#Aemilia trinket

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 3)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

13:00—lunch. For the first time since the ominous day in July that she’d descended into the gloom of 13, Effie’s belly was full. As weeks had turned into months, she hadn’t felt hunger. She’d picked at meals and pushed unpalatable food around her tray. But now something was different. Flint scraped over steel inside her like the wind across her cheeks that morning. Her spoon repeatedly clinked the bottom of the bowl of squash soup. It took every ounce of restraint to not bring the whole bowl to her mouth and tilt it upward to collect the last drops.

Keenly observant, Cressida noted, “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You finishing a meal here.” She dropped her voice. “Are you pregnant, Trinket?”

Effie’s face flushed scarlet, blushing through burnt cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” she snapped.

Cressida glanced at Pollux, and Effie recognized her own faux pas. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t thinking about...”

Interacting with an Avox who was a regular citizen rather than a servant of the Capitol was still a new experience for her.

Pollux signed, “No problem,” and his brother offered the translation.

Effie returned her attention to the inquisitive filmmaker. “I’m JUST hungry. Must a woman be pregnant in order to finish a bowl of soup?” She whispered “pregnant” as if saying it too loudly might invite the situation. Or just as worrisome, Haymitch could walk in at that moment, hear the word, flip out, and not touch her again. Now that she’d opened the Pandora’s box of sex with him, she didn’t want to put a lid back on it.

“Okay. I get it.” Cressida was intrigued by Effie’s blush, but otherwise mollified. “You like the soup. End of story.”

It was golden orange in color and lightly flavored with spices that tasted like autumn. Ginger was recognizable, but the others were a mystery to Effie. Her experience with cooking was mostly limited to a course she’d taken a decade and a half prior at Charis School of Grace, Beauty, and Charm.

Her mother had insisted on “Finishing School” for Effie after she graduated from the Academy. The summer classes had been a compromise, since her father was resolute in his intention to send her to University. He’d even dipped into his personal inheritance to pay extra tuition when her test scores didn’t qualify her outright for admission.

“Charis will focus Euphemia on the most sophisticated etiquette and deportment, preparing her for marriage into greater wealth,” her mother argued.

“University will prepare Effie for a practical career suited to her strongest skills,” her father contended.

“Grace, beauty, and charm ARE her strongest skills. Face it, dear. Like you, our daughter lacks the talent to be a Gamemaker.”

“She has the talent to be more than a rich man’s wife.”

“If I were the wife of a RICH man, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Their barbs stung each other. After years of practice, the Trinkets knew just where to aim them. They agreed that Effie needed a path which would secure an optimal future for the family. Neither of them asked her what she wanted.

If they’d asked back then, she would have had one specific answer. And if she was honest with herself now, her deepest desire was exactly the same. If she’d voiced it then, her parents would have sent her to the Asylum first before anything else. So she said nothing about it.

By 18, she’d become a master at the art of knowing when to hold her tongue. She’d internalized the pressure to please her parents and reflect positively on her family’s name and station in society. The burden of doing so was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Effie’s shoulders ached too from the physical work of gathering and carrying around large sacks of perfect leaves. She daydreamed about a bath full of bubbles followed by a nap on a real bed. Allowing the fantasy was a mistake because then her body screamed for it.

She wondered if even babies were allowed to nap here, or did they get merely a half hour of “reflection” before dinner like everyone else? Did they have daily schedules imprinted on their chubby little arms? Eat. Poop. Sleep. What else did the tiny things do? She’d never paid much attention to them in the Capitol. Had she ever seen a baby in 13? She couldn’t recall.

***

14:00—volunteering. The children would be out of school soon. Plutarch told her to expect them along with anyone who was between work shifts. Coin was allowing more flexibility than usual in order to encourage volunteerism. Effie considered the irony in the word spelled out on her arm in purple ink. Following schedules was mandatory. Once “volunteering” is tattooed on your body, doesn’t it cease to be voluntary?

That place made her head hurt if she thought about it too much. She pulled her rose-tinted sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on, hoping the change in light would temper some of the ache, and help her feel less vulnerable.

“Ready or not, here I go,” she said out loud.

She approached the kitchen staff for permission to use large plastic serving bowls to hold the leaves at the tables. The kitchen manager, a middle aged woman named Cuire, put up resistance, muttering something about needing authorization from the president.

Greasy Sae showed no qualms about interjecting. “Now, those leaves ain’t all that different from a salad. We’ll have the bowls washed again long before dinner service.”

The older woman, with her hair up in a kerchief more plain than Effie’s, carried a stack of serving bowls through the doorway without waiting for the manager’s consent. She returned to the kitchen for more until every serving bowl in 13 was in the dining hall. Cuire pursed her lips but said nothing.

Sae pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the canvas bags and dropped them into a bowl. “The list of procedures here’s a mile long. Sometimes the only way to keep these folks from sayin’ ‘no’ is to just not ask ‘em. And then work fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Effie joined her efforts to quickly transfer the leaves to the bowls. “Thank you, Sae.”

“Thank YOU, girl. Gatherin’ up all these to make pretty things for the weddin’, you must be exhausted.”

“I had help. From Haymitch.”

“Did you?”

“I had to ambush him.”

“Nah. As often as that boy looks at you, I’d guess he went willingly.”

Ambushed and willing. Yes, he was.

Beetee wheeled up to her with several spools of wire, wire cutters, rolls of electrical tape, and several pairs of scissors.

“The copper color is PERFECT!” Effie gushed.

“This wire is at least a hundred years old,” he replied with little emotion, “The only reason it shows no corrosion is because 13 is fastidious about its storage conditions, including adequate air circulation. The gauge is small. The electrical current from present technologies, would overload and overheat it. The wire is rather useless actually.”

“Well, we’ve found a use for it!”

“In the absence of copper tape, this seems the best match, which is ironic since brown is typically used for high voltages. And high voltages would burn right through this particular wire.”

“We’re just making garlands today, not blowing out an arena!”

“You’re speaking non-metaphorically, of course. We might hope the propo will play a role in shattering the Capitol’s grip on the restless minds of its citizens... That said, it isn’t my intention to imply that YOUR mind is gripped and restless.”

A gripped and restless mind sounded fairly accurate to Effie. “I doubt the Capitol views me as its citizen at this point.” I guess that makes me homeless, even though my family home, my apartment, my belongings, my entire history are all there.

Beetee noticed her smile fade. “You might be right about that. ...I’m sorry.”

After seeing what her victors had been through and what they were still going through, she felt uncomfortable being apologized to by a victor who she held in high regard. I don’t deserve an apology, though manners dictated the proper response to an apology was a gracious, “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying to help?” she added.

“I’m needed in Special Defense. Bring the leftover supplies when you come down later.”

“Beetee, thank you for this.”

The clock was ticking. Effie went to work immediately, arranging leaves in alternating colors and shapes and adhering the stems to a long length of wire.

“What a beautiful pattern!” A friendly voice spoke over Effie’s shoulder. She turned to see Delly Cartwright whose blonde hair fell free of its usual braid.

“An artisan! Delly, I’m grateful you’re here to help with production and quality control.”

From their occasional chats at mealtimes, Effie had learned that Delly’s parents had been shoemakers, and 13 put her to work in textile production as soon as she’d turned 18.

“Me? An artisan?”

“You WILL be, dear. I’ve seen your stitching. I’ve also observed your congenial way with people.” Effie cut a long length of wire for Delly and set her up with supplies to work at another table. “Let’s spread around the talent.”

When school let out, Delly’s younger brother was the first to arrive, not wanting to go “home” to empty quarters. Posy Hawthorne followed close at his heels, skipping to keep up with his much longer legs.

“Stop followin’ me!” he told her.

“I’m not followin’ you. We’re just goin’ the same place, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re a baby, and I don’t want you sittin’ at MY table.”

“Cordwain!” Delly interjected, “That’s not polite!”

“I’m FIVE years old, and I’ll sit wherever I please, CordWAIN.” With three older brothers, Posy could hold her own in disagreements with just about anyone, especially boys. Effie admired that along with her manners.

“Aw, Dellyyyy,” her brother whined, “You’re supposed to call me Cord!”

“You apologize to Posy, and I won’t have to be so stern.”

“Do I HAVE to?! She’s just Vick’s little sister.”

“And you’re MY little brother, so, yes, you do. You know Ma and Pa would say so if—“

“Ma and Pa are dead!” Cord sat at the table with Delly and folded his arms across his chest.

Delly sighed, and her tone softened, “Cordy, honey, that’s all the more reason to apologize.”

His lip quivered, and he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry they died,” Posy empathized, “My daddy died b’fore I was born.”

She sat across from Effie and looked at her for a long fifteen seconds. Effie wasn’t used to children being so young. The girl’s dark hair fell long past her shoulders in two braids. Her gray eyes were deeply set. She had the look of a person who’d seen the shadow of death and kept going.

“I like your pink glasses.” Posy twirled one of her braids around her finger. “I used to have pink ribbons. Two of ‘em.”

“When I was your age, I wore pink ribbons in my hair. Pink was my favorite color.”

“Mine too! Gale says we can’t go back fer the ribbons. He says they’re gone. Do you think they’re gone?”

“Well... I...” For goodness sake. What does one say to a child whose district was fire bombed to rubble?

Cord muttered some more, “Of course they’re gone!”

Posy ignored him, waiting for Effie’s response.

“Your brother, Gale, is wise, dear.” Effie saw her expectant little face fall. “I am going to your district tomorrow. With Katniss. Would you like for me to look for the ribbons so you know for certain?”

Posy nodded.

“Then I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime would you like to help make a garland? There aren’t any pink leaves, but there are other pretty colors.”

Posy reached into the bowl and pulled out a red one. “Can I do this one?”

“Of course. Let me show you.”

Effie demonstrated with a different leaf then watched Posy’s small fingers peel and cut the tape and use it to add her chosen leaf to the copper wire.

“How’s that?” the girl asked.

The tape was crooked. The leaf was crooked, and it didn’t fall in line with the pattern. Effie considered telling her so. Aemilia Trinket certainly would have. And for that reason if no other, Effie said to the five-year/old, “That’s wonderful, dear.”

Posy beamed. “You’re nice. You’re not scary at all! I’m gonna go tell Rory that he’s wrong.” She hopped out of the chair and skipped away, turning around long enough to say, “I’ll be back!”

Effie watched her go, not knowing quite what to think. Rory?... She couldn’t remember who that was. One of the Hawthorne boys?

“This year would have been Rory’s first reaping,” Delly explained.

Effie didn’t need to hear anything more in order to understand. The truth split her heart. Half of it dropped like lead into her stomach. The other half rose up into her throat, threatening to choke her.

The children are afraid of me.

Even without a reaping ball in front of me, they are still afraid.

In that moment, she didn’t have time or space to process the realization. She just sat there, forcing a smile, trying to keep the vacant feeling in her chest from showing on her face. As volunteers streamed into the dining hall, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pressed her palm to her stomach, and directed the project as planned.

More children arrived giggling and singing, 🎶”Come live with me and be my love...”🎶 It was the beginning of District 4’s wedding song, which they’d started learning in school. 🎶”...I'll take you out upon the sea...”🎶 drew them into conversation about how the ocean might look, feel, sound, smell, and taste. None of them had ever been to the seashore. They’d only seen it in books.

🎶”...To share the starry night with you...” 🎶 intrigued them too. Some of the children from 12 tried to describe the stars to the kids from 13 who had never been above ground at night. “A star is like the tip of the flame of a candle that never flickers.”... “They just pop out in the sky as it’s changing from blue to black.”... “My grandma says stars are ghosts that come to visit us at night. Good ghosts, not scary ones.”... “Ghosts ain’t real.”... “Are so!”... “Are not!”

Dozens of adults were there to cut wire and strips of tape for the younger children and to ensure the garlands turned out beautifully.

With so many helping hands, Effie had to let go of her precise plans. The work of other artisans became apparent as some patterns emerged which were even more pleasing than what Plutarch and Effie envisioned.

Boggs showed up, carrying his son on his hip. The boy seemed younger than Posy, though Effie was far from an expert about children under 12. Boggs sat at a table with the boy in his lap. The little one reached for the leaves just as Boggs’ communicuff started flashing wildly. “Damon, buddy, President Coin is calling. I’ve just lost my break time. I’m going to need to take you back to daycare, but maybe Miss Trinket will let you take one of the leaves with you?” Boggs gave Effie a pleading look. The last thing he needed just then was an upset kid.

Damon’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. He wiped them away with the backs of his hands which were filled with leaves that he didn’t want to let go. Since the epidemic, Boggs and his son had been on their own. Looking into those teary eyes, Effie couldn’t help but feel for them. The feeling seeped into that empty space in her chest, and eased a bit of the void.

“Your son can stay awhile, if you’d like. Then I can take him back to daycare.”

“Are you sure? He’s a handful, and you have a lot going on here.”

Seeing herself in the moment as “scary ghost” rather than a star, Effie definitely was NOT sure that she was the right person to be looking after a young child. “Of course, I’m sure,” she spoke through her smiling mask.

“What do you say, buddy? Do you want to stay with Miss Trinket and make a garland, or do you want me to take you back to daycare now?”

“It’s Effie. The only one who calls me Miss Trinket around here is Mr. Heavensbee.” She laughed.

Damon climbed down from Boggs’ lap and up into Effie’s. “Oh! Well, hello,” she said, pushing her chair back far enough to make room for him. He was heavier than he’d looked in the strong arms of his father. He squirmed around reaching for everything at once: more leaves of every shape and color, scissors...

Boggs’ eyes widened.

Effie handed Damon a roll of tape in trade for the scissors. “You can hold the tape, and I’LL do the cutting.”

‘Thank you,’ Boggs mouthed the words then told his son, “This is an important job, soldier. Effie is your commanding officer. Are you going to take this work seriously and mind what she tells you to do?”

“Yeth, thir, Daddy, thir!” His lisp melted Effie’s heart.

“At ease, little man. I’ll pick you up from daycare at 18:00.” Boggs kissed his son’s forehead, and Damon was already hard at work attempting to peel tape off the roll.

As Effie helped the boy put leaves on the wire, Posy returned, accompanied by one of her brothers who hurried to claim an open seat next to Cord. Posy skipped up to Effie and patted her head. “I got Vick to come, but Rory’s stubborn. YOU know how boys can be.”

Effie looked up from the table to see Haymitch leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dining hall. He was watching her closely. The expression on his face was a loaded mix of curiosity and seriousness.

“Yes, I do know how boys can be,” Effie agreed, “Especially when they are afraid.”

Haymitch had never seen Effie around little kids, and he was fascinated. The Hawthorne girl chattered on and on, tucking leaf stems into the top knot of Effie’s kerchief. Boggs’ kid was in Effie’s lap, crushing leaves with his hands and unwrapping tape for her to cut with scissors. A girl Haymitch didn’t recognize sat to the side, touching Effie’s bracelet. “Is this silver and gold?” the kid asked.

“This s costume jewelry,” Effie answered.

“What’s ‘costume’?” the girl wanted to know.

“A costume is... something you might wear when you are... pretending.”

The Hawthorne girl said to the other one, “You can wear one of my pink ribbons sometime, and we can pretend to be twins... if Effie finds my ribbons in 12 tomorrow.”

Effie locked eyes with Haymitch. “I promised I’d look, Posy, but please don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

He was trying to make sense of the situation. Effie’s going to 12 tomorrow? Why? And why is nobody telling me anything! Pissed off, he started to walk away.

“Excuse me, girls. Damon, let’s go talk to Haymitch for a few minutes.” Effie stood up, holding the boy on her hip as Boggs had done. “Haymitch! Wait...” She caught up to him before the staircase. If he’d really wanted to avoid her, he would have already been long gone.

“What are you thinking!?” he asked, unsure of what he was wondering about most... Why was Effie going to 12 where the burned corpses of his people were still rotting? Why didn’t she tell him about her plans? And what the hell was his heart doing as he watched her with those little kids?

“Annie needs help selecting one of Cinna’s dresses for the wedding, and Katniss asked if I could go with them for support. So, of course, I said yes. ...Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But it’s bad there. You’re going to see things that’ll change you.”

“I’m already changing.” She boosted the kid up on her hip. “There’s nothing I can do to stop that. ...And I don’t think I want to stop it.”

Damon dropped the leaves and rubbed his eyes. “Are you tired... buddy?” Effie hesitantly used one of Boggs’ nicknames for the boy. He shook his head ‘no’, but rubbed his eyes again. “How about we take these leaves to daycare so you can show your daddy?”

Damon nodded and opened his hands to the floor where the leaves had fallen. Haymitch bent to pick them up and handed them back to the kid. He stood close to them. Effie smelled like the woods, faintly like ginger, and mostly like her. The fragrances helped him feel less agitated. They were familiar, as if less was changing all at once.

“Thank you,” she said about the leaves, “Will you please tell Delly where I’m going and ask her to stay until I return?”

“Sure”

She rested her palm on Haymitch’s shirt where his sweater gaped open. She brushed her fingertips along the buttons. “Will YOU stay until I return? I could really use your help hanging these garlands in Special Defense.”

Her touch felt too good for him to say no.

The peace in his expression was answer enough for her.

As he watched her walk away, a smile crept over his face. He was far too amused to remind Effie that the Hawthorne girl had embellished her head wrap with at least a dozen leaves. In all the years, it was the best *wig* he’d seen her wear. If she was going to roam around 13 looking like a tree, then who was he to stop her?

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 1)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

6:00—wake up. The timer in Effie’s quarters buzzed, and the overhead lights turned on automatically. Up up up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day! If the lights could have spoken, that’s what they would have said... The irony.

“This oppressive cavern has no respect for my individual biorhythms!” She pulled the blanket up over her head.

Her one consolation was that the blanket smelled like Haymitch — his skin, his hair, his body with hers. She breathed in deeply, and the scents evoked memories of the evening before. If there was going to be regret, she hadn’t yet felt it. Instead, she was inundated with the sensations of an awakened heart and flushed cheeks.

She lifted her nightgown and traced the paths his hands had taken. Pleasure urged her fingertips in concentric circles and symbols of infinity. Her core flooded as she came alive, so quickly. Effie turned her face into the pillow to stifle the sounds coming from her throat as she trembled and found release.

Every morning in that dungeon, she’d missed the sunrise — the infusion of gold and blue, with wispy clouds white as cotton or pink like tufts of spun sugar. For weeks she’d longed for some bit of delight. And she was feeling it now.

Unfortunately, the timer chirped every five minutes until she placed her forearm into the hole in the wall which imprinted her schedule for the day. She dragged her sated body out of bed to submit to obnoxious authority in order to silence the equally obnoxious alarm.

“...7:00—breakfast, 7:30—kitchen duties, 8:00—Command...” It had been a couple of weeks since Plutarch had an assignment for her which took her down to Command. Am I in trouble? was her initial thought.

Aemilia Trinket’s voice crept out from the recesses of her mind. “You deserve whatever punishment awaits you for sacrificing your virtue to that boor!”

“Oh, Mother...” Effie pushed back at the chastising words inside her. “I said goodbye to my *virtue* 17 years ago. ...And shut up about Haymitch. You don’t know him. You don’t know him at all.” She said it louder than intended, then glanced around her quarters. Are there recorders in here? ...Probably. The people in charge in 13 seemed to care as little about privacy as they did about free will. In which case, they likely got an earful last night! Effie changed into her clothes quickly, imagining the horror of cameras hidden as well.

She slid one of her bracelets onto her wrist and slipped her sunglasses into her pocket. Then she gazed into the small mirror on the wall, searching for evidence that someone might be peering out at her from within. Her reflection was flat here, a shadow of her normal self, her former self.

Her soft curls were weighed down by the residue of industrial shampoo. “This golden color is lovely,” her mother had told Effie’s 5-year-old self, “Though I had hoped it would have grown long and thick by now. You must resign yourself, Euphemia, to a lifetime of woven ribbons, extensions, and silk scarves. Implants may be a possibility when you’re older. Or wigs might come back into fashion. Let us hope they do.”

This is my favorite part of you... Haymitch’s words broke through the old memory. He’d threaded his fingers through her hair and held on like a person drowning, kissing her until her lips were raw.

For an instant, she considered leaving her head uncovered today, but split ends after weeks of unmanicured growth brought her to her senses. She brushed out the night’s tangles and tied her hair up as usual in order to continue hiding at least that much of herself.

If Coin had given Effie approval to continue wearing the wig she’d arrived in, then she wouldn’t be restricted now to improvised kerchiefs and turbans. How is a person supposed to stand out here when everyone is ordered to look the same!?

***

7:00—Breakfast. In the dining hall, Effie always sat at her assigned table, unless someone she felt comfortable with was scheduled to eat at the same time, in which case she joined them if space permitted.

The list of people in 13 who she was comfortable with was short. It began with the Everdeens and Gale. He’d introduced her to his family, but they remained distant. Most people here kept their distance from her. She didn’t like to think about it. “Everyone is still adjusting,” sweet Delly Cartwright had mentioned weeks ago.

Effie tolerated Plutarch’s company as soon as she’d forgiven him for the forced rescue effort which brought her here. Next came Katniss’s *prep team* which included 13’s barber along with the nurses who did laser treatments to remove scarring. Cressida and her film crew whose names Effie never made an effort to recall were from the Capitol, but she felt little kinship with them.

There were also the people who had gathered to brainstorm for the propos. Beetee and Finnick she’d known loosely for years through the Games. Boggs often had his little boy with him in the dining hall. She’d scarcely spoken with Dalton from District 10 or Katniss’s friend Leevy, but at least ther faces were familiar.

Greasy Sae worked in the kitchen during mealtimes, otherwise Effie would have enjoyed her company. Her lively presence was one of the saving graces of “kitchen duty.”

And there was Haymitch.

At breakfast that morning, she sat alone. The food was tasteless as usual. She stirred mashed beets into porridge, creating a bright pink swirl. At least her meal would have some semblance of beauty.

At 7:15 a tray plopped down next to hers. “Morning, sweetheart.” He looked cold in his knit hat and sweater. His bloodshot eyes avoided hers, but he was here.

“You want coffee...” she said knowingly.

“Whiskey first. Or preferably both together, if you’re offering.”

“We’ll have to pretend.” She clinked her plastic water cup against his. “Cheers.”

He finally looked at her. In this light, her eyebrows were golden like the hair she concealed under that kerchief. He wanted to trace them with his fingertips. Why hadn’t he done that last night?

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“More than usual.” He wanted to touch her. Could he touch her here? When they were making their rules, they hadn’t talked about this part. “I was worn out from the... unscheduled exercise.”

“Is that what that was?” She leaned toward his ear and whispered, “My hips are marked black and blue with your fingerprints.”

His expression changed. He slid an arm around her waist and rested his hands lightly on her hip bones. “Here?”

His face was close to hers. The cut on his lip was starting to knit itself together. She wanted to kiss him. Could she kiss him here? When they were making their rules, they hadn’t talked about this part. “Yes... I’ll live.”

Her echoing his words from the night before only added to the feeling of intimacy. He brushed his thumbs along her hips, offering a gentle apology; even though she was the one who had asked for roughness.

She dropped her hand to his thigh. “I like having your fingerprints on me.”

“I had a good time.”

“I had SUCH a good time.”

“Want to do it again—“

“What’s this about good times?” Finnick arrived with two breakfast trays. Annie’s hand was tucked in the crook of his elbow. He set the trays on the table directly across from Haymitch and Effie. He pulled a chair out for Annie, then sat beside her.

“It looks like we’re having a little reunion here...” Haymitch grinned at Finnick and left his hands right where they were on Effie’s hips despite her letting go of his thigh and returning to her meal. “...Annie, you’re looking lovely.”

Their his-and-hers hospital gowns had been replaced with standard District 13 clothing.

“Indeed, it is WONDERFUL to see you both — together.” Effie fidgeted, uncomfortable now with Haymitch touching her so personally in front of his friends and her associates.

“Annie, my love, you remember Effie Trinket? And Haymitch of course.”

“Effie...” Annie took a moment to place the name. “Oh! I didn’t recognize you. You look so... beautiful.”

Welling tears made Effie’s eyes shine bright blue. Unadorned and dressed in these rags, she hadn’t expected anyone would find her beautiful, let alone give voice to such sentiment. “Thank you, my dear. YOU are the beautiful one. That hair is absolutely divine.”

Finnick beamed as he held Annie’s hand, “Can I tell them?” he asked and she nodded. “She’s going to be a beautiful BRIDE very soon.”

“Ohh!” Effie clasped her hands together and held them in front of her chest. “You’re getting married! This is DELIGHTFUL news.”

At the mention of marriage, Haymitch let go of Effie’s hips. Having sex with someone he cared about was feeling dangerous enough. Marriage was a whole other species that he wanted nothing to do with. That said, he couldn’t help but feel a moment of lightness. He reached forward to clap Finnick’s shoulder. “I’m glad, kid. Nobody deserves a good thing more than you two.”

A slyness slipped into Finnick’s smile as he glanced from Haymitch to Effie and back again. “Other people deserve good things too.” For years he’d observed them shooting barbs at one another, holding each other’s hands each time one of their tributes died, lifting one another up through his drunkenness and her disappointed hopes.

“You and Effie?” Finnick had asked him years ago. “...Too complicated,” had been Haymitch’s response.

Noticing Finnick’s scrutiny, Effie cleared her throat. “Well, look at the time! It’s my turn to be a *servant of the masses.* Congratulations, dears. I look forward to seeing you all later.” She looked intently at Haymitch before moving toward the kitchen.

When she passed through the doorway, Finnick poked him in the arm. “You LIKE her.”

Haymitch said nothing. He could feel the corners of his mouth start to creep up, and he shoved them back down again.

“You’ve never had much of a poker face.” Then Finnick said to Annie. “When he’s got a good hand, he has too many tells. He definitely likes her.”

Annie was glowing like late morning sun lifting up over the woods.

Haymitch had played enough poker with Finnick to know it was pointless to protest his assessment. “It’s like liking a cat,” he admitted, “One minute they’re all soft and purring. And the next, they’re hissing and scratching your eyes out.”

“Or your lip maybe?” Finnick’s eyes were twinkling mischief. Flecks of light on a green sea.

“Alright, alright. Eat your porridge.”

***

8:00—Command. Plutarch and Coin were in the thick of discussion when Effie arrived. She waited unobtrusively just outside the room, hearing only pieces of their conversation.

“My soldiers are occupied with intense training which does not include *walks in the woods*.”

“Forgive my assumption, but soldiers would likely shovel fallen leaves at random and lop off branches without finesse or discernment. We need someone with artistic flair.”

“Effie Trinket will have to make due with the foliage within the exercise yard and along its perimeter.”

“The yard is small. Those limited trees will not provide the diversity of colors and shapes we need for a truly festive propo. This propo is KEY to reaching into the minds of the citizens of the Capitol. Surely regulations can be flexed so a handful of civilians can spend their exercise time gathering vegetation in a small section of the woods.”

“I hear your perspective. But I cannot authorize a full security detail to supervise the equivalent of *berry picking*.”

“Madam President, may I remind you that you agreed to decorations. To honor the spirit of that agreement, those decorations must actually be decorative.”

“What do you propose?”

“Two security guards for two hours, a 100-yard radius, with four civilians wearing tracker anklets and communicators.”

“I’ll allow the two hour shift for a single security guard, a 50-yard radius, and two civilians working in tandem. Any additional foliage you need must be gathered from within the yard.”

Plutarch opened his mouth to negotiate further, but decided against it when he noticed Effie near the doorway. “Ah, Miss Trinket, just the person we’re looking for.”

Effie stepped inside, carrying herself with grace to hide her lingering concern that she’d been called to the *principal’s office* for doing something wrong. “I’m grateful to be at your service. All this dishwashing lately has been MURDER on my hands.”

Coin stood up, signaling an end to her discussion with Plutarch. He followed as she greeted Effie. “Hopefully your hands can be resurrected, because we’ll be needing them over the next few days.”

“Fortunately, resurrection is one of my specialties!”

“Well, that’s something we have in common.” Coin always took the last word, though she never showed overt pleasure in doing so. The president was clearly adept at concealment. The stillness of her hair was uncanny. Stoic even. Maybe it’s a wig after all, Effie thought. The nerve of this woman.

“Madam President, please excuse us.” Plutarch nodded to her. “Miss Trinket, let’s walk.”

He led Effie to an elevator and pressed a button. She watched the lights as they descended to who knows where. “Are you taking me to the dungeon?” she asked.

“It’s all dungeon; isn’t it.” As ever, he was aware of his audience, “Though some places here are less... unpleasant than others.”

The elevator opened up into a zig-zagging corridor flanked by rooms full of technology. The end of the maze was marked by light, lustrous enough to resemble sunshine.

They entered a large room steeped in stillness, interrupted periodically by the flitting chatter of hummingbirds. The floor was dotted with planters full of grass. Several trees carried Effie’s eyes upward to an elaborate ceiling. The architecture was austere yet beautiful. She drew a breath and held it in awe. If this dungeon had a cathedral, then this surely was it. “What is this place?”

“Special Defense. A fitting name for the site of our ultimate propo... the wedding of Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair. The details are being arranged as we speak. Do you feel up to the task of coordinating some of those details?”

His words filled her with a sense of purpose. She could have hugged Plutarch! She could have skipped around the nearest tree like a girl. With a lifetime of rehearsed restraint, she walked to the center of the room and turned methodically in a circle, observing the entirety of the space.

“I do!”

Plutarch smirked. “You realize that YOU are not the bride?”

Effie glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous! I DO want to help coordinate. When Katniss left for District 2, I was relegated to the work of a peasant!”

“Apparently nobody avoids chores here. Even the president.”

“I have yet to see HER with a broomstick... outside of metaphor, that is.”

“Careful. I believe 13 is bringing out your natural color.”

“Well, it’s all I have in this fortress of gray! The grass and trees add a gorgeous splash of green to this glorious room, but these cement walls are atrocious.”

“I agree. Coin is allowing them to be decorated with fall foliage. Beetee assures me that a few spools of old wire and aging adhesive tape can be repurposed for making garlands. Have you made garlands before?”

“Of course! Decorating is one of my talents! Not that there has been much opportunity for it down here, to put it mildly.”

“Coin will make a public announcement, requesting volunteers to assemble the decorations later this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?! It’s a great deal to pull together so quickly!”

“Time is of the essence. Tomorrow a hovercraft will take Katniss and Annie to District 12 in order to select clothing for the bride and groom.”

“Ohh...” Effie whispered with even greater reverence than she felt at the sight of the ceiling. “...Cinna and Portia’s closets.”

“Yes. Katniss asked permission for you to accompany them to help the bride with her fashion decisions. Her request was approved, but the choice whether or not to go with them is yours. I’ll be honest; 12 is a gruesome place right now.”

Fire bombed. Thousands of people dead. For weeks Effie had imagined the reasons Haymitch knew he couldn’t face it sober. The images her mind conjured were disturbing.

“Katniss would not have asked for my assistance if she didn’t need it. ...Of course I’ll go. I will always be there for my victors.”

Plutarch assessed her. “You may regard yourself as a reluctant rebel, but it’s clear to me where your loyalties lie.”

“Is it?” Effie’s question was genuine. Loyalty was a concept she didn’t contemplate. Doing her job, whatever that may be, was important to her. The people she cared about were important to her. For a while, she’d felt increasingly tugged in opposite directions. She was still trying to hold herself together.

“I trust you’ll figure that out in time.”

“Plutarch, do you EVER give a straightforward answer?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

She shook her head, half amused and half annoyed.

“I have people setting up three hundred chairs in here later this morning. The film crew will work with them on optimal placement in order to get the best angles. The propo will film the day after tomorrow. Wedding Day. I’ll need you to make sure the bride and groom look their best.”

“Now, THAT will be easy. They have tremendous natural beauty. They just need a little help smoothing out some rough edges.” Effie might have been tempted to describe their appearance as haggard, but when she’d observed them at breakfast, she could see that being deeply in love had a power to smooth out edges that lasers and makeup could not touch.

She felt a flash of envy and let it pass without holding on. She already had enough emotions to contend with. *Deeply in love* was a complication she did not need. She could feel herself standing upon a brink — a precipice with a red canyon below and warm wind rushing around her. Letting the wind take her would be so easy. And letting the wind take her would be the smashing death of everything she’d ever been.

I’m not ready for it.

She and Plutarch spent the next quarter hour discussing juxtaposition of color and shape, length and placement of garlands, positioning of the bride and groom. He’d already thought through each detail. He’s not just planning a propo. It’s almost as if he’s designing... an arena. Effie felt chills along her arms.

“This wedding, it’s not another... Hunger Games?” She began it as a statement, but it came out as a question. To her ears it sounded absurd, but her body clearly felt something she couldn’t wrap her mind around.

“There are different kinds of hungers; aren’t there? And games are always afoot.” Again, he was intentionally vague. “A person only needs to create the right atmosphere; then those hungers will emerge, and those games will play out of their own volition. Creating the atmosphere will be our collective task today.”

The goosebumps refused to subside. She suspected Plutarch would never be out of a job in any regime. “What do you need me to do?”

“You’ll notice this morning that you’re scheduled for two hours of exercise. You’ll be in the woods.”

“The woods?!” Effie enjoyed the natural world at a distance and contained, but nature up close was wild and daunting.

“A security guard will escort you. Coin gave approval for another civilian to work with you to gather vegetation. You’ll need a diversity and abundance of leaves, much more than can be found in the exercise yard. You’ll have only two hours, so make wise use of your time. Whatever you bring back is what the volunteers will have to work with this afternoon.”

“What is the plan for the afternoon?”

“Between the lunch and dinner shifts you’ll have use of the dining hall. Volunteers will show up to make the decorations. School will be done for the day, so expect citizens and refugees of all ages. Afterward, you’ll bring a number of volunteers back here to display the garlands as we’ve discussed.”

“Who will be helping me in the woods?”

“You can select anyone whose schedule for the day can be altered. No on-duty kitchen staff, hospital staff, or military personnel, and no minors. ...Who do you want?”

Who do I want?

A hummingbird hovered close. The feathers covering its throat shimmered like rubies, but the beating of its wings was the only sound she heard.

“If you don’t know who you want I can just assign someone.”

She silently cursed the prohibition of makeup here as her feelings showed scarlet on her cheeks before she’d even said his name.

“Miss Trinket, the clock is ticking.”

A ticking clock... this reminder of the last arena raised more goosebumps. When the chips were down, there was only one person in this fortress, maybe in the whole world, who she was comfortable with.

“I want Haymitch.”

“...Of course you do.”