The Scandal
My next suitor is a familiar face. "You," I accuse Snow. "You made me wait here. In bare feet and a ripped night-dress. Just to feel scared."
"Don't be naïve, Petra," He chides me like an errant daughter. "I've been acquiring customers. It seems you're a harder fit than Mr. Sheen. Forgive me, I should have known. Men are always willing to pay more for mint product."
I frown. "If you mean cunt, just say it."
"There is no need to swear, Petra," he reminds me. "Might I kindly suggest you refrain? Come." He commands.
His tone is light, but his words heavy. Heavensby's card is tucked in the front of my gown, next to my heart. Klerkov's close. Sent a spy right into Snow's party, into his own house…and with that reminder, I find have no more fear of him.
…But I have to be careful. Snow can sense it. I avoid his eyes as we walk. "Then what are you doing?"
"Isn't it obvious, Petra?" He asks boredly. "I'm not simply selling you, I'm auctioning you off to the highest bidder. I've found men are always less…frugal with their money when others are watching. It's an election year, and a Hunger Games Victor commands an impressive price." He informs me casually as though discussing the weather. "I can't blame them for insisting on inspecting the wares."
I Blanch. Stop. Fingers pull the skirt-hem taut. "You have that medic report-"
"Nothing so crude as that," Snow dismisses my panic with the wave of his hand. "They merely pine for the pleasure of a dance, a conversation, your company. I suppose I need not warn you to be on your best behavior?"
He just did. And I equally don't dare ask for more or better clothes, or I risk getting sent out naked. Barefoot. Nightdress. Covered in glass, smears of blood and now wine. He's trying to intimidate me, and so far in the impressive awe of this endless Villa it's working.
It's a Game, durak, just a Game, I remind myself, running a little to catch up. Cryptic as it was, I remember Tiberia's warning to Cinna: Not the outfit that makes the Tribute, not the Games that make the Victor, but the heart that fuels the champion…The outfit does not matter. It cannot matter. What matters is the heart. If that heart is weak, the most skilled hands cannot save it. We do not dress, we undress. Do not create, but reveal.
It doesn't matter how I'm dressed. Right now I have to be Klerkov's champion. Have to be a Victor. Have to play this Game and win…or I'm fucked. Completely, utterly, totally fucked.
…and this time for real.
President Snow offers me his arm, and together we walk down the gilt marble stairs to the applause of the gathered guests below. I hold my head high, my shoulders back, walk like Victor Ivan Klerkov taught me. I might look like an ugly, beat-up girl in a nightdress, but all they see is Klerkov's champion.
The walls are rounded, made of marble, with pillars stretching ever upwards to support the sides and absent roof. Above us, the dome opens to the sky, and those crosses flicker weakly above us, like a hundred horrid candles. We weave through the gathered crowd, each face, each alteration as shocking as the next. In this hall, all this hall, could it be only Snow and I are…normal?I don't let it show. See people who would be bulls and oxen, stallions and boar, wild cats and bear, wolves and foxes, and women disguised as birds so bright their feathers blind. I've killed you, I tell them. All of you. Stripped your skins and tanned your hides. Undone your limbs, pried out your guts, ate your flesh. I'm Petra Angelovna, the Butcher's daughter, and you don't frighten me.
We descend stairways and slopes, tread by fountains and springs, through a walk-way raised over crystal water filled with fantastic fish of every size and color. Row upon row of small silk pavilions lie tucked away in lush gardens, their occupants reclining at tables and waited by Avox and Peacekeepers alike. All rise as Snow passes, raising goblets or salutes. Others hail him, and he dips his head in recognition of their praise.
The orchestra asks to play a tune in my honor, and Snow requests my District anthem. He leads me to the floor, and places a hand on my waist.
"Tell me, Petra," he looks up at me to ask as the music begins to play. "Can you dance?" He's balding, clean-shaven, perhaps my father's age, but not nearly as hairy or threatening. Not nearly as strong. Not nearly as fast. It would be a simple matter. He couldn't escape me. I could snap his neck, right here, and kill him. I should snap his neck, right here, right now…but I don't. Something stops me, and all I can wonder is how such an undangerous man be so fucking powerful.
I choose my next words carefully, trying not to stomp his toes. "I've never learned."
Snow smiles, but there's no humor in his eyes. "That wasn't my question."
"I will," I finally whisper.
"Better," he hisses. "Again."
"I will."
"Repeat it."
"I will." My face is hot.
"Remember those words, Petra," he whispers as the stench of roses overpowers me. "Tonight, you'll need them."
"Miss Angelov?"
Angelovna, you slovoc. "Yes?"
"Sibyline Crane. Might I cut in?"
No! I want to shout, but Snow places my hand in his. "Certainly," he bows gracefully, taking his leave. "Gamemaker Crane and his wife are my honored guests," Snow introduces him formally. "All the much more so for his family connections."
Senecca. My mouth goes dry. "Family is everything," Crane returns gravely, his gaze never wavering from me.
"All the much more so when it is family with fortune," a familiar man in purple hails them warmly. "Do pass my compliments along to your wife, Sibyline. And please do thank her for her generous donation. It gets harder and harder to fund educational broadcasts without substantial private contributions." He pecks the man on the cheek before offering an arm to Snow. "Ah, Excellency, if you will?" They stroll away, arm in arm, as Heavensby elaborates on the upcoming Games. "The ah, changes, as we discussed, will not be a concern so much of time but of cost. My team, however, are happy to implement them on the Games' credit, if that please you-"
PLUTARCH HEAVENSBY, ASSISTANT GAMEMAKER. It's only natural. Coincidental. And yet-
And yet after meeting Victor Ivan Klerkov I no longer believe in coincidence. His card. That bird. His mention of Klerkov and Avitus…could this be another clue?
But Sibyline Crane doesn't give me time to think it out. He wrenches me so close I can taste the garlic on his breath, and feel the seams of his clothing through my dress. "I hear from good authority you caused quite the scene this evening." I wrinkle my nose. I hear from good authority you're fucking a Cobra.
Instead I shrug. "People hear lots of things."
He spins me slowly, eyes cold. "I heard you attacked a relative of mine."
I watched her handling a Senator. In public. "Perhaps you heard wrong," I force a smile.
He leers back. "Perhaps I did." Then the hand on my waist gropes a few inches lower. It's instinct by now. Maybe fear. I do what any girl would do, and punch him straight in the fucking face.
The orchestra never misses a note, and the dance goes on around us. But the couples nearest us are beginning to stare. He's doubled over, dripping blood, and even over the music I hear the sharp snick and sucking sound as he readjusts his nose. I have half a mind to run. Run where, durak? There's nowhere in Panem you'll ever be safe-
When he finally rises, his gaze is ruinous."That was rude, Butcher."
Somehow I keep the quaver out of my voice. "So was grabbing my ass."
"You don't understand how this Game works, do you?" He hisses, forcing me back into the dance.
"Twenty-four go in," I state brazenly. "One comes out. Me. And you know that, don't you, or I wouldn't be here."
"You'll be sold, regardless of your antics," Crane spits, pulling me close again. "Be on your best behavior, aim to impress, and you'll be treated well. In this room are men who would pay a great sum to pleasure you, and others who would pay a great deal more for the pleasure of hurting you," he explains, clenching my wrist with his nails for emphasis. "If I were you, I'd do my best to find the first."
There's no question which he falls in, no question he's rich enough, no question he'd do it. I didn't just humiliate his brother I realize, I humiliated the family name. Tasha talked about tabloids and scandals, Capitol goings-on we miss out in the Districts. She thought it could sway them…maybe it can. Maybe Iridina can still save me, after all. I choose my next words carefully. "And if I were you, I'd do my best to be more discrete."
"Are you threatening me?" Crane mocks, almost humored. "With what?"
"Your reputation. Rumor is you'd fuck a Snake if someone held it straight for you."
Iridina. From the way he straightens, I know it's true. "There are many rumors," he tells me coolly.
"I hear from good authority this one is true," I throw his words back in his face as we waltz. "Does your wife know?"
"We have an open arrangement-"
He didn't answer my question, I realize. A direct answer would be a lie. This is a dodge. And there's only one reason he would dodge: he knows he can't tell me the truth, but he doesn't know if he can tell me a lie, either. Not all of you, Snow.
"Good. Then you wouldn't mind me telling-"
"You have no way of contacting her-"
"Avox," I smile. "Or fans. An army of them. I'm a Tribute, remember?"
"I can have my security intercept any such messages, you foolish girl."
"Speaking of your security, that's them now, isn't it?" I ask, nodding towards a dark clump of Peacekeepers with at familiar insignia surrounding a laughing woman dressed in white and long, elaborate feathers. Her legs are bent backwards like a bird's, as thin as spindles, and graceful, elegant wings adorn her shoulders. "Family crest, I'm guessing. And that'd be your wife right there."
She laughs again, coiffed hair tossing as her tapered wings beat merrily. And that's when it hits me. A falcon's short wings. She's a falcon, not a crane. Not a Crane. Family with fortune, Heavensby just happened to drop…
The music ends. I step away. "Let's go tell her, shall we?"
Crane grabs my wrist. "What do you want?"
"I want you to buy me."
He blinks.
"Then I want you to let me go," I explain. "And if you don't outbid them all, if you don't save me, if I get so much as a pinch on my ass or a hand on a tit, I'll find a way to tell her."
It was a good plan. Until now.
"Oh, Sibyl, you shouldn't have!" She cries the moment she spots us. "Petra? Petra Angelovna? The Petra? The Butcher? The Butcher-Butcher? Oh, darling!" She kisses him, then kisses both my cheeks. Twice.
"My wife," Crane says quickly, treading on my foot lest I speak. "Peregrinna Crane."
"Peregrinna Aquila-Crane," She corrects him sharply. "But you, darling, call me Peri!"
"You!" She demands of an Avox. "Take our picture! And Sibyl, you, too!"
He has no choice but comply, sapped of authority by this vapid, wealthy woman. I'm reminded suddenly of Quintina.
"Would you sign this, darling?" She begs me, thrusting the print into my chest with alarming force. "To Peri, from Petra? Or the Butcher? No, to Peri from Petra sounds so much more intimate-" She swipes it away the moment I've finished. "Oh, look at that! " she hugs it gleefully to her chest, wings beating haphazardly. "Adrianna will just die of envy!"
"One more, please?" Peri begs me with a wink, outstretched wings shuffling me closer. "Just us girls?"
The Avox snaps another pictures. " Take two or three!" She orders. "Well, there now. You poor dear, with those kidnappers this morning! Sibyl told me the whole story! Don't you worry, dear, they've caught the terrorists and they're going to pay, poor thing. But you held your own! Oh, just the thought of it, escaping all on your own like that you must be ever so clever!" Here she pinches my cheeks like a child. "Oh, darling, would you sign this for my son? Little Icarus? He's just a wee boy but he's rooting for you to win, we all are!" She kisses me again, gushing. "Take care, dearie…and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Sibyline Crane is a fucking fool. I thought I'd be threatening him with the loss of his wife. I never realized I'd be doing him a favor.
"Take her," Sibyline Crane spits, shoving me away.
If Snow is startled, he doesn't let it show. "You were dissatisfied with the merchandise?"
"I'm more than happy with my own," he nods tersely to his wife. "We're leaving."
Snow's face remains emotionless. "So soon?"
"A family emergency."
"Family has its uses," Snow concedes. "See it doesn't effect yours."
"Of course, Excellency," Crane simpers sourly, casting me a telling glare. "I bid you good evening."
"And the same to you," Snow offers stiffly.
Plots. Spies. Accidents. So much for that. Plutarch Heavensby's business card lies crumpled near my breasts, and I don't dare scratch no matter how it pokes.
"Frankly, Petra, I'm astounded," Snow drags me into an empty pavilion "Tell me, how did you manage that?"
I stare at my feet a long, long time."Because he's lying," I finally admit. "About being satisfied. And I know someone with a tongue as loose as his pants, that's how." Too late I remember Cinna Raelius, tricking me into revealing Tasha as the one who warned me about him. But I can't take the words back, and I don't dare lie. Not to Snow.
…and by now I've met dozens of Capitol citizens. Any one of them could have talked. If Iridina—or Quinta, I remember how young she is with unease—is blamed, so be it. The Hunger Games is about survival. Better them than me.
"Petra, Petra," Snow remonstrates with a slow shake of his head, opening the silk flap for me to exit, "Blackmail? Do you really believe it will be that easy?"
