By the time I make it home, I'm feeling no better, but at least here, I don't have to hide my feelings with the expected facade. As I flop gracelessly onto my couch, my phone rings.

"Hello?"

She doesn't bother with a greeting. "Oh, Effie, that poor little girl! I'm still crying. Oh, and those flowers - and the singing - oh, it was just so sad."

It's my sister, Charm, and as much as I love her, I kind of wish I had a ready excuse to end the call. But I don't, so I nod and make agreeing noises while she goes on and on about how awful Rue's death is.

"Rue," I say, after a minute because Charm keeps calling her "the poor little girl." "Her name is - was - Rue."

"I know," she says. "Oh, this is sad, but can you imagine how good this is going to be for ratings. And you! They'll have to promote you to a decent District next year, after this."

She's right. And up until today, that was exactly what I wanted. But now, somehow, I'm not jumping for joy anymore at the prospect.

"I know." It comes out flat as hour-old soda, and even my usually bubbly sister notices.

"Eff, you don't sound too good. Want me to come over?"

No! "Er, that's sweet, but I'll be all right. Look, I think I hear the doorbell. I'll call you back later, okay?"

I'm not lying - there is someone at the door. But when I open it, I see the last person in the world, I expect.

Haymitch. Looking more awkward and out of place I've ever seen him before.

"Can I come in?" he says. Wordlessly, I step aside and gesture. It suddenly occurs to me that this is the first time Haymitch has ever been over here. But my hostess instincts take over, and I point to the couch, into which he sinks.

"How about a drink?" I say, before I realize the inappropriateness of the question and scramble to recover. "I...er...have coffee. Or tea, whatever you want."

"Don't bother," he says, but he doesn't sound rude, just his usual boorish self "So, you looked pretty shattered this afternoon," he continues. "I don't think I've ever seen you act like that before."

I gulp. "I'm all right."

He raises his eyebrows. "Are you? Because I'm not so sure about that."

And the next thing I know, we embrace, and all the self-control I've managed to exert shatters, and I start crying. More accurately, I start sobbing, and even knowing that my makeup is running in rivulets down my face, and I must look horrible, doesn't stop me. Finally, Haymitch leans over and extracts a handful of tissues from the box, which I take and mop my face, although I know by now, the damage is irreversible.

"Thanks," I say. "I guess I wasn't as fine as I was pretending."

"Well, you do a superb job of pretending," he says, "but sometimes it's not the best thing to do, you know?"

I sniffle, chastened. "I know."

"Actually, I came over for another reason," he says, and my heart drops. He wasn't coming specifically to make sure I felt better. Oh well, that was silly to think in the first place.

"So what do I owe the honor of this visit, after all?" I ask, wadding up the tissue and aiming for the wastebasket. It misses, but neither of us scramble to get it. Haymitch just watches me steadily as he speaks.

"After you left, President Snow called a meeting for tomorrow morning, to which I happen to be invited, about the possibility of changing the Game rules - this time only, so that two Tributes can win. What do you think of that?"

He's truly floored me. "I...I don't know," I stammer. "This isn't a joke, is it?"

He snorts. "I know I have an off sense of humor, but no, I would not joke about something like this."

"Oh." I lean back in the cushions deflated. "What time?"

"Nine-thirty, bright and early. At least for me. You don't have to go, though, Effie."

I don't like this at all. "Why not? I am one of the District mentors."

He shrugs. "Don't shoot the messenger. I don't think Snow thinks it's necessary."

"But why not?" I persist.

Another shrug. "Snow is up to something, and you should be glad you don't have to witness this firsthand."

"But it does affect me," I say. "Katniss and Peeta are both of our Tributes. What if I come anyway? Can he really stop me?"

That makes Haymitch throw up his hands, but I can tell he's faking the gesture. "I doubt it. Listen, are you going to be okay? I have to go soon."

Suddenly, I realize that he does care, in his way, and this way is all that's really fair to expect of him.

"Sure. I think I've pretty much run out of tears for today," I say, and we laugh.

After Haymitch leaves, I do some thinking.

There's going to be a meeting to decide the Tributes' fates, and I'm not invited. I have to admit part of me feels petty and indignant - like a little kid who hasn't been invited to a birthday party. But it's deeper than that - as maddening as she sometimes is, I've grown to care for Katniss very much, as well as Peeta. I don't like the thought of being kept in the dark about what's going to happen to them. If President Snow is pulling strings, I have a right to know.

I'm not invited. But I should be.

So the next day, I rise early, spruce myself up to my usual standards, and head out.

They startle as I push the door open. They're all assembled in a circle around the table, as I expect, including Haymitch, who stares at me as if I've suddenly grown another head.

"Well, Ms. Trinket, this is a surprise," President Snow says. I can see the gears working overtime in his mind trying to figure out just what I'm doing here. "Can we help you with something?"

He's expecting it to be something frivolous, I think, but take a deep breath. "Yes, I heard that there was going to be a meeting about the fate of the remaining Tributes, and as two of them are mine, I thought it would make sense for me to attend, too."

The President doesn't like this at all, I can tell, but he can hardly eject me without looking ungentlemanly. After all, what harm can a butterfly suddenly flying through an open window do? He sighs heavily and gestures at the table.

"Take a seat then, Ms. Trinket. Now, as I was saying, we have a bit of a - situation - here. Both Peeta and Katniss have proven themselves to be outstanding competitors. However, we simply cannot break precedent and permit two winners. Game rules have always been very strict. One winner only, even if it means taking out your fellow District member. If we give Peeta and Katniss both the opportunity to survive, this will give future Tributes false hope that they, too, can be the exceptions. We can't take this risk."

"Sir," a voice says, and I turn to see Caesar Flickerman looking rather drab without his usual wig and gaudy TV attire, "from the start, whether or not it was a planned strategy or not, the angle of star-crossed lovers has appealed to a good portion of our audience. There's definitely more people than usual out there rooting for District 12. Why not give them a classically happy ending - or at least the possibility? After all, we don't know yet what the outcome will be."

If you'd asked me beforehand, I would have predicted that I'd be too shy to speak, but somehow I find my voice. "Caesar's right. This has been the first year, Haymitch and I haven't had to beg on a bended knee for our district's sponsors. And, like Caesar said, the outcome isn't predetermined. So if there's a vote, I'm definitely for giving Peeta and Katniss the chance to both make it to the end." Clever Effie, I think, raising the possibility of a vote, at least that way, maybe we'll have a shot.

"I agree," Haymitch says, and I resist the temptation to hug him. "If they pull that off, they'll have the goodwill of all Panem. Think how high the ratings will be for their Victory Tour."

This is also an excellent point. Unlike the Games' viewing, the Victory Tour isn't mandatory. I can see President Snow considering what we've said. He gets up and moves off until he's looking out the window. Stalling for time, I would imagine. He looks, as usual, immaculate, with a white rose in his buttonhole, but I can see tension lines marring his very likely face-lifted forehead. After a few minutes each of which seem like an eternity, he swivels to face us, and a sickly sweet scent (later I realize that it's blood) makes me struggle not to gag.

We take a vote, and it passes that, if Katniss and Peeta survive until tomorrow, the new rule will be that there can be two winners.

They're safe. For now.

Haymitch and I watch the rest of the Games together. Before, I would say that even when we were sitting side-by-side, there was a barrier between us. Now, even under unhappy circumstances, it's come down, and we're on the same side. We watch as Katniss and Peeta battle the remaining Careers, and successfully fight them to the death, even when the Gamemakers turn the slain Tributes into muttations, a vile trick but one that I have to admit must be keeping all of Panem glued to their screens.

And then the Gamemakers throw a bombshell - the rules change yet again, and only one Tribute can survive.

But they don't waver. Taking out a handful of nightlock berries, Katniss hands some to Peeta. They prepare to swallow. My own throat feels choked - it's as if I'm watching n slow motion and can't look away. President Snow lied. Which shouldn't surprise me, but it does. How well he played us yesterday - letting us "vote," as if we all really had a say in this, a voice.

I cannot believe how naïve I've been. I don't have an excuse - I've been doing this for years, and yet I fell right into his trap. Though perhaps President Snow only pretended to go back on his word. But that's bad enough. Still...look on the bright side, a voice whispers in my head. They've won. We've won. For the first time ever in Games' history, two Tributes from the same District are going home together.

Maybe that's enough. I don't know. I feel exhausted, as if I've been the one fighting alongside our Tributes in the arena, so I can't imagine how they must feel. Still, what can we do, but applaud for Katniss and Peeta, for their bravery and resilience, for having done something that's just made Games' history?

"We won," I say, pasting on a bright smile, knowing that soon we'll have to wade out and face the cameras. "Isn't this amazing?"

Haymitch doesn't look at me. "We haven't won yet."

I don't know what he's getting at, but I play along. "What do you mean?"

"You think the Games are over, and that Peeta and the Mockingjay will live happily ever after?" he snaps, and for the first time since we've left the President's inner chamber, I feel distance between us. I'd feel hurt, if any of this was about me, but it's not.

"No," I say. "No, I don't think that. But at least both of our Tributes are going home in one piece. Alive."

"Yes," Haymitch says darkly, "and after they've been buffed and polished and stuffed with all the nutrition they've been missing, then the fun really begins. I have a feeling that once they've been restored to normal - at least on the outside - they will both be receiving a visit from someone - I won't say who, but he'll be preceded by a very sickly scent."

I don't know why I didn't think it through before - maybe there's still a part of me even after all this, that wants to believe in happy endings, but he's right.

The Games are far from over. Once I would have thought otherwise. But now I understand.

They're only just beginning.

Haymitch extracts himself from the plushy leather recliner and stands.

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand. "It's time to present a united front. Let's go face the music."

There's still a lot I don't understand about what just happened, and I'm not talking only about what's occurred in the arena.

But I reapply my smile and take his hand. We walk past the other mentors, feeling their polite but envious looks following us, as we step outside the room into a sea of microphones and flashbulbs.

Together. At least for now.