I was lucky. After that disastrous kiss and subsequent vomiting, I blacked out completely. That meant I didn't have to face the aftermath—the mess on the floor, my mentor's confusion, disgust, or perhaps even anger. When I opened my eyes again, I was deep in the plush bed of my compartment, tucked in tightly. My whole body felt fresh and clean. Someone must have washed me and changed my clothes while I was unconscious. I could only hope that person wasn't Finnick.
I pushed myself up and stepped onto the thick, soft carpet, barefoot. A dull ache pulsed in my head like a lingering hangover. Just then, the door opened, and a young woman in a white corset jacket entered, carrying a tray with a glass of water. Her light golden hair was pulled back into a low braid. I took the glass from her hands.
"Thank you," I said. My voice was raw and shredded from the earlier vomiting. "Did you change my clothes?"
The woman nodded. Her posture was so rigid, so unnaturally stiff, that she barely moved except for the slight dip of her head. If not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, I might have mistaken her for a statue.
"Thank you for your trouble," I said. "Can you tell me where Mr. Odair is?"
She lowered her eyes and gave no response. At first, I assumed Finnick had instructed her not to reveal his whereabouts. But that thought seemed ridiculous—this was Finnick, after all. Over the past two years, he had been surrounded by a never-ending stream of women. There was no way a childish kiss could throw him off balance. At most, he might find it mildly annoying that one of his supposed fangirls had ended up as his Tribute.
Then, suddenly, I realized—she wasn't refusing to answer. She couldn't answer. She was an Avox, just like my mother.
I closed my mouth and switched to signing instead. District 4 had its own set of hand signals for communicating at sea or in other situations where speaking was impractical, but my sign language was different. My mother had taught me the Capitol's standard sign language.
At first, the woman looked startled. Of course, she hadn't expected a Tribute from District 4 to understand Capitol signing. But she quickly composed herself and signed back:
Mr. Odair cleaned up the floor and sent me to tend to you. He is in the front compartment now.
He cleaned up my vomit? My headache throbbed even harder.
Judging from his on-screen persona—playful, flirtatious, drifting effortlessly from one admirer to the next—Finnick Odair didn't seem like the kind of person to take responsibility for anything. He was too polished, too effortlessly charming, the sort of man who never let dirt touch him. Maybe he was being extra patient with me because I was his first assigned Tribute. The first time for anything always left a strong impression, after all.
And I was probably the first person in history to kiss Finnick Odair and then immediately throw up.
The thought nearly made me laugh. What did that mean in his eyes? A challenge? An insult? Or, more likely, nothing at all?
For now, I wasn't ready to face him just yet. Instead, I turned back to the Avox girl. "My name is Juniper Jade. What's yours?"
Her blue eyes widened in alarm. She clutched the tray tightly and glanced around, as if afraid of being watched. Then, in a swift, almost frantic motion, she signed:
Please don't speak to me again.
Before I could respond, she snatched the empty glass from my bedside table and hurried out of the room as if fleeing for her life.
I had no choice but to get up and leave as well, heading toward the front compartment. As I stepped into the hallway, I realized I was only wearing a thin slip dress, with no shoes and no extra layer to cover me. But the carpet was soft beneath my feet, and given District four's warm climate, I was used to wearing light clothing. It wasn't inappropriate—at least, not entirely.
When I opened the door, Finnick and Caspian were already there, along with someone I hadn't seen since this morning—Serena Devereaux.
I immediately noticed Finnick had changed into a new outfit: a simple brown shirt that complemented his hair and skin tone. So I had gotten vomit on him after all.
My young mentor turned to me, his face as effortlessly handsome as ever—no trace of distance or resentment, as if nothing had happened at all. "You're just in time, Juniper," he said, gesturing for me to sit beside him. "We're about to watch the Reaping replay."
During the Harvest Festival, all twelve districts' Reapings were recorded. Just as Caspian and I had been chosen in front of a live audience, the other twenty-two Tributes had been captured on film for all of Panem to see. That way, the Capitol could assess each Tribute from the very beginning, choosing their favorites to sponsor and bet on. After all, this was an annual spectacle—a grand entertainment event.
I sat beside Finnick, hugging my knees to my chest. Across from me, Caspian shot me a concerned glance. I knew how frail I must have looked in his eyes, but I didn't try to hide it. I wasn't strong. I had no interest in pretending otherwise. I'm not your competition, I told him with my body language. You don't need to be wary of me.
The massive screen flickered to life with the Capitol's silver emblem spinning against a backdrop of triumphant music. Serena Devereaux hummed along softly.
Then, a porcelain bowl appeared in front of me.
Puzzled, I turned my head and found myself staring into Finnick's calm, sea-green eyes.
The bowl contained something that looked like oatmeal porridge. Though my stomach had emptied itself earlier, the lingering nausea still clung to me, making food seem unappealing. I was trying to think of a polite way to refuse when Finnick spoke.
"Eat it," he said. "Trust me. You'll feel better."
Trust him? Who else did I have to trust? Who else could I trust? The moment he said it, I had no choice. I took the bowl, held my breath, and swallowed a spoonful.
To my surprise, I didn't throw up again. The warmth settled in my stomach, easing the discomfort almost instantly.
"…Thank you," I murmured. He responded with a quiet mm.
On the screen, the Reaping footage began. District 1's grand plaza came into view. Known for producing luxury goods for the Capitol, District 1 was wealthier than most other districts, and their Tributes were usually strong, well-fed, and favored by the audience. The escort's voice rang out: "Aurora Celeste!" A girl with emerald-green eyes and golden waves of hair stepped onto the stage. She was poised, composed, and strikingly beautiful. The Capitol would adore her. The commentators immediately showered her with praise, proving as much. District 1's Tributes were always crowd favorites.
Her male counterpart was equally stunning—a tall, red-haired boy with deep blue eyes. As he took the stage, he shot the cameras a flirtatious smile, making one of the female commentators clutch her chest in exaggerated delight.
Two Career Tributes. I was no match for either of them.
The two tributes from District 2 were both volunteers. The girl was small and silver-haired, her sharp, hooked nose giving her already grim expression an even fiercer edge. The boy, on the other hand, looked like he had stepped straight out of a fitness advertisement—I had no doubt he could kill me with a single punch.
The tributes from the following districts were mostly frail, wide-eyed kids, which was understandable. The farther a district was from the Capitol, the poorer it tended to be, and in most households, food was scarce.
Still, a few stood out to me.
The girl from District 6, Jenna, had ginger-colored braids and was so overwhelmed when her name was called that she collapsed on live television. They had to carry her onto the stage.
The girl from District 10 had dark skin, a strong build, and thick lashes that framed her large, seal-like eyes. She had volunteered in place of her younger sister.
Then there was Griff, the boy from District 11. Years of hard labor had shaped him into a figure nearly as massive as the male Career tribute from District 2.
Compared to the others, the female tribute from District 4—me—seemed one of the excessively weak. Of course, I wasn't short, and my life in the Beaumont household had ensured I wasn't skin and bones. I had remained relatively composed when my name was drawn. But my features were too soft, my complexion too pale—I didn't have that ruthless edge of a professional killer, the kind Aurora exuded, or the sheer confidence radiating from the District 2 tributes. I looked more like someone who handled paperwork backstage or a medic tending to the real contenders. Even I couldn't picture myself slashing down an opponent to claim victory—let alone the sponsors.
"You two should ally with the Careers from One and Two," Finnick said, his brows knitted in concern. Clearly, this year's lineup was not in our favor. "Extend the olive branch. They usually accept. Districts One, Two, and Four forming an alliance has been tradition. Just don't be too trusting."
"I'm not a Career," I said. It was true—I couldn't even wield a trident. They—Caspian included—had spent years training in the academy, while I had barely spent any time there. Sure, I could handle a dagger and a light sword, but only at a rudimentary level.
To my surprise, Caspian spoke up. "Your swordplay is decent—just lacking in strength. Even Alexander complimented your technique."
I tightened my grip on my porcelain bowl, eyeing him warily. "I rarely went to the training center. You've seen me practice before?"
"Uh—" He ran a hand through the back of his hair, looking slightly uncomfortable—though probably because of my scrutiny. "You don't know? You're… noticeable."
I frowned slightly at that.
He hesitated, then raised his hands in a small gesture of surrender. "I didn't mean anything by it! Just—yes, I've seen you. And considering how little you trained, you're actually not bad. A lot of people say so. So… don't sell yourself short."
"I doubt a lot of people were offering genuine compliments," I muttered, shrugging. "But thanks. Still, a week isn't nearly enough to make me skilled."
"All you need is the right instincts." Finnick's voice cut in suddenly. His expression was serious—too calm, too resolute for a seventeen-year-old. He held my gaze, his eyes reflecting the flickering light from the screen, piercing straight into my soul. "When you're truly facing life and death, no amount of training will matter as much as a fleeting moment of intuition. But first, you have to want to win."
I felt like a performer caught in a lie—stunned, rattled, exposed. His words struck me hard enough to make me flinch. I had no idea how he had seen through my carefully concealed lack of will to survive, but there was something almost accusatory in his tone, and that made me uneasy.
"Who doesn't want to win?" I forced a smile, pale and hollow.
"Exactly! Who doesn't want to win? What are you even saying, Finnick, darling?" Serena Devereaux's voice cut in, sharp and shrill, pulling me out of my thoughts. She had evidently just snapped out of watching the footage, where she had been utterly engrossed, furiously taking notes with an enormous pink feathered pen. I exhaled, relieved—for the first time in my life—to hear her voice.
With exaggerated gestures, she perched a pair of gold-rimmed glasses onto her nose and flipped noisily through her thick, jewel-encrusted notebook. "I daresay, you two have excellent odds this year! Of course, District Two will be a formidable opponent, but let me tell you something—you need to know how to be liked! Those kids look dreadfully dull, whereas you two—Caspian, with that charming mouth of yours, and Juniper, with your striking beauty—I daresay…"
Her chatter gradually faded into a buzzing hum in my ears, then into a ringing silence. My thoughts drifted beyond my skull once more. I remembered the second time I spoke to Finnick Odair.
It was the day after he saved me on the rooftop. I was behind the bookstore counter, slowly recording the return of old books. With my mother gone, I was fully capable of taking over her work at the bookstore, but the owner had no interest in hiring child labor. I was only twelve—too frail, too small to pass myself off as an adult, even if I had tried. Besides, in this district, who wouldn't recognize me? Our lease for the small attic room expired the next day. I had to move out. But where could I go?
My fingers copied words into the ledger mechanically, my mind wandering back to the boy from last night. Finnick Odair. I had only heard of him before, from the chattering girls at school. He was handsome, lived by the sea, the eldest of three siblings. Half the girls in District Four had a crush on him, or so they said. I wasn't one of them. I had never even seen him before. No one had ever described him as a strong, noble, heroic figure, as someone who would stand up for an outcast like me. Perhaps they had said that about him anyway, but I wouldn't have known—I had never been included in gossip or girlhood confessions.
Maybe I should thank him in person.
Last night, the moment his fingers brushed my hair, I had sprung away as if burned and sprinted back here. My mind had been clouded, reeling from both his beauty and the sheer relief of surviving. I buried myself under the attic's thin sheets, shivering uncontrollably. I trembled so violently that I knocked over the stack of newspapers on my bedside table. I had used those old papers as bedding when my mother was sick.
I reached down to pick them up and caught sight of his face staring back at me from the front page of a year-old district newspaper. The paper was yellowed, the ink faded, but under the glow of moonlight filtering through the attic window, I could still make out the small caption beneath the image:
"Last week, a fishing boat was lost in severe weather. The owner, Theron Odair, tragically perished. His widow and eldest son, Finnick Odair, have received government aid…"
The chime of the bookstore doorbell snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Hello? Is Juniper Jade here?"
I peered over the high counter. The face from last night's newspaper was standing right in front of me.
In truth, I hadn't been able to get a good look at him in the moonlight, and the black-and-white photo had hardly done him justice. He was even taller than I had imagined—not bulky, but lean with the unshaped strength of youth, his rolled-up sleeves revealing arms lightly toned from labor. He stood beneath the counter's warm lamplight and the filtered daylight through the bookshelves, every strand of his tousled golden-brown hair shimmering in the morning glow. His beauty was breath-stealing.
My heartbeat, nearly withered from exhaustion, suddenly surged back to life, thudding wildly in my chest. But my face remained expressionless.
"Uh, sorry, the lamp was in the way—I didn't see you there," he said, looking slightly sheepish before slipping back into his usual ease. "Yesterday, you dropped this. I didn't catch up to you in time."
I still didn't speak as he carefully pulled a book from the worn canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He had even wrapped it in clean bandages, as if afraid it would get dirty next to his fishing gear. The sight made me chuckle. I reached for the book, and in that brief moment, our hands crossed. I noticed the rough callouses and fishing net scars on his fingers, while mine were pale, slender, unblemished. I quickly looked up, only to find him staring at my hands as well. I withdrew them behind the counter.
For the first time in a long while, I felt the urge to talk to someone.
"The Future Is a Gray Seagull." I said.
"Yeah, that's the one. It looked new, so I figured it might be important to you…"
"Now our whole task's to hack some angel-shape worth wearing from his crabbed midden..." I murmured, quoting from the book. "scorched by red sun we heft globed flint, racked in veins' barbed bindings; brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on."
He stared at me, lips pressed together, as if I had spoken an incomprehensible foreign language.
That was when I noticed his grip on the strap of his satchel—tight, almost tense. His fishing gear—when I glanced over, I saw he had left them outside by the display window.
This bookstore was not his domain. I realized, in that moment, that he was slightly uncomfortable—out of place before me and my poetry.
"It's a poem," I explained, smiling despite myself. "From this book."
"Oh, right." He averted his gaze. "I—guess it's beautiful?"
Clearly, he hadn't understood a word of it.
I unwrapped the bandage. The book was still pristine. I had exchanged a week's wages for it—a beautifully printed edition, its cover a deep sea blue, with a gray seagull illustrated beside the title. I ran my fingers over the embossed design.
Then, carefully, I rewrapped it in the bandage.
Finnick watched me, puzzled.
"I want you to have it," I said. "Will you accept it? I know it's useless—maybe even a burden—but I have nothing else to give. It's my favorite book. I wanted to thank you."
"You don't have to give me anything—" He stopped mid-sentence, perhaps seeing something in my expression.
"Then, I'll take good care of it," he said.
I watched him walk toward the shop's entrance. Just as the bell chimed again, I spoke—impulsively, without thinking.
"Where are you going now?"
Finnick Odair turned back. Standing in the doorway with the light at his back, his profile was edged in gold.
"The traning center," he said. "Goodbye, Juniper."
The traning center. It was as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over me in the sweltering heat. I could go to the traning center. I wasn't afraid of hardship, of insults, or even of being beaten. But I was afraid of hunger—and even more afraid of what a girl like me might have to face if she ended up in the slums. But the traning center could offer me food. A bed to sleep in.
I could survive.
...
I was still clutching the porcelain bowl, curled up on the sofa when I came back to the present. Across from me, Serena had disappeared at some point, her chatter fading into nothing. Finnick sat cross-legged beside me, eyes fixed on the screen, where an old interview from a past Hunger Games played. I wasn't sure if I had ever seen those tributes before.
I wondered where the book I gave him was now. Did he keep it in his house by the sea? In his new victor's mansion? Or had he lost it? Had he ever unwrapped it? Had he ever read those poems I knew by heart? Had he read Firesong? Had he found beauty in it? Or had he already forgotten me?
Two years had passed. Too much had happened. He had left District Four, met so many new people. To him, I might be nothing more than an unfamiliar tribute. I was Juniper Beaumont now. Not the girl hidden behind the bookstore counter, the girl who didn't even have a surname.
Suddenly, Caspian leaped off the sofa, dashing to the train window.
"Juniper, come here!" he called.
I hurried to his side. Outside, the landscape had transformed into something dazzling, surreal. Streets crisscrossed, skyscrapers loomed, neon lights blurred into a chaotic palette of colors.
The Capitol had arrived.
-tbc-