Chapter Twelve | Scraping the dogged end
"The extravagantly short-waisted satin coat, wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting striped breeches set off his massive figure to perfection, and in repose one might have admired so fine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish ways, the affected movements, the perpetual inane laugh brought one's admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an abrupt close." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel
The next morning, Sil wakes up with a sense of apprehension that dawns over her slowly. It comes on at full force as she sits in front of her vanity and tucks up her hair. She stares at herself in the mirror for a moment, studying the full lips and slightly ruddy complexion that pouts back at her. A little bit of makeup makes quick work of hiding the natural blush of her cheeks, but it isn't so easy to hide the quiet dread that suckers over her skin.
She's taking Finnick into the heart of District 1 today.
He's going to hate it, of course. The concrete streets and industrial atmosphere of the city is just like the hard gray of the Capitol. So is the overly bright, too-glamorous luxury quarter that they will be expected to visit. It would be strange if they didn't, what with reporters calculating their every move.
She sighs. A few hours immersed in her ridiculous district isn't going to kill her. And at least they only have to make an appearance. After that, they can just hang around the estate for the rest of the week and pretend to be distracted by their new relationship. She sighs again.
It's strange how only a few weeks can change a person so much. When she'd first discovered that she was an unwilling participant to this fake relationship, Sil wanted Finnick to suffer along with her. It had seemed only natural for them both to agonize over the peculiar setup. But something has changed somewhere between the start and the present. She no longer wants Finnick to have an involuntary slot in her life. She is used to pretending, but this feels too much like an outright lie than any of her half-truths.
What would he say if he knew the truth about her? What would he do if he found out that she is the Sterling Nightingale? That the silly Capitol-loving socialite he dislikes so much is actually the most well known spy and rebel ever to grace Panem? The question has been tumbling around her head for days now, growing every hour with a ferocity that makes her wilt. In a perfect world, he would say that he'd known it all along and tell her he doesn't have a problem with the fact that she's basically been lying to his face since they'd met. But when has her world ever been perfect?
"Chin up, darling," she tells her reflection, slipping into her posh accent with a simper. There's only one thing to do now, only one thing she can do. She's been working for one specific goal for seven years of her life, and as much as she enjoys Finnick's company despite all her previous misgivings, she cannot allow herself to just forget about her job.
So she stands up and puts on the most decadent satin sundress she can find, slips on enough jewelry to fund District 13 for half a year, and teeters to her bedroom door in heels that are definitely not ideal for walking around all day. Because – Silver Lamprey Cornelius would never concern herself with such a sensible thing as comfort.
Finnick decides he hates District 1. It's so different from District 4 in every single way. The people they pass look at them like they're either Gods or vermin. There's no comforting sound of the ocean and no briny salty air. There's only hard concrete and the fumes from all the factories. It's stifling. Luckily the fumes aren't nearly as bad in the luxury quarter. Unluckily, everything else is.
"Oh, and there's the shop my father used to own, when he was still making jewelry," Sil points out as they meander down the crowded sidewalk. "His hands are too shaky these days. He still does it as a hobby though. Anyway, now the shop is owned by some woman who sells...well," Sil pauses, looking a little embarrassed. It's pretty clear what the woman sells, if the displays in the window are any indication. Finnick takes one look at the shameless display of lingerie and the array of much darker objects and holds his breath. Somehow he manages to slip on a flirty smile, but suddenly all he can think about are hotel rooms and the life waiting for him back in the Capitol.
Sil tightens her grasp around his upper arm and draws him quickly back to the present, as if she knows where his thoughts are and doesn't want him to dwell on them. He's actually grateful when she changes the topic to something actually worthwhile (or at least has nothing to do with clothes shopping or finding the perfect pair of shoes).
"The Factory is up ahead," she tells him, quickening their pace and passing the questionable shop like it's contaminated. "It's rather amazing. The mechanics of it are – " she pauses, halting her words before she can say any more about a subject that she shouldn't care about. Silver Lamprey Cornelius would never bother learning about something mechanical. But for some reason, it's so easy to talk to Finnick as her real self and not her alter ego. He just brings it out of her.
He sends her a raised eyebrow and slowly drawls, "...The mechanics? What would you know about that? And what is the Factory, anyway?" The doubt in his voice is tangible and Sil gives a trilling laugh that she hopes doesn't sound as nervous as the rest of her feels.
"Ah...the Factory is the biggest structure in District 1, my love. The things they create there are shipped off to the Capitol. The Capitol sends orders every week, you see, and the workers set up the machinery based on what the Capitol wants. Each machine can be used for different things – there's even a diamond cutting machine that can also cut fabrics and paper and wood, if the settings are changed. And – " she trails off when she sees the surprised expression on Finnick's face. "Ah. I won't bore you," she says with an embarrassed smile.
But Finnick just laughs and insists, "No! I mean, please continue. It's odd hearing you talk about things like this." And strangely fascinating.
Sil grins at him and, as she drags him down the sidewalk, regales him with how the Factory operates and what sort of things it produces. She even makes mention of how much District 1 relies on it, and on the Capitol's inflow of money. "It's very important," she says, "without it, the district would be destitute."
Finnick hums. The Factory looms above them, spiraling high into the sky. It is a sight to behold, and the thought of Sil actually being aware of how it works definitely gives him something to think about. Gemma's words from last night suddenly echo through his mind as they walk down the sunny street.
"Silver is fluent in two Old Languages and has been the sole proprietor of the estate for several years now."
Huh. Well, he still has his doubts about her being fluent in two Old languages and actually having mathematical talents, but perhaps she isn't completely stupid. Clearly she's aware of how her district operates. Then again, it's probably something everyone learns in school here. He had to take mandatory marine studies classes throughout his own education in District 4. It would make sense for people here to learn about how their economy caters to the Capitol. And as for the inner workings of the Factory, surely they'd gone over that in class too. It's such a huge source of income for District 1 after all.
"Are you hungry?" Sil wonders, pausing in front of a bakery. She stares for a moment at a very chocolaty looking pastry and Finnick chuckles.
"I'm starting to think you're obsessed with chocolate, sugar," he jokes, "I guess my nickname fits you pretty well."
She sends him a simpering smile that looks more like a mocking sneer and he raises an eyebrow, wondering what she'll do next. She's always surprising him. Whenever he thinks he's got her pinned down, she does something to completely change the rules of their little game. He doesn't want to admit it, but it's sort of addicting.
"That's a 'yes, you are hungry', right?" she insists, then ducks into the bakery before he can respond. His mouth quirks up and he follows after her, stepping into the café.
His first thought is that it's very different from the one he'd brought her to in District 4. His next thought is apparently her next thought too, because as they wait in line, Sil quietly bemoans, "We don't have that amazing hot chocolate here, I'm afraid. You must tell me how to make it, darling. Ever since I had it, I've been absolutely craving more."
She idly, almost unthinkingly, hooks her arm around his as she teeters in her heels, peering up at the menu with a contemplative look in her eye. He stands still and lets her clutch him, and strangely enough he doesn't feel the need to step away. The thought doesn't even cross his mind.
He can smell the perfume she's wearing; a light lingering flowery scent. He wonders how long it took her to do her hair that morning. The intricate twists and turns look artful. In fact, her entire person looks artful, more so than usual. Is it because she has a reputation to uphold here in her home district? He hasn't been blind to the stares she's gotten since stepping into the public sphere. Victors are always a hot commodity in their own districts, for good or bad. He's not sure if it's good or bad for her, though he suspects it might be the latter based on some of the looks they've received so far.
"They have the most divine croissants here," she murmurs to him, still studying the menu. "With chocolate chips and everything! And sometimes they'll even put big sprinkles of sugar on the top – " They're called up to the counter and Sil smiles prettily at the worker. "Two croissants, please, darling. And a bottle of water." Then she turns to him and wonders, "Is that alright? Do you want something else instead?"
He's a little taken by surprise at her concern.
"It's fine," he assures her, and digs around for his wallet.
She stops him with a determined look. "You're my guest, my love – "
"Really sugar, stop acting like you're a million years old and let a man pay for your drink," he jokes, handing several crisp bills over the counter while Sil pauses and then laughs. She'd said the exact same thing to him in District 4.
"Honestly, Finnick," she murmurs, smiling as he reaches forward to take the bag containing their order. "You're being far too much of a gentleman. It's a little unnerving."
He just shrugs and winks, "It's my job. Now where should we eat this that will put us in view of possible paparazzi?"
She smirks and pulls him back into the sweltering streets, "I know just the place, darling."
They end up in a grassy park. It's probably the only grassy area in the city, clearly manmade to give the desert city some color. It's large, and there are palm trees everywhere, with benches and even several gazebos dotted here and there. Sil makes for an empty one and sits down.
"What do you think? Romantic enough?"
Finnick hums his agreement and sits down beside her, opening the bag and handing her one of the large croissants. Their thighs bump together.
"Oh, here's your water," he says idly, not looking up as he hands it to her.
But Sil just raises an eyebrow and says, "It's your water, my love." He sends her a bemused look and she sighs in that overly dramatic way she's so good at. "You're not used to the heat here," she explains, "you need to stay hydrated. Honestly, darling, I would've thought it obvious."
He makes a sound in the back of his throat and frowns. "You're getting good at this, you know."
She looks confused. "Good at what?" she asks, taking a bite of her croissant and sighing as the chocolate invades her taste buds.
Finnick stares for a moment (that sigh sends strange, unwanted shivers down his spine) before clearing his throat and saying, "Playing our little game."
This time, it's her turn to stare. Does he really think she's been playing their silly game with her concern over his health? Is she not allowed to be genuinely concerned for him? No, of course she's not. There's no room for genuine feelings between them. It's ridiculous to even entertain the notion at all. But still...she can't deny the hurt that creases through her at the thought of Finnick assuming she couldn't actually have concern for another person.
She brushes the hurt away with a simpered, "Darling, I've always been good at playing our game."
He chuckles, and there's an odd look in his eye that she can't quite identify. He swiftly changes the subject before she can think about it further. "So I vaguely remember you saying that your father was a jeweler?" Finnick asks, uncapping the water bottle and taking a sip. The cool liquid feels good on such a hot day. He vaguely wonders how Sil can wear that long dress in all this sun.
Sil gives him an incredulous look and sits up. "My father was the most famous jeweler in the Capitol! He's very talented. He'd have waiting lists that would stretch on for months."
The look on Finnick's face proves that he hadn't been aware of this. Sil chuckles, "Really, love. How do you think my family became so wealthy?"
He rolls his eyes. "Why would I care about how your family became rich?" he asks dryly, and Sil shrugs.
"I suppose you wouldn't," she admits. "Though I am surprised. Gemma Cornelius is a name most people are familiar with. He had full access to the Capitol. He'd make trips every couple of months, and he'd usually bring me with him."
Finnick snorts a little. He dimly remembers a conversation they'd had about this earlier, back in the Capitol in that tiny café he can't remember the name of. "That would explain your unhealthy aptitude for Capitolites." He's certain he'd said something similar back then, too.
She sends him a raised brow and drawls, "Well yes, I suppose. But father couldn't very well leave me behind."
"Why? He was afraid of the tantrums you'd throw?" Finnick asks with an amused smirk. She rolls her eyes this time.
"My mother passed away when I was a child. I didn't like being left behind, so my father would bring me with him," she explains, her voice sort of snarky. The knowledge quiets Finnick, just a little, and he even feels slightly bad about joking around so much.
"Oh..." he coughs, clearing his throat. He's obviously uncomfortable. Sil takes pity on him. She leans back and says, "Yes. He never told me how she died. I suspect there's more to the story than I know. In fact, I'm almost positive it had something to do with President Snow."
At this, Finnick looks up at her with surprise. "Why would you think that? Your dad's not a Victor."
She shrugs, pondering to herself if she should really say what she was about to say. Some reckless, crazy part of her wants him to find out about her. Wants him to see her as a person with intelligence as well as beauty. Not just on the outside but on the inside too. And Finnick hasn't discovered her yet, despite being in close quarters with her for the last few weeks. So she hums and says, "The Cornelius family has always been a bit rebellious. I suspect my father did something to anger Snow, and the President took it out on my mother. Of course it's all speculation, but you wouldn't believe the kinds of rebels my family has housed throughout the decades." She simpers and leans in to admit, "It's all so very romantic, don't you agree?"
Finnick raises an eyebrow at her and scoffs. "Rebels? Please. You're just trying to make your family seem more interesting than it is." He laughs at the notion and swings his arms up over the bench. One of them cushions Sil's head and she leans into him. It probably looks pretty good from outside their little gazebo. A romantic little lunch in a rare piece of shade.
Sil just laughs and leans into him. "Perhaps I am," she murmurs, and lets the topic drop.
But he doesn't. After only the breadth of a moment, Finnick slowly drawls, "Speaking of rebels, I heard a rumor recently, about the Sterling Nightingale."
It is odd, the way Sil immediately stiffens. He glances down at her with a raised eyebrow, watching her rearrange her features into a curious expression. He shrugs the strange reaction off as some wayward affliction of her character and says in a measured voice, "I heard that he's actually a member of elite society. It makes sense, I guess."
It's Sil's turn to raise an eyebrow as she childishly mutters, "Darling, there is nothing elite about sneaking around the Capitol doing God knows what at all hours of the night. I shall tell you from experience, being a part of elite society myself, that the Sterling Nightingale could never be from wealthy stock."
With that, she nods her head staunchly, as if she is done with the conversation. Finnick, though, just scoffs.
"How could you possibly know that?" he demands, a little tired of her frankly irritating accent. Honestly, sometimes he wonders if she exaggerates it on purpose, or if it's just the natural state of her voice. With a wave of his hand, he says, "I for one would love to know who the man is. Imagine the power that sort of knowledge would give me. It could change my whole life."
He's just saying the words because he wants to hear Sil's take on the Nightingale. Given that she's, as she said, part of the very same elite society that President Snow suspects the Nightingale is in, it's an obvious thing to do. Sil knows everyone in the Capitol. Surely she must have a few people in mind who might fit the shoes of the anonymous spy.
In hindsight, he really shouldn't be so surprised when she bites out an outraged laugh and shrilly exclaims, "Gracious! What a thing to say! Darling, there is no possible way that the Nightingale is the type of man you think he is. High society would never stoop so low as to allow a vagabond into its midst."
Finnick looks at her with an unreadable expression on his face, but she can see the shred of disappointment flaring through his eyes. It's directed at her, as always. He's unhappy that she would be so flippant about the topic, most likely. As a Victor herself, Sil should understand that the deeds of the Nightingale should not be frowned upon. She thinks it's almost amusing, this turn of the conversation. This wayward spiral of lies and truths all bound together in such a complicated web.
For – the Sterling Nightingale is in fact, at this very moment, pressed against his side, biting into a chocolate chip croissant with a vengeance best reserved for her other, more precarious pursuits. Sil bites back a bitter smirk.
"Why do you want to know who the Nightingale is, anyway?" she asks in a forcibly idle manner. She'd rather like to know where his interest lies. It's odd of him to so suddenly bring up such a conversation.
Finnick sighs to himself and mumbles, "...There's no reason. There's just someone who wants to know, and he thinks that I'm the best candidate to figure out the mystery."
Sil isn't a genius, of course, but there's something about the almost morose way he says those words that makes her carefully wonder, "And who is this person who wants so badly to know?"
She'd like to know just as badly, she thinks.
But Finnick only waves the question away with a muttered, "It doesn't matter," and stands up, clearly done with this conversation. He's not so very difficult to read, though. There's only one person, after all, who can ruin his mood so severely, with such permenance. Not even Sil herself, even when she's acting at her most aggravating, has that affect on the great Finnick Odair.
She would bet her entire life that President Snow is behind this, and that thought sends a chill down her spine.
It's early evening by the time they arrive back at the Cornelius estate. The lights are already on, the front veranda lit up with the flickering tiny stars, and a warm glow radiates from every window. It's a complete waste of energy.
Sil's feet are absolutely aching by the time they step inside. She kicks her heels off right there in the foyer and gives a rather convincing whine about how sore she is. Since arriving at the uncomfortably luxurious estate, Finnick has reverted back into the mask he often wears to hide the sense of unfamiliarity he feels in the face of it. He acts perfectly charming in front of others, but when it is just Sil and himself, he doesn't bother hiding any annoyance he might feel toward her. So it's easy to roll his eyes and mutter something about why she would even think to wear stilettos on a trip that includes walking.
She sniffs at his scoffing and pointedly says, "I have a reputation to uphold in District 1, my love. It's very important to me." Said reputation has everything to do with appearing thoughtless and ridiculous in public.
But Finnick, who just assumes that she's that way anyhow, laughs humorlessly, "Yes, I've gathered that much." He gives her an indulgent smile that doesn't reach his eyes and drawls, "If you don't mind, I think I'll go to my room until dinner."
She nods, barely hearing him, and they go their separate ways. The day had been long and tedious. Hanging off of Finnick's arm is a lot harder than one might think. Despite the fact that he oozes charm and sex appeal and doesn't outright say anything rude to her, it's more difficult than she could have imagined to keep herself centered around her job. He's so observant that she's always afraid he'll notice something out of the ordinary. It definitely keeps her on her toes.
But now that their public outing for the day is over with, she can turn her attention to other, more important matters. A brief turn around the south quarters gives her the chance to inform her father that they've returned, and then she makes her way to her own bedroom. When she steps inside the familiar room, she lets out a sigh of relief and tosses her heels onto the rug. They scatter.
Her door is immediately bolted shut. She quickly changes into more relaxing attire and enters the password to her PAAD. The device flares to life, and only a few minutes later, a video request appears in the corner. She pulls it up as she draws her curtains closed. Tommy's boyish face appears on the screen and Sil turns her full attention to him.
"How's your romantic getaway?" he asks. She rolls her eyes and he grins.
"I'm just happy to be out of the Capitol for a while," she tells him honestly, and moves to sit at her desk. "Speaking of, any news?"
Unfortunately, the only letdown of being away from the biggest city of Panem is that she isn't there when all the major events happen. She has to hear about them second hand. So far, Mr. Dorsey and Tommy have kept her updated via text messages, but she doesn't like being away from her base of operations for too long.
"Actually, yeah," Tommy says, his boyish smile disappearing into a much more serious expression. She sits up and frowns, waiting for an explanation. It comes soon after. "Last night there were two more executions in the outer Districts. This time in 10. Snow's bringing some of the rebel associates to the Capitol for questioning. They'll be arriving tomorrow night. I doubt he'll bother keeping them alive when he's finished with them."
Sil heaves a sigh and rubs at her temples. This was why she didn't want to leave the Capitol. This so-called romantic getaway is more of a hindrance than a relief, despite the happiness she feels at being home and the strange emotions she feels toward Finnick.
"Do they have ties to 13?" she asks.
"Not that I'm aware of. As far as I know, they're just men who are trying to change things by themselves." Tommy sighs, cheeks puffing out thoughtfully. "Still, it's important that we do something about this. If we rescue these men, District 10 might be more willing to aid the rebellion in the future. Is it at all possible for you to return to the Capitol sooner?"
Sil purses her lips. Is it? She doubts it would be a good idea to ask Snow for any more favors. Breaking their ever-so romantic holiday short would be asking for trouble. Reporters would probably make a big deal about how the two lovebirds don't have as perfect a relationship as everyone thought. They have to make it seem genuine. Like they have real feelings for each other. Returning to the Capitol even a few days early could be detrimental.
"I'll see what I can do," Sil responds. "If I catch the red eye train, I can be back home before everyone wakes up. But I'll need an excuse should anyone discover I'm gone."
Tommy hummed in agreement, "It's Odair you've got to worry about."
Indeed. Sil sighs and mutters, "Don't I know it. I'll send you my plans later. I've got a dinner to attend."
Tommy says his goodbyes and Sil closes the video chat, just in time for a knock to sound at her door. She freezes, pushes the PAAD out of sight, and stands up. By the time it takes her to reach her door, she's no longer the Sterling Nightingale, but the silliest woman in all of Panem.
"Finnick! Gracious," she exclaims with a stupid laugh, opening the door just wide enough to peer out. "I'm not at all decent, darling. Is dinner ready? Dear me, you've caught me quite by surprise. How did you know where my room was, anyhow?"
Finnick raises an eyebrow at her lengthy prattle. "The butler gave me directions. Were you just talking to someone? I thought I heard voices."
She stills for a split second, then laughs and says, "Oh my. How dreadful. You really must get your hearing checked, my love. What would people say if they knew you hear voices?"
He gives her one of his dry, suave, I-think-you're-ridiculous-but-I'll-pretend-you're-not smiles and leans against her threshold. "You're hiding something. I'm very good at picking up on secrets."
Sil pouts and fiddles with the ties of her robe. "I may have been going over some plans..."
His eyebrows jolt upward curiously, "Plans?"
"Of what we're going to do tomorrow," she finishes with a laugh. "Let me change into something and we can walk down to dinner together, hmm?" She disappears, but leaves the door open. He pushes inside the room, naturally curious about her bedroom. Secrets are often kept in such intimate places.
As Sil disappears into what must be a dressing room, Finnick turns in a full circle as he studies the décor. His first thought is that it's nothing like his own assigned quarters. His second is that the painted art strewn over every wall is astonishingly lovely. Brightly colored murals dart over a gentle tan walls. Flowers like the ones in the hallway near his own room spring to life by the floor. A gentle sky has been carefully painted on the arching ceilings, dotted with clouds and birds - tiny black birds with wings that gleam silver in the artificial light. One of them is carrying a white lily in its beak.
He frowns at it, and even when he's glanced at the other ornate furniture and the bed strewn with silk sheets and the cherry wood floors covered with ornamental rugs, his eyes always return to the flock of birds flying in paint along the ceiling.
Sil reappears in time to see what has captured his attention, and carefully explains, "Nightingales."
She walks to her jewelry box and Finnick turns to her. For a moment, his churning thoughts are blown away by the sight she makes. A short crepe dress drapes over her figure, tight around the waist before dashing to her knees in rivulets of fabric. One of her shoulders is left bare, and her bronzed skin gleams in the soft lighting. Her hair tumbles down her back in a wild array of waves, in a style he finds himself favoring. Finnick shakes the thought away before it can deter his line of thinking.
"Nightingales? What, like the Sterling Nightingale? Are you a fan of that ridiculous rebel?"
For all of the fear she feels in that moment, Sil does a remarkable job of keeping it locked tightly away. She gives Finnick an amused glance as she clasps diamond earrings to her earlobes. "So what if I am? What a romantic notion! I could swoon just imagining what he looks like!"
Finnick snorts. "You, swoon? I hope for the Nightingale's sake you don't. You're heavier than you look."
Sil spears him with a glower and waves her hand to brush his words aside. "Anyway. My mother used to breed nightingales in the aviary. I've always loved them. I suppose it's just a fascinating coincidence that the greatest spy in Panem has happened to take the name for himself."
Referring to the Sterling Nightingale as a he takes effort. But Panem has apparently decided that the spy must be a man, because they always portray the Nightingale as a he in news articles and reports. She doesn't want to slip up and accidentally say something she shouldn't. This conversation is definitely treading on thin ice, but as Finnick holds his arm out for her and they step into the hallway, he isn't quite finished with it.
"I don't know why the rebel took such a stupid name," he mutters, "nightingales are supposed to be peaceful creatures. It sends an entirely wrong message."
Sil just laughs lightly, gives him a secretive smile, and simpers, "Oh, on the contrary, darling. From my experience, nightingales can be quite nasty. If you get too close to them, they're liable to bite."
And he's really not sure why, but for some reason Finnick has a feeling Sil is referring to something completely different than what her words allude to.