A/N: SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY! I know I said I was going to update, like, three months ago, but things got crazy, yo. Plus I only had really expensive internet in Malta, so I couldn't reread the applications to write this chapter, because I was trying not to use the internet too much. BUT I am back home now, and hopefully in a position to start updating properly again.
The goodbyes were meant to be one chapter, but it got ridiculously long, so I split it in half. I think/hope this will be the last chapter to be so long, although I suspect the interview one might be very long as well. I'll try to have part 2 of this chapter up in the next couple of days, so I don't keep you all on tenterhooks.
Thanks for bearing with me. I'm sorry I've been so fail.
7 - Goodbye To All That
The Justice Building in One is palatial – there's no other word for it. Platinum and Nessa are led into the arching hallway, where the jewelled inlays and velvet hangings stretch down from vaulted marble ceilings. Their footsteps, and those of the Peacekeepers, echo and multiply, filling the corridor with the sound of boots on mosaic. Halfway down the corridor, the Peacekeepers stop and split into two groups, each group escorting a tribute into a different room.
Platinum is taken to the left, into a large room with plush couches against each wall, blue velvet with golden silk cushions spread artfully along each comfortable seat. He tosses two cushions to the side, unimpressed by their opulence and the scrunching rustle they make when he touches them, and sits with his legs apart and his chin resting on his folded hands, watching as the Peacekeepers withdraw back into the corridor. He's looking forwards to the Games, but that doesn't mean he's looking forwards to saying goodbye, and when his family are ushered in, a little of his taciturn nature relaxes.
Lace, his little sister, comes first. He hugs her tight, but briefly, and touches her narrow shoulder as he nods to his parents. They don't exchange more than a few words; as a family, they share that silent, stiff nature, and nothing much needs to be said. It's all communicated in the hug his mother gives him, and the pat on the back from his father. Then there's Pearl, his twin sister, who hangs back from the other three for a moment, smiling slightly, then comes to join him as they pull away.
"You remember what we've practiced, all right, Plat?" she says, with a smile. "Hit fast, hit hard, and don't let anyone else take the upper hand even for a moment."
Platinum nods understanding, smiling back. He's been training with Pearl for years now, and he knows she's proud to see him finally have the chance to use the practice. If anyone understands how proud he is to be chosen, it's Pearl. He feels a rush of affection for her, and pulls her into an uncharacteristic hug.
She extricates herself a little awkwardly, holding something out to him. "Here. Remember this?"
"Grandma's badge." Platinum raises his eyes to her, taking the silver pin out of her hand with a little smile of recollection. "She always said it was the oldest thing she had. From before Panem, right?"
"Ought to be a good token, don't you think?" Pearl smiles at him, nodding. "I'm proud of you, Plat. When you're done, everyone in Panem is going to know your name."
"You make sure it's for the right reasons, though, you hear?" He's fairly sure his mother's joking, but he recognises the undercurrent, the one that says she'll be disappointed in him if he doesn't come back covered in glory, and it annoys him, souring the mood. His family leave not long after, leaving him to sit and wait a good five minutes before his next visitors.
Vine and Tiger spend a while in the room, smiling and joking with barely-veiled envy. Platinum, as usual, is the quietest of the three, but he gains more than a little satisfaction from their obvious jealousy, which only confirms how lucky he is. He is, however, genuinely sad to say goodbye to them, even when he's fairly sure he'll see them again after the Games. His easiest visitor to deal with, though, is Value, his best friend. They sit together on the plush couches, talking little but saying a lot when they do.
"Next year," Value says, as the Peacekeepers open the door and he gets up to leave. "You'll be my mentor next year, right?"
"Right." Platinum smiles, nodding. "Next year. See you after the Games, Vale."
"Good luck," Value replies, and the hour's goodbyes end.
The room Nessa is taken into is plush and comfortable, the varnished ebony couches upholstered in spotless lilac, the cushions silver. She settles herself down at the end of a couch, slipping off her heels to tuck one leg under herself. The Peacekeepers leave her there to sip at the glass of water left on one of the tables, looking around the room with some interest. Although she's used to a degree of luxury – she is from District One, after all – the sheer opulence of the Justice Building shocks her, and not in a good way. Nessa has always been a believer in function, and a lot of this room, from the crenellations encrusting the ceiling to the delicate ribbing of the couch arms, looks like it makes the room less functional, not more.
She's distracted from her contemplation of the room as the heavy ebony door creaks open again and her parents are allowed in. Angela and Gasparo Adassi look perfectly at home in the magnificent room, both neat and well put-together, standing side by side in the middle of the thick cream-coloured carpet. Nessa smiles at them, rendered almost shy, as they sit down on the couch opposite with the whisper of velvet. For a moment, the family regard each other across the room, and then Gasparo breaks into a smile.
"We're so proud of you, Giada." His eyes, the same blue-grey as hers, crinkle at the corners, and she feels a wave of pleasure. She knows how hard it is to impress either of her parents, and her father's pride is a valuable thing.
"I won't let you down," she assures them, with a smile of her own, sitting up a little straighter. "You'll see."
"Just don't get complacent." Gasparo's voice is back to its usual strict tones, although he's still smiling. "Remember, everyone's watching. You're not so good that you can afford to let your guard down. And don't forget that your best weapon is speed, not strength. Look out for that Lux boy. He's twice your size, and a better fighter. You owe it to all of us to come back in one piece."
Nessa nods, her smile fading a little into a studious expression. Gasparo is an experienced coach, and she knows it's best to listen to what he says. And listen she does, for most of the hour, her surroundings forgotten as he reminds her of all the tricks they've studied. He gets up and paces, insisting that she show him some of her practiced moves; her handsprings and rolls feel different on the soft fibres of the carpet. At the end of the hour, she's flushed and breathing a little heavily, her hair a little disordered. She smooths it with one hand, looking up at her father.
"I'm ready, I think," she says, with a little smile.
"Not yet, you're not," he says sternly, but then smiles. "But you will be. Make me proud, Giada."
She will, she promises herself as they leave. She will.
Avius and Brooke follow the Peacekeepers into the Justice Building without a backwards glance. Neither of them look to one side or the other, although the carved stone of the building is exquisite, the design and workmanship sublime. They simply stride on, heads held high, not looking at each other or at the Peacekeepers, until they are shown into their separate rooms.
Avius settles easily into the room, which is made of marble so fine it's almost translucent, worked by skilled hands into deep reliefs showing the history of Panem. He doesn't spare the reliefs more than a cursory glance, although he quite likes the one showing the Capitol putting down the rebellion. There's a real knowledge put into the broken angles of the rebels' bodies. As a butcher's son, he knows what dead things look like, and the artist's captured the moment perfectly.
Settling back in the plush seat, he closes his eyes for a moment, allowing a thin smile to come over his face. He's made it. He's really here. He's on the brink of greatness, in just the way that suits him best. He's just enjoying that moment, the anticipation of the adventure to come, when the door creaks open to admit his parents. His mother rushes over to embrace him, much to his irritation, and holds him tight, like he's still a child. With difficulty, he extricates himself, trying to push her away. She's sobbing.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks her harshly, rolling his eyes. "Anyone'd think something terrible just happened."
"Well, it sort of did." His father sounds jovial, which is almost as annoying as the knowledge that he's as worried over Avius as his wife. Avius resents that, resents them flapping around as if this wasn't the best thing that's ever happened to him. "The butcher's just lost one of its best workers."
"I'll be cutting up better meat in the Arena," Avius assures him, with another toothy smirk. "Stop making such a fuss. You know I'll be fine, and if I'm not, there's no better way to go."
"How can you say that? What if you're wrong? What if we never see you again?" His mother sounds affronted and a little hurt. He sneers at her expression.
"You will. You'll see me slicing the other tributes up on TV, and you'll probably get queasy and have to look away, knowing you. But you're worrying over nothing."
She looks unconvinced, but Avius doesn't much care. Irritably, he suffers through a round of hugs and, nauseatingly, kisses, and he's profoundly relieved when, driven away by his lack of response, they leave after only half an hour or so. That leaves him plenty of time to prepare himself mentally – to think of all the wonders of the Games lying ahead.
Brooke is relieved by how big the room is. Keyed-up as she is by the excitement of the Reaping, her claustrophobia seems like a real danger. Besides, she knows her father will be coming to say his goodbyes, and the last thing she wants is to be trapped in a small room with him. But the room is large and spacious, and the Peacekeepers are right outside. He won't dare to try anything – and, she reminds herself, this is the last time she'll have to see him until after the Games.
Nonetheless, she's suddenly nervous, and when he comes in with her mother, she's still standing, pretending to examine the carved frieze of Panem's Districts on one wall. She turns her head as they walk in; he's smiling, the warm, cheery smile which sends a chill down her spine. Brooke focuses on her mother instead; Sage looks close to crying with pride as she reaches out for her daughter. Her hug is brief, but tight, and she dabs at her eyes as she pulls away. "Oh, Brooke. I'm sorry, I just... I'm so proud of you. Aren't you excited?"
Brooke's smile is genuine, if a little tight. She knows how important the Games are to her mother, and she knows Sage's emotions aren't at all feigned. "How could I not be excited? It's the Games!"
Sage laughs, stepping back to take her husband's arm. Brooke's hackles rise at that; she hates to see her mother, who she loves so much, sticking so closely to her monster of a husband. Demetri, for his part, puts his hand over his wife's, giving her a fond smile, before stepping forwards to pull Brooke into a hug. It's tight enough to send a stab of pain through the bruises he gave her earlier that week, but Brooke doesn't flinch – not now, and not while her mum's there. Although his touch makes her skin rise into gooseflesh, she makes herself return his hug.
"You be careful," he says, pulling back, and although it sounds cheerful enough, there's an undercurrent to the tone and a flash to his eyes which says there's more to it than that. She understands perfectly. She's to be careful, not just about herself, but about letting slip what he does to her – and she understands, more from her knowledge of him than from anything he says or does now, that if she lets it slip and survives, he'll make the Games look like a picnic in comparison. Even though it hurts to say goodbye to her mother, she's still very relieved when the two of them leave. She's flopped down on the couch, letting out a long breath after the tension of having her father around, when Acron comes in.
Acron, her best friend, is reassuringly grounded. He seems...proud of her, yes, and a little worried for her, but not ridiculously to either extreme. She's smiling again five minutes after he walks through the door. He's confident about her chances, reassures her that he knows what he's talking about – haven't they trained together for years, after all? – and warns her to look out for Avius, who he knows by reputation as a sadist. When he leaves, despite how certain she is that she's done the right thing, Brooke almost cries. The thought that, if she loses, she'll never see him again... that thought hurts. She hugs him tight before he leaves, and wipes her eyes, checking her makeup in the mirror on the wall. She can't look upset when it comes to the cameras at the station, after all.
In Three, the Justice Building is brightly-lit and filled with art and furniture which cost more money than Silk or Singe have ever seen in one place. Both teenagers stare at the high ceilings and brightly mosaiced floors in undisguised wonder, Singe's eyes wide, Silk's jaw slack – although a keen-eyed observer might spot that Silk's eyes turn occasionally to Singe, taking her in, watching her carefully, gauging her.
He relaxes a little once he's in the room where he'll spend the next hour, dropping the scared-little-boy act as soon as he and Singe go their separate ways. Strategy is one thing, but trying to be small and unassuming for so long is wearing. The thought of keeping up the act all through the Games isn't a pleasant one, but it's the best plan he has.
There are no friends visiting Silk, only his family. His father's face, when he walks in, is unreadable. By contrast, the twins are open books; they hold hands tightly, looking even younger than their seven years, looking up at Silk. Lynn's usual smile is completely gone, and Rosie looks like she might actually cry. Almost before the door closes behind them, they've rushed forwards, and suddenly Silk has a twin hugging each leg tight. A lump forms in his throat and, sitting down, he pulls them both into a hug.
"Don't worry," Lynn tells him, after several moments, and wipes her eyes. "It's going to be okay. Right?" Her perpetual optimism seems to be failing her a little, though, and there's definite uncertainty in her voice. She changes tack. "When you come home, we're going to move into one of the big houses and everything's going to be better." This sounds more certain. Rosie pouts, clinging to Silk, and wipes her nose.
"Don't want you to go," she mumbles, into Silk's shirt. "It's stupid. Don't want you to die."
The lump in Silk's throat grows, but remembering that his dad's there, he swallows it back. He might cry for the cameras, when he gets to the train station, but he's not going to cry in front of his family. Instead, he just pulls Rosie closer, his hand clenching against her wild blonde hair, and shakes his head. "Don't be stupid," he says, a bit harshly. "I'm not going to die. I'm going to come back. It'll be fine. Just wait and see."
But when they leave, when his dad gives him an uncharacteristic and very tight hug and begs him to look after himself, Silk finds it a lot harder to hold onto that thought. If he doesn't make it back, it's going to break them. They've been broken once already, with his mother's death. He can't let that happen again.
Singe relaxes into one of the plush velvet chairs, her mind whirling. Here, away from the crowd and in the richly-decorated, Capitol-esque surroundings of the Justice Building, it's much easier to be excited about what she's been drafted into. She can look around and see, under the facades and the rich artwork of the walls, the whirring mechanisms that keep the place running; stroking her fingers under the unbelievably soft green velvet, she closes her eyes and pictures the mechanisms of the Arena, every Arena she's ever seen. She'll see it all close up. Maybe she can get close enough to see how it all works, the barriers and the traps and the microclimate, all engineered anew every year. Maybe it's all worth it, for that.
"Singe!" Her sister, Spark, rushes into the room, almost throwing herself into a hug. The older girl looks distraught, tears visible in her eyes as she pulls Singe close. "Oh, Singe! I couldn't believe it when they called your name out... I'm so sorry! I should have volunteered or something!"
Singe manages a smile, although Spark's hug is so tight she's having trouble breathing. "It's okay," she wheezes, giving Spark a hug in return. "It's okay. Really. I mean, when else am I going to get the chance to go to the Capitol and see the Games up close? It's step one, right?"
"Right. Right." Spark lets go of her, leaning back with a deep breath and fixing her hair with both hands. "Of course." She knows Singe's dream, and it's undeniable that winning the Games will bring her closer to being Head Gamemaker – after all, who better to run the Games than someone who knows them from inside as well as out? "You're sure, though? That you're going to be all right? Promise me, Singe. You've got to come back in one piece, and tell me all about it."
"I promise." Singe smiles. She'll miss Spark, she thinks, and bites down on her lip briefly before continuing. "I mean, if I can get through the interview, I can get through anything."
"You'll be okay." Spark's smile is reassuring. She sits down next to Singe, taking her hand. "We'll be rooting for you. Everyone's going to love you. Don't worry, Singe. Just keep your head up and smile, that's what matters." Another hug. If possible, it's tighter than the first. "Oh, I'm going to miss you. Come back safe. Please."
"I promise," Singe repeats, but quieter. When the Peacekeepers escort Spark out, that promise is still echoing in Singe's head. She just hopes, more than anything, it's a promise she can keep.
The Justice Building in Four is one of the few where the tributes' rooms have windows. The building is situated on the edge of a cliff, so the windows can look out without providing an escape route or any way to look in. The room they lead James into looks out across the bay, and from high above, he can see the fishing boats moored to the opposite shore. Nobody out on the water, though. Not on Reaping Day.
He looks away from the window, slouching on the silk cushions, and looks up as the door opens. His first visitor is his mother. She's red-eyed and haggard-faced, and he's not sure whether it's from crying or drinking. She looks as though she's been doing both, and her hug is clumsy, though heartfelt. "You'll be okay, won't you, Jamesy? You'll look after yourself?"
James laughs, with a confidence he's not entirely sure he feels, and wriggles out of her hug. "'Course I will! It's an adventure, right? What's the worst that could happen?"
She doesn't answer, although she sniffs loudly, which probably suggests she knows all too well what the worst that could happen is. James isn't heartless enough not to feel a pang at saying goodbye to his mother, but it has to be admitted that, with her sobbing and hugging and generally being embarrassingly overwrought, he's almost relieved when the Peacekeepers come in to escort her out. She's still crying as she leaves.
His friends are much less depressing. First Lloyd, who's duly impressed and happy to bolster James' confidence in his ability to get sponsors, then Josh, Spencer and Daisy, Oli, and finally Will. It's a full hour, and although everyone at least puts out the appearance of being sad to see him go, it makes James much happier about the whole thing. If nothing else, it's a reminder that he's popular, and in a competition like the Games, that counts for a lot. He has so many friends that they can't all get in to see him. If that isn't a good sign, he doesn't know what is.
When Will leaves, clapping James on the back and wishing him heartfelt good luck as the Peacekeepers escort him out, James flops back onto the couch, toying with the beaded necklace he wears. He's sad to be leaving, of course, but much more importantly, he's got the Capitol ahead of him, and a whole train journey filled with women to practice his flirting on. This is going to be fun.
Storm's room has a wider view than James'. From the wide window, she can see out to the open sea, where the gulls are wheeling and crying – although the glass is thick enough that she can't hear them, which gives the rather bizarre impression that she's watching a silent film. She sits with one of the blue silk cushions in her lap, staring out at the waves and struggling to keep her composure. She's been here before, visiting first Selene and then Sol; to her, the room, with its light perfumes and bright colours, might as well be sodden with blood. But she has to stay strong, because it will be just as hard for her family, who've been here twice as well.
She has a few minutes to steady herself before they're allowed in, and she even manages a smile. Lily is clearly, and openly, crying; Storm knows all too well how that feels, just like it felt for her when Selene volunteered for her. She hugs Lily close. "It's okay," she whispers, in her sister's ear. "It's okay. It's not your fault. I promise, it's not."
Lily nods tearfully, but won't be extricated from Storm's hug. Lifting the younger girl onto the seat beside her, Storm sighs and looks up at the other two; Shark and Dawn, her other brother and sister, look back solemnly. Their mother isn't there. Storm isn't surprised; nowadays, it's a rare day when their mother can overcome her agoraphobia enough to leave the house. Still, it stings a bit.
"You look after Mom, okay?" she says to them, after a long time. "Make sure she gets enough work in. And... listen, don't worry about taking tessarae. If I win, we'll never need them again, and if I don't..."
Shark nods, his usual cheerful demeanour nowhere to be seen. Dawn, for her part, juts her lip, then shakes her head defiantly. "They can't do this!" she declares, with the innocent confidence of youth. "They can't keep doing this to us! It's not fair!"
Storm doesn't have an answer to that. It isn't fair. That much is obvious. But there's nothing they can do about it. There's nothing she can do at all, now, except hug her siblings and hold them tight, right up until the Peacekeepers come to drag them away – and it is literally dragging when it comes to Dawn, who throws a full-on tantrum when she's escorted out, little fists slamming against one of the Peacekeeper's breastplates. Storm grimaces, hoping there's no more backlash for that.
She has a moment's breathing space to try and stop herself crying, and then the door opens again to admit two more people; her boyfriend, Sam, and his sister Claire, Storm's best friend. All Storm's attempts not to cry go out of the window then, and she hugs them both fiercely, letting them hold her. With the lump in her throat growing by the minute, and tears stinging her eyes, she makes them both promise not to worry about her, swears that she'll be the first Star to come back in one piece. When she kisses Sam, as the Peacekeepers come to escort them out, the kiss is bitter and salty with both their tears.
After the soot and grime of the city outside, the sparkling splendour of the Justice Building in Five is a shock to the system. Even Jayden, who as the Mayor's son has grown up in relative wealth, has his breath taken away by the sheer intricacy of the place; Robyn stares open-mouthed, not even trying to hide her amazement at the gilt and marble of the hallways. She has to be nudged along by one of the Peacekeepers. Jayden gives her a little smile, hoping to reassure her, but she doesn't return it, and then she's whisked away by the Peacekeepers, and she's gone.
Jayden himself is led into one of the big rooms which open up from the end of the corridor, with a carved wooden bench upholstered in tapestried velvet. When he sits down on it, his feet don't touch the ground, swinging six inches about the luxuriant red and gold carpet. His hands twist together in his lap. After a moment, he hears his father's voice raised in the corridor, but through the thick door, he can't make out the words.
At last, the door opens and Mayor Taevyn is allowed in. He looks thoroughly upset, and as soon as the door opens, he sweeps over to hold Jayden, lifting his son right out of the seat as if he was still a little child. Jayden doesn't mind – in fact, despite how introverted he usually is, he clings onto his father in return, eyes screwed shut, face buried against the mayor's shoulder.
"We're going to get you out of this," Mayor Taevyn murmurs, setting Jayden down carefully and settling onto the bench next to him, arm around his shoulders. "I don't know how, but I'll find a way. There has to be a way."
"We can't do that, Will." Jayden's mother has been standing near the door, fading into the background as she so often does; now she steps forwards, her voice soft and sad.
"I know it's not right. It's an abuse of power, but, I mean, dammit, I'm Mayor, what's the good of being mayor if you can't even save your own son?" Jayden's never heard his father sound quite so frantic, and it scares him.
His mother looks away, covering her face with her hands, and takes a deep breath. "We can't. They'll come for us, and for him, it doesn't matter if you're Mayor. He's just going to have to..." She lets out a sob, unable to finish her sentence, and rushes over to sit at Jayden's other side. Mayor Taevyn falls into deathly silence, looking pale and drawn, and they sit there for the whole hour, long after the Peacekeepers should have taken them away, just holding each other. At last, though, their time's up.
Before she goes, his mother passes him a scrap of paper – a scrap, he sees, from one of his notebooks of antique poetry. "For your token," she murmurs, through tears, and kisses the top of his head. "Take care, Jayden. Please, please come home safe."
And all he can say, shakily, honestly, is "I'll try."
Robyn's eyes rove all over the room she's led into, taking in every detail of the carving, the gilding, the paintings on the wall. She's never been anywhere so rich, and it's a far cry from the crowded room she shares with her family. That said, she'd trade it in a moment, if she meant she could be back in their flat, with her brothers stealing her notebook and her sister sighing dramatically at her.
Instead, when they come to say goodbye, Cherish doesn't have any dramatic sighs or scathing remarks about how Robyn should be more... whatever, and even Stevo and Kev don't seem inclined to mock her. That's almost the most unsettling thing about this whole horrible ordeal. Robyn clutches her notebook to her chest and wishes fervently for this whole thing to be over. She wants it all to be a bad dream, because even school and family and hiding from the world is better than this.
Kev tries to joke, and calls her Rob, which she hates. It falls flat, anyway. Nobody's smiling in the room, and Robyn's quiet and unresponsive, her knees curled up to her chest. Cherish gives her a hug, and leans over to try and fix Robyn's hair and make-up from a little bag she pulls out of her purse, and it's so obvious that she's struggling that Robyn even lets her. But when they're all gone and the room's empty again, with twenty minutes until she has to go, that's when Robyn can breathe again.
Reaching up, she toys with a strand of the hair Cherish so painstakingly brushed out, opens her notebook, and starts to write. Jayden, Mayor Taevyn, the Mentors and Escorts and Peacekeepers... she adds to each of their entries, very carefully, chewing on the end of her pen. By the time the Peacekeepers come to take her to the station, she's almost forgotten what a horrible situation she's in.
It's almost possible to forget the situation he's in when Joshua looks around the Justice Building. Used to the crowded, dark confines of the District Six orphanage, he's dazzled by the brightness and richness of the room around him. The velvet curtains are softer than anything he's touched, and the carpet he's walking on feels so thick he's almost afraid he might sink into it.
He knows nobody's coming to say goodbye. He doesn't have close friends, and no family. Who would come to say goodbye, really? He doesn't mind. It gives him the chance to explore the huge room, running his fingers over varnished wood and tasting the fruit that's piled in the bowl on one of the tables. For the whole hour, driving the reason for being there out of his mind, he enjoys the opulence of his surroundings. When they come to get him, he's lying on his back on the bearskin rug, eyes closed, with a little smile.
Wren is still in shock when she's ushered into her room in the Justice Building. She doesn't have it in her to be excited by the decor. She's too preoccupied with the thought that she's going to die. At least she's regained control of her body, although she still feels oddly numb as she sits down on the plush velvet seat in the windowless room.
The arrival of her family is a relief, although she has mixed feelings about having to say goodbye to them. With them there, though, she has something to concentrate on that isn't just how utterly screwed she is. She doesn't quite manage to smile, but she tries, at least, looking up as the three of them file in. For a moment, they stand in awkward silence. None of them, except Martin, is talkative by nature, and even Martin seems to have run out of things to say. She wants him to go back to being his normal, know-it-all seven-year-old self, just to reassure her that the world isn't ending, but she can't say that, and he just stays standing there, with his thumb in his mouth, looking years younger than he is.
Eventually, Kiva, Wren's mother, clears her throat. "At least you got the disaster out of the way early on?" she suggests. Wren knows she's trying to be helpful. It doesn't work.
The silence goes on for a few moments longer. None of them seem to know what to say to each other. Even when they do start talking, it's brusque and uncertain.
"I, um," Wren says, at last, looking up at her family for what might well be the last time. "I think you've got to go. I mean, I've got lots of friends who'll want to say goodbye, and..." The lie doesn't trip off her tongue as easily as usual, and chokes somewhat in her throat, but she does manage to force a smile.
Now it's her father's turn to clear his throat. He hasn't said a word, hanging back behind his wife in his haggard, haunted kind of way. He looks twice his age. A man of few words, what he says to her at last is, if nothing else, to the point. "Good luck." A pause, where his throat seems to swell with everything he doesn't have the words for. "We love you," he says, at last. Then they're gone, leaving Wren to sit in her gilded cage and pretend she doesn't care that they're the only ones who come to see her.