Part One

The Actor

"And the player, behind all his playing,

He ought to be great as his art."

It begins exactly like this.

I am sat at the very top of the world. The day is overcast, the sun little more than a blurry watercolour smudge hidden behind the haze of clouds. Below me, around me, I hear the slow, rhythmic creaking of trees, the sound of leaves flapping and rustling in the breeze. I am high enough to feel the gentle sway back and forth, high enough to no longer be sheltered from the cold forest wind. The air sends a familiar shiver down my spine, and I peer downwards, wondering if I have enough time to hazard a trip back home to grab a warmer coat.

I am used to the height, but even with the knowledge that I am entirely safe on the sturdy manmade platform of wood that anchors me to this tree, I feel my stomach twist slightly at the sight of the drop. Falling from a great height isn't the most common way to go in Seven, but it's not unheard of. A bad judgement call, a branch that looks less sturdy than it is, an unfortunate glance downwards at the wrong time; these are all daily risks we take. Usually the odds will swing in our favour, but occasionally, occasionally, someone will fall unlucky. I count my lucky stars that I have never seen this happen. I have heard that those deaths are particularly gruesome to look at.

Wrinkling my nose at the thought, I consider my options. It's a good half an hour trek back home, and by the time I get there and back up to my vantage point, I would have about five minutes total before I would need to head off to the district centre. I decide it's better to just stick it out and warm up later.

I've just started to regret the decision when I hear the sound of a voice from the ground. It comes soft on the wind, and I have to hear it call a second time before I realise that it isn't just my ears pulling tricks on me. Peering down again, more carefully this time, I'm met with the pinprick sight of Lynn.

Lynn is my best friend. My only friend, truthfully, but who's counting. I don't know when we became friends, or really how, because she's my complete opposite in every way. Tall, pale, with blonde hair that looks almost white and big, glassy blue eyes. I'd never say it to her face, but sometimes I think she looks creepy. There's something about Lynn that feels almost translucent; like those jellyfish muttations that they released into the Games a few years back. Like a doll made of paper, or glass, even. Lynn is lucky enough not to work in the woods. Her father runs the school, and so on the weekends, Lynn is in charge of cleaning up the place. Her hands are always red from scalding water, but she never seems to mind. Neither would I, if I didn't have to do hours of manual labour every week.

She calls, for the third time. "Johanna!"

"What?" I reply in kind. I have to shout to be heard over the wind. I wonder if there must be a storm coming. From the horizon, I can see dark clouds moving in.

"I came to see you!" Lynn says, cupping her hands to her mouth.

"Obviously," I say, shaking my head. "Why?"

"What?" She calls back.

"Fuckkit," I say, more to myself than to her. "I'm coming down!"

It doesn't take me long to scale down the tree, after all, I've been doing it all my life, but I can't help but feel sinking relief as my feet hit the piney woodland floor. It's never good to be caught high up a tree in a storm. Lynn watches me, arms crossed tightly around her chest. She's not wearing a jacket either, and must be cold.

"I never understand how you can do that," she says.

"What? Climb?" I frown. This is District Seven. They teach you to climb before you've even mastered walking.

"How do you not feel sick?" Lynn peers up at where I've just come from. "It's so high up."

I shrug. "You just get used to it."

"I don't think I ever could."

This annoys me, a bit, because you do get used to it. You have to. "I thought you were at rehearsal?"

"It got cancelled," Lynn says.

I feel another, separate twinge of irritation at this, for whatever reason. "Ah, right. Because of your beloved director." I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Johanna," Lynn says, with that tone she only ever reserves for telling me off. Sometimes I wonder if Lynn and I are really even friends. After all, most of our friendship seems to consist of her doing something to mildly irritate me, or me doing something to warrant telling off. Still, I find that I can tolerate her company. On occasion, I might even enjoy it. "He's not that bad."

"Sure he's not," I say. "I just think it's weird."

"It's not weird," Lynn retorts. "It's theatre."

That's not the part I find weird, I think. Of course, I find the whole theatre thing weird too, though I'd never tell Lynn. There's something about dressing up in silly costumes and prancing around on stage that feels so juvenile to me. Like something that the Capitol would do. I guess I wouldn't know. I've never seen any of Lynn's shows.

"He's killed people," I say. "Do you forget that, when he's giving you direction and stuff? That he's killed people?"

"Of course I know that," Lynn gives me a funny look. "We just don't talk about it. It's polite."

"It's polite," I actually roll my eyes this time. "Does he threaten to poison you in your sleep if you get a line wrong or something?"

"Jo," she says, again with that tone. "Ashley's nice."

"Okay," I shrug, deciding to drop the topic. I look up at the sky. "It's getting late, anyways."

Lynn follows my gaze. "Do you think it'll rain?"

"Probably," I say. "Gloomy weather for an already fuckin' gloomy day."

We start the slow trek back towards the district proper. District Seven is large, one of the largest districts, if you don't count Eleven, and maybe Ten, but since Lynn and I are both under the age of eighteen, and therefore still in school, we've never gone far from the district centre. The rest of Seven is made up of small encampments to the north and south, where the forest is denser and different trees grow; redwoods, and golden larch, and a dozen others I can't be bothered to name. In two years' time, I will be expected to take the trip to one of these camps, where I will stay for the better part of a few months, cutting down lumber and hauling it back to the trucks that will drive it to our district centre, ready to be made into whatever the Capitol wishes; furniture, paper, fuel for fire. But for now, we remain here, a meagre half an hour walk back to civilization.

The centre of District Seven is usually empty this time of year. In summer the days are longer, the weather more palatable, and so the work is harder; but today is the day of the Reaping. Today, everyone must return to their homes in the town and gather in the district centre, in front of our Justice Building and watch as the names of two unfortunate young men and women are called out. I hate the town centre for this reason. It's a nice place on any other day, if a bit twee for my taste, with a fountain that will occasionally work and cobblestoned pavement. But every time I walk past it, I cannot help but think of the anguished cries of families and friends as they watch the name of their loved ones be called.

As if sensing my thoughts, Lynn speaks up again. We've fallen into a steady silence and we make our way uphill, and I'm happy for it. The air is cool and sharp, but my lungs burn from the steep incline. I do not want to sound weak, even to her. "Are you nervous?"

"What?" I say. "About the Reaping?"

"No, about the cost of bread. Of course I'm talking about the Reaping!"

I shrug. "A bit."

"A bit?" Lynn asks, incredulously. She must think I'm lying, but I'm not, really. I don't think it has really registered to me yet that today is the day of the Reaping. I'm sure I will feel it like everyone else does when I'm finally gathered in front of the Justice Building, trapped in with all of the other eligible youth. But for now, I find myself remarkably calm. "I feel like I might be sick."

"Don't," I say, dryly, but I do feel a slight pang for her. Lynn would fare horribly in the Hunger Games, even more horribly than the poor, starving children from Twelve. I doubt she'd even make it two steps off her plate before she was killed. Of course, I don't say this to her. "You'll be fine. You don't even take tesserae."

"I know," she says, and I know by the way that she looks at me that she feels a similar pang. Normally a look like this would twist my stomach into anger, but I find I have a tolerance for Lynn that I do not hold for most other people. "You just can't really help it, can you? Imagining."

I know what she means. I don't want to talk about this any longer, though, because I worry that if I do, I will start to get nervous. So instead, I decide to ask what's already been lingering at the back of my mind. "Why'd you come to get me? You could have been at home, getting ready."

Lynn shrugs. "You always come here on the day of the Reaping."

"So?" I ask.

"I wanted to see if it would help. The fresh air."

"And has it?" It occurs to me that Lynn must not get fresh air often. The centre of District Seven is so often heavy with woodsmoke. She has so little cause to leave.

"I think so," she says. I nod, as if I am the one who has cured her of all ailment. I can see by the slightly green shade of her porcelain face that it has not done enough.

I leave Lynn outside her house with the promise that I will see her at the Reaping, and make my way to my own home on the outskirts of the district. The streets are busier than I ever remember them, but people part way respectfully as I make my way through. Seven is funny like that. We're people of little words, but lots of actions.

I smell my house before I see it. Sawdust and wood smoke. My father must be in the shed, working on a table, or a chair, or some other ugly piece of furniture for the Capitol. I hate my father's furniture. I think it's hideous.

The inside of the house is damp and dingy, and I have to pull the string of the lights three times before they actually turn on. So often I wish that the Hunger Games could take place during the winter, when we so desperately need electricity. In summer, we can do without. But still, every summer without fail, whenever the Games begin, the power stays on. I pause. I do need to get this light replaced, though.

"Johanna!" My father calls from outside, and I know he's asking me to come over. Sighing and glancing at the boots I have just kicked off, I relent. On any other day I might ignore him and go to the back, to my room, where I have just enough room to hold out both arms outstretched and barely enough room to block him out. But today is special, and I know if I ended up being Reaped, I'd probably regret it.

Everyone says my father and I look alike, much to my chagrin. Same light brown skin, thick dark hair that curls at the ends. My father is a sturdy man, with broad shoulders and powerful arms from years working at the axe, and a few more carving and moulding wood to perfection. He kneels in front of what must be the base for a loveseat, wearing nothing but a white tank top and trousers stained with paint.

"You're not going to wear that to the reaping, are you?" I say, dryly. He turns around and frowns, wiping his forehead and smudging a bit of dark wood polish above his eyebrow.

"How long do we have?" he asks. My father speaks quickly, erratically some would say, and I'm one of the few people who can understand him perfectly.

"An hour, give or take," I say.

"An hour!" He jumps to his feet. "I thought - surely longer than that!"

"You should get a clock," I say, dryly. "I'm going to get dressed." And with that, I turn back to the house without waiting for a reply.

I love my father, I do, but we are such different people that it's laughable. It's difficult, sometimes, to stay on the same page as him - especially when he gets lost in his work like this. I try to have the patience, I really do, but I'm not a desperately patient person at the best of times. I wonder, if I were not here, would my father have missed the reaping completely? If he had, he would surely get a visit from a Peacekeeper or two, and then where would he be? I dread to think.

He hasn't always been like this. Before the death of my mother, he was far more functional. A bit odd, sure, but his head was on straight. But ever since the fever that ravaged the district four years ago, he's been absolutely distracted. Sometimes I wonder if the fever did something to his brain too, crossed some wires or something. There might be a ring of truth to it. But either way, no matter what it is, my mother is still dead and I am still the only person in this family to keep us on track.

I do not miss my mother too much these days. I wonder if that makes me a bad person.

I wear the same dress as I've worn for the past three reapings. It's yellow, faded from the years, with long, flowing sleeves and a skirt that goes all the way down to my knees. I never wear dresses, normally, I think I look stupid in them, but I don't own anything else nice. I consider doing my hair up, but I'd have no idea where to start. Maybe if I had asked Lynn, she could have given me one of her dresses, done up my hair, maybe even made me look nice. But I haven't, and so I'll have to settle on being just presentable.

It doesn't take my father long to get dressed, donning a simple button up over the same paint stained trousers. I wonder what someone from the Capitol would think, looking at the ragtag pair of us. Probably some form of superior pity. Though this imaginary Capitolite doesn't even exit, I feel myself grit my teeth, feeling bubbling frustration. If there is one thing I despise more than anything else in the world, it's pity.

We walk in silence to the Justice Building. Slowly, we find ourselves as part of a crowd, shuffling in tandem with one another, nobody speaking or even exchanging glances. The air is heavy and thick, and above our heads, the grey sky rumbles threateningly. Thankfully it's not a long way to the district centre, and not much longer before I am standing with my father at the end of a long queue of other seventeen year-olds.

"Good luck," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say, and really, neither do I. I nod. "Remember, if you get picked-"

"The Game starts here," I finish. It's what he's told me ever since I was twelve. My father might not be the brightest tool in the shed in some ways, but in others, he has always been incredibly astute. "I'll see you soon."

He nods, and goes to join the growing crowd of onlookers. They always save room for parents near the front. I've never understood that. Surely you would not want a front eye view as you watch your child get torn away from you.

The line moves quickly, and soon I'm signed in and shuttled over to one of the roped-off areas towards the front of the crowd. From here, I have a perfect view of the stage, where Capitol camera crews swarm about like dragonflies, with their flashing cameras and polished uniforms. Looking cautiously at the sky - honestly, it'd be impossible to miss her - is Ambrosia Selene, the escort for our district. Each district has one, a representative from the Capitol whose job it is to shuttle the tributes around to each pit stop on their jam-packed itinerary towards slaughter. Ambrosia has been the escort for Seven since the year I was eligible to be reaped, and I've hated her since I first caught eyes on her and her maniacal smile. Ambrosia Selene is never caught dead without a smile. She stands in front of me now, however, her smile wavering as the sky continues to churn. Her hair is fashioned into long green vines. I wonder if anyone has told her we don't have vines in District Seven.

I feel a nudge at my side and realise Lynn has made it into the crowd. She looks even more fragile than usual in a dainty green dress, with a matching bow. Next to her, I feel positively filthy, though I know she sticks out from the crowd like a sore thumb. Suddenly, I really hope that Lynn does not get reaped.

"Does Ambrosia know that you don't find vines in Seven," Lynn whispers, echoing my exact thoughts. I suppress a smile, watching our escort potter to the back of the stage and start talking with such speed to our mayor that I'm worried she's about to combust.

"At least it's not tree themed again," I say. For the past six years, Ambrosia Selene has been decked out in such inaccurate foliage, it has taken everything in me not to walk off and rip the costume straight off her. "I hate trees."

"Sure you do," Lynn says, just as the mayor starts to walk up to the podium. A hush grows across the crowd, and I realise that everyone must have filed in by now. In the silence, I can hear the grumble of the sky almost as clearly as I would in the woods.

The Reaping begins just as it always does, with the Treaty of Treason. It's the same song and dance every year; describing how the Games came to be, and how it is, in every way shape and form, the fault of the Districts. It would be boring, I imagine, but I am filled with such a sudden electric shock of nerves that I find myself hanging on to every word.

Next, our mayor announces which of District Seven's victors will mentor this year's tributes. We have had five in total, though one has long since died, leaving us with just four to pick from. First our mayor calls out Blight Jordan. This is not much of a surprise. Blight is the second youngest victor that Seven has to offer, and while he is fast approaching middle age, the Capitol has always preferred to keep younger victors in its company. He's a tall man who reminds me a bit of my father, with a scruffy beard and a left hand that occasionally twitches from nerve damage. I do not remember why he has this injury, nor do I remember much about his Games, but I do know he is well respected, both in the Capitol and in our district.

The second name is even less of a surprise. As Ashley Firth steps onto the stage, I feel Lynn tense up beside me. Ashley is District Seven's most recent victor, five years recent, even. He's twenty one and easily the Capitol's type; a shock of dark red hair, slight, with quick brown eyes. Ashley is the director of Lynn's theatre troupe, the thought of which makes me want to roll my eyes again. I cannot stand Ashley Firth. At least all of the other victors have the decency to admit to who they are. Whether their fault or not, they have been warped by the Games; done unspeakable things. But Ashley pretends he has not. He acts like he's exactly like the rest of us. The thought fills me with anger, and I'm not really sure why.

Whatever anger I feel, however, turns just as quickly to cold, sharp fear, as a pair of Capitol attendants roll two separate glass stands onto stage. Each stand holds a glass ball, filled to the very top with crisp, white, neatly folded over slips of paper. It occurs to me that the paper these slips are made from must have come from our very own trees. Maybe someone in this crowd has even cut down the piece of lumber that has ended up with their own name on it, tucked away into these intricate glass bowls. Ambrosia Selene steps forward, her cheshire smile plastered on her face. I wonder how she gets the smile to be so large, so unmoving. The idea of her practising in front of a mirror makes me want to laugh, and in any other situation, I might. The sky makes another noise of protest.

"Thank you so much for hosting me in your humble district," she says. The lines feel clipped and rehearsed. Humble. I hate her too. I hate everyone on that stage, I think. "Now. Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

It feels as though time draws to a stop as she walks towards the bowl holding the name of the female tribute. I know this is a natural response; fight or flight, and my body instinctively tenses up, ready to pick one of the two. Next to me, Lynn grips my hand. Normally I would pull it away, but I find that my arm isn't working.

"Johanna Mason," Ambrosia Selene calls out to the crowd.

And I think what is funny - and this is funny, really - is that she butchers my name so badly that for a moment I don't even realise what she's said. There's only relief, until my brain catches up with the words and I realise what she has said. Lynn lets go of my hand sharply, and turns to look at me. I can't see what her face is like.

There must be another Johanna Mason, I think. Surely there must be.

But nobody steps forward, and I am left for a moment with the horrible, sinking knowledge that Ambrosia Selene has just called my name.

And then the heavens completely open up.