Chrysanta Hackett is fond of tedious tasks. Embelia has always lamented that she doesn't understand it. How doesn't she get bored? Tired of it? She doesn't get any time to think when she does these things.

But that's why Chrysanta likes it. She doesn't like to let her mind wander, not anymore. It only ever takes her somewhere she doesn't want to be. It takes her to memories that are burned into her mind like brands into livestock. So she'll take up the tedious tasks. She'll hand stitch the patches into Embelia's clothes, she'll clean the soot from the hearth and she'll chop the herbs as fine as she can manage, because her mind cannot wander.

She doesn't know how to explain this to Bay who, in all his kindness, insists that she rests and let him take some of the burden.

Chrysanta needs it now, though. More than ever, so in turn she forces Bay to sit down and take off his shirt so she might check how the lashes are healing.

"There she is," says Bay, his eyes on the projector as he leans forward against the table.

"What's she doing?" Chrysanta asks him, afraid to look up. The last she saw, Embelia was wandering about with that little girl from Three. Chrysanta wondered, distantly, what it might be like to talk to people from other districts. She'd never had that opportunity, and likely never would.

"Crying," he says. Her eyes dart up, seeing that she sits with the girl with her head in her hands.

"I miss my mom," Embelia's voice comes through the small speaker, making Chrysanta choke on nothing at all.

Chrysanta hobbles to the chair beside Bay's, sitting down heavily and leaning back, watching her daughter cry before the screen cuts away to the boy from Four, kneeling at the bank of the river while he crafts something Chrysanta can't identify.

She looks down, hands grasped tightly together in her lap. Gently, and slowly as he always does, Bay wraps his warm hand around both of hers, squeezing gently. He never holds her too tight, or too fast. He always gives her the room to pull away, the chance to stop him and spare herself of unwanted touch.

She has heard peacekeepers express hatred for Bay, in passing. They fear him. Think that he is too big, too tough, that he is a dangerous threat who may lash out at any moment in defence of 'that Hackett girl.' But she knows there is not a violent bone in his body. No one she's ever known has ever been so gentle with her as Bay.

"She's doing well," Bay says after a long moment, her teardrops shining on his hand. "Top eight now, right?"

Chrysanta sniffles, inhales slowly and looks up, nodding. "Should I start hoping now?" She asks, smiling weakly.

"If you want to," says Bay. "But I've been hoping the whole time."

She chuckles, wiping her round cheeks and looking back at the projector just as it cuts to her sleeping side by side with the Three girl. Chrysanta could never be prouder of her girl.

How did a girl born of such violence and terror emerge with such a caring soul?

She didn't have to help that girl, didn't have to search a deadly arena for something that might, even for a moment, ease her pain. Maybe no one would have blamed her if she'd turned and left the girl to die. She's all but dead already, after all. But Embelia stayed. Fed her, showed her kindness. Held her little hand when she was scared. Cried with her.

Chrysanta smiles tightly, nodding. Maybe her clever girl can make it home. Maybe she hasn't said her last goodbyes after all. Maybe if Embelia must indeed do cruel things to get home, she should not fear the memory of the grey eyed peacekeeper living on in her.

Both of them are startled by a knocking at the door, quickly followed by a frantic murmuring through the thin walls. Chrysanta looks to Bay with wide eyes, but soon stands up. He's quick to follow, shrugging his shirt back on before wordlessly stopping her and offering to open it for her.

Chrysanta nods.

Bay steps over to the front door and pulls it open, squinting at the fluorescent light that suddenly floods into the house. When her eyes adjust, she sees a strangely dressed woman and a bulbous camera.

Oh. Top eight. This is where they interview the tributes' families.

Chrysanta wants to rush forward and close the door, shutting them out, but some part of her knows cooperating could help her daughter.

"This is the Hackett residence?" The woman asks eagerly, smiling widely at them with glittering teeth.

Bay looks like he has half a mind to tell them where they can shove their camera, but Chrysanta speaks first.

"Yes," she says, stepping forward so she's stood beside Bay. This way, at least, they cannot see into the house. They can't have that. "I'm her mother. This is her…"

"Friend," says Bay sharply, glancing down at Chrysanta and placing a gentle hand on her back. A reassurance. He seems to doubt the safety of this, but Chrysanta hopes he trusts her.

"How sweet!" The woman coos. "And how are we feeling, knowing your daughter has made it so far?"

"Hopeful," says Chrysanta. Perhaps more now than ever before. If this is the only way she can help, what choice has she but to do it? "And proud. My girl is quite clever."

"Clever indeed. That show with the poison was quite something."

Chrysanta smiles tightly. She wishes she had not seen the footage of those inner district children's deaths. She hopes Embelia never will. "Something alright," she agrees. "We hope the Capitol will keep her in their thoughts when they make their sponsorships."

"She's a damn safe bet," says Bay. His voice is clipped, protective. But equal parts proud.

"Well, it's nice to see how confident you all are!" The woman says, oddly seeming starstruck. "Just between us, I'll be betting on her."

"Smart woman," says Bay. "Thanking you for your time."

"Oh, but-"

Bay shuts the door. Chrysanta's shoulders slump, and Bay's hand moves up to her shoulder.

"You alright?" He asks, gently tilting up her chin. "Don't think I've ever seen lights that bright."

Chrysanta smiles, a tired, hopeful smile. "I'm alright. Thank you."

"I should be thanking you. I would've made a fool outta both of us," he chuckles. The chattering outside goes quiet as the interviewer and her cameraman potter away. "You did well, Chrysanta."

"I did my best," she says, looking at the projector screen again. "I only hope it does her some good."

Bay smiles. "Not that she needs it."