Chapter Nineteen

Cinna. From the chairs at the back of the stage, I can't see the audience members clearly, especially in the front rows, where the stylists sit. But I recognize at once the dramatic statement he has made here tonight - and not in the privacy of the training center - not something that can be mopped up, covered with a mat. For the audience, gasping with admiration, it is his masterpiece. The girl on fire, transformed from a young bride to the very symbol that identifies her. But for Snow - for the watching rebels - as open a statement of defiance as has ever been made on this stage.

By the time I'm conscious of the conversation on the stage again, Caesar is, in fact, pointing Cinna out to the crowd, and he stands as the cameras zoom on him, acknowledging their appreciation with a smile. I catch a glimpse of Portia next to him, smiling, also, and applauding. I'm sick with worry for her. Realize that she must know the significance of what he has done. That there has been no need to shield Portia from the truth about the rebellions. She probably knows more than I do.

Katniss' time is up now, so she is dismissed to thunderous applause and returns to the seat next to mine. Her dress is still smoking a little - and it reminds me of something.

I rise for my interview and walk slowly and deliberately to the center of the stage, where Caesar - his wig, eyebrows and lips dyed lavender this year - greets me with an expression mounting to desperation. He's sweating behind his makeup. But he and I have an excellent rapport.

"How's that for a preview of domestic bliss," says Caesar. "It's like overcooking the poultry in here."

It's not his best work, but he's desperate to undercut the impact of the dress. So, I play along.

"Yes, well, it's a good thing I'm a better cook," I say. And there's laughter.

"You must be used to fire in the kitchen, of course," he says. "Surely, sometimes even you must burn the bread."

I look at him, rendered temporarily speechless. My mind whirls and suddenly - everything clicks into place. Burnt fingers.

"Uh - sure," I say, distractedly.

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

It's an excellent transition. "I was in shock. I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns, and the next …."

"You realized there was never going to be a wedding," he finishes, perfectly on cue.

I purse my lips - stare out over the hushed audience - look down at the floor - then back up to Caesar. "Do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?" I ask.

There's scattered laughter from the crowd at my absurd question.

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

"We're already married," I say, quietly.

As the crowd reacts, the cameras flicker over to Katniss, who has buried her head in her lap. I smile, wondering if they've replaced that urn she shoved me into last year.

"But - how can that be?"

"Oh, it's not an official marriage. 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 - it's the most important part of the ritual. After you register with the Justice Building, and are assigned a house, you might have some cake and songs with family and friends, but the important part is the toasting. That's where you make a fire in your new home and toast bread together in it. And say some words. That's what we did."

"Were your families there?"

"No, we didn't tell anyone. Not even Haymitch. And Katniss' 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, anyway. So, one day, we just did it." I pause, almost as wrapped up as everyone else by the romantic little fantasy I'm weaving. "And to us, we're more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us."

"So, this was before the Quell?"

I frown. "Of course, before the Quell. I'm sure we'd never have done it after we knew. 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 a thing like that?"

"You couldn't, Peeta. As you say, no one could have. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together."

He winks at me, and the crowd goes wild again. They all know what he's implying. Maybe a bittersweet ending, at least. Again the cameras close in on Katniss, and she's now looking up with a wistful smile and shining eyes – playing her part. But I'm not done, and Caesar has played into my hands again. "I'm not glad," I say. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially."

"Surely even a brief time is better than no time at all?"

I lick my lips. "Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar. If it weren't for the baby."

The hush in the crowd builds up slowly to a horrified rasp - like the wind on the edge of the storm. It howls. It chatters like angry crows. Then it breaks like a thunderclap - igniting the atmosphere of the square. A pregnant woman in the arena? To their knowledge, it's never before happened. A family going in together - father, mother and child, all reaped together? It's only in this concrete example - not the theoretical concept of the unborn progeny of previous tributes - that they can finally see a connection between the barbarism of the games and the humanity of its victims. It's not much, but it's all they can give me. And it's enough, I think - not to stop the Games, which Snow will not steer off course. But to make Katniss' death unacceptable.

A broken heart.

The cameras cut again to catch her reaction, but her face is unreadable. By the time it has returned to mine, tears have leaked out of my eyes. I wipe them and wave to acknowledge the sympathetic anger roaring up from the crowd. They bury the end of my time with Caesar, who waves me up wearily as my time expires. I jump up and return to the seat next to Katniss. To my own surprise, the tears are still rolling down my face. The anthem starts up and, as we rise, I take her hand. We glance at each other, then Katniss spontaneously reaches over to Chaff, on her other side, and grasps the stump at the end of his left arm. The cameras are still sweeping over us and I can see Chaff take Seeder's hand, then on to District 10, 9, 8 … until the entire row of tributes - even District 2 - is linked together. There seems to be a sudden realization by the directors that this - on top of the basically defiant interviews - is not good PR for the Games, and the large screens around the square suddenly switch off.

The crowd noise - which has gone on and on, even through the anthem - suddenly fizzles in surprise. The victors on the stage break the chain and start milling around. The stage lights go out and there's no direction from anyone. Caesar has collapsed into his chair and the technical crew around us are getting frantic instructions in their ears. I grab Katniss' hand and lead her backstage before something really crazy happens. For a second, I contemplate making a complete break for it, in the confusion, and running through the streets of the Capitol, trying to find the border of it - like Haymitch did in his arena - to just step out of it and disappear. But Peacekeepers start filling up the backstage area and these thoughts vanish.

We go back into the training center and head for the elevators. There's one standing open, already, so we hurry into it. As the doors start to close, I see both Finnick and Johanna trying to catch up with us and share it, but a Peacekeeper blocks them, the doors close, and we shoot up alone. She looks down through the glass walls of the elevator at the chaos below, and gives me no sign - none. When we step off the elevator, I grip her shoulders and force her to look at me.

"There isn't much time, so tell me. Is there anything I have to apologize for?"

To my surprise, and relief, she smiles at me. "Nothing."

We go to the sitting room and wait quietly like the good little tributes that we aren't. Dinner is served, but we still wait for the others. Finally, the suite door opens, and it's Haymitch.

"It's madness out there," he says. "Everyone's been sent home and they've canceled the recap of the interviews on television."

Katniss and I rush over to the windows in the dining room and peer down. There's always a party in the streets after interview night, but this one does look a little less festive. "What are they saying?" I ask Haymitch. "Are they asking the President to stop the games?"

"I don't think they know themselves what to ask. The whole situation is unprecedented. Even the idea of opposing the Capitol's agenda is a source of confusion for the people here. But there's no way Snow would cancel the Games. You know that, right?"

Of course. We know.

"The others went home?" asks Katniss.

"They were ordered to. I don't know how much luck they're having getting through the mob."

"Then we'll never see Effie again," I realize. "You'll give her our thanks."

"More than that," says Katniss warmly. "Really make it special. It's Effie, after all. Tell her how appreciative we are and how she was the best escort ever and tell her … tell her we send our love."

The room grows very quiet as the three of us stand there, locked, trapped, in our assigned roles. Haymitch - about to go take residence in the Game Center. Us, about to go to the arena for slaughter. A strange family, the three of us, where the lines don't quite match up and our familial roles blur. Haymitch, both mentor and damaged child. Katniss, fiercely independent and devoted to her dependents. Me - lovesick and … what? Protective of this girl who is well capable of protecting herself.

Haymitch coughs. "I guess this where we say our good-byes as well."

"Any last words of advice?" I ask him.

"Stay alive," he says gruffly, and I almost laugh. He hugs us each in turn and, up close, you can actually see the pain in his face. Some part of him must wish we had died quietly in the last Games like all his other tributes, and spared him all this effort and heartache. "Go to bed. You need your rest."

"You take care, Haymitch," I tell him.

Katniss just looks at him, unable to speak.

We start to head to the hall, obeying his last command, when his voice stops us. "Katniss!" he barks, and we turn around. "When you're in the arena …."

Katniss scowls at him. "What?" she asks defensively.

"You just remember who the enemy is. That's all. Now go on. Get out of here."

She shakes her head in exasperation as we continue toward the hall. At her bedroom door, she won't let go of my hand.

I laugh, gently. "I have to change and shower off all the makeup."

"If you go into your room - and me into mine - I'm worried they might lock our doors."

Although they did do that once, last year, after our victory recap, that was because we were being carefully monitored as a result of the furor we had just caused. I shake my head, but she clutches me even tighter.

"There's a shower in my room," she says.

I follow her into her room. "Do you want to go first?" I ask her.

"No, go ahead."

I go into her bathroom and strip off the tuxedo. Then I set the warm water of the shower to its most powerful jet setting and strip the layers of makeup and lotion, and as much of the toner and paint as possible, off of my body. The lash of the water doesn't help to calm me down. As soon as I tell myself not to think about it, I am immediately reminded that this is the last night of my life I will not be on television. The last possible night of my life to spend with a girl. So, I just stand there in the water, imagining all the things I am not going to do, and turn the temperature of the shower way down.

I put on the underwear I wore tonight, but it smells like lotion and sweat, so, when she's taking her own shower, I prop open her door with a chair, then sneak down the hallway to put on clean shorts and a t-shirt. Better.

When I go back to her room, I order up food from the kitchen. Hot cocoa, turkey sandwiches, and chocolate cake. She comes out of the bathroom in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and she carefully hangs up her mockingjay dress in the closet. Then we sit at the edge of the bed and eat together.

I say: "I'm sorry I didn't warn you about the whole baby thing. It didn't fully come to me until we were on stage."

She shakes her head. "That's OK. I wouldn't have wanted to second-guess it or something. I think it was really smart and - even if it doesn't help us specifically, maybe it will have long-term consequences."

"Maybe." I think about this for a minute. "What do you think happens when Snow's gone?" I say. "I mean - just naturally, when he dies. How do they even elect a new president? All I remember from school is something about 'by popular accord.' But that could mean anything."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Maybe the next president will be more motivated to end the games, or something. If 'popular accord' runs against it."

"Hmm," she says. "Maybe."

"Before we go to bed - can I get you anything?"

She stretches and I blink away from the sight of her breasts straining against her shirt. "No. Yes? Tell me a story."

"A - what? A story?"

"Yes," she says with a grin. "Tell me about the happiest day of your life - but not one with me in it," she adds.

"That's quite a restriction, Everdeen," I say, frowning.

So, I tell her some plain old story about my tenth birthday, which happened to fall on a Saturday, so there was no school. Nothing special, just that my mother was in a good mood for once. Her brother was too sick to come, but his kids were there - well, Ally and Isoc - and we were all just so young then. We played in the vacant schoolyard and picnicked on chicken, greens and bread, of course. Also, a rare cake. I showed my grandmother my sketchbook - she was always doodling, herself - and that's when she decided that I was going to learn to do the icing at the bakery, and take over from her.

"Your grandmother is where you get the art - stuff - from."

I laugh. "Yeah, that's where it comes from, I guess."

"So, that's the secret to becoming Peeta Mellark?" she asks with a grin.

"Partly," I tell her. "As Haymitch has told me, I obviously also get an unrepentant romantic streak from my dad."

Finally, we turn off the lights and take our usual positions on the bed, she curled up with her back to me, her head resting on my arm. But it's a restless night for sleep. Our proximity to each other can't hold off the nightmares that come, unrelentingly, waking me up three or four times that night. I can sense her stirring awake, too, off and on.

By dawn, all pretense at sleep is done and we lie there, huddled together, waiting with dread for the arrival of our stylists to separate us for our trip to the arena. It's possible - entirely possible - that once separated, we will never see each other alive again. Who knows what will happen at the cornucopia today?

Cinna and Portia arrive together and I put on the prosthesis, then bend down to muffle my face in Katniss' hair, to mouth an unheard "I love you." Then I give her a gentle kiss.

"See you soon," I tell her.

"See you soon."

I follow Portia to my room and get dressed. On top of the dresser is my notebook, which includes the two sketches I have done here.

"Will you take this?" I ask her.

Of course she does, and with a sad smile.

The hovercraft picks us up from the roof and while I stand frozen on the ladder that lifts me up, I look down and watch the rooftop - site of the one day I was truly, blissfully happy - recede. Portia and I eat breakfast in the hovercraft, then I stare out the windows and watch the terrain fly over. We seem to be heading south-east, and for a while we have a spectacular aerial view of the mountain range in which the Capitol is set. After we leave the mountains, the terrain flattens out dramatically and gray-brown earth stretches out for as far as I can see. Eventually - after what seems twice as long as last year - the windows darken so I can't see my final destination, and we arrive at the arena.

I shower in the launch room and Portia helps me dress in the designated arena clothes. This year, it's a light blue jumpsuit, made out of some tight mesh, over boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

"It doesn't look like much protection from the cold," I say, as Portia helps me complete the ensemble with a plastic belt and rubbery shoes.

"No," she says. "Desert maybe, or tropics."

Those environments are foreign to me, so I'm not sure if that's good or bad news. Eliminating freezing to death as an option in the arena seems like good news, but it is sure to have been replaced by something even worse.

"Here you go," adds Portia, pulling out the locket. She opens it to confirm the pictures I requested, and I close it firmly, put it around my neck and stick it under the jumpsuit. "Also, Haymitch wanted to pass a message on."

I lift my eyebrows. Something for my ears and not Katniss'? Or something he simply forgot to say last night? "OK?"

"He says, don't go rushing into heroics. The longer you stay alive, the longer she will."

"That's basically telling me to get all the way to the end with her again," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Well …."

"Well, yes, if I can, of course, I will. 'Stay alive.' That's all he ever tells me."

"There aren't a whole lot of options in the arena," she says. "Especially not knowing what form it will take."

"Hmm."

"Peeta," she says, seriously.

"Sorry, I don't mean to be grumpy. Not with you. This whole thing is just so frustrating."

"To put it mildly."

"To put it mildly," I repeat. I look at her and wonder what I can safely say. "It seemed so terrifying last year - but simple. Now it's annoying and complicated. Not just trying to stay alive, not even just winning. But what kind of world is the winner even stepping out into?"

She raises her eyebrows at this, but doesn't say anything. There's not much she can say, really. Anyway, the announcement comes to warn us of the time, and I hug her tightly then take my place obediently on the metal plate that will push me up into the arena. The glass tube comes down and, like before, Portia touches her fingers to the glass, mouthing something I can't quite make out. Then, she looks puzzled and turns to look over her shoulder as if a sound of some kind has caught her attention. When she turns back to me, and my plate starts lifting me up, her face is filled with dread.

This is the image I take up with me as the darkness of the tube is replaced by a bright dazzle of light.