On the day of the wedding, the kitchen is a madhouse. Even though plain by Capitol standards, the food is magnificent by any others. If only in quantity. Many of these people have never seen so much food all at once if it wasn't some form of mashed root vegetable. I think of the Capitol feast at the end of the tour, and the extravagant tables laden with all manner of delicacies. A shudder makes my piping tip waver, but I force my mind from the image of Katniss, swooping and screaming on flaming wings, to the bright, busy kitchen where I retreated as she danced with Plutarch Heavensbee.
Much like this one, the hum of focus in that kitchen had soothed and comforted me. The clatter and ring of pans and glasses, the call of orders and curses, the heady scent of delicious offerings. And woven throughout, the sweet, sugar-tinted aroma of baking. Steady again, my hands are sure and quick as I add finishing touches to the towering confection.
Stepping back, I squint critically at a seal that may more closely resemble a dog. Cilla heaves an exasperated sigh behind me.
"Have you ever even seen a sweel before?" she demands.
Dils' bark of laughter sends color flooding up the column of her throat and Lef elbows him reproachfully, though grinning widely himself.
"A seal," I tell her, enunciating carefully. "And no, actually. I read a book once that had a picture of one is all. I remember thinking it kind of looked like a half-dog, half-fish."
"Well, I'd never even heard of one until you started it yesterday," she retorts defensively. "And I'm willing to bet these two illiterates hadn't either," she glares at her colleagues. "Same for everyone out there who is going to see it. It's amazing, you know it is. Let it go."
I shrug lightly. There are two notable exceptions, who happen to be the guests of honor, but Cilla is obviously embarrassed and I let it be good enough so she doesn't feel worse. I smile and thank her for the compliment, which sends the color rushing into her cheeks again.
"I just hope Finnick and Annie are pleased," I say, trying to change the subject quickly. "Maybe it will distract from the fact that they're getting married in gray jumpsuits."
"Oh, no," Lef shakes his head. "I saw her dress, it's incredible. I've never seen anything like it."
"Really?" I ask, surprised. "I thought you guys didn't go in for that kind of thing. Where did you get a fancy dress?"
My three guards' eyes grow wide and they shoot glances back and forth like guilty children caught with hands in the cookie jar. The whisper squeals into a frenzy of hate and I quickly back up from the cake, putting a counter in between us in case I lose control, but I'm able to keep my focus.
"I'm ok," I say steadily, though my hands clench onto the edge of the counter and my knuckles gleam white. "Can you tell me though, because I'm getting kind of shaky imagining what you might be saying. I think I'll be better if I just know the truth."
My voice trembles slightly and they clearly can't decide which is worse. What can it be that is causing them so much indecision? Black spots pop on the edges of my vision and the whisper chants its rage and suspicion until Lef shakes his head resignedly.
"I'm so sorry, Peeta, that was stupid," he mutters. "Ka- they took her to…to the Victors' Village in… I'm sorry, in District 12 and found a dress – um, a dress that was worn on the tour."
The trembling in my hands is the only thing I can't bring back under my control. Lef looks absolutely miserable, and the halting, obviously edited, version of the story was so carefully worded to try and spare me. I pull a ragged breath and ease my grip on the counter, meeting his anxious gaze.
"That's not so bad," I assure him. "I'm getting so much better, huh? No screaming or hiding. Watch this." I take a deep breath and he leans slightly forward, watching anxiously. "Katniss," I blurt abruptly, and he jerks flinchingly backward, sending Cilla and Dils snorting with laughter.
I grin widely and wink, determinedly hiding the tilting nausea in my belly. "Who was the poor sucker who had to make one of those gowns fit Annie?" I ask lightly, "That's a lot different than stitching up holes in jumpsuits."
Dils is still chortling from Lef's startle and he turns bright eyes to mine. "It was her prep team. They altered one of your suits for Finnick as well."
His words ring in my ears against the pitch of the whisper's screaming. Her team. Brilliant, kind Portia, loyal, loving Selt and Lyra, and round, bubbly Junius screamed on the table just so I would see it. Just so she would know I saw it. Aurelius told me they had been executed on live television the night I was taken from the Capitol. But Katniss' team is preparing a bride and groom for a wedding.
"I need to sit down a second," I whisper.
The team springs into action, sweeping me from the kitchen and before I know it, I'm back in my room with trembling fists pressed against my temples, fighting to contain the rage and horror from erupting and consuming me with fire. My guards are in defensive positions, but watching me with sorrow and concern shining from their eyes. Forcing my focus to stay on Cilla's hands, her strong, solid fingers and square, short nails, I slowly gain ground until finally I'm able to unlock my rigid muscles and begin to breathe normally. I pull a deep, shaky lungful of air and scrub my hands through my hair. Walking carefully to the mirror, I stare intently at the reflection I usually go out of my way to avoid.
Blonde waves are discordantly familiar over a face I barely recognize. Thin and gaunt, my cheeks are hollow and my skin sallow. Scars and welts blur along my jaw and cheekbones. My nose has a slight crook it didn't have before and my clothes hang from my frame in baggy rumples. My hands tremble at my sides. But my eyes are the same. The clear, bright blue drills through the reflection, through the glass to the cluster of jumpsuits I'm certain dither behind it.
"I want to see her now. Tonight," I tell them. My voice is steady and my eyes hard. "If she has the guts to face me," I add, my lip curling in scornful challenge.
Behind me, Cilla makes a small noise of distress. I turn, and she tightens her grip on her weapon when she sees my expression. Still, she tips her head worriedly. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asks carefully.
I study the three of them quietly for a moment, and the concern on their faces loosens the furious tension in my shoulders. I nod slowly, my eyes on hers. "I have to know if she was worth it," I say.
The day passes uneventfully for me, locked away in the deepest bowels of the earth while the party glitters and thrums above. I pace, I sleep, I eat. I fight to drown out the poisonous hatred of the whisper winding through my every waking moment. I draw.
A knock on the door startles me and the pencil jumps across the braid of the small, singing girl in the corner of an old delivery schedule. At my invitation Cilla swings the door open and enters, watching me sadly. "How are you doing?" she asks carefully.
I shrug, "I'm ok," I tell her. "I really am."
The corner of her lips tugs upward. "I tried to smuggle you some food, but the guy on the door is itching for a promotion, he's practically strip searching people as they leave. I'll try again tomorrow," she promises me.
I smile, eased by the gesture. "Thanks, Cilla," I say warmly. "I actually got a fancy dinner tonight. It was great." She beams at the lie and my chest feels lighter. "Is it time?" I ask.
She nods and raises her eyebrow questioningly, her eye on the restraints. "Yes, please," I say. "Actually, I was thinking." She pauses her move toward the bed. "Can we – I think we should maybe try some extra. Just in case," I say as lightly as I can.
In the end, I have three restraints on each arm, two on each leg, and a knock-out drug in the needle in my arm. Lef shakes his head and grins at me. "How could she not have the guts to face this?" he teases. But I can see the worry in his eyes, in everyone's as they stand in a ring around the bed where I lie trussed and tied. "We're right outside," he says softly, patting my foot awkwardly before they all shuffle out.
I lie still, staring at the pocked ceiling and trying to ignore the furious scream wailing through my skull. I breathe deeply and intentionally, pulling air against the weight of all the invisible stares from the other side of the glass. Images flicker through my mind, fire and blood and death. I stare at the ceiling.
Without a knock, the door eases open and my eyes fly toward it, breath freezing in my throat. She walks in, her gaze darting around the room, barely looking at me. She stops about a yard from the bed, conspicuously out of reach, arms folded tightly against her chest. Considering our last meeting, I can understand this.
"Hey," she mutters, her voice flat.
"Hey," I say back, the brittle acid of the word sour on my tongue.
She stares at me silently, resentment in every line of her. This is the first time she's seen me since she found out what happened to me. Since she found out what she left me to. I see no trace of relief at my lucidity, no concern for me. Thread's voice, from forever ago, calls forward from the past. I have served my purpose, she has no more need of me.
"Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me," she prods edgily. I've pulled her away from her party, interrupted her fun.
"Look at you for starters," I reply, finding bitter enjoyment in keeping her from the celebration. I watch her intently, but my vision stutters and snaps as the fury of the shrieking in my head threatens to blot out everything else. I study her hungrily. Searching for some sign of the girl who silenced the birds with her singing, of the soft-eyed intensity that swore her need for me on the beach. Of someone I would have been ready to die for.
Her eyes flicker impatiently toward the glass, as though wondering how long she'll have to endure this interview. She can't wait to be away from me. An echo of a memory from before. After our return from the first Games, her awkwardness around me, how she would avoid being anywhere near me. Did I really love her?
"You're not very big, are you?" I observe, trying to puzzle out the alleged attraction. "Or particularly pretty?" I hear the cruelty in the question too late, but as I start to apologize, she narrows her eyes tightly and her lips are a thin, angry line.
"Well, you've looked better," she spits.
The absurdity of the comment tears a harsh, biting laugh from me. She thinks I didn't hold up well enough after the torture she abandoned me to? She's disgusted by the scars I picked up?
"And not even remotely nice," I add to the list, words dripping with scorn. "To say that to me after all I've been through."
"Yeah," she nods bitterly. "We've all been through a lot." My jaw drops at this wildly unjust comparison, and I open my mouth for a furious denunciation when she adds, "And you were the one who was known for being nice. Not me." Her eyes are on the floor, arms wrapped around her ribs, and she looks unutterably miserable. The room tips and swirls, and I see her again, with the same expression, only smaller, younger. She is drenched and hollowed out by hunger, crouching in the rain and the mud and my heart swells with such fierce desire that I think it may burst with it.
She turns and starts toward the door. "Look, I don't feel so well. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow."
I fight for air, fight against the whisper's rage, fight the dizzy confusion to grasp at this image that rings clear and bright in my mind. "Katniss," I call, but my voice is low with the effort, the importance that I say this. "I remember about the bread."
She freezes, her hand reaching for the latch. "They showed you the tape of me talking about it," she says, without turning around.
"No." This is different. This is the gentler voice that battles the whisper. This is the instinct from parts of me so deep I don't know how to mine them. This is the core of who I am.
Her comment flares my paranoia though. My image is from the past, not someone discussing it recently. "Is there a tape of you talking about it?" I ask curiously. "Why didn't the Capitol use it against me?" I realize she stays a girl in my vision, no flaming arrows, no fiery wings. How did I preserve this image in its real form?
"I made it the day you were rescued," she says, turning slowly back to face me. Her face is pained and I wonder if she dreads what I remember. If I will burden her with declarations again. "So what do you remember?" she tests me in a strained voice.
The image is stark and clear, and I can feel my heart respond to it. A faintly familiar ache, an unreachable desire. Before I knew her as she really is, I did love her. I close my eyes against the reality, but I feel the weighty solidity of certainty slide into place in my heart. I loved her, and I wanted only to protect her. I meet her storm gray eyes, irritably waiting for my answer. I see no resonance of affection there, only distance and a deep chill. What do I remember?
"You," I whisper. "In the rain. Digging in our trash bins." The images flicker behind my eyes. "Burning the bread. My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead." My voice scratches into silence as I hold her gaze.
"That's it," her voice is soft as well. "That's what happened. The next day, after school, I wanted to thank you. But I didn't know how." A familiar buzz of confusion, I don't know how to interpret her tone. She sounds so genuine, so true. Only seconds ago she was coldly trying to disentangle herself from even talking to me. It matches the confusion I felt that day so many years ago. She seemed to want to reach out, but she pushed away instead.
"We were outside at the end of the day," I recall. "I tried to catch your eye. You looked away." I can feel again the cold wash of disappointment. I'd thought I finally had my chance. I was going to talk to her, I had finally been able to break out of my crippling shyness around her. And she had turned away from me, focusing instead on a small golden patch in the grass. "And then…for some reason, I think you picked a dandelion." The thrum in my chest is an echo of an agony from all those years ago. I remember watching achingly as she walked away from me without ever looking back. "I must have loved you a lot," I say hollowly.
"You did," she answers, an empty acknowledgement, coughing suspiciously to cover her discomfort. The whisper is raging against my skull, screaming for her blood, but even more than that is the black emptiness gnawing its way through my aching heart. I did love her. Enough to want to die for her. Twice. Was it worth it? Was she worth it?
"And did you love me?" I can hear the desperate appeal in my own voice and despise myself for it.
She stares at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. Even now, after everything, she doesn't even see me as someone to talk with, only to deal with.
"Everyone says I did," she answers blankly. Her flat words and empty voice shatter in icy splinters against my heart. I was a fool. I threw my life away for someone who couldn't have cared less. She won't even look at me. "Everyone says that's why Snow had you tortured. To break me."
Everyone says. But they aren't her words. And she clearly isn't broken. "That's not an answer," I say, feeling the whisper burrow deep and dark into the hole left in my heart. "I don't know what to think when they show me some of the tapes," I accuse, taking a vicious delight in throwing her selfishness in her face. "In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers."
"I was trying to kill all of you," she retorts, unabashed. "You had me treed."
I switch tactics, wanting only to hurt, to pierce that uncaring shell and shake some feeling from her. Something to answer the scorching pain in my chest as she denies any connection, takes my sacrifice as her due. "Later, there's a lot of kissing. Didn't seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?" I sneer.
"Sometimes," she shrugs. "You know people are watching us now?"
"I know." She worries others are hearing how awfully she treats people? Or is it one person in particular she worries is hearing. "What about Gale?" I ask pointedly.
"He's not a bad kisser either," she shoots back coldly, her eyes sparking indignantly that someone would dare call her out on her narcissistic manipulation.
"And it was ok with both of us?" I ask, pleased to have found an effective pressure point. "You kissing the other?"
"No. It wasn't ok with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission." Her head is tipped back, her gray eyes flashing steel, furious that I would judge her, instead of trembling in awe of the all-powerful, unimpeachable Mockingjay.
"Well, you're a piece of work aren't you?" I snort disgustedly. She spins on her heel and leaves without a word, icy in her anger that someone doesn't fall over themselves in worship of her. I stare at the closed door as it swings silently shut behind her. The whisper is a low buzz of ecstatic triumph. And I have my answer. I was an idiot. She was not worth it.