In that single motion, I can feel my whole world come crashing down around me. The faint glimmer of hope that I clung to for so long is now gone, replaced by a deep sense of dread. My mind races with thoughts of what punishment awaits me, how brutal and unforgiving it may be. But one thing is certain— when it's over, there will be nothing left of me or anyone I love. Despite the overwhelming sense of despair that consumes me, there is also a strange sense of relief. Relied that Peeta and I can finally go back to being ourselves without the constant pressure to prove our supposed undying love for each other.
I know that I need to get back to District 4 as soon as possible. It's where everything will start and end for me. My father, Wren, Bea, and their families— they'll all be targeted. Peeta and his family here in 12 are sure to be targeted too. I decide to add Haymitch to the list too, just to be safe. I'll take Haymitch and Peeta to District 4 and then we'll gather the others and flee up north. But how? How will I convince them to leave with me? And where will we go in the middle of winter? How do we avoid getting caught? I don't know the answer to these questions, but there is one thing I do know— I have to act fast. So I steel myself for what lies ahead and focus on making a plan. A plan that will lead us all to safety, no matter what.
President Snow's voice echoes through the grand hall, silencing the audience as he suggests holding the wedding right there in the Capitol. I hold my composure, my face breaking into a smile, although it feels strained and tinged with madness. I try to channel as much joy as I can muster for his satisfaction. Caesar turns to the president and asks if he has a certain date in mind.
"Before we set a date, we better clear it with (Y/N)'s father," the president says, draping his arm around my shoulders. The audience responds with a boisterous burst of laughter. Is this his way of warning me that he plans to go after my father first, or am I just reading too much into his words? No matter what he means by this, his comment makes my stomach twist in knots.
The party is held in the banquet room of President Snow's mansion; it's unlike anything I've ever seen. The ceiling, forty feet high, had been transformed into the night sky with twinkling stars and a full moon shining down on us. Musicians float on fluffy, white clouds, suspended between the floor and the ceiling, their melodies adding to the enchanting ambiance.
Gone are the traditional dining tables, replaced by plush sofas and chairs adorned with delicate fabrics and intricate designs. Some are placed around fireplaces, while others are nestled beside flower beds or ponds teeming with exotic fish. In the center of the room, there's a large tiled area that serves as a dance floor.
But as amazing as the decorations were, it was the food that took my breath away. Tables overflowing with an endless array of delicacies. There was every dish imaginable, and even some that I couldn't fathom in my wildest dreams. Whole roasted cows, pigs, and goats slowly turned on spits over glowing embers. Platters of succulent fowl stuffed with fruits and nuts. Ocean creatures glisten in sauces. Cheeses, breads, vegetables, wines.
My stomach growls hungrily at the sight before me, despite my lack of appetite for the past few weeks. But now that my worries have subsided, I'm famished and eager to eat.
My voice is filled with longing as I lean in towards Peeta, my eyes scanning over the extravagant feast spread out before us. "I want everything," I whisper to him, and I can see the confusion etched onto his face as he tries to decipher the change in my demeanor. He doesn't know the truth about President Snow believing I've failed, so maybe he assumes that we've succeeded in our mission. Or maybe he sees that I have some sincere happiness at the thought of our engagement. His blue eyes reflect puzzlement for just a brief moment as he tries to read me.
"Then you'd better pace yourself," Peeta advises, a small smile forming on his lips.
"No more than one bite of each dish then," I tell him. As we move from table to table, sampling soups and stews and roasted meats, the aromas swirling around us are almost overwhelming. The first table alone has at least twenty different soups, each one unique. There's a rich pumpkin soup sprinkled with nuts and seeds. A green broth that tastes like fresh herbs. A frothy pink soup dotted with raspberries. Each bite is more delicious than the last, but I force myself to stick to my one-bite rule.
Faces flash by in a blur. Names are exchanged, but I hardly remember any of them. Cameras flash as people eagerly try to get pictures with the two of us. To my surprise, the mockingjay necklace I got for Peeta has sparked a new fashion phenomenon in the Capitol; people are coming up to show off their new accessories. The bird's image is proudly displayed on silk lapels, replicated on belt buckles, and even etched into their skin. Everyone wants to emulate the style of a victor. It must drive President Snow mad. But what can he do?
Peeta and I make no effort to seek out company, but people gravitate towards us like magnets. We're the main attraction, after all. I put on my best fake smile and feign delight at each person who approaches us, but inside I have no interest in these shallow Capitol dwellers. They're nothing more than distractions from the food.
Despite my one-bite policy, I quickly begin to feel full. I pick up a small roasted bird and take a bite, my taste buds flood with a tangy orange sauce that coats it. I make Peeta finish it because I want to keep trying new things until I'm so stuffed that I can't. The idea of wasting food is unfathomable to me, especially when I remember how hard I had to work for every meal back in District 4. And now that I'm living in District 12, nearly everyone is starving. I feel sickened by their casual discarding of food while people in the districts are starving on the streets. How could they be so callous?
I'm at the tenth table when it feels like my stomach is about to burst. My prep team comes walking over, their speech slurred from a combination of alcohol and excitement.
"Why aren't you eating?" Octavia asks me.
"I have been, but I think I've reached my limit," I say, gesturing to all the empty plates in front of me. They all burst into laughter as if I'd told the funniest joke they'd ever heard.
"No one lets that stop them," Venia chimes in, leading us to a table adorned with tiny wine glasses filled with a clear, bubbly liquid. "Drink this."
Peeta reached for a glass to take a sip, but the prep team suddenly shrieks in unison.
"Not here!" Octavia screeches.
"You have to do it in there," Venia clarifies, pointing towards the doors labeled "toilets." "Or you'll make a mess all over the floor.
Peeta looks at the glass in his hands and realization dawns on him. "So this will make me throw up?"
They all double over in hysterical laughter. "Of course! So you can continue indulging in the feast," Flavius explains.
"I've already been in there twice. Everyone does it, it's all part of the fun!" Octavia says.
Peeta sets his glass back on the table and turns to me. "Come on, (Y/N), let's dance."
The melodic strains of string instruments filter down from the clouds as Peeta leads me away from our team, our table, and onto the floor in the center of the room. We both know we're not skilled dancers, but we move in a slow sway that matches the tempo of the music. Peeta pulls me close, his arms holding me tightly as we move in a circle, barely taking any steps at all. It's simple, effortless, and hard to mess up.
We fall into a comfortable quiet before Peeta speaks, his voice strained. "You go along with it, thinking you can handle it, thinking maybe these people aren't so bad, and then—" He cuts himself off but I know exactly what he's trying to say. Thoughts of the emaciated bodies back in District 12 flood my mind. People struggling to keep themselves from starving to death. Children put their names into the reaping bowl more times just so their family has something to eat for the year. Food is such a rare commodity in District 12, especially since they're unable to hunt the way I was able to fish back in District 4. But here in the Capitol, they vomit for the pleasure of filling their stomachs again and again. It's expected. It's part of the fun. It's sick.
"Peeta," I say softly, placing my hand on his chest. "They bring us here to fight to the death for their entertainment. Compared to that, this is nothing."
"I know, it's just sometimes I can't stand it anymore. To the point where I'm not sure what I'll do." The words spill out of his mouth, heavy with frustration and uncertainty. He pauses, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Maybe we were wrong, (Y/N)."
"About what?" I ask.
"About trying to calm things in the districts," he responds.
My eyes dart around the crowded room, but it doesn't seem as if anyone heard what he said. The camera crew is preoccupied with filming a table full of shellfish and the surrounding couples are far too intoxicated to pay attention.
"Sorry, I shouldn't be saying that sort of stuff here," he mutters.
"We can talk about it later," I reassure him.
Our moment is cut short as Portia interrupts our dance, appearing with a large man by her side. She introduces him as Plutarch Heavensbee, this year's new Gamemaker. Peeta introduces us to him before Plutarch asks if he can steal me for a dance. Peeta relinquishes me with a smile and passes me over to Plutarch's waiting arms, warning him not to get too attached. I still feel uneasy after the conversation I had just shared with Peeta. But for now, I push those thoughts aside and focus on the lively music and flashing lights surrounding us.
The thought of dancing with Plutarch Heavensbee makes my skin crawl. I can feel his clammy hands, one resting against mine, the other on my hip. I desperately longed to be back in Peeta's arms. Plutarch must sense my discomfort because he moves slightly away from me as we continue to dance. We exchange small talk about the party, the entertainment, the food.
"So you're the Head Gamemaker this year? That must be quite an honor," I remark.
"Between you and me, there weren't many volunteers for the job," he chuckles. "So much responsibility for how the Games turn out."
Well yeah, the last guy's dead. He has to know about Seneca Crane, but he shows no signs of concern. "Are you planning the Quarter Quell Games already?" I ask.
He leans in and lowers his voice. "Well, the plans for the arenas have been in the works for years, as you can imagine. They're not built overnight. But the flavor of the games is being determined now. Believe it or not, I have a strategy meeting tonight," he tells me. He takes a step back and pulls out a gold watch from his vest pocket. Turning the watch towards me, he reveals an intricately designed face with numerals etched onto it. "I'll have to get going soon. The meeting starts at midnight."
"That seems awfully late—" I comment, but my attention is drawn to something else. Plutarch's thumb traces over the crystal face of the watch and for a split second, I catch a glimpse of an image. Of another mockingjay. It's identical to Peeta's necklace. Quickly, he snaps the watch shut.
"It's very pretty," I tell him.
"Oh, it's more than just pretty, it's one-of-a-kind," he says with a sly smile. "If anyone asks, tell them I've gone home to bed. These meetings are meant to be kept secret. But I thought I'd be safe to tell you."
"Your secret's safe with me," I assure him with a small nod.
We shake hands and he gives me a small bow, a customary gesture among the people of the Capitol. "I look forward to seeing you at next year's Games, (Y/N). Congratulations on your engagement, by the way. Give Peeta my best," he says before disappearing into the crowd. I meander through the sea of people, searching for Peeta. Strangers offer me their congratulations, but I can only half-heartedly acknowledge them. My mind is still preoccupied with Plutarch's watch. There was something odd about the way he showed off the mockingjay, but I can't quite place why.
Finally, I spot Peeta among a group of bakers huddled around an array of elaborately decorated cakes. He has them captivated with his questions and they eagerly vie for his attention. At his request, they assemble a selection of small cakes for him to take back to District 12 to examine at his leisure.
"Effie says our train leaves at one. I wonder what time it is," Peeta says.
"Almost midnight," I tell him, plucking a small chocolate flower from a cake and nibbling on it. As if summoned by my bad manners, Effie materializes beside me.
"It's time to bid our thanks and goodbyes!" Effie trills, her voice bright and chipper. "And please refrain from picking at the food, (Y/N), it's quite rude."
We gather Cinna and the prep team before Effie escorts us around the room, making sure we say goodbye to the important people before ushering us toward the door.
"Shouldn't we thank President Snow?" It is his house, after all," Peeta asks.
"He's not one for parties. Too busy, you know," Effie says as she shakes her head. "But don't worry. I've already arranged for the necessary notes and gifts to be sent to him tomorrow." Two Capitol attendants walk over, a drunk Haymitch propped up between them. She waves them over."Ah, there you are!"
We pile into cars with darkened windows to our next destination. The streets are filled with crowds of people celebrating, so it's a slow ride to the train station. But Effie has everything organized perfectly and right on schedule, at exactly one o'clock we board the train and it begins to pull out of the station. The noise from outside slowly fades away as we settle in for our journey back home.
Haymitch is sent to his room, half-awake but incoherent. We gather around the table and Cinna orders us tea while Effie begins to list off the schedule, reminding us that we're still on tour. "There's the Harvest Festival in District Twelve to think about. So drink your tea and head straight to bed." No one argues with her; it's clear that we're all exhausted.
When I finally open my eyes, it's already early afternoon. I feel Peeta's arm beneath my head and realize he must've come in during the night, though I can't remember when. I turn gently, not wanting to disturb him, but he's already awake.
"No nightmares," he says softly.
"What?" I ask.
"You didn't have any nightmares last night," he elaborates.
And he's right. For the first time in what feels like forever, I slept through the entire night without being plagued by the arena.
"Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I ask him.
"I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just wake up, paralyzed with terror," he explains.
Guilt washes over me as I realize how many times I've interrupted his sleep on a bad night, and how long it takes for him to calm me down. How he's never once woken me up during one of his own episodes. "You should wake me," I insist. "I've been waking you up two or three times a night... it's only fair."
"It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here. Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again."
I forgot that we're almost home. That we'll be going back to sleeping in separate beds.
The agenda for District 12 includes a dinner at Mayor Undersee's house and a victory rally in the square during the Harvest Festival tomorrow. The entire district is buzzing with anticipation, knowing that this year's festival will be the most extravagant one yet, hosted by none other than the Capitol itself. For once, everyone will have a full stomach.
Our time at the train station is brief— just long enough for a few smiles and waves before being whisked into a car and taken away to Mayor Undersee's house to begin prepping for tonight. Peeta won't even get to see his family until the dinner tonight. We enter the home and Effie hustles me to the third floor to get ready for the evening. With my hair styled and makeup applied, I slip into a full-length silver gown. Left with an hour before dinner, I decide to take some time and explore my house and hopefully find the mayor to thank him for his hospitality. I descend the stairs to the second floor and I'm drawn to the sound of a television coming from what appears to be the mayor's study. I peek inside to express my gratitude, only to find that the room is empty. The television continues to drone on, so I pause to watch shots of Peeta and me at last night's party. We're dancing, eating, kissing. These shots are being broadcast throughout the entire country. Everyone has probably grown tired of the star-crossed lovers.
As I prepare to leave, my attention is caught by a loud beep coming from the television. I turn my head to see the screen has now gone black and the words "UPDATE ON DISTRICT 8" begin to flash in bright red letters. I know I shouldn't be seeing this. It's likely meant only for the district mayors' eyes. I should go. Now. But I can't look away.
A newscaster appears on the screen, her graying hair disheveled and her voice hoarse as she delivers a warning. The situation in District 8 has escalated to a Level 3 alert, with forces being sent in to control the chaos. Textile production has come to a halt.
The camera cuts away from the newscaster to reveal the main square in District 8. Banners bearing my face and Peeta's still flutter from the rooftops. Below them, a mob of enraged citizens. Their faces are concealed by rags and masks, their voices raised in angry shouts as they hurl bricks and set fire to buildings. Peacekeepers are firing blindly into the crowd. Bodies are dropping.
This is what President Snow warned would happen if we didn't impress the Districts. This is an uprising. And it is happening right before my very eyes.