute clock for my interview just ticking away in my mind. The Capitol seems to have finally realized that because of the Quell, there will be no wedding. No more star-crossed lovers of District 12. No happily ever after. They realize that mine and Peeta's story only ends in death.

Finally, there's a break in the noise, and Caesar manages to ask, "So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

I don't have to work to make my voice tremble. While I'm not nervous, my hormones are messing with my emotions. Seeing the Capitol upset is actually making me upset, which then in turn makes me angry. Honestly, I don't know how I'm going to deal with this for seven more months.

But back to the question. "Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding . . . but I'm glad you at least got to see me in my dress. Isn't it just the most beautiful thing?"

As if I'm going from a script, I immediately rise from my chair and begin to twirl. I don't need Cinna's cue. When the screaming starts, I think it's because of my dress and my twirling, but when I see smoke beginning to rise up around me, I panic momentarily and stupidly try to twirl faster. This only causes the smoke to rise up even quicker, cocooning me in a grey shield that hides me from the eyes of the audience and everyone on stage. I realize that Cinna must have a hand in this and that's why I'm not burning, so I continue to twirl.

The fire burning my dress is not like the flames I wore last year. These are much more real and seemingly deadly. The flames devour my dress. Charred, blackened bits of silk fall to the floor along with the many pearls that adorned the dress. With one final spin, the flames immediately extinguish, leaving me perplexed and smoking slightly.

For a split second, I think that I'm naked. With my dress burned away, I feel so much lighter. But when my hands find my stomach, I feel a light texture beneath my fingertips. I look at my new outfit and see that the new dress I wear is in exactly the same style as my wedding dress, except it's pitch black and made of tiny, soft feathers. Dazedly, I lift my long sleeves that flow to the floor. And that's when I see myself on a television screen.

Awed, I see myself wrapped in black except for my sleeves, or rather wings, which are white. I realize what Cinna has done.

Cinna has turned me into a mockingjay.

Smoke still tenuously rises from my dress, so it's with a cautious hand that Caesar reaches out to touch my dress. "Feathers," he murmurs. "You're like a bird."

"A mockingjay, I think," I reply, as I wonderingly give my wings a small flap. For some reason I feel the need to add, "It's the bird on the pin I wear as a token."

The full force of my words hit me like a Capitol train. My token. The mockingjay. My symbol.

The mockingjay is the symbol for the rebellion . . . oh, Cinna, what have you done?

His words float through my mind . . . Don't worry. I always channel my emotions into my work. That way I don't hurt anyone but myself.

I'm immediately filled with worry for my friend. This is a blatant show of rebellion. While the people of the Capitol might not see it for what it truly is, President Snow will. And Cinna will be punished, I have no doubt. Cinna, what have you done? My new costume is resonating throughout the districts, a symbol of hope and a will to fight.

I can tell that Caesar realizes the depth of this bold statement. There's flicker of recognition in his eyes. But, being the great host he is, he manages to make the best of it. "Well, hats off to your stylist. I don't think anyone can argue that that's not the most spectacular thing we've ever seen in an interview. Cinna, I think you better take a bow!"

Cinna stands and takes a small, gracious bow. I swear for a moment his eyes meet mine, and I know that he knows exactly what he's done and he'd do it all over again without hesitation. Cinna is one of the bravest men I know.

The audience, of course, immediately breaks out into a wild applause, shouting praises at Cinna. He accepts them all with a small wave of his hand and a slight nod before returning to his seat, even if his applause isn't anywhere near finished. They're still applauding when the buzzer for my interview goes off, and Caesar thanks me and I make my way back to my seat.

As Peeta passes me, our hands touch briefly, and suddenly all my anxiety I feel for Cinna has transferred to Peeta. What is he planning to say? I know Peeta. I know that it has to involve me somehow, and be a part of some wild, crazy plan to protect me. Last year he admitted his love for me to make me more desirable. After all, everyone already loved Peeta. And they would love what he loved. Lucky me.

I just didn't realize it then.

So what could Peeta possibly be planning to say that's got him so nervous?

Of course, when his interview begins, he and Caesar immediately slip into an easy conversation full of wit, jokes, and perfect comedic timing from the both of them. This is the angle Peeta was going to play during his interview last year, but after my story with the bread, Caesar immediately skipped to Peeta's thoughts on the matter. No intro to warm up to things.

Caesar gets down to the questions after a minute of joking about poultry and fires and feathers. No one knows Peeta like I do, but even the Capitol can tell that he seems preoccupied. Oh, Peeta, what are you going to do?

"So, Peeta, what was it like when, after all you've been through, you found out about the Quell?" Caesar asks.

My mind is immediately thrown back to that night. My horror and shock, fleeing into his bedroom, the safest place I could think of. Peeta comforting me with his words and then our desperate passion that followed . . .

"I was in shock," Peeta answers, and I can tell that he's thinking of that night just as I am. "I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns, and then the next . . ." he trails off, like the words that follow are too much to speak. Wow, he's good at this.

"You realized there was never going to be a wedding?" Caesar suggests gently.

I'm watching Peeta closely. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks up at the audience, and then back to the floor. He glances at Caesar, and then finally his gaze rests on me. We hold each other's gaze for a solid five seconds and I see a decision reflected in his eyes.

Peeta looks back at Caesar. "Caesar, do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?"

Keep a secret? The whole nation is watching. Peeta, what are you getting at?

"I feel quite certain of it," Caesar says.

The entire room is utterly silent, and the anticipation building in the air is nearly palpable. Just when I think everyone is about to crack under the pressure, Peeta takes a deep breath and says, "We're already married."

For a moment, betrayal stings so sharply within me that I nearly cry out. What in the hell does Peeta think he's doing? That was our moment, our time, our secret! One that was made specifically so we wouldn't conform to the Capitol's demands.

But just when the anger is about to take over, I remember that Peeta always has a plan, and he thinks them through thoroughly and analyzes every possible flaw or outcome. He wouldn't admit this lightly, cavalierly. No, Peeta has a plan. I'm able to calm myself with this thought. He has a plan. He has a reason.

Luckily for me, my expression showed none of my fiery turmoil. Instead, I showed surprise and shock, exactly like the crowd. Caesar gaps for a moment before he finally manages to ask, "But . . . how can that be?"

"Oh, it's not an official marriage," Peeta says, even if it is completely official to us. "We didn't go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District 12. I don't know what it's like in the other districts, but there's this thing we do," he continues on to describe the toasting, but I hardly hear him. All I see or hear is the flickering fire that was alive in the fireplace, the smell of toasting bread, and the love in Peeta's eyes. Our perfect moment.

I'm drawn back into the conversation when Caesar speaks. "Were your families there?"

"No, we didn't tell anyone." Peeta smiles with a hint of mischief and defiance. "Not even Haymitch. And Katniss's mother would never have approved. But you see, we knew if we were married in the Capitol, there wouldn't be a toasting, and neither of us really wanted to wait any longer. So one day, we just did it." That's not at all our reason for doing our toasting, but it's the explanation that the Capitol is going to get. "And to us, we're more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us."

That part is true at least.

"So this was before the Quell?" Caesar clarifies.

"Of course it was before the Quell," Peeta says, a sharpness in his tone that wasn't there before. "I'm sure we'd never have done it after we knew," he continues sounding more and more upset, and I know that half of it isn't faked. Half of it is real.

I'm confused, but I really don't have time to think about it much because Peeta continues, his words slowly gathering anger and bitterness. "But who could've seen it coming? No one. We went through the Games, we were victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere—I mean, how could we anticipate something like that?"

"You couldn't, Peeta," Caesar consoles, putting a comforting arm around Peeta. "As you said, no one could've. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together."

The applause from the crowd is instant and nearly riotous. Well, I'm glad that they're happy we got a few months of living happily married before we're sent to our deaths. Sometimes, I wonder exactly how much they really love us.

But as I continue to think about the Quell, about going into the arena where Peeta might die, my hormones get the better of me. If anyone asks I'll blame the smoke still rising from my dress, but tears fill my eyes. Belatedly, I realize it adds a nice touch to the scene.

"I'm not glad," Peeta says, surprising everyone, including me.

Caesar is as close to spluttering as he'll ever get. "S-surely even a brief time is better than no time?"

"Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar," Peeta says bitterly, shocking me with his tone.

But nothing could have prepared me for what he says next . . .

"If it weren't for the baby."


BAM! Peeta, you've done it again. (And don't we love him for it!)

Quote from Come Rain or Come Shine comes from . . . Katniss!

"I can't do this without you."

Lots of love,

AC