Chapter Thirteen

"I hear you're bedridden for six weeks."

Katniss gestures me into the bedroom. She's still finishing her breakfast from a tray, and I drag a chair next to her bed and just watch her finish eating - it's a peculiar delight, as always.

"To be honest," she says, "It gives me time to think about some stuff, and I'd be OK with it, except that there are times I'd rather be thinking - somewhere else."

So - she is planning something again. I look at her thoughtfully, an idea forming. But I'm going to be very careful about it. "Well, I don't know what to do about it except to help keep you from getting bored."

"For six weeks? You have your work cut out."

"I know. I actually brought something over that I thought would give you a good laugh." I pull the note from my pocket and explain its origins to her. "Feel free to laugh," I say, handing it to her. "I certainly did."

But she doesn't. She reads it thoughtfully, then gives me a glance. "It's sweet," she says.

"You're just saying that."

"No. Don't you berate this boy," she says, handing me back the note. "He was good to me."

I blush.

"Did we talk about your sketchbooks - in the arena?"

"No," I say. "I didn't talk about them much to anyone - my brothers used to tease me."

She shakes her head. "Can I see them? Or are you still planning to leave them to me in your will?"

I laugh. "Sure, I guess." Some of the sketches are of her, but it's not like that should come as a surprise to her, anyway. I root around inside my jacket for a stubby little pencil - I always have one on me - and write a new note underneath the old one. I hand her back the note, with the pencil:

Can you write what you want to tell me?

"I'll bring them over tomorrow morning, if you want me to."

Yesterday I met two rebels from 8. Rebellion going badly. They were heading toward 13. They think it might still exist.

"I'd love that," she says, watching my face as I read.

Exist?

"OK, it's a deal. Are you sure you're not tired of cheese buns, yet?"

They think there are people who still live there. That they have nuclear weapons. And so the Capitol leaves them alone.

I raise my eyebrows at her and she shrugs in response. That sounds far-fetched and desperate. But so does the notion of Panem falling apart because Katniss offered me a handful of poisonous berries. And that definitely seems to be happening.

"Don't you dare even think about bringing me something other than cheese buns," she says.

I light one of the candles in her room, lightly kiss the piece of notepaper we've filled up with too much information, and watch it burn.

The next day, I bring the newest of my sketchbooks. It has the most pictures of Katniss, the more refined work of the last few years - and the most blank pages in it. We have a second, short conversation via print:

What do you want to do?

I want to find out if 13 really still exists.

Then what?

Maybe we can get a message to them. Ask for help. Find out why they didn't before.

How?

She taps the pencil against her lips for a moment.

I don't know yet.

We discuss the possibility of messengers, carrier pigeons, secret codes in our next broadcasts, how much we might be able to learn about 13 in the Capitol when we are mentors this summer. At the end of the week, we're no closer to an answer, and finally Katniss just says we can think about it more - maybe talk to Haymitch about it - when she's mobile again.

"I have a surprise for you," she says on a morning near the end of the first week. "I have a sketchbook of my own."

It turns out to be an old book that has been in her family for many years. It started with her mother's side - they were apothecaries, and the book has sketches and descriptions of the medicinal uses of local plants. Her father took over at some point, adding sketches and descriptions of the local edible plants.

"I've wanted to add some other stuff - stuff I've learned on my own, or learned last year in the training center. But - I'm not an artist. Do you …?"

She holds the book out to me and I take it, carefully. I smile, flipping gently through the yellow pages. "So, this is the secret to becoming Katniss Everdeen."

"Partly," she replies.

"Yes. I'd love to help - I'd be honored to help. I could even recolor some of these older ones. Do you have any samples of the things you want to add?"

"I have some. Some I'll have to describe for you."

I nod. "OK. That sounds good. I'm in."

"So - do you want to start tomorrow?"

I pause. I have been giving this a lot of thought. "How about Monday? I thought I'd … leave Sunday open, for Gale. I know that is your day with him and I don't - want to intrude on it."

She looks startled. "Oh. I - he might still be doing the seven-day shifts ..." Then she looks at me, and decides to acknowledge my offer for the token of friendship that it is. "OK. Monday, then."

"Monday."

The next few weeks pass this way. Slowly, the long winter starts to recede, and the district struggles back to life. The mines are in full operation. Food delivery resumes. There's a hush in the district there never was before. A feeling like we've been knocked down and are still waiting for our breath to come back. The less wary are taken in for minor infractions - an unkept lawn, loitering too long in the square - and so the stocks are full. But we've avoided any more public whippings, or worse. So far.

I spend the days with Katniss - except the one - sketching plants and coloring them in. I carry her downstairs for lunch and linger for a little bit while she watches TV in the afternoon - fixating on the screen every time District 13 is mentioned. The Capitol's news stories about 13 - rare though they are - always show the ruins of the town square, and, prominently, the crumbled Justice Building. Theoretically, the rest of the district could be intact. There's no real proof one way or another.

Some days, there is little talking - just us sitting side by side on the sofa, or at the table or on her bed, me drawing, she writing. Some days, when I am drawing something from out of her memory, there is a lot of back and forth. Her description, my first draft, her amendments, my second draft, etc. Sometimes in the silence - if I'm not completely engrossed in the work - I become aware of the whisper of her breath. I hear it quicken. I hear it catch. One time, I feel a tingling sensation down my neck and I look up to see her just staring at me. She starts, as if I've scared her out of some reverie and a blush darkens her cheeks.

"You know," I say, carefully, "I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together."

"Yeah. Nice for a change," she says, lightly, but there's - something in her voice.

And in the look she gives me. It's difficult to interpret, all things considered - or, rather, it's difficult to resist making the natural interpretation. If the circumstances were even a little bit different - even a little bit - I think it would require a response from me. But because they are not, I am required to stay silent.

April passes and the snows finally start to melt. Katniss starts walking around - first on makeshift crutches - and with mobility her restlessness returns. After our first few conversations about her interest in 13, we dropped all discussion of it. Now I can see the wheels start to turn again in her head and I feel a vague reciprocal anxiety. On top of that, the 75th Hunger Games - the 3rd Quarter Quell - is now less than three months away. I have had no special instructions as a new mentor, and until now, had given no solid thought to the fact that I will have to serve as one to a kid I probably know. Even the Seam kids are better known to me, now, by way of my surreptitious deliveries of bread during the worst of the crackdown.

Returning to the Capitol presents layers of problems - from the necessity of putting on the act-that-isn't-really-an-act - to being in such close proximity to President Snow, who seems unable to decide whether he wants us dead or married. If wedding dresses have been ordered, can a Capitol wedding be far behind? Will they make us do it during the Quell? Surely the Gamemakers are pitching it - the ratings would be huge.

My deliveries of bread had another benefit - my friends from high school, Sammy, Quill and Hendry are talking to me again on a regular basis. They even come over one Sunday. I'm invited to the wrestling tournament at the end of April, in which Sammy will be competing.

I'm actually heading out the door to go to the school, when Portia arrives.

I hug her enthusiastically and she eyes me closely. "You seem - a bit happier."

"Happy to see you," I say. "It's been a rough couple of months here." But I feel like the lightness of my tone must betray me. "What are you doing here?"

"I came with Cinna," she says, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. "Katniss' whole team is here today, filming her in her wedding dresses. I just came along for the ride and I thought I'd take the chance to visit."

"Oh," I say, glancing toward Katniss' house. "Should I do something?" Probably not. The dresses are not going to put Katniss in the best frame of mind. In fact, I'm instantly dreading my next visit with her.

Portia shakes her head. "It's bad luck for the groom to see the bride's wedding dress. The Capitol audience won't want to see you there."

"But - but - won't I see them on TV?"

She smiles. "They don't look at it that way. To them - you are a character on TV. They're not going to imagine Peeta-the-viewer, just Peeta-the-groom staying properly absent. Besides, there are six dresses, each with its own set of accessories. It is going to be one long, boring photo shoot."

"Well, what do you want to do? I'd show you my recent sketches but they're all at Katniss' house. And I've only started one painting since the Tour."

"Why don't we take a walk? Show me the district."

I shake my head at this notion, but comply. We walk east toward the Seam and I show her the mines, the house where Katniss used to live. We walk through the Meadow, where the spring wildflowers are finally struggling out of the ground. We walk into town and we go silent crossing the square. We go to the bakery and I show off the cakes in the window that I decorated two days ago. We walk in and my nerves jangle as I introduce her to my father, who is managing the store, and mother, who comes up from the back office. My relationship with my parents - as much as I've tried mending it these past weeks - is still strained with old resentments on all sides. So, what they make of this Capitol stylist and her easy relationship with me, I don't know. They just answer her friendly questions shortly. I can't stop thinking how it was Portia who encouraged me to draw; how it was Portia who told me I should fight for my life in the arena.

"So, that's where I come from," I say, a little apologetically.

We pass the school and I suddenly remember that I was supposed to be there, cheering on one of my oldest friends. Damn it. Just when I was starting to feel so connected to everything again ...

"Hey, Peeta," says Portia with a small laugh. "Where are you?"

"Oh! I was just thinking - about school," I stammer. It's not that I resent her - never. I like Portia - I miss her when she is not around. I sincerely think that she likes me, too. But she brings the Capitol with her, like it or not - and it is another reminder that I can't escape this hybrid existence I've found myself in: starving with the District, feasting in the Capitol, employee of the Games, baker's son - a double prisoner, double-fenced within the Victor's Village, privileged and caged at the same time.

I can't very well take Portia into a high school gym to watch some wrestling match, so we walk into the west neighborhoods of District 12, where the more "well-to-do" live. Descendants of informants from the Dark Days, who were given large houses and some kind of compensation for turning on their fellow rebels. But they starve with the rest of us when the food shipments don't come in. They make do with healers and apothecaries instead of hospitals and doctors. They are restricted to 12 education and the 12 trades.

Afternoon is dissolving into evening when we return to my house and I make coffee and lay out whatever leftovers I have lying around. Portia is enthusiastic, but eats like a bird.

Before she leaves, she tells me that I can see Katniss' wedding dresses on TV tomorrow and maybe, maybe if I have a favorite, they can see about gaming the vote. I laugh, but say I would have to consult with Katniss on that - and she smiles and says, "Already figured out the secret of a happy marriage."

In the morning, I can't quite shake the unsettled feeling that Portia brought with her from the Capitol. I know Katniss will be in no mood to see me - her designated groom - after whatever she went through yesterday, so I will have to occupy myself today. I do owe some apologies, so I head out early, to catch Sammy before he leaves for school, and try to explain. I bring the last of my current batch of cheese buns to his family's townhouse and am invited in for breakfast.

Sammy's trophy is on the mantelpiece; 1st place - so I believe him when he tells me he didn't even notice my absence.

"Congratulations!" I say. "And I do apologize. I was about to leave for the match when the stylists and everyone arrived to film Katniss in a bunch of wedding dresses. I think it will be on TV tonight or something."

"So is the announcement of the Quell," says a grim voice behind us - Sammy's mother, with four kids between the ages of 12 and 18.

I look from her to Sammy and I am again forced to acknowledge the gulf between me, the Victor, and my friends, all still potential tributes. Plenty of merchant and town kids took out tesserae this winter. So, the odds that one of my old friends are reaped this year are higher than normal.

And the Quell is always more than just a normal Hunger Games. There's always some added twist to the Quarter Quell. The last one had twice the number of tributes.

I hurry back to the Village and go to Katniss' house - to warn her, in case she doesn't know - but find only her mother. "Prim's at school and Katniss went out. I think she said she was going to see if you or Haymitch were around."

"Oh, I've been in Town," I say, blankly.

I go to Haymitch's but he's not home. Maybe she found him in and took him for a walk to talk about the things in her head - 13 and the uprising in 8. I can hear the sarcasm in Haymitch's replies as clearly as if I was with them now.

With a strange feeling of time running out, I go into my study and stare at my current painting, wondering why it's been so stubbornly opposed to being finished. It's the first painting I've done not directly associated with the arena. It is a view from the train - from the rear car of the train with the retractable windows. The tracks, the white fields, the blue-gray sky. Neutral enough. But it's missing something. What? What do I associate with the tracks? Heartbreak, certainly. Emptiness. Perhaps a certain sense of freedom?

I add some clouds, layers of gray on white on gray. My nose right up against the canvas. A bird, maybe, in the corner of the frame, fluttering away. Yes. I can almost visualize it, as if I've seen it in real life, or maybe on television. A mockingjay. Black, with the white patch on the wing. And in the open horizon … a city in the distance, gray and crumbled, like decayed teeth. Gray on white on gray.

I'm satisfied with my broken city, for a second. Then I shake my head and whatever muse has me in its clutches prompts me to paint over it with a distant forest. Just a smudge - like watercolors - a thin line of trees at the far horizon. Home? Am I leaving home? No … I painstakingly remake my city ruins, peeking out over the trees. A dead city, lost in the woods. Just taking up a small space on the overall canvas, but a compelling image. I think.

I bring the canvas into the living room and set it up in the middle of the floor. I sit on the sofa and stare at it, stare - wondering what it is about it that I find so mesmerizing.

The dream startles me, because I was not aware of falling asleep. I'm back in the arena, standing in the lake. I'm barefoot and I can feel sand between my toes - all ten of them. There's no one around me. Nothing but the cornucopia a little way away. My subconscious has painted the arena exactly. The swoop of the woods on one side, the drop off to Thresh's fields on the other. I am just wondering to myself what day of the Games have I re-entered when I hear the howls of the muttation. As if on auto-pilot, I turn myself toward the cornucopia and run.

There is no Katniss to shoot the muttation that is upon me before I reach the horn, and I'm taken by the leg. Pain - the exact pain - overwhelms me. The wolf plays with me, flipping me around with my leg in its mouth and I'm defenseless. It drags me toward the mouth of the cornucopia and it's only when I'm there, writhing and helpless in the horn, that I see which mutt has me. Its caramel-colored fur and eyes silver as mist.

Katniss!

I think I might yell out the name as I wake up. But all I hear is the sound of my phone. I'm frozen, locked in the paralysis that always accompanies nightmares. I force my lungs to move, breathe in, breathe out. And then the buzzing sensation begins. Down my arms. Down my legs.

The phone has stopped ringing by the time I sit up. I wonder if it was Katniss or someone from the Capitol. I'm so rattled by the dream that I'm rather glad I missed the call, especially if it was Katniss. I thought I was done with that dream, which had reoccurred several times in the months after the games ended, but hasn't troubled me in ages. There's something deep and perverse about it, begging for a translation I don't really want to make. It might say more about me than I want to know.

Suddenly, my television flickers on. "Mandatory programming." Really? I glance at the time and realize with a start that it is already 7:30. That means Caesar Flickerman's show. Katniss' wedding dresses. But why is it mandatory viewing for the districts?

Casear's stage is set up on the steps of the training center and the crowds in the avenue and surrounding streets - at least according to the Capitol editors - are enormous. But they hush in anticipation as he begins to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, grinning at the crowd. "Welcome back to our special coverage of the wedding of the millennium! Our very own star-crossed lovers, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, are deep in the planning stages of their wedding. When will it be? That is still to be revealed. Where will it be? That voting will start next week. Tonight, we finally get to cast the - final - vote for the wedding dress."

Rapturous applause breaks out as Katniss and I appear in solemn still images in the huge screen behind Caesar.

"Are you ready to see the finalists?"

Screams of assent. But Caesar shakes his head, with a wink.

"First, oh first, though, we need to bring out the freshman stylist who has taken the Games by storm! He works in fire. He works in jewels. Gossamer. Silk. Ladies and gentlemen - Cinna!"

Cinna enters from somewhere in the background and Caesar invites him to sit, then sits across from him. Some of Cinna's most popular costumes for Katniss show up on the screen. "Cinna," says Caesar, in the usual wheedling voice he uses with scared tributes, "who knew that District 12 could look so stunning! You are a true miracle worker!"

Funny.

"Portia and I have extraordinary subjects," Cinna says with a smile.

Casear chuckles conspiratorially. The screen behind him changes so that we see, one after another, a series of white gowns. Six - twelve - eighteen … I lose count. "Now, Cinna, you have been very busy since the Tour, designing twenty-four unique and gorgeous potential wedding gowns for Miss Everdeen. How did you do it?"

"My partner, Portia, and I, have had a portfolio of potential gowns for years - we did not need to look much further than that for the initial ideas. And we have a very dedicated crew helping us out. Each dress took between three and seven days, total, to design and construct. But there was always overlap. We were always working on at least two at a time, usually three."

"Amazing! Don't you all agree?"

More cheers.

"Now - we have already had two votes, narrowing down our favorite choices among these incredible gowns from 24 to 12 and from 12 to 6. You are about to see the final six, ladies and gentlemen. And cast your final vote via the phone number that will appear on the screen at the end of the show. And we have a special treat. Cinna?"

"Yes - for the final 6 gowns, we actually have a model. Katniss herself tried on all 6 of the final gowns, as you will now see."

There is dramatic music and a dramatic swoop, as the camera closes in on the huge screen. Then I see Katniss, larger than life, standing in front of six backdrops and wearing six different wedding gowns. Because I promised Portia, I eye the dresses closely, trying to see - not which one I like best, but which one Katniss looks most comfortable in. Or - least uncomfortable, maybe.

They focus in on each dress individually, and Cinna's voice in the background describes them, using terms I don't understand - A-line, empire waist, sheath. A few do stand out. A cream-colored lace gown with tiny pink roses pulling up the outer skirt - Katniss' dark hair streaked with gold highlights and curled in ringlets that cascade down her back. A billowing dress of ivory satin with puffy sleeves - Katniss decorated with gold tattoos up her arm. A sleeveless gown as white as snow, glittering as if with diamonds - a jeweled veil falling on her cheek. And perhaps the most striking of all of them - Cinna describes it simply as a silk and organza ball gown, which completely fails to capture its drama. Its neckline is fairly low, revealing the top of her shoulders; its skirt falls open over a cloud of organza. Its long sleeves are tight to the forearm and then open wide to drip all the way down to the ground. She wears ropes of pearls at her neck and her veil hangs from a crown of pearls. I sit up straight at the sight of her. There's an upturn to her chin that I like.

Caesar concludes the program with the phone number to call to cast the vote. "Let's get Katniss Everdeen to her wedding in style!" Then, my hands tremble, as I wait for the next announcement. Sure enough, Caesar reminds everyone to stay tuned for the next bit of programming. "That's right - this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!"

The anthem plays - that song that I grew so sick of hearing in the arena - and as it fades out, the words appear on the screen: The Reading of the Card. I almost laugh at the overkill, then remember I'm about to find out what horrific twist these upcoming games will take. The set on the top of the stairs blackens suddenly, then a spotlight appears, President Snow standing in its bright light. He walks to the center of the stage and the light follows him.

"Once, many years ago, this was a larger nation," he begins. It's the old tale - the history of Panem, which rose from the ruins of a continent called North America - nipped along its old shores by the dramatic rising of the seas, dried up by the droughts caused by the wreck of weather systems, poisoned by the chemical weapons and factories that were developed unchecked. In the subsequent battle for resources, humanity almost wiped itself out entirely.

Then came Panem - the last remnants of the race making a survival pact by forming thirteen co-dependent districts. Each would concentrate on the production of badly-needed resources - coal, food crops, livestock, lumber, stone - or the manufacture of badly needed supplies - transportation, electronics, textiles. A centralized government - the Capitol - would oversee the distribution of the resources throughout the new nation, while providing law and order of equal force throughout. But eventually, District 13 grew jealous of sharing its resources and convinced the other districts to help rebel against the Capitol and establish itself as the central governing power. The Dark Days. A long war (they never say how long) that again pushed humanity to the edge of extinction. The Capitol had no choice but to destroy 13 before too many lives were lost in the war. The destruction of 13 brought a swift end to it. But now, in order to punish the rebels without killing so many of them off as to render the destruction of 13 moot - and to remind the upcoming generations of Panem of their horrible penchant for self-destruction - the Capitol established the Hunger Games, which would serve as a perpetual reminder of the Dark Days.

Well, that's the official story. I've heard slightly different versions, but it's as hard to trust one as any other.

When the laws for the Games were established, they included the Quarter Quell system, which called for an amplified version of the arena to refresh the memory of the war every twenty-five years to a citizenry grown too accustomed to the Games. Each Quell is unique and was designed at the time of the original Gamemakers. Snow intones their history, thus far. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

This - is a horrifying thought. I'm not sure how it would go down in other districts, but I know how it must have happened here in 12. The merchant class would have put pressure to bear to send a couple of Seam kids in, highlighting the fact that we were always a district divided against itself.

"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

Haymitch's games. I've always half-wanted, half-dreaded to find out how he won them against 47 competitors.

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell."

My palms sweat as a little boy comes up to the top of the steps of the training center, holding out a small wooden box. The president opens the box and takes a very deliberate amount of time at it, hovering his hand over the envelopes within. The cameras linger, move among different angles. A close-up on the box. A close-up on Snow's lowered eyes. A long shot of the proceedings - of the single light illuminating the President.

Finally, the envelope is withdrawn and opened. A card is extracted. And Snow reads: "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."