The Victors | ✓

11

I am half-convinced that morning that the letter had been a dream, and I harden my heart once more as I sit up and prepare to face reality. But my hand pushes against something in the sheets as I stretch, and when I pull it away, a rectangle of paper lies on the bed. I drop it on the bedside table and go to shower.

When Haymitch and Effie had returned last night, I was in bed and asleep already (or so they think—I was actually faking it to avoid talking to them). My stomach growls as I shower and wash my face, but I want to have the chance to prepare myself for whatever score they are going to tell me. I didn't want to see it last night, and I'm not sure I want to know now.

They've already started eating when I come out. Effie brightens and motions for me to sit. Haymitch glowers at me. "You didn't watch the scores last night."

"Didn't care to after that shitshow," I say brightly. "I'm sure it was awful."

"Awful? They gave you an 8.5!"

I look at Effie; she doesn't seem to be joking. "What?" I look between her and Haymitch.

He nods. "They did."

I'm not hungry anymore. It's a good score, but still. "So what was the point of putting me up against him?" I don't try to sound bitter, but the resentment is hard to hide.

"Everyone knows Angel has been training you," Haymitch scoffs. "You two might be good at keeping secrets, but the trainers aren't. Paylor wanted to see you in action."

"Could've picked anyone else," I grumble.

"You liked him just a few days ago."

"Yeah, well, he's an ass." I put down my fork; I feel like I'm going to vomit. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Good!" Effie says brightly, dropping her folder onto the table. I nearly groan. "Today, we'll be preparing for the interviews tonight."

♙

My morning is spent revising everything that was drilled into my head from birth: how to sit, how to smile, how to win people over with a simple look. Effie seems pleased, and I wonder how many tributes she has had to teach that didn't (or couldn't) seem to grasp these lessons. For me, they are familiar and feel almost comforting. Or they are, until she reminds me to put some feeling behind in, lest the audience stop seeing Lia and start seeing Cornelia Snow.

Birr and the stylist team join us for lunch. They discuss ideas and go over the dress designs with me; they'll be putting the finishing touches on it this afternoon, while Effie and I continue to practice, and will help me learn to walk in heels.

"...And we were thinking of putting flowers on your dress—"

"No," Haymitch says, sitting up. "No flowers."

Birr's mouth falls open; the exaggerated, scandalized expression nearly makes me laugh. "I beg your pardon?"

"No flowers," Haymitch repeats, setting down his glass. "The Tribute Parade outfit was cute, but flowers will be a touchy motif with her. Remember that most of Panem now knows that her grandfather wore a white rose in his lapel to hide the smell of poison and blood. We want them to like her." Though a surprise to me, it makes sense. I'm beginning to grow accustomed to this new version of my family that I had been so sheltered from.

Birr pales. "Right," he mutters. He takes his sketchbook and makes a few notes. "No flowers," he agrees. "Well, it's too late to change the fabric..."

"Let me see it," I say, leaning forward. He passes me the book. There is a scrap of thin fabric pinned to the paper. It's a mix of pale blue and white, and unless I stare hard at it, I can hardly tell that it's meant to look like a blown up image of flower petals. "That should be fine," I assure him. I run my fingers over the material. It's soft. "I like it."

"You'll like it better when you wear it," he assures me. "If you've finished, we can go see what alterations need to be made."

In my room, the stylist team flutters around me, pulling fabric and needles and pins and thread and ribbon from black bags. They help me into the dress, which looks just as it had in the design: the neckline is a deep v, bordered with fluttery, ruffled fabric. A woman ties a thin, pale blue ribbon around my waist, carefully tying it into a bow, and it holds the dress in place; a woman and a man work quickly to stitch it so that the ribbon is attached and my dress doesn't fall open.

They measure and trim at the white underskirt so the top layer hangs just above my ankles. Birr is at my shoulders, trimming down the thin fabric so that it rests on the tops of my shoulders. He trims down the thin layer of white lace as well, and cuts away excess fabric from my shoulder blades and back. Once he has moved away, I can feel someone else take his place to fix the hems.

By the time they've finished with the gown, it's nearly time for dinner. They let me change back into my clothes and help me pull on the heels (silver, with a thin heel and thinner straps holding them to my feet). With the help of them and Effie, I can walk with little problems by the time Haymitch comes to get us to eat dinner. I walk out in the heels.

I'm in better spirits than I had been earlier, and I eat a lot of food. After all, this is my second-to-last meal before the arena. Best to enjoy it while I have it.

After dinner, I'm sat on a chair in my room and assaulted with brushes, perfumes, and someone pulling at my hair. It's vaguely familiar, and I accept it without too much complaining. Once my hair and makeup are done, they help me into my dress, and, at my request, give me a few moments.

The dress fits me perfectly, and like a little kid again, I twirl in front of the mirror. My makeup is uninteresting—they focused more on the base than anything, and aside from the black line framing my eyes, the mascara, and the gloss on my lips, I don't look any different from usual (though maybe with a bit more color in my cheeks). This version of me is far prettier than any other that I have seen, and it's hard to reconcile this me with the one I've seen in my head the last eight years.

There's a soft knock on the door, and in the mirror, I can see Effie. I smooth down my skirts and turn to face her, and she offers me a small smile. "It's time."