Katniss swims through algae and duckweed, and she is grateful for the smell of decaying plant matter. It overwhelms the scent of the nearby rose garden, and once she's coated herself in the filth, she won't be able to smell Snow on her body anymore.

The pond in Snow's grounds is huge, though far smaller than the forest lake that taught her swimming. The water is almost up to her neck in the deepest part, and even at the edge there is a good two feet of depth. If she's careful to stay out of the shallowest bits, she can swim full lengths back and forth. Even though the water is horribly cold, it still feels so good to move her limbs through liquid, to push back the muck and the leaves, and to not have to remember what it's like to be touched.

She has been avoiding Snow, and he has been avoiding her. It has been almost two weeks of mutual evasion. An unpleasant energy clings and crackles between them when they meet, so Katniss has been removing herself to the grounds more often than not. It's nothing like the forest beyond District 12, of course, but it's something. It's grass and soil, and this wonderful filthy pond, and it's a place where she can be alone.

Well, most of the time.

There are security guards atop the walls at the garden perimeter, which she walks sometimes. Nothing makes her feel more like a prisoner. The walls are eight feet of stone and then four more feet of forcefield, plus some barbed wire just for aesthetics. It's meant to keep people out, but it does just as well at keeping her in. She still thinks she could clear it, if she had to. How many times did she and Gale make it over the electric fence surrounding District 12? It would be difficult. But they could do it. They could get away.

These are not thoughts she should allow herself. Gale is gone. She is alone, except for Snow. And he has not been good company of late. She cannot tell if her drunken assault has angered him or shamed him, but it has not set a good tone for their relationship. But Katniss doesn't regret it. Every drop of suffering she can release into him is a victory. All she wants is to damage him.

Katniss kicks off from one end of the pond and delights in the rush of momentum. She is a glorious fish today, her hair thick with duckweed, tangles of blanket weed hanging from her body. It is wonderful to be such a mess.

She spits out a piece of rotting wood that has caught in her mouth, and then she idly wonders when Snow last kissed someone before she came along. She doesn't remember his wife on the television; either she died when Katniss was young, or before she was born. He never speaks of her, and there are no portraits or photographs. Is it too painful for him to remember? Or did he care about her that little?

She was so sure he had trysts with other Victors, or other girls his people scraped out of the corners of the distant Districts. How easy it must be to summon the exact type of girl you want from poverty, and have her deposited in your bed within a day! But his anger was so sharp when she kissed him… He was so offended… She reaches the end of the pond, turns around, and kicks back the other way. Her thoughts drift back to Haymitch's proposition: is he too old? Is he not interested in sex anymore? It's not like he contradicted her when she told him people thought he was impotent.

And yet…

There is something else. Ineffable, embedded, unextractable. She can smell it, but not taste it. Footprints of a horseshoe rabbit in the snow.

She will hunt it. She will find the little red, beating heart buried in Snow's chest and she will rip it out. She will lick it clean and gorge on it.

Katniss is so completely absorbed in fantasies of burying her face in the dripping red cavity of Snow's chest that she fails to notice when a figure approaches. It is not until the soft footfall of leather shoe on grass meets her water-logged ears that she turns to look, and then she ducks her face beneath the water until only her eyes are visible. She can't hide from him, not really. But it makes her feel better to pretend.

Snow's expression is bemused when he reaches her. Wearing a silver-white suit, he stands at the water's edge.

'Katniss, we have a one-million-liter chlorinated swimming pool in the mansion. Please tell me why you have elected to swim in the pond.'

She raises her scum-slick lips above the waterline. 'I prefer it.'

'Of course,' he says, equal parts amused and despairing. 'I came to inform you that we have two events tonight, a private party and then a champagne reception at a gallery. You might want to start getting ready.'

'I don't see the hurry,' she says, then pushes her foot into the thick layer of mud beneath her and glides across the water. The water is better. She feels okay, here. Not happy, but okay.

'Katniss.'

She reaches the edge of the pond, catches the grass, then turns to look at Snow. He is walking around to meet her, and she realizes her crawl stroke has sent flecks of muddy water over his suit. She places a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh.

'Sorry.'

'You've been very fractious lately,' says Snow testily. 'Are you intending to behave tonight, or can I expect another repeat of our trip to the auction?'

Katniss kneels in the shallow water, looking at Snow, her hair floating around her in filth and green, and she shrugs a bare, shining shoulder. 'If you threaten my family, I'll do whatever you want. You know that.'

'I prefer not to threaten your family, Katniss. I would much prefer you willing. If it's any comfort to you, I don't anticipate either of these events posing any emotional difficulty. It's just a party and then drinks. You might even enjoy the evening, if you put your mind to it.'

'I don't like parties,' says Katniss, and she floats in the filthy, frigid water. 'And I don't like art galleries. And I don't like anything that requires spending time with you.'

Snow lowers himself to a crouch by the water's edge, annoyed but indulging her, and Katniss drops her face into the water again so that only her eyes are visible.

'Unfortunately, my dear, spending time with me is unavoidable. Now, will you come out of there and get dressed?'

Katniss pops her lips out briefly. 'Why can't I go dressed like this?' She has been wearing only her silk shift to swim, which is absolutely ruined.

Snow gives a low sigh. 'You cannot attend a society event in your underwear. People would talk.' He smiles as though this is a little joke she might appreciate. Katniss does not appreciate it.

'Maybe your outfit is the problem,' she counters, and Snow looks genuinely caught off-guard.

'You don't like this?'

'It's hideous.' She doesn't really think that, of course. Snow is always, frustratingly, immaculate looking. She never thought about it before they married, because it was straightforwardly expected for the father of Panem to look impeccable and divine. But now she hates how he dresses and how fine he looks. He ought to be smeared in blood and coal dust and show people what he really is. 'It's pretentious. You're married, you shouldn't be dressing in white like you're so much better than me.'

'You have a point,' he says, considering. Katniss doesn't think she has a point. 'Your own dress will be grey today. Perhaps I should wear something darker. It is traditional for the woman to be in paler shades.'

'And this one is ruined anyway,' she says. Seized by pique and hatred and the simple, irresistible desire to do something taboo, she splashes the water again and sends another flurry of mud over Snow's trousers.

It's more than she intended. The pale cotton is suddenly soaked in wet brown, decoupaged in algae, and she suppresses a laugh. 'Oops. That was an accident.'

She looks up at Snow, and he meets her eyes. His own are cold and unreadable. And then, quite casually, he crouches down, reaches out to her, grasps a handful of her hair, and forces her beneath the water.

The water is very shallow, so at first Katniss is unconcerned. Drowning has only ever been a risk to her if swimming out of her depth. But it takes seconds to realize that she can drown quite easily enough in two feet of pond water if she's held beneath it, and she starts to kick her legs, tries to find purchase in the mud, tries to pull away from him. Panic rises fast as her lungs start to burn. She winds her hands around his fingers and tries to pry them free, but they are firm and strong. She even tries to pull her hair out, but he has gripped too much of it. She is on fire. She cannot hold her breath for much longer. Would he really do this? Would he really murder her on a whim?

Her head is yanked upward, and then air hits her face. She takes a whooping gasp, inhaling both air and water, then collapses against the edge of the pond, her face in the grass, hacking up foul-smelling pondwater.

What with the panic and the coughing and the desperate need to breathe, it takes her a long time to realize Snow's hand is still in her hair. It takes her a long time too to realize that he is smoothing it back, tidying the mess he made.

Katniss jerks away and stands, the picture of dripping wrath. 'Did you just try to fucking drown me?' she shouts.

'I didn't drown you much,' says Snow, and he turns sharply away from her, eyes on the other side of the gardens. For a moment, Katniss is confused, and then she realizes that her silk chemise is soaked through, clinging to her body like a second skin.

'Oh, for… Are you serious? You can drown me, but you can't look at me undressed? Are these your moral standards?'

Snow breathes out, his pupils small against the white winter sky, and then he looks back to her. His eyes do not leave her face. 'I can look at you if you prefer, Katniss. I was only trying to respect your privacy.'

'You respect my privacy but not my right to breathe?'

'Exactly,' he says, as though this is quite straightforward.

'You're unbelievable. The bruise you gave me two weeks ago only just healed.' She is furious. 'So now you want to give me a new injury?'

'A little ducking is not like to injure you,' he says levelly. 'And that was different. Hitting you was…' He shakes his head. 'That was an offense. This was just…'

Katniss immediately, inexplicably, knows what this was to him.

'Fun?' she completes.

He considers. He modifies. 'This was play.'

Of course. His idea of fun and play is drowning her, just a little. Katniss is briefly shocked, then the shock washes away through her. She entertains herself with thoughts about killing him in a dozen different ways every day; who is she to judge if he likes to play, too?

But it's different. They're almost playing the same game, but not quite. The shapes of their pieces are different. He makes moves she cannot understand, and she makes moves he can't understand, either. She doesn't like his version of the game, and he doesn't like hers. His involves drowning her. Hers involves forcing her tongue into his mouth.

'I am going to shower and change,' says Snow, eyeing with distaste his soaked clothing. 'I suggest you do the same. It is going to take time to get rid of this smell.'

'Want us to share a shower?' she calls after him, smiling her pleasured grimace, and Snow casts her a final disdainful look. His gaze drops down her body and halts at her leg. He points. 'You have a horseleech.'

Katniss glances down. He's right. Beneath the hem of her chemise, which perfectly sticks to her thighs, there is a huge, black worm attached to her skin. Snow has already started walking back to the mansion. With disgust, she rips it off and hurls it after Snow's retreating back.

Katniss' brief encounter with drowning sours her enjoyment of the pond, so once Snow disappears she gathers up her clothes and walks barefoot back to the mansion, back to her chambers, and there she takes a long, hot shower. It distresses her to wash her hair. She can feel Snow's fingers in it still, yanking at her; and, worse, smoothing it again. But she scrubs four different kinds of shampoo and conditioner into it until she is sure she has washed out every particle of Snow, and she also examines the cut on her thigh that she likes to reopen. The pondwater has not agreed with it, but still she scrubs open the healing scab and gets it to bleed once again. This is her scar. It belongs to no one but her.

Katniss then goes to examine whatever car crash the stylists have left her today. It's really not so bad, she finds. The dress, heather-grey, is incredibly normal: short but sensible sleeves, a bust cut just below her collar bones, and floor-length. Examining her reflection, Katniss thinks she looks much older. She really could be the President's wife in this, not just a prisoner-bride. The thought brings her both relief and despair. The more comfortable she gets, the deeper inside hell she'll be stuck.

As ever, she must endure the arrival of the stylists who are, today, mercifully efficient in winding her hair into a tall, woven pile, though she winces this time when the fake nails are applied. Her raw, bleeding skin is coping less and less well with the adhesive. But the pain is grounding, and it's almost pleasant to feel all of her fingertips tingle beneath their artificial nails. It means that, beneath it all, she's still real.

Before leaving her chambers to join Snow, Katniss first hikes up her skirts and ties a thick piece of ribbon around her upper thigh. She then selects the best weapon available to her, a letter opener (as if she ever gets letters), and slides it under the ribbon. If Snow tries to drown her again, she will ensure he regrets it.

The letter opener seems secure enough against her leg as she walks to the foyer. When she rounds the top of the stairs she sees Snow, waiting as he likes to do at the bottom of the steps for her. He has opted for a suit in a soft silk blend of blackish, purplish grey, a darker version of her own color. They match. He looks up and he smiles, and she feels warm hatred flutter through her.

'Excellent,' he says, as though everything is normal. He tilts his head at her. 'Are you coming down?'

She stares down at him. 'Are you going to drown me, or strangle me, or yank my hair around?'

Snow's smile is inscrutable. 'I wasn't intending to, unless you provoke me.'

'All I do is provoke you.' It's an idle comment, but the truth of it bites at Katniss. It really is all she does. She cannot kill him, cannot truly damage him. She can only pull at his threads and tease him. All she can do is play – and worst of all, he seems to enjoy it.

But she knows there are some games she plays that he doesn't enjoy. She still has opportunities to hurt him.

Snow's strange smile softens. 'Alright, Katniss. I promise I won't do anything to upset you. Shall we try to be friends with each other tonight?'

Katniss lingers, chewing her bleeding mouth. Snow laughs quietly.

'Of course, you don't like to think of us as friends. Alright. How about a truce? Is that acceptable to you?'

Katniss drums her terrible false nails against the balcony, and then deigns to descend. Snow looks so pleased. She is just the perfect, ribbon-wrapped gift he ordered.

They sit together in the limo, and everything feels oddly comfortable and normal. This, too, is hateful. Katniss does not want it ever to feel normal to sit beside the man who murdered all of Haymitch's family, or who allowed the Peacekeepers to whip people death on a weekly basis, or who…

Katniss is starting to feel tired. 'How many people have you killed?' she asks idly.

Snow is handsome and terrible when he tells her, 'Oh, some thousands, I expect.' He considers. 'I would need to consult some records, if you require a more accurate number.'

Katniss' hatred sits hot and familiar in the base of her abdomen. 'Do you care?'

Snow seems to give this genuine consideration. 'Human life does not mean much to me. Which is not to say it means nothing, but it means little. I do not expend it unnecessarily, but no, I do not "care" about the people for whose deaths I am responsible. There would be no point to it.'

Katniss thinks about evisceration. She could do it slowly and artfully. She cannot paint like Peeta, nor sew like Prim; she is not good at making things beautiful. But she could make a certain beauty out of Snow's insides. She could make him a masterpiece.

'Do you like hurting people?' she says. Her voice is a quiet moth.

He considers this, too. 'I don't generally enjoy hurting people for the sake of it. But I am content to do it.'

'Do you like hurting me?'

The question seems to catch him. Snow does not look at her as he turns it over in his mind. He is trying not to lie to her. She cannot parse his expression when he meets her eyes again. 'Sometimes.'

This makes Katniss' hatred quiver and shine. Another question slips into her mouth. 'After the auction, when…' She leaves a lacuna rather than describe the assault. 'There was something wrong with your mouth.'

He nods. 'Ulceration.' He does not explain further.

'Does that make it hurt when I kiss you?'

This seems to amuse him. 'Sometimes,' he repeats, and gives her a strange look. 'When you're aggressive.'

She finally turns away from him. She feels weirdly soothed and glittering in the depths of her belly. 'Good.'

The party is in the penthouse of a colossal, black-glass skyscraper, and Katniss feels light-headed to travel up so high. She and Snow share the mirrored elevator alone, where the lights are weird and dim in a way they aren't back at the mansion. She peers at her reflection, touching her face, wondering if she looks different in this other kind of light.

'What are you doing?' Snow asks.

'Just making sure the bruise is gone.' She shrugs at him. 'I'm not trying to guilt-trip you. I just wanted to check.'

Snow frowns at nothing. Katniss thinks he would prefer it if she was trying to guilt-trip him. That's a chess move. Simply wearing a bruise in public isn't part of the game.

Not yet, anyway.

The elevator spits them out in a vast bronze corridor and a severe doorman admits them through the only door, bowing obsequiously, and they emerge into a space so large Katniss stumbles at the threshold. The phrase private party had suggested something intimate at someone's home. This apartment is the size of the District 12 town square. There is a dining area complete with buffet, champagne fountain, and candlelit tables; there are hundreds of people milling about; there is even a dance floor, where people are making merry to elegant yet up-tempo string music.

'Do you actually like these events?' she murmurs to Snow.

'I despise them,' he says, and then smiles in welcome as a man who is later introduced as a major munitions producer, as well as their host, comes to greet them. Katniss remains hot and sparkling with hatred as they talk to this man and then move on, circulating the party. She keeps herself wrapped neatly around Snow's arm and she amuses herself thinking about different ways she could cut him as they chat with various politicians. Envisioning his skin wetly opening to her knife gives her a blissful thrum. Waiters pass them bearing extra hors d'oeuvres and fanciful cocktails that Snow won't let Katniss take. She likes the look of the drinks with little fruits, especially the cherries, and at one point steals the lime wedge out of Snow's own drink to chew on. They have nothing like this variety of fruit in District 12.

Though the political conversation is incredibly bland, she tries to pay some attention. Perhaps there is some actual information to be gleaned beneath the chitchat. They're talking mostly about some vote that she has heard mentioned before. She didn't even know people voted anymore.

'Of course, Marius is solid,' says the middle-aged man to whom Snow is speaking. 'He won't budge in his support, but his health has been poor for some time.'

'That isn't a concern,' says Snow. 'He won't need to last much longer.'

'Do you mean to hold the vote soon?' says the other man with surprise. 'I can't see what benefit there is in that for you. It's extremely precarious.'

'It's always precarious,' Snow says, smiling, and Katniss wishes she had any idea what was going on.

When Snow wheels her away from this conversation, seeking out someone else he needs to speak to, Katniss stands on tiptoe and whispers into his ear.

'What is this vote everyone is talking about?'

He speaks quietly to her. His breath makes her neck tingle with anxiety. 'One person from each of the nine Capitol boroughs will sit on a council to decide who might replace me. Of course, there is nothing democratic about the process. Usually I would simply choose the group myself, but what with the unrest in the Capitol, I might be facing some opposition.'

'So you want to just pick who should replace you, but the rest of the Capitol might try to stop you?'

'Yes,' says Snow, simply. 'Certain people are just itching for my succession. Those who think I'm too old… Too incompetent…' He shoots her a sardonic smile. 'Too besotted with a child from District 12. And, of course, the moment the vote is held and my successor is announced, people will be anticipating my death with bated breath.'

Katniss frowns as they walk through the party, their arms casually interwoven, and one of her fingers idly rubs against one of the scabs she's left on her husband's hand. 'What would happen to me, if you died?'

'Oh, they'd try to execute you immediately,' he says lazily, as though this is of zero concern. He turns bright eyes upon her. 'But you don't need to worry about that.'

She is incredulous. 'Don't I?'

'I said I'd protect you,' he says in his light, conversational tone, 'and I meant it. You will be alright.'

After several more rounds of strange men in expensive suits with questions Katniss struggles to understand, Snow decides to take a break from socializing, or networking, or manipulating, or whatever it is he's doing. He brings Katniss to a pair of seats near the dance floor and they rest, the pair of them perfect and radiant in their complimentary purple-grey outfits.

'Can I have a drink?' Katniss asks.

'No.'

She slouches resentfully in her seat. 'I'm thirsty.'

Snow gauges her sincerity, then summons a waiter to get her something called a 'virgin daiquiri' and assures her she won't be able to 'get drunk and embarrass herself' on it. It comes complete with fresh strawberries and a silly little paper umbrella, which almost makes up for the lack of alcohol.

As they sit there in what almost passes for companionable silence, a few people sidle up to try to sneak an audience with the President. Snow holds up his hand in dismissal to each of them and they always back away. Katniss is a little amused at the sycophancy people show. Even at her youngest and most terrified of Snow, she would have never behaved like this.

She entertains herself by watching the other couples dance. Some are laughing, some look in love, most look happy. A weird mix of pangs stir in her chest. She wants to dance like she used to do with Prim, at harvest festivals and weddings. She wants affection. She wants the touch of someone other than Snow. She wants to feel not so horribly lonely. And she wants to have fun that doesn't result in pondwater in her windpipe.

Well, she can't have all of those things. But maybe she can have one or two of them.

'Do you want to dance?' she says, her voice genuine and hopeful.

Snow shoots her an unpleasant look. 'Of course not.'

Katniss is annoyed at how deeply her heart sinks. Even if it's Snow, who she hates so much, the rejection still hurts her inside. 'It might be fun,' she tries again. 'I liked dancing last time we did it.'

Snow doesn't even bother to answer her. He doesn't trust her. He thinks this is part of her games.

Katniss is furious to realize she feels suddenly like crying, and she takes a long draught of her drink to distract her body. But a moment later there is a hand extended to her and a man smiling.

'Personally, I would love the honor of dancing with you, Mrs Snow,' says the man.

It takes Katniss a moment to place him. Neatly dressed, dully attractive, white-teethed smile. Daric, the Senator from their wedding reception. The man Snow hates so much.

She doesn't even look to her husband for permission. 'Of course, Senator Daric,' she says, polite and elegant, and she lets him help her to her feet and lead her onto the dance floor without so much as a backward glance at Snow. She will have her fun with or without him.

Unfortunately, dancing with Daric is a decision she immediately regrets. She can cope with Snow touching her; his evil is so familiar. And if it was Prim or someone she knew from District 12, that would be different. But Daric's hands on her back and her palm make her itchy and claustrophobic, and he smells weird, and she doesn't like the way he smiles at her, either. It's not a leer, it's just so insincere and rehearsed that she wants to cut his mouth off his face. The library of Snow's thoughts are difficult to read, but she's not certain if Daric has any thoughts at all. He has a vacant, TV-ready smile that betrays absolutely nothing. He's not even a particularly good dancer.

'How are you enjoying married life, Mrs Snow?'

'Oh, you know,' she says, performing the waltz that Virgilia taught her. 'It's delightful.'

Daric laughs. Someone this blandly handsome must have been grown in a lab. 'I can only imagine that marriage to Coriolanus Snow comes with its challenges.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' she retorts, then pauses to let him twirl her.

'I only meant that he has his faults, if it's not out of line to say so.'

'It is out of line,' she snaps. Don't let him get cocky. Snow's power is everything here: without it, she's dead.

'I apologize, that was inappropriate of me,' smiles Daric in his insincere, unpleasant way. 'He's a great man. A fantastic man. He has done so much for our nation.'

Katniss clenches her teeth as Daric pulls her closer and wishes she was dancing with Snow instead. Then she draws a black line through that thought and wishes she was dancing with Gale.

'Perhaps,' Daric continues, 'someone could continue his work. He must be considering a well-deserved retirement at this point in his life. Think how much could be done to build on his legacy.'

'Like what?'

Daric smiles and Katniss thinks about blood. 'I would love to speak to you about my policies, sometime.' Daric leans a little closer to her and lowers his voice. It's just the two of them in this conversation. 'Personally, Mrs Snow, I think our President's time is coming to an end. I cannot imagine that an intelligent girl like you doesn't see that, too. I would love to talk to you about who might succeed him.'

Katniss blinks at him. Is she being invited to, what, take part in a coup? Sabotage her husband? Throw him to the wolves and jump into the pit herself for good measure?

The song isn't even over, but Katniss pulls the dance abruptly to a stop. 'Thank you for the dance, Senator,' she says, unable and unwilling to hide her dripping bile.

It is instinct that brings her back to Snow; she wouldn't know where else to go if she tried. When she returns to their table, she is surprised to see him staring at her with real, open fury. She blinks at him as she sits and starts fiddling with the umbrella in her drink.

'What's wrong? Are you angry at me?'

'Enjoy your dance with Daric?' There's a pettiness to his displeasure that dampens Katniss' fight-or-flight impulse.

'Not really. He's rude and arrogant.' She chases strawberry leaves around the bottom of her empty glass. 'Why, are you jealous?'

Snow doesn't answer this, and Katniss realizes – with a shaft of golden light – that Snow is jealous. Regardless of whatever personal disdain he might have for her, he does not want to see his wife dancing with another man. This is both strangely amusing and a little disconcerting. It raises all sorts of unpleasant questions she has not considered. Snow has always emphasized that their marriage is purely political; Katniss had assumed that he would sleep around and that she, one day, might do the same thing – even if real, romantic relationships would be too dangerous. She suddenly wonders if he expects them to be faithful to one another. Is that part of his weird sexual morality?

Katniss taps her umbrella against her glass. 'I did ask if you wanted to dance,' she says defensively, then chews her bottom lip. 'Have you changed your mind? Do you want to?'

For a moment, Snow only quietly fumes and Katniss hopes there is something feeding his discontent other than her entirely innocuous crime of dancing with another man. But eventually he looks at her, expression light again, fury gone, and says, 'Alright.'

He stands and she does too, and he leads her by her hand to the dance floor. Their wedding rings sparkle. Space is politely made on the floor for the President and his wife, and together they slide easily into their familiar positions. Their third dance. It's almost a shared hobby. Katniss feels the usual scrawl of her anxiety as Snow takes her hand and waist, but it is soon deadened by the music and the dancing. Snow is a far better dancer than Daric, and it feels so wonderful to be able to do something vaguely athletic. Swimming and dancing… Two things in her new life that don't make her want to kill herself.

Well, now swimming provokes a fear of drowing, but it's still a start.

'You need to consider the optics,' says Snow, quite out of nowhere, and Katniss blinks at him.

'What?'

'Daric is my rival. You are my wife, and there is speculation enough as it is about our marriage. You can't dance with the man looking to usurp me.'

'Well, I did ask you to dance and you said no,' says Katniss, and Snow dips her a little more aggressively than she judges is really necessary.

'Why do you even want to dance?' he says, righting her once more.

'I like dancing,' she says, quite simply.

Snow has nothing to say to that, and for a few minutes they do not speak. They only dance, stepping neatly, Snow infallible and Katniss keeping up to a degree that she's privately proud of. Her heart pushes and pulls between her anxiety at Snow's touch and her enjoyment of the dance, and in time she can let the former fade away. She even improvises a little, incorporating a few of the more elegant and elaborate moves from the District 12 summer dances, which doesn't seem to please Snow.

'Try not to get carried away,' he mutters into her ear.

Katniss spins herself into shadow position so that her back is against Snow's chest, their hands interlinked, her arms crossed, and she smiles up at him spitefully. 'Aren't you having fun?'

'No.'

'What, drowning me is fun but dancing with me isn't?'

Snow tries to drop her hands, but Katniss holds on. She moves her body comfortably and athletically against his and balances herself within the anxiety provoked by the heavy, strong size of his chest against her back, and of his breath on the nape of her neck. She's danced like this before with Gale, his arms around her waist, their bodies pressed together, the two of them laughing about something she can no longer remember... But though she can tolerate Snow's body against her, she can feel an incredible tension in him. His arms are stiff, hands pulling away from hers, trying to stop the dance without embarrassing them. He is really not enjoying this.

'Let go,' he hisses in her ear. 'We're done. Let go of me.'

The anger in his voice is bizarrely tinged with what sounds like fear, and so Katniss does. She turns herself back around so they're facing each other and steps back from him, confused, and Snow does not meet her eyes.

'Did I do something wrong?'

He hitches on a smile that looks more like a grimace as onlookers applaud them. So many people are always watching. 'No. It's fine. That's enough dancing, I think. I have people to talk to anyway.'

He escorts her from the dance floor and drops her hand as soon as it's polite to do so, then strides off in the opposite direction. Katniss is genuinely confused. She seems to upset him more without trying than she does when actively pushing his buttons. Does he think she's playing a game? What move does he think she's making?

Katniss is left alone in the party. What now? She can see crowds of dead-faced society wives that are desperate to catch her eye, all probably raring for more sexual gossip. Maybe she should do it, just to spite Snow… If only she had the experience to get really graphic… But her best knowledge of fucking is getting Prim's goat bred, and Katniss doesn't think that there will be much cross-application.

Instead, she wanders over to the balcony. It's emptier there, and it brings her some respite from the hot, pressing air of the party. She leans over the railing. She can see here the entire city stretching out to the presidential mansion. It occupies a huge, dark rectangle: the black grounds and gardens, a relief from the constant light pollution of the city. She wishes she was there right now, away from the party, and then she bites the inside of her mouth and wishes instead she was in District 12. She wants her forest, not Snow's gardens; her beautiful lake, not his wretched pond.

'Fantastic view, huh?'

She turns. A young man is standing beside her, holding a glowing milk cocktail. His cropped beard has been shaven into elaborate patterns and his robe is an unpleasant shade of magenta.

'Yeah, it's fine,' she says. After Daric, she has extremely limited patience for irritating men who want to chat and flirt and plot with her.

The man sidles up and extends his hand. 'Curio Nance. Designer. I actually designed that pair of silver pumps you wore on TV for your engagement announcement.'

Katniss does not take his hand. 'Oh,' she says.

He laughs off her rebuff. 'You're not very personable, huh? You always did seem a bit hot-and-cold on TV.'

Katniss stares at him through impassive, empty eyes. 'Why would the President's wife want to speak to a fashion designer?' She looks him up and down. 'You designed a pair of shoes I don't even remember wearing. Why would I care about you?'

Katniss is so accustomed to the subtle variations of Snow's face that it's jarring to watch someone go so quickly from charm to open offense.

Nance gets closer to her and Katniss prepares to smash her glass into his face. The man dips his face to hers. Cologne and shellfish smell. Katniss has become excellently conditioned not to recoil from disgust.

'You think you're better than the rest of us, huh? A girl from District 12?' He gets even closer. Katniss curls her hands around the stem of her glass. 'You're a whore. Everyone knows it. Fucking your way into the presidential mansion. I think it's embarrassing to see a sad old man dragging around a desperate little prostitute like you.'

He leans back, proud of himself, smug and smooth as his awful milk drink.

Katniss tightens her fingers around her glass, then breathes out very slowly. She doesn't need to put glass in this man's face. She has other options.

She indulges a pretty, girlish smile. 'If you'll excuse me, Mr Nance,' she says, and he sneers at her with oily gratification.

Katniss turns on her heel and pushes back into the heat of the party. It only takes her a moment to spot Snow; he is one of the tallest men here. She cuts through the guests like a shark. The people talking to Snow look at him with that particular mix of terror and admiration that Katniss finds so embarrassing. She can be terrified of him plenty. She'd rather pull out her teeth than admire him.

She slides a hand around his arm and Snow turns to her, offering that special, warm smile that he makes sure to reserve just for her. She smiles back.

'Can I have a word, darling?'

'Of course, my dear. Excuse me.' He nods his goodbyes and lets Katniss escort him to a quieter corner. Even in her heels, she has to stretch to whisper into his ear. He always inclines his head to make it easier for her.

'That man just called me a whore.' She points across the crowd. 'He said you were a sad old man who hired a prostitute to show off.'

There is no anger or even irritation to Snow's expression. He is consummate serenity.

'The man in purple walking in from the balcony?'

'Yes.'

'Well, we can't have that,' he murmurs. The warm, bloody breeze of his breath disturbs a wisp of Katniss' hair. 'But this could be useful to us. Come along.'

He takes her hand quite gently, and she grips him back. Her heart roars in her chest as blood and anxiety fill her. They walk leisurely together and the crowd parts obligingly, some of them nodding their respects, but Snow and Katniss do not look at any of them. Katniss keeps rubbing the healing scars on the back of her husband's hand.

Nance seems to be pretending that he is not being approached until they stand directly in front of him, and then he shows Snow a manic grin.

'Mister President!' he says, in jubilant and stunned greeting.

Snow's smile is reptilian. 'Forgive me, I do not think I know your name, young man.'

'Curio Nance, sir.'

'I see. And what do you do?'

'I'm a designer, sir. I was just telling your wife that I actually designed a pair of shoes she wore on TV.'

President Snow laughs, and a moment later Curio Nance laughs, but no joke has been made.

'It just so happens I don't care about fashion designers.' Snow laughs again, and so does Nance, but uncertainly, this time. The crowd of the party has stopped to listen. Snow raises his voice for the next part: 'But I do care when someone calls my wife a whore.' Silence collapses over the crowd. 'Did I hear that right, Mister Nance? You called my wife a whore?'

Curio Nance isn't laughing any more. He trips over his words. 'It was, uh – not really, she misunderstood – it was just—'

'Do you think my wife doesn't understand when she's being insulted?'

'I understood completely,' says Katniss, and the sharp pride in her voice is real. She is holding Snow's hand very tightly.

'Are you calling my wife stupid or are you calling her a whore?' Snow is smiling, sweet as anything, all charm and teeth. Some people have started to back away from the scene. The room is sepulchral-silent.

'No! Neither! No, I just – she misunderstood, it was a bad joke—'

Snow laughs like silver gunfire. He claps the man on the shoulder. 'I understand. Of course. My wife is young. Perhaps she appears vapid and stupid to you.' The smile drops from his voice. 'But I saw Katniss Everdeen at sixteen years old kill a boy without thinking about it. I saw her survive burning alive.' He looks at Katniss and she at him, and for the first time in public she thinks he is looking at her honestly. His eyes are wide, silver and black, and she feels herself blister in the force of them. 'I knew she was extraordinary. I knew she was superlative.' Snow's voice baptizes her face with blood. And then he looks back at Nance. 'And you, Curio Nance the fashion designer, deign to call her whore.' His head inclines. 'That sounds like treason. And do you know how we punish treason?'

'I didn't—' There is fear in his eyes, now.

Snow looks to his left. Two of his personal security are shadowing him. Katniss hadn't even seen them sneak up. Snow nods at them, once.

Nance just has time to say, 'No, please, what—' and then the security heft him by the arms, carry him back to the balcony, and deposit him on the other side of the low wall.

He does not call out as he falls. They are so high up that you cannot even hear the thud. But they hear people below screaming.

Snow and Katniss turn back to the room, hand in hand, and her heart is racing so fast she thinks she might pass out.

Snow smiles. 'Thank you, all, for your hospitality.'

'You killed him,' is the first thing Katniss says once the car doors shut.

'That was useful,' Snow replies, sitting beside her in the limo. 'A little theatricality can be very effective.'

'You threw him off a balcony.'

Snow smiles like this is all a joke. 'You knew that would happen. That's why you came to me. You wanted to see me kill him.'

Katniss is horrified. 'No, I didn't!' she shouts. 'How could I know you would do that?'

'What else did you think would happen?' Voice like chamomile.

'I don't know! I thought you'd humiliate him, or send him to prison, or something. I didn't think you'd kill him!'

'Didn't you?' Snow is curious, examining her, feeling her out. 'Well, now you know the consequences of your actions. And besides, it was quite propitious. No one is likely to forget that incident anytime soon. No one will dare breathe any insults against us aloud.'

Katniss folds herself into the corner of the seat and rubs her forehead. The fear in the man's face swims before her. 'It's my fault he's dead,' she murmurs.

'Yes, from a certain perspective,' says Snow lightly. 'I am content to be your instrument in such matters. Some vermin are better off extinguished.' He pats her hand and she pulls it away. 'Try not to fret about it. In time, you'll forget his name.'

'I never forget the names of people I killed,' says Katniss, her voice sounding out of tune in her throat. 'I don't have that luxury.'

'Well, when you kill enough people, eventually they start to blur together,' says Snow, and then he turns his attention to his tablet. 'Next will be the gallery opening… Oh, that should amuse you…'

She stares. 'We're still going to the gallery? A man just died.'

'Men die every day,' says Snow. 'And women. And children. You know that.' He glances her over, as though checking for cracks in ceramic. 'Are you going to be alright?'

'Oh, I'll be fine,' she says, only a little too shrill. 'Kill a man, go look at some paintings. Sure. I can do that.' She can feel Snow's curious eyes still on her and she takes a deep, centering breath. Nance is dead; she can't change that. Move onto the next thing. Keep moving. Stay alive. She tries to smile at her husband, but her mouth is malformed. 'I'm absolutely fine.'

Snow evaluates her one moment longer, then he smiles back. 'Wonderful.'

Katniss turns away to watch the dark streets and the chaos of the Capitol city night lights move past the window. People watch their car pass. The President and his wife. What excitement they must bring.

'Were you telling the truth?' she murmurs.

'About what?'

'About me. About seeing me in the Games and thinking I was…' She waves a hand vaguely. 'Whatever it was you called me.'

'Oh? Hm.' He smiles. 'Extraordinary and superlative. Well, it took me a little time to reach that conclusion. At first I just had you marked as a troublemaker.' His smile is keen. 'But look at you now.'

Just when Katniss thinks she possesses a complete taxonomy of Snow's smiles, he looks at her in a newly brilliant and horrible way. Sometimes she thinks she is sitting with a stranger. 'Did you like watching me kill people?'

'Oh, yes.' His smile is genuinely cheerful. 'A shame I didn't catch it live. But I could hardly have anticipated quite how compelling you would become.' The smile widens. 'I rewatch your kills in the Games, sometimes. They're quite thrilling.'

She stares. 'You… rewatch my kills?'

'I do. I had my team make a cut of them.' Nostalgia clouds his eyes. 'Your execution of the District 1 male is always my favorite. So efficient. So confident. You became quite the killer.'

Katniss doesn't know what to say. 'You're a monster,' she whispers, her throat sticky.

She tries to turn away, but two fingers – gentle but insistent, feathery steel – momentarily alight on her chin to tilt it back around.

'You and I are the same, my dear.'

She yanks her head away, her chin burning from his touch, and pushes herself to the far end of the limousine seat. 'I am nothing like you.'

'Perhaps not yet,' he says, still smiling, always smiling. 'You're young. You're still blooming.' His delight is iridescent. 'Give it time.'

When Katniss enters the art gallery, arm interlinked with Snow's, she thinks she has gone mad. What seems like infinite pairs of her own eyes stare back at her out of copies of her own face. Some are cloyingly beautiful, some are violent charcoal sketches, some are abstract. Every painting in the gallery is of her. There's even a statue of her, bow drawn, prideful and terrible.

A crowd of artists, patrons, and Capitol intelligentsia applaud at Snow and Katniss' entrance.

Katniss turns to her husband and whispers through smiling teeth. 'What the fuck is this?'

Snow whispers back. 'Well, they wanted their annual theme to be the presidential wedding. I vetoed that; I am far too old to want to stare at dozens of pictures of my own face. So I suggested they make you the subject. Good publicity if nothing else.' He points at one painting, where Katniss' face emerges from a thick tide of oil paint blood. 'That one is rather good. We could buy it, if you like.'

Katniss stares at him. 'Are you joking?'

'Perhaps.' He never stops smiling. 'Come along. They all want to meet their muse.'

This is a new kind of hell. Katniss meets artist after artist after artist, and she has to listen again and again to how inspired they were when she killed Marvel, how watching her scream and burn alive was an artistic revelation, how seeing her cower and starve and nearly die again and again gave them all just the little light they needed to fulfil their creative ambitions.

Snow says little. He is content to let the artists and patrons witter on about so-and-so influences or such-and-such techniques, but occasionally he interjects with a sharp correction. 'That was Alloise. He painted the "Three Violins", not Ambrose,' or, 'Wrong. She was a neo-rationalist,' or simply, 'No, Rembrandt invented that technique,' which isn't a name anyone seems to recognize, though they all pretend to.

Katniss, meanwhile, tries to understand the point at which going insane becomes outright insanity. Her own face smiles back at her from every angle, but sometimes she is sure the paintings depict Curio Nance instead. The more she thinks she sees his face, the more she sees other faces: all those she killed, other people who have died, all staring at her, all beautiful and perfect… This is intolerable.

She inclines her mouth to Snow's ear and whispers so no one else will hear.

'I'm going to go take a shit.'

She smiles at everyone like she's just said something romantic, then pats Snow on the arm and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

The Capitol bathrooms never cease to stun and annoy her. Toilet cubicles that are big enough to live in. Sinks that do five different things as well as washing your hands. Bidets that… well, Katniss isn't really sure what bidets are supposed to do.

She turns on the sink and splashes herself with cool water, and then she regards her reflection. She looks annoyed. This, at least, is reassuring. Katniss Everdeen always looked annoyed. Hostile. That's what Haymitch said. Well, they can't beat the hostility out of her, no matter how many pairs of heels they make her wear.

Someone else enters the bathroom and Katniss glances up on instinct, then looks back at her own reflection. Don't stare at people in bathrooms. She at least knows that piece of etiquette.

But whoever has entered obviously doesn't, and Katniss watches the woman in her peripheries. The person is staring at her.

Katniss turns. 'What?'

The woman is dressed as a waiter, but Katniss' hunter senses tell her a dozen things are wrong. The cut of her clothes, her firm stance, the focus in her eyes, and the way her hand is moving behind her back…

Katniss looks around. The woman blocks the only exit.

She pulls a knife.

Katniss runs.

She tries first for the only exit, feinting one way, lunging the other, trying to get around the woman – but that knife arcs expertly and then Katniss is aware of a searing pain in her arm just as a rainbow of blood explodes through the air.

She turns and runs for a cubicle. It is a miracle that she gets there in time, slams the door in time, slides the lock closed. For a moment she remains perfectly silent, her hiding instinct kicking in – but then she remembers she is not ensconced in the forest, hiding from Peacekeepers. She is in a fucking toilet cubicle.

A blow lands against the door and it shakes in its hinges.

Katniss opens her mouth and screams. Then she says help a few times, and then she screams some more. Will anyone hear her? The music in the gallery is loud, and the doors and walls are thick. She wishes she had some way to contact Snow. Is it not his job to protect her? Is that not the reason she married him in the first place?

The door shakes in its hinges again.

A weapon. She needs a weapon.

She has a weapon. The letter opener.

Katniss fumbles with her long skirt, cursing that today of all days they put her in something that covers her skin. She vaguely notes that there are sheets of blood running down her arm. She's been cut badly.

The hinge cracks.

Katniss pulls free the letter opener and tests her fingers around its hilt. Should she throw it? No, she has no practice with its heft. Too easy to miss. Stab up, or stab down? She is panicking.

The door slams open.

The woman's eyes take a second to focus on Katniss. The hand holding that nasty blade, much sharper than a letter opener, hangs loose at her side; she has been too concentrated on kicking down the door to raise it. This gives Katniss less than a second of advantage.

Katniss screams with fear and rage and a month of suppressed hatred at Snow's hands on her body and hurls herself forward, one hand grabbing the wrist of the woman's to restrain the knife, the other hand aiming the letter opener for her neck.

It's no good, it's too blunt. It barely breaks the skin. But the assassin is caught off guard, and Katniss takes that extra second of luxurious freedom to stab again. The woman tries to stop her, but Katniss is still strong and so hateful, channelling all her force and adrenaline and despair into the blow, and this time blood starts to flow. At the same time, Katniss feels hot, sharp licks against her thigh. She's stopping the assassin from raising her hand, but that blade is long and hungry and it is reaching out to her.

Katniss angles herself, hoping her thigh muscle will take the worst of the knife. She needs to protect that femoral artery. Needs to stab again. Again. Again. There are no more licks on her thigh. The woman's eyes are large, confused, and Katniss keeps stabbing. When the woman drops the knife Katniss keeps stabbing, and when the woman falls to her knees and then to the floor, Katniss keeps stabbing. She drops onto the woman's hips, straddling her just as she did with Snow and the scissors, and she stabs and she stabs and she stabs, and she screams. When she runs out of neck, she drives the letter opener into the face, over and over, undoing the sense of lips and eyes and nose and writing them over with wet, red scribbles.

Katniss loses time. She is dizzy. She isn't aware when she stops stabbing, or when she drops the letter opener. Her vision darkens.

Femoral artery, she thinks. Quick way to bleed out. I'm sorry, Prim. Snow will protect you. I made him promise…

Everything is black, but her sense of hearing still pulses vaguely around her. A waiter finds her first, collapsed in the cubicle. The next person at her semi-conscious side is one of Snow's security team. Then there is talking about a first aid kit and something about bandages, but there is also so, so much blood.

'Katniss?'

She knows that voice. Oak bark and sweet sap. Through her woozy state, her vision crowded with beetles, Katniss' consciousness gropes vaguely toward Snow. So often now he is her terrible guiding light.

'I'm here,' she says faintly. 'I'm okay.' This isn't true, but at least she's still breathing. She's survived worse.

Snow is talking to a woman who is doing something to Katniss' arm. Katniss can feel different things sticking into it. Their words float to her across a vast ocean.

'How severe are her injuries?'

'The wound in the arm is deep. It needs stitches. But the brachial artery is intact. The leg wounds are superficial.'

'I'm not dying?' slurs Katniss.

'Of course not,' says Snow, and his voice is sharp. 'My wife is not going to die in a toilet cubicle. Don't be ridiculous.'

Katniss laughs gleefully. She is extremely light-headed. 'I want to die in the forest,' she says. 'In the meadow.' Her vision is a smear, but she can just about make out the shape of Snow's gleaming white head. 'And I don't want you there when I die.'

'Are you sure she's alright?' Snow asks.

'She's lost a lot of blood, but we've stabilized her with the emergency pack and I've stitched the laceration. We'll get her a longer transfusion once we're at the mansion.'

Katniss thinks she must be feeling a little better, because she is now aware of how uncomfortable she is: the hard tile beneath her, the ceramic toilet bowl serving as a cushion. I'm so uncomfortable, she thinks, and then she realizes she must have said it out loud, because then there is something soft underneath her head. It takes her a while to recognize that Snow has removed his jacket. He has folded it and made a pillow for her. She wants to spit at him, but she can't do much more than lie there and bleed.

Katniss regains enough of her vision to see that the woman has sewed up the wound in her arm, which looks vicious, and is now removing a tube from her vein. Oh, how she would like to pump Snow's own blood out through tubes.

'Katniss?' Snow says.

She parrots his voice in an exaggerated whisper: 'Coriolanus?' She is still a little hysterical.

Snow smiles. Does he prefer her hysterical? 'Are you able to stand? We should get you back home.'

She gives a lolling nod and allows him to guide her to her feet, and she only wavers a little. Once she's out of the cubicle she feels steadier and she swats him away.

'Oh,' she says, catching her reflection in the bathroom mirrors. She is covered in blood: thick sheets of her own blood, falling from her arm and over her clothes and waist, but also the rich spray of her assailant's blood that has managed to get on her chest and face and hair. There's blood on her shoes, blood on the hem of her dress, and blood on her fingers. 'Perhaps I should get cleaned up before I go out there.'

She tries to go to the sinks, but Snow stops her. 'No,' he says. 'Let them see you like this.'

Katniss stares at him. She has got blood all over his suit, and he doesn't care. Everything smells of blood now, his breath and her body, and the smells mingle together.

There's something on the floor. It takes Katniss a moment to realize it is the body of a person, with a sort of mushy shape where the head and neck ought to be. She looks at it, uncomprehending.

'Did I do that?' she murmurs.

'You did.' Snow takes her hand. He glows with enchantment. 'Come along. Let them see how magnificent you are.'

The security team take the lead, with Katniss second, and Snow behind her. Katniss isn't sure what to expect. When they wade out into the silence of the gallery, she sees that all the attendees are crowded together in desperate anticipation. They must have known there was some excitement afoot, and now the bloody truth of it is revealed to them. A rush of gasps erupts. Some cameras flash. Will they make the front page, Katniss drenched head to toe in blood and Snow's suit made such a mess? Katniss can feel the soft, wet squeeze of her blood-filled shoes on the gallery floor, and she is mildly concerned how much her wet, bloody dress is going to cling to her thighs and crotch. They cleaned her up so nicely for her Hunger Games victory parade, but now the Capitol get to see up close what Katniss Everdeen really is.

No. Not Everdeen. Snow. Katniss Snow is the one covered in blood today.

When they emerge into the night, Snow's security team have to hold back a small team of reporters. Katniss stares at the cameras in confusion and shellshock, and she blinks bloody sweat out of her eyes.

Consider the optics, comes Snow's voice in her memory. Are these good optics?

Effie would throw a fit.

Snow opens the limousine door for her and Katniss slides across the seats and smears everything with red. Snow climbs in beside her and makes a faint sound of displeasure as he sits in a pool of his wife's blood.

'Sorry,' she says. She is not sorry.

'No matter.' He has also managed to get it all over his palms, which he regards with amusement. 'It suits you, you know. I much prefer you like this.' He looks at her and she meets his eyes, waiting for him to say something else. But he says nothing. He only gazes into her, blackly effulgent. There's a smudge of her own blood on his forehead. She can't even imagine how that got there. 'Katniss…' he says, very softly, and she blinks at him.

'What?'

He leans away from her, his expression shifting back into something more familiar. 'We shall need to reconsider your security detail. This is unacceptable.' He frowns. 'I could have lost you.'

She snorts. 'Just this morning you tried to drown me.' And then her own discomfort settles on her. 'Really, you have everything to gain from my murder. The marriage did what you wanted it to. You said if I displeased you that you would just kill me and blame the rebels.' She runs a finger over the thick stitches in her arm, so much like the barbed wire that rings Snow's estate. Her voice is perfect and smooth. 'Was the assassin one of yours?'

'No,' says Snow immediately. 'I assure you, that was an outside agent. And there will be a full investigation. Whoever is responsible will pay.' They meet one another's eyes, and his are unfathomable. 'I confess, that was what I originally intended. My prediction was that you would find this marriage intolerable. Witnessing the things I witness, sharing in my complicity… Standing with me, side by side. Being with me. I thought that this would destroy you. I thought you'd be a sobbing wreck a week in, a liability. I would have no choice but to get rid of you. Stage an assassination and frame my enemies. All of Panem would mourn your death and support any motion I made to suppress the rebellion.' He smiles slowly, a cold crescent moon. 'But here we are, at our one-month anniversary. And you've been fantastic.'

Katniss stares back. It's like sitting with a jaguar: quiet, elegant Snow, who only needs the slightest shift in his mood to rip your throat out.

'So you've stopped planning to kill me?' she says, uncertainly.

'Yes,' he smiles. 'Have you stopped planning to kill me?'

'No.'

His smile widens. 'Excellent.'

They sit in silence for a while. Katniss wonders at the insanity of their conversations. Talking to Snow is not exactly easy, but it's not difficult either. It's straightforward, there's no small talk. Everything is said with purpose and intent. She finds herself in curious disagreement with her proclamation on the day of their wedding reception. She doesn't want to be alone. Snow, in his honesty and his violence and his malice, remains preferable to the complete isolation she faces without him.

'Do you really think I'm coping with this marriage?' she murmurs. Her arm throbs, her thigh aches, her skull pulses. 'What if I can't? What if I become a liability and you have to kill me?'

Snow shakes his head. 'I won't allow that to happen now.' His expression, horribly, is bright and encouraging. 'I know you can do this.'

She looks at Snow, and with a kind of pleading honesty she says, 'I have never felt so unhappy.'

Snow only smiles. He always smiles: quiet, silver bliss in every particle. 'Your happiness is not terribly important to me. Health, energy, robustness… Those are important. But happiness is a sedative. Happiness is a narcotic. It makes you dull. It makes you disinclined to fight. Happiness would not improve you, Katniss.'

She gazes at him quietly. 'Have you ever been happy?'

Snow smiles at his wife, who quietly bleeds at his side. 'I have never been happier in my life.'