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ellanainthetardis · 5 years ago

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Alright, this will be my review for The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes so obviously spoilers under the cut.

Also obviously, this is my opinion, I force no one to share it and I’m happy to discuss the book with anyone who wants to.

First off, I won’t go into all the deep themes in the books. It seems obvious to me there’s a very clever allegory for a contrat social at work here but since I am not very much interested in that, I will leave it aside. It’s well done, I think, but I am more a character driven sort of reader than theme driven and the debate over “are we the product of our environment or is man a beast at heart” is a bit null here. Surely enough, as one of the quotes at the beginning implies, the whole book more or less struggles to show Dr Gaul somehow turns Coryo into a monster to her Frankenstein… Sure, he seems to hesitate between right and wrong, the nature of the two etc etc. But, really, I have troubles relating to a character questioning the nature of man when that character is so plainly a psychopath himself.

I’m sorry. I said it.

Did I love Snow in this book? Sure. Even when he was being bad, I loved him. What’s not to love? He’s completely over-dramatic. All the time. He’s a complex character with Draco Malfoy vibes and who tries to do well by his family. But he is also sick in the head and that predates Dr Gaul’s little mind games. Can we argue it’s because of his traumatic childhood? Maybe. It doesn’t change the fact he equals love with possession, does not seem to experience remorse nor guilt – or at least not very long and he’s very quick to rationalize it – and has a natural ability to mimic or force himself to act as is expected in any given situation. He doesn’t react to things, you will notice, he behaves the way he thinks people expects him to.

So, he is sick. And since he is sick, the whole debate through his head about the nature of violence, men being beasts without laws, freedom versus enforcement, right and wrong, etc seems void.

Let’s leave that aside for now.

The question you will probably ask me is: did you like the book? And the answer I will give is yes I did. I did enjoy the book. At least the first two third of it.

It’s fast paced, it’s engaging, it’s easy to read…

What I like most is the worldbuilding. What a difference a 3rd pov makes… I mean we finally got all the world building we deserved. And the names. Actually, there were so many names in there I’m pretty sure she threw them as a joke. But, yeah. Everything I reproach Thg was fixed here: we have a more consistent idea of how the Games work out of the arena, we know the currency used is dollars (which we didn’t up until now), we have a better idea of how the Capitol works as a society, about the working of Peacekeepers and Districts… I quite enjoyed learning more about the 1st war and the post war world too.

I also enjoyed the Capitol families Cameos – and I was very wary about them if you read some of my posts pre-released. They were nice nods, it wasn’t too on the nose… I am relieved beyond measure not to have seen a mention of an Abernathy or a Trinket – or an Everdeen or a Mellark, I guess – mostly because that means we are still free to stick to our own hcs. (it’s not that important but still).

The cast of characters were all great – with two notable exceptions but I will come back to that.

I loved Snow’s family. What a surprise to find out Tigris is a Snow? But what joy she is. I really enjoyed her character but I have to say I’m a bit disappointed we didn’t get to see (or at least were told in the epilogue) how they grow apart or how she comes to have whiskers. The Grandma’am was an awesome addition too. Lucy Gray, the Coveys, the Peacekeepers, Sejanus, the other mentors… They were great.

I will argue that maybe Lucy Gray, as a main character (second main character? She’s the yin to his yang in this book) could have been more fleshed out because when it comes down to it, she seems to float around in the story only in relation to Snow. This being said and the pov being mostly Snow’s, it’s coherent with his egocentric view of the world. And I’m sure a lot of people will argue the case that her only purpose being to die so he can get over love is a bit problematic better than I could.

The two characters that I think were disappointing were the “villains” of the tale: Dr Gaul and Highbottom. They were actually so disappointing that I spent a good portion of the book convinced that here was some kind of secret plot, that there would be a conspiracy or something. But no, they were just that… flat.

Highbottom first: the creator of the Hunger Games who, obviously, didn’t mean to and ends up doctoring himself with morphling to forget. And seems to hate Coryo (yes that’s Snow’s nickname) for no obvious reason. I was sure there must be some twist but no, it just turned out he hates Snow because his father stole his Hunger Games idea to pitch it to Gaul for a grade and now he’s responsible for the death of kids. Which, I mean, is valid. But since it’s only here to bring into contrast the “is Snow really bad or have the circumstances make him bad” when, really, he’s a psycho, it ends up being very disappointing on discovery – never mind as the final reveal of the epilogue.

As for Gaul. Is she terrifying? I mean, for a young adult book, sure, I guess. She’s too obviously mean and crazy scientist for me though. I like my villains a little more subtle. She spent her times torturing her pet rabbit and various animals ffs. All she needed was a mustache to twirl. She’s cliché and, again, I’m sure it was like that for rhetoric purposes but… She’s Frankenstein and Snow is her creature, we get it. Why though? She takes a shine to him and proceeds to groom him so he can deliver the world she wants? So he’s her legacy? Because she’s a psycho too and she needs an apprentice? I thought that part was a little fishy because, at the end of the day… I don’t know, it seems a bit random.

But, I suppose, yet again, everything has to revolve around Snow in the book and in Panem.

And we’re touching to the part that annoyed me to death, that really really angered me and that, right now as we speak, I am a little disgusted by.

A short word first about the fan service. And there was plenty of that to go around. All the little wink wink, nudge nudge made me smile at first (like the grandma saying it only takes a spark for fire to catch, that sort of things), it was subtle so it worked. But as the book goes on, all the references built to the point I was sort of terrified Katniss would end up being related to Snow. And while she is not, I am fairly convinced she’s descended from the Coveys, it makes a lot of sense.

Ok… Where to start with that part and be coherent…

The less offensive (yes, I am using that word because it was offending to me) thing was Snow’s recurring reflection about the mockingjays. On hindsight, of course, it has so much more meaning than what is going on on paper, so it made sense and while it was a bit sold too thick, it was also interesting. That’s something I’m willing to grant was good.

I also liked the “it’s not over until the Mockingjay sings” saying. To be honest, I was 100% confident the epilogue would be a flashforward to the end of MJ and that quote would somehow come back into play but apparently not, that’s for us to fanfic instead.

Now, as for the rest… I am going to speak as someone who loves Haymitch Abernathy an unhealthy amount, and while I speak as someone who loves Haymitch, I also feel it is only minorly about Haymitch and a lot about Katniss, Peeta and the rest of the victors. But Haymitch is my favorite character in the series, Haymitch is a big part of why I have dedicated so much time writing fanfics and contributing to the fandom, I am very protective of Haymitch. And, on his behalf, I am so deeply, deeply offended.

In this book, Suzanne Collins makes Snow a victor.

We can argue the semantics. Naturally, he didn’t actually win the Hunger Games.

Or does he?

Because there are no winners, only survivors and by that very definition Coriolanus Snow is a victor.

Coriolanus Snow walked into an arena, was forced into the arena.

Coriolanus Snow fought in the arena.

Coriolanus Snow killed someone in the arena.

Coriolanus Snow walked back out of the arena.

He survived.

It makes him a de facto victor. He is actually literally called that a couple of times throughout the book. It’s reinforced by the idea that mentor and tribute are a team, even.

And this very idea that Snow is a victor, has been a victor all along, is so deeply, deeply upsetting to me. The bond between victors, it’s something very special, I feel. Victors share something nobody else can understand – my very favorite part of the whole series is in Catching Fire when they hold hands, it is such a strong emotional moment, it always moves me, always. And Snow being a part of that defiles it. Worse, that means a victor was actually the one imposing such horrors on other victors all along.

And that’s… I mean, probably in terms of themes and the story as an independent object, it’s all very ironic and dark and full of great meaning about man and it’s condition. But for someone who loves Haymitch, it is very deeply offending to learn the man who has taken everything from him went through the same experience he did, that they share that bond, that they have so many similarities.

Too many similarities actually. And here we are going to branch out on TBOSAS in relation to Katniss more specifically.

That’s another thing I am not sure I liked: how similar Snow’s conditions were to our beloved characters. The starvation, the very similar experience they had growing up.

At first, I didn’t mind it. I thought, even, that it was quite fitting. But the problem came when so much of Katniss’ story was being… stolen, turned around. It started feeling like this book was subverting the powerful story in THG, not just the main plot, but everlark, and the character building. So, of course, here again, it’s probably a matter of questioning if, stemming from the same conditions, you become a hero or a villain. Nature or nurture. That sort of things. And, again, it depends if you look at the big picture and analyze it calmly or if you react with your guts as a fan, I guess. Yeah, no surprise, I’m going the fan route.

So there were a lot of parallels to Katniss.

The starvation. The strong sense of family. Lucy and the singing…

And it wasn’t limited to Katniss, it touched to everlark too.

The star-crossed lovers thing comes to mind obviously (and I want to talk about the ship too but after). Then, there was the bread thing that was both Snow’s and Lucy’s favorite and the fact that Snow brings her food all the time. The poison in the arena we can land at snow’s door since it’s his weapon of choice, but still poison in the arena, my mind goes straight to the berries… (I will tackle the hanging tree song after)

At this point (before she goes in the arena), I was still mostly okay with it because I thought it would somehow have a reason later. Like either Katniss would turn out to be related to Lucy or it would remain light enough to turn out to be foreshadowing for THG.

Then came part 3. And that’s where the book mostly lost me.

There are eleven other Districts in Panem. So why Twelve? And if it had to be Twelve why pollute everything Katniss loves? How are we supposed to see those things the same way again when we know what we now know?

The meadow? The meadow where the toastbabies are dancing and running? Where so many people are laid to rest? Snow has been there, kissed his girl there. And let me tell you, as a Haymitch fan, knowing that Haymitch never gets to reunite with his girl in the meadow because of Snow, it’s a special kind of pain to read Coryo frolicking there in the grass “with his girl”.

And then, of course, I don’t know what is worse… The lake or the song?

Let’s start with the lake. Where do I begin? The lake that is so special to Katniss? The little shack where she stocks everything? The lake that features into so many fanfictions and that, if some people feel the same way I do, can never be used again the same way? So, that lake was where Snow murdered (possibly) his “love”. The lake, thus, becomes a part of Snow’s narrative.

It’s stolen away from Katniss.

And to better stress that point? The scene with the Mockingjays taking up the hanging tree when Lucy is about to get murdered. (let’s make a digression to say oh boy how fun it must have been for Snow during mj, I’m very tempted to fanfic THAT). It’s all very full of symbolism, of course, but with the hindsight? It’s another great important moment stolen away from Katniss. Highjacked. Not unlike a mutt, actually. This book is a mutt XD

Which brings me to what really, really made me angry: the hanging tree song.

That song is so symbolic of MJ and everlark. I mean, there’s one thing I will give MJ the movie and that’s this scene with the song. The people attacking the dam and getting butchered while humming that song? Iconic. But more prosaically, book based, that song is such such a powerful moment. It’s special. And not only because of all the thing with everlark and the tree and midnight.

And suuuuure there might be a lot of symbolism in that song being not strictly about but still intimately related to Snow. Sure. But you know? It’s also another thing that now is about Snow. So even as Katniss was singing that song, getting the Districts to rebel, showing Peeta that District 12 was gone, letting the Mockingjays by the lake take up the chorus… It isn’t just about hope or freedom anymore. Now, it’s about Snow and about how terribly ironic it is this particular song comes to be his demise, how it’s fate or karma or whatever you want to call it. Because now, we can’t unread this book, we can’t unknown what we know.

And I hate that.

Because Katniss’ journey in THG? It’s now so deeply linked to Snow’s story that if you take a step back and think, it’s more all about Snow than it is about her, or her sister or the Districts. Snow lands on top, right?

And you know what really irks me?

The book is actually good as a character study book (not really so much as dystopia because in terms of actual plot, I feel there was really little) but it didn’t have to taint so many elements of THG the way it does.

Let’s say for a moment Snow isn’t Snow. Let’s say he is a wealthy Capitol fallen from grace and that character who is not going to be the President of Panem has the same journey Coryo does. Let’s say at the end of the story, he moves on to become a famous Head Gamemaker or a close advisor to the President?

Well, the themes explored then remained the same, the conclusions remained the same. We lose the visceral signification of his connection to the mockingjays but is that really important? The Hanging Tree now has a resonance for another character in that world, the meadow has probably seen countless lovers reunions and someone killed someone else at the lake, those things happen. The problem is they happen to Coriolanus Snow.

And baring that, let’s say we keep Snow as a main, why did it have to be Twelve? Again, there are eleven other Districts in Panem. He could have come to the very same conclusions in any other place.

Twelve is only relevant in relation to what happens in THG, to Katniss, to Peeta, to Haymitch.

Lucy and the Covey could have ended up stuck in any other Districts. It didn’t have to be Twelve. It didn’t have to spoil the Meadow, or the lake or even the Hanging Tree song.

Is that why Snow hates Twelve so much? Is that why he kills Haymitch’s family even if it’s completely stupid and leaves him without a leash around a Quell’s victor’s neck? Is that why he bombs the Districts into complete oblivion ? Not to punish its victors but because he so intimately hates the place? Because he walked in their very shoes? Because, for a brief time, from his Frankenstein’s experiment, he played in the mud?

For that matter, is that why he has this weird relationship with Katniss? Because she reminds him of Lucy? The similarities are there if you look… Is Katniss a sort of ghost to him? Come back to haunt him after all those decades? Is that why it feels so personal between them?

I will say a quick word about the ship: I was into it at first. Then there was this scene at the zoo after the snake attack on Clemmie and I felt everything started going downhill from there. The ship is rushed. They go from attraction to love in ten seconds FLAT. I know it’s YA and concessions have to be made (although I will argue I read plenty of YA and some ships don’t seem this juvenile), I made them on account of the fact they’re both young and prone to being drama queens.

(I’m making a brief parenthesis because, rereading this, I realized I did say when the book announcement came out and we all very obviously predicted the romance, that as a hayffie fan I hated the thought Snow would have a Capitol/District romance, but on that account, I have to say after reading I don’t even care because it felt so immature and so not actual love, that I don’t feel it really counts? But at the same time, it’s definitely something I have to think upon in terms of hayffie and Snow because would his own experience play in the way he sees them/manipulates/threatens them?)

All in all, though, that ship didn’t convince me. I couldn’t believe it was real. On either part. On Snow’s part because I’m not certain he’s capable of love. He equals love with possession, “his” girl, she “belongs” to him, he liked her better locked in the zoo because he knew where to find her, he constantly questions Lucy’s loyalties… Every time she sings something, he’s like “is it about me? Is it about me? It’s not about me? Who is it about? I hate her. She’s dead to me. Oh but now she’s singing she’s over him. So I love her again”. Being in his head is a journey, let me tell you.

As for Lucy, it’s frustrating. But with Collins, I learned long ago to be frustrated (hey, hayffie fan here XD. You know the two characters you need to build your own hc about if you want to use them with some depths). You can feel there’s this whole backstory about her but we never get to really touch that and so we’re treated to this very strange scene with the ex-lover but we don’t really care because there is no passion, nowhere… In fact, as a character, outside of her singing, her being a show girl, and her little discourse about how man should be free, live and let live yada yada yada, Lucy’s character is very flat in the third part of the book. She’s here only to allow Coryo’s character development.

I would argue that Sejanus actually makes more of an impact on Snow and the general plot than she does in part 3 – or, if you think about it, in the book in general. Lucy is the trigger that gets Coryo’s reflection starting about the hunger games but it’s really Sejanus that challenges it and keeps it going. Sejanus is, in fact, the District character since Snow keeps telling himself the Covey aren’t really Twelve.

I also want to say, on a completely unrelated note, that the constant mansplaying of songs by Snow was unbearable. And that’s not his fault. So, Mrs Collins, I know how to interpret a text thank you. And I’m sure everyone else does to. It broke the pace and the emotion so much for me when he started randomly explaining. The Lucy Gray ballad was the worst. “she’s dead.” NO KIDDING SHERLOCK.

And while we’re in that Lucy Gray thing: very subtle foreshadowing here, btw. Didn’t see it coming at all.

Ah and also something that made me cringe and that I felt was very out of place: the livestock cars and the cages at the zoo. Not to go all social justice warrior but when I read, it immediately hit home and not in the right way. It felt like a prop to stress how inhumane and racist the Capitol was being, they were easy references to loaded terrible horrifying history events and I truly, truly thought it was borderline because, like I said, it was used as a prop.

To conclude.

Is this book great? Yes and No.

I think if you take it independently of THG, it’s a very good book. It’s interesting, the characters are compelling, there is a moral for you to reflect on… It’s not the best dystopian book I’ve read in recent years, it’s not the best young adult book I’ve read in this lockdown (Hi, do yourself a facor, check out the Shadow of the Fox trilogy and then come shout at me in my ask box) but it was still a good read. And I forgot to say but the first half of the novel is actual crack. It was hillarious. Might not have been the intent but come on. It was funny. (and I’m satly they sent him in the arena but they sent him with a can of pepper spray and that will make me laugh forever) I had a good time and, at the end of the day, that’s what you ask of novels.

However, in the general context of the series, loving thg as much as I do, it tainted some of the iconic things, twisted them, insulted some of my most favorites characters, and that really dampened my joy and made me angry. So as a fan… I’m not sure I can say it was great, no.

It certainly didn’t let me indifferent though and that’s already something.

And, I mean, it is so much better than the cursed child I feel I cannot complain too much.

It also does leave the door rather open to a sequel, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s another announcement soon.

#tbosas spoilers #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes spoilers #balladspoilers #spoilers #i read stuff #namely abosas #abosas spoilers #book review #I did my best to correct spelling errors and such #but i've spent the whole day reading and my eyes are killing me

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everlarkficexchange · 5 years ago

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Unmasked ~ Finale

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Please enjoy the thirty-first, and final, full chapter of this adventure. In the name of tying up storylines, it ran a little long. Please forgive me for that. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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~~ Chapter 31 ~~

With those words, any hope I had been holding onto that Madge felt she could trust me with her heart’s secrets dies. I had been waiting for a confession and instead she announces her engagement.

“Marry…Mr. Hawthorne?” I choke out and Madge’s smile slips from her face.

“I… I thought you had warmed to him some.”

“A little, but…marriage?” I shout and Madge sighs.

“Yes, marriage. Can you not be happy for me, as I was for you?”

“But… why?” I ask and attempt to order my thoughts. “You hardly know him. He is an ass!”

“No worse than many a man of this world and certainly not near as bad as the Earl.”

“That is not exactly a glowing recommendation.”

“Katniss, please. He is a gentleman of fine family and good fortune. Perhaps a bit rough in manner but nothing that cannot be polished. I thought you two had developed a sort of intellectual banter that might lead to friendship. And… and I cannot continue to be a burden to you.”

“But you are no burden!” I protest.

“Not yet, perhaps, but it is inevitable. The longer I stay here, the more likely it becomes that I will cause you problems.”

“You do not love him!” I sputter and she gives me a wry look.

“And you did not love Peeta when you married him. Look at how well that turned out. It all depends on what the parties expect going into the marriage, and there are many advantages to our union. There’s no reason why I can’t be happily married to Gale.”

“Gale? Now he’s Gale?” My heart clenches in my breast and I know I squeeze her hands too rough as she tries to remove them from my grasp.

“Well I am to marry him.”

“What about Johanna? You would discard her so easily?” I ask, and Madge jumps back from me.

“What has Johanna to do with this?” She hisses the words, her eyes narrowing. “Why would a stable hand have any bearing on my marriage prospects?”

“Because you love that stable hand!”

“Even if I did, it would be impossible to do anything about it.”

“We can find a way—“ Madge’s bitter laugh stops me and she finally manages to free her hands from my grasp.

“Oh Katniss, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Stick to farming and not judging my choices again. Some of us haven’t the luxury of a picturesque happy ever after, so forgive me for grasping at the closest I can get!”

She spins about and leaves me gaping in confusion and heartache.

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“He is a canting knave! A scoundrel of the worst sort!” I rant as I pace the floor and Peeta makes futile attempts at calming me enough to sit. Now that I have unleashed a few of my grievances, they all come tumbling out. “How dare he! Presuming to know anything about me or my home or my family, instructing me on how things should be as though I were a wayward school girl and not a woman grown. Acting as though he already owns Everdeen. I have poured my blood, my sweat, my tears, my very soul into this earth! And here this jackanape strolls in, telling me that all my problems might be solved if I had married him, all while he is maneuvering my dearest friend into a marriage she does not want! How can she? And now… now he’ll have both Willow Park and Everdeen, the bastard!”

“And who are you to give him that name when it belongs to me?” Peeta asks and I scowl at him.

“You are my husband, my love. I am endeavoring to not insult you anymore by not calling you that name.”

“Mmmm, but on your lips, that word has become almost an endearment to me.” He manages to grasp hold of me then, and wraps me in his arms, entangles me so that I’ve no choice but to sink onto his lap. No choice and yet I do not want one. There is nowhere else I would rather be, as a sense of calm and clarity washes over me as we settle together in the intimate posture.

“Are you jealous, husband? At my calling Mr. Hawthorne that term?”

“Not yet,” he whispers and rubs the tips of our noses together. “Should you still be thinking of him, even if it is to curse him, later this evening when my mouth is between your thighs…then I might be jealous. Until then…”

He trails off and kisses me, and I am powerless and without motivation to stop it. I nearly laugh at the thought of how much I love kissing my husband. Should it be so? This happiness and harmony of mind and body and heart with another being? I am lost in it before I can so much as take a breath.

Until I remember that Madge will once again find herself in a marriage without such joy as this.

“You are distracting me from my worries,” I manage to say when he shifts to kiss along my cheeks.

“Is it effective?”

“Not yet,” I tease. “Perhaps you should skip straight to your mouth between my thighs.”

His smile is beautiful as he stops and brushes back my hair. I sigh and shift beneath his scrutiny, unable yet to allow myself to be completely distracted from my quarrel with Madge.

“You did not see her face. She looked as though she might be sick. She cannot be happy with this.”

“It cannot all be a disaster. I cannot imagine Madge entering a union without good reason. She’s not desperate. Perhaps it was your anger she feared, more than her nuptials. She knows how much reason you have to dislike him, to distrust him. She knows he is to inherit Everdeen, and how would it look, her marrying him so quickly and gaining her closest friend’s home in the bargain.”

“She would not. I cannot believe Madge capable of such greed. She already has Willow Park.”

“Neither can I believe it of her, but Katniss, there must be a reason for this. You know it. I think Madge may be more aware of what she is doing than you are giving her credit.”

“How?”

“I do not know. It is only an intuition right now. I’ve no proof. We will simply need to be patient.”

He is right. I can feel that he is. I’ve only let my fears and my anger run away with me, but Peeta, as always, provides the steadiness I need to aim my thoughts and feelings in the right direction. There is, in my memory, the tickling of a conversation. Madge’s desire to see Willow Park restored, as a home of her own perhaps. This I can understand, and Mr. Hawthorne is wealthy enough to see the deed done. Is it possible, then, that Madge simply conducted her own fortune hunting expedition? If so, she was much more expedient about it than I was. And how can I judge her for doing the same as me, for attempting to secure a future and a home for her and Maysilee? I cannot. I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder, heavy with my own thoughts.

“You think I was too harsh with Madge.” I state it because I think I was too harsh with her, and so Peeta should think it as well.

“I think you should ask her what her reasons are. Without shouting at her.”

“I did not…” I start to protest and then stop, guilt threatening to choke the words right from my throat. “Alright, perhaps I did shout a little.”

He hums in agreement, his lips distracting me as he kisses my neck.

“I will speak with her again. Calmly this time.” There is still hope to sway her. She and Mr. Hawthorne did not announce their engagement today. Until it is officially announced, I am not certain I can believe she will go through with it. There is nothing that I can do about it tonight. “Oh very well…distract me if you must.”

Peeta laughs then helps me stand and together, we hurry to our bed.

After, as I lay across his naked form, wrapped in his arms with the heat of his chest warming my back, his hands caressing idly over my form, a divine sort of content making my limbs heavy and sleepy, he kisses my temple and speaks once more.

“He is right about one thing, you know.”

“Who?” I ask, watching Peeta’s fingers follow the swell of our growing child.

“Gale Hawthorne.” I stiffen in his embrace and yet Peeta continues. “Had you married him instead, Everdeen would be yours without question.”

“Would you rather I had? Married him instead of you?”

“Are you fishing for compliments, wife?” he asks and I turn to scowl at him.

“No, I think that you are.”

His smile is still bright but something wavers in his eyes before he swallows and whispers to me. “You know I would not wish that for the world. Katniss, my love. I never dreamt I could be so happy with anyone as I am with you.”

I feel myself melt towards him and he lifts one hand to turn my chin towards him.

“I love you. Beyond life and reason.” A kiss and a soft sigh. “But he is right.”

“No. He is wrong. Everdeen would be mine, but…It is as you said the other night. It is pleasant to think you and I would have found our way here anyways, no matter the circumstances, but the odds of that happening differently… Such a thing is not a certainty. No, I do not wish I had met him before you, nor certainly not that I married him. For then, I would have missed out on something far more precious to me than even Everdeen.”

Peeta’s eyes widen at that and I turn to kiss him more fully, that he might taste the certainty in my lips as well as hear it in my words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madge remains resolute. Even as I make attempts to speak with her, she withdraws from me. An announcement is made and congratulations are offered. Plans are made.

The clergyman’s cottage remains mostly intact on Willow Park. A few repairs should bring the dwelling up to a standard suitable for a couple to live in comfortably while the repairs are being conducted on the manor itself. Mr. Hawthorne does not intend to stay in the area between now and their nuptials.

“I have pressing business to attend in other parts of Panem. It would be unseemly to travel with my fiancée unchaperoned.”

Mother extends the invitation to Madge to stay with us, but she declines. Within days of the announcement, Madge has hired a housekeeper and a groundsman, a married couple, to live on the premises with her and Maysilee. Shortly after Mr. Hawthorne and his party departs, Madge and Maysilee move out of Everdeen.

Perhaps one good thing to come out of their engagement is that with the family resuming residence at Willow Park, Madge will be able to hire a new cleric, offering a second option and saving the village from the necessity of attending Father Crane’s sermons. Hopefully Madge can find someone with a more open mind and less slimy arrogance.

Peeta departs for Capitol, although he is reluctant to do so. I insist that he go as planned, to sit his exams. When he leaves, he once again urges me to speak with Madge, to visit her in her new home. I know that I should. I should not let such a vital and long friendship die soundlessly. And yet I cannot bring myself to order the cart. Madge has made it clear that for whatever reason, I am not welcome. I cannot fathom how it is that I managed to fail her so abominably.

With him and Madge both gone, I bury myself in work. A field destroyed by what appears to have been a herd of rabbits provides a timely distraction. Miranda’s education often takes a decent amount of my time and we read voraciously through one book after another. She begins to read to me, in a slow halting voice that follows my finger beneath the words on the page. I walk long hours across the hills of Everdeen. I prepare for the arrival of our child. The plants continue to grow. The rains continue to fall and the sun shines in its turn. I often find myself contemplating the moon and wondering if Madge and Peeta are doing the same.

Johanna is no more talkative on the matter than me. The one time I attempt to speak with her about it, she insists she has no desire to stick her nose into the business of the Quality. I have a hard time believing that, but she will not be moved to speak.

One morning, I lift my hand to knock on Miranda’s door, to ask her if she would like to help me in the gardens. The sounds of quiet cries startle me. I gently push the door open and peer through the crack. There are books spread across the floor and a rag doll with cornsilk hair sitting in a chair at the table, a cup of tea and a biscuit in front of it. Miranda is splayed across the bed, crying into Odysseus’ fur.

I shut the door and finally allow a few tears of my own to fall. Then I order the cart prepared.

“Miranda…would you like to go and see Maysilee for tea?” I ask through the door when I return, the cart waiting for us. My words are met with a great crashing of noise. She flings open the door, her eyes puffy and red and hopeful.

“Today?”

“Right this instant,” I tell her.

I feel more wretched with every step the horses take towards Willow Park. With every excited, breathless word that leaves Miranda’s mouth, I find myself drowning in a veritable flood of verbiage, after so many months of her silence. It is more damning than Madge’s distance and more painful than Peeta’s gentle encouragement. The proof that I have neglected my daughter, the way my mother once did to me, as my father lay ill and unresponsive. Oh the things that silence and neglect drove me to do last year.

Work is progressing on the rebuilding of the manor, the area has been cleared, cellars dug and the foundations begin to take shape. Miranda points out the changes as I drive us to the cottage.

“Miranda! Aunt Katniss!” Maysilee shouts as she runs full tilt from the gardens surrounding the cottage. Dirt stains her pinafore and she clings to Mud the cat. When did she begin referring to me as an aunt? I’ve no idea and it splits my broken heart further open.

Our daughters embrace at the gate as I carefully climb down from the cart. It is a trick with no mounting stone and no one to assist me. I stumble and manage to grasp hold of something solid to keep from planting my face in the dirt. Madge exits the cottage just in time to witness my near disgrace.

“Katniss,” she says, holding a hand over her eyes to shield her face from the sun as she wears no bonnet.

“I hope we are not intruding. Miranda has been missing Maysilee.”

“Oh,” Madge says with a nod. “Will you…stay for tea then?”

The invitation is issued and tea is served in a sunny front room where we can watch our girls play through the window. The woman Madge hired bustles about, setting out the tray and then leaves us in silence. Only the ticking of the clock and the sounds of girls at play break the strain. I do not even know how to begin, for I do not even know how I failed her.

“Peeta is in Capitol as I understand? For his exams?”

“Yes,” I say, unable to hide the confusion on my face.

“Primrose writes to me, and visits on occasion.”

“Oh.” More guilt. My sister has been a better friend to Madge than I have.

“I think she is hoping for bits of news of Rory and hope from me that she cannot glean from his letters,” Madge says simply and I smile, the feeling forced. “How is it going then…for Peeta?”

“Very well,” I say. The words feel like ash on my tongue and I cannot reconcile the sudden sorrow I feel with the happiness of the news I impart.

No, I know the reason. We speak now as two strangers, rather than the best of friends. What happened to us? Gale Hawthorne happened to us. Anger and resentment unfurls in my breast at how deeply he impacts my life, even when not present.

“I am glad to hear it. Hopefully he will return to you soon. I know how you must miss him.”

“Madge,” I say and she turns her head to look out the window.

“And your parents? How do they fare?”

“Well enough. Madge… are we to avoid speaking of it?”

“I do not know what more I can say on the matter. I am marrying Gale Hawthorne in less than a month. I hope my dear friend will be there to congratulate me.”

“How am I to congratulate you when I am not convinced of your happiness?”

She snaps her eyes shut and breathes out through her teeth. “Katniss…there is more to happiness than love. We cannot all afford to have your romantic sentimentalities.”

“But–”

“Please trust me on this. I cannot…I cannot be open yet. There is more than my secrets at stake here.”

I stare at her, and while her answer tells me nothing, I do feel something. Some measure of relief in knowing that Peeta somehow understood it before I did. That Madge does indeed have some reason for her hasty engagement to Mr. Hawthorne, for marrying him at all.

She sighs and reaches for me, withdrawing her hand before she touches me and instead fiddling with her hair.

“You took me in after years of silence, with no questions asked, and you’ve no idea how much that means to me. I am asking you now to let me go with no questions and trusting that I know what I am doing.”

Her request hurts, but how could I possibly refuse. I manage only a nod of agreement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peeta returns home, tired but successful. The professors of the medical college are pleased with his progress and excited to continue his training. They claim that his inclusion in such an early class of students will be a boon to the science of medicine as he brings a unique perspective.

“I am proud of you,” I murmur that night as we lay in our bed, my cumbersome form a nuisance and a barrier keeping me from kissing him the way that I want to, keeping Peeta from loving me the way that I want him to.

Although I can tell he is aroused, he rebuffs my advances. “We do not want to risk sending you into early labor,” he insists as he restrains my wandering hands.

“The sooner this child is born, the better,” I complain and he laughs, kisses each of my cheeks and then my nose.

“There’s a recovery period after, my love. Somewhere between one and two months, depending on the difficulty of the birth.”

“Two months!” I shout and he laughs. “You will love me for a week straight after the two months, husband.”

“I wouldn’t dare, wife,” he says and kisses me soundly on the mouth before extinguishing the light. “You would exhaust me.”

“You would enjoy it,” I quip and he chuckles softly against my neck.

But despite the levity that I sometimes feel, there is a constant shadow. My friend. My sister in my heart. Day by day, despite the fact that we seem to have reached some sort of truce where we visit and bring our daughters together as often as possible, I feel her growing away from me. We do not speak of her wedding at all. Our conversations barely qualify as more than chatter.

The manor at Willow Park slowly rises out of the ashes. The construction brings new work to the district and wandering souls begin to make their way here seeking employment in such a fertile region. Johanna announces one day that the stables at Willow Park have been built and that she has been hired on as their stablemaster.

“Is that wise?” I ask Peeta as we stand in the doors of Everdeen and watch Johanna ride away on her nag, only a small sack of belongings to her name. She is under no contract with us and so is free to leave, but that is not my concern. I fear the potential for strife in a house where her lady love is married to another.

“I think I begin to understand,” Peeta says and then does not have time to elaborate with Miranda careening across the yard, chasing a flock of clucking chickens.

“I was thinking…” I begin and wait for his touch on my back, an encouraging rub in a space that has ached for over a day now. “I was thinking of giving Diablo to Madge. As a wedding gift. Father is in agreement. What do you think?”

“I think it perfect,” Peeta says. He watches Miranda for a moment then kisses me and leaves me to attend to his patients for the day.

“You’ll never catch them like that!” I shout after Miranda and then follow to show her. I cannot move as quickly as usual, my steps laborious and my wide frame only an advantage in blocking the occasional escape.

One squawks loudly and flutters her wings. Miranda jumps back in fear, colliding with me, and we both fall to the ground.

“Oh!” I cry out as a sharp pain screams up my spine.

“Mrs. Mellark!” Sae shouts and hurries out to help me up.

“I am fine, only my pride bruised. Bested by a hen,” I mutter.

“All the same, your mother or Mr. Mellark should have a look at you.”

Mother declares me to be fine, but at dinner that evening, a sharp pain lances across my belly. I am able to hide it, although when it happens again as I sit in the drawing room after, I think perhaps I should mention it to Peeta. I decide that if it happens again, I will tell him. We are now only a few days out from my expected time. The babe could arrive any day now.

Tomorrow is Madge’s wedding. The invitation sits on the table in the hall, the answer already sent. I wonder now if we should have declined, but I couldn’t bear to do it, not after I was unable to attend her first wedding, and not with our friendship still on such unsteady grounds. She asked me to trust her and so I shall have to find it in me to do so.

When no more pains plague me that evening, I relax and tell no one. It must not be time yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh!” I gasp out as I awaken from a disturbing dream. A dreadful fog blotting out the moon and the stars until all was black. There was more. Something about Madge, but I lose it in the pain. I drift between dreams and pain, writhing in the bed until I wake Peeta.

“What is it, Katniss? A nightmare?”

“No!” I gasp and grit my teeth, grasping tight to his arm. “The baby.”

He is moving in an instant, up and checking on me, assuring me that nothing is wrong, only that I have gone into childbirth. In the space between several pains, he dresses, pausing only to see me through each pain as dawn creeps over the horizon. He sends for Mary, and for Mother. The house awakens and Peeta helps me walk across our room then back as Mother and Prim prepare supplies.

The room grows stifling and I beg for fresh air. The window is thrown open for me. I refuse food, unable to fathom eating through this pain.

“You will need sustenance,” Peeta urges, but all I take is tea.

The sun marches across the sky as Peeta murmurs to me. Prim leaves then returns at one point, dressed in a lovely blue dress with a green bonnet on her head. The wedding.

“Give my love to Madge,” I beg her. “Tell her I would have been there, and take my gift for her.”

“I will,” Prim says and kisses me on the cheek before she and Father depart. There is no need for them to stay when this could take all day. Someone from Everdeen should be present at the wedding, and so it falls to them.

Time plods forward. The sun begins to sink, and still no sign of the babe. The pain dulls to the background and then roars back to life, so harsh that I cannot even speak. I can barely catch my breath.

“It is time, Katniss,” my mother reassures me as she and Peeta position me on the bed, my legs spread wide. “You must bear down with each pain.”

I nod and scream with the first one. As soon as it passes, I meet Peeta’s worried eyes, down between my bent upwards knees. Were I in less pain, perhaps I would care that he now sees me like this, but I have more pressing worries.

“Don’t,” I say and he shakes his head. “Don’t do that, husband. I am not so fragile as that.”

We agreed that when my time came, Doctor Aurelius would be notified but only called if the situation grew dire. I may feel as though I am dying, but there is still life pulsing vibrant through my veins. I do not feel myself fading at all. Peeta must see it too. Were he more detached from this particular birth, were this merely a professional call, he might be able to see it more objectively.

Peeta takes a deep breath and nods, his hand skimming reassuringly over my leg.

A commotion of horse hooves and shouting reaches me through the open window and another pain strikes. I do not even attempt to hold in the scream as I feel as though I am being torn asunder.

As the scream dies, the door to our room flies open and a storm of white silk swirls into the room, flinging aside a lace veil and perching on the bed beside me. The scent of summer roses fills my nose.

“Madge.”

“Katniss,” she says, tears in her eyes.

“I am sorry I missed your wedding.” She lets out a soft sob and then wipes a damp cloth across my brow. “You should be dancing with your groom. He will be so cross with me for this.”

“He will hardly notice my absence. More importantly, I promised I would be here,” she says instead and takes my hand in hers as I am once more consumed with pain. “With you.”

Three voices now murmur encouragement and lend me strength. Madge and my mother somehow hold my hands and legs so I cannot escape. I fixate on Peeta’s eyes. His face as the room goes dark and Mary lights candles. I collapse as the pain ebbs, and breathe like a fish out of water.

“Almost, my love,” Peeta whispers, his touch gentle on my knee. I laugh, the sound crazed as I lift my head to scowl at him.

“Soon you will have your child to hold,” Madge murmurs.

“Why would anyone do this twice?” I ask.

“You will soon see,” my mother says.

“You make it sound so simple. Would you care to take my place?” I ask Peeta.

“Would that I could,” he answers, and I can see in his eyes that he means it. He would take this pain away and into himself if he could. “As a wise woman once told me, it is far easier to cause death than to bring forth life.”

“Those were not my exact words, husband,” I remind him and he smiles.

“Close enough, wife.”

And then I am no longer able to speak, the pain is too great. And yet�� a strange thing happens then, as I stare into his blue, tired eyes. The pain grips me and it is terrible terrible terrible…and then it is not. The voices fade and the pain is not so unbearable. There is almost… a relief in it.

“There you are!” My mother soothes. “We have the head. Now for the shoulders, Katniss. You are almost done.”

A few more minutes and Madge is kissing my temple, her tears mingling with my sweat, her words unintelligible but the tone of love clear. I am fading fast into exhaustion, and Peeta is focused on something I cannot see between my legs.

“Peeta,” I whine and he looks up at me as the squall of a baby fills the room. His smile is impossibly happy and I nearly burst with it.

“A daughter, Katniss. We have a daughter.”

Peeta slides one hand around my still exposed thigh, his palm warm and soothing on my skin. And then his lips against the tender skin of my inner thigh. A look of awe and love in his eyes. Soft tears seep from the corners and onto my skin. It is unbearably intimate and undoubtedly shocking, unseemly.

I do not care. His kisses like that as he cradles our child in his arm mean everything to me.

There are tears and washing. Soothing. Peeta and Mother take our daughter to be cleaned and tended, swaddled in warm blankets. I am carried to a tub brought up especially for this and scrubbed with gentle hands, redressed in a fresh gown. Food is brought. Joyous announcements shouted through the halls and then she is finally placed in my arms. I lean back into Peeta’s chest as I hold our daughter while she feeds and he holds us both. He cannot seem to stop touching her brow and her cheeks. I inhale her sweet baby scent and then his warm, manly scent.

Madge still sits on the bed with us, her wedding gown spread across the edge of the fresh counterpane, I think a few spots on her dress are stained. The hem looks almost ripped. Her posy of roses sits on the bedside table, already beginning to wilt.

“Madge,” I begin and she shakes her head.

“There is no need.” But there is a need. I know that now. I’ve a need to listen and she’s a need to be heard. She should have been able to tell me, and my own stubbornness and focus on Everdeen made it impossible. The words may wait, but I will say them.

“May I?” she asks when my daughter has finished suckling, and holds her arms out to me. I gently place my daughter in her arms and she rises from the bed, cooing softly.

“Will you be her godmother?” I ask and the tightening of Peeta’s arms about me tells me that he supports my request.

“Of course I will.” Madge smiles at me and nods. My heart lightens with the expression on her face as I know, all hope is not lost. Madge is still my true friend and while I still yearn for answers, I find that I can be patient. She then peers down at the wrinkled pink face of my baby girl.

“As soon as Prim told me, I had Diablo saddled and rode over here. Thank you for him.”

“He was already yours,” I say and she bites her lip as though holding back tears.

“I did not have a chance to dance at my wedding. Since you and Peeta did not dance at your wedding, I am taking it as a good omen. But I cannot resist such a lovely cherub.”

She sweeps into a delicate step, humming a tune as she dances with my daughter in her arms. And then I am crying uncontrollably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peeta insists that I sleep. I manage it, somehow, after demanding that he kiss me properly, despite the many people still lingering in the room. There is a rotation of loved ones to assist me in ways I’d never thought to need them. To hold my girl when my arms grow weak. Standing on my own is a trial. I’ve no desire to wear anything other than my shift and the bedsheets yet. Bathing and changing is a difficulty, as is relieving myself.

Our daughter is still new when family descends to meet her. My father is ridiculously soft with her, my mother showers her face with kisses once the duties of midwife are complete. Prim is delighted and already making plans for spoiling both of her nieces.

“I expect a nephew next,” she tells me with a sly smile. “I doubt that you will make me wait overlong.”

“Come and meet your sister,” I whisper to Miranda, and watch her melt out of the shadows and clamber up onto the bed. Her fingers shake as she peels back the blanket and stares down at her face.

“Hello…sister,” she whispers and I lean over to kiss her fiery curls.

“Will you tell her stories?” Peeta asks, placing a hand on Miranda’s back and smiling down at us three.

“May I?” Miranda asks and I nod.

“I think she would like that.”

“So would I,” Miranda breathes. “But…what is her name?”

My eyes meet Peeta’s over Miranda’s head and he smiles. “We were hoping you might help us with that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are days when I think motherhood to be the worst sort of bargain. When I am tired and sore or when the entire world frightens me. Disease, injury, deception, heartbreak, and so much more. How am I to protect my daughters, my Beatrice and my Miranda from all of this. There are days when the joy of holding her in my arms drowns out all else, when watching her and Miranda together or separately convinces me that I was never happy before I had them. My children.

The weather warms and the vivid flowers of spring and early summer fade to make room for the pale blue skies, the fading greens, and the heat that sings with insects only found in the midst of summer. I am eager for my recovery to be done with and count the days. Then… then I cherish the night. Nights with the windows wide open and Peeta hushing my sultry moans. We are unable to love in the physical sense as often as we did before. The presence of our babe sleeping in our room, the demands of raising two children, often curtail passion. Yet every time we come together, there is a joy in it that brings tears to my eyes.

I tease him that I long for another child, and yet he insists that we wait. He has some medical notion that repeated childbirth is too harsh on a body, and in the name of protecting me from such an ordeal, he prescribes the teas of my mother to suppress fertility. He uses the French methods of preventing pregnancy as well, despite my complaints that I despise having a barrier between his skin and mine. At times…when I am the most desperate for him, Peeta refuses to join fully with me at all and employs other methods of giving me pleasure. I cannot complain too much, as those are most effective at satisfying me and delightfully intimate as well.

Miranda, my dove. Her speech becomes a constant hum in our house. A thousand and one questions every day, a thousand and one stories. We discover that she has a knack for fancy sewing and while this means her drawing begins to wane, her stitchery blooms. She weaves them both, stories and embroidered scenes from colorful bits of thread into something strange and fantastical and wonderful. Mother sees her work framed and hung about the house. Father begins to request scenes or specific stories. He listens to her for hours and it brightens my heart to see her so loved and welcomed by my family.

As for our neighbors… Madge and Maysilee visit often until I am recovered and am able to return the visits. The work on Willow Park continues. Half a dozen brood mares arrive and Johanna is in her element with so much equine flesh to tend to. Gale strikes a bargain with Peeta to use Cicero as one of his studs. It turns out that Cicero is something of a rake, and I tease Peeta mercilessly about the number of bastards his mount sires within a matter of months. He usually shuts me up by kissing me mercilessly.

I have few complaints about this arrangement.

Indeed, the only one I have is that Mr. Hawthorne appears to be a somewhat neglectful husband. He is rarely in the district, despite the realisation of his dream of owning a horse farm. His other ventures often take him about Panem or even abroad with Mr. Fremont, leaving Madge and Johanna to deal with the day to day operations of Willow Park. Although, Madge assures me that she and Mr. Hawthorne are always in touch via letters.

I keep waiting to see some sign of melancholy in my friend, some sort of distraught unhappiness, and yet it never arrives. In fact, if anything, her marriage appears to have only enhanced her beauty and happiness. I have the strangest sensation that her removal to Willow Park along with Johanna, and Mr. Hawthorne’s frequent absence is the source of such happiness. What mischief does she get up to when her husband is away, and what sort of husband seems so indifferent to his wife’s many charms?

“Why did you not tell me?” I finally ask her over tea one afternoon. When both her hired help are out running messages and errands in town. “Did you think I would…react badly?”

“I could not be certain,” Madge admits. “You’ve no idea how lonely it can be, feeling this way. When we were girls, I never quite understood my own feelings nor the reason why I felt so at odds with them. Then I left and married the earl and…”

She trails off and something occurs to me. “Your affaire, after his death…it was with a woman,” I whisper the words, even though we are alone save for Beatrice on my knee and Madge laughs, but she is crying. I set aside my tea and shift to hold her as well.

“You will think me horrid but I am so tired of carrying this. Yes! It was with Katharine, my… oh she was married to the earl’s son and we are the same age. She was my friend and the only one who was ever truly kind to me in that wretched house. But her husband came home early from his club and found us together one night and…”

Her tears keep her from continuing, but I can make a good guess at the rest.

“Cry no more tears over him, my dear. He was cruel, but he was likely also jealous that you were a far better lover to his wife than he.” Madge laughs hysterically at this and lifts her head to smile at me.

“And you are not at all disgusted with me?”

“Mmm, no. Still a little curious about some things, but not disgusted. What happened to Katharine?”

“I am afraid to even find out,” Madge admits.

I take her hands in mine then and wait for her sniffles to abate. “I love you, my friend, and I only ever want your complete happiness.”

“I am as close to it as I think I will be able to come, Katniss.” I nod at this. Then, I shall have to make my own peace with it, and I set about doing so.

Mr. Fremont is perhaps the most surprising addition to our lives. He writes to the Mellark family at Everdeen quite often, sharing riddles with Miranda that she delights in solving, presents for Beatrice, bits of news for Peeta and I. I am at a loss for how his is the hand that seeks friendship and yet it is so. He, of course, sends similar letters and gifts to Maysilee.

So little of it makes sense to me yet that perhaps it is my curiosity which leads me to a most unexpected place late in the summer… hunting in the woods of Everdeen with Mr. Hawthorne. Madge suggested it, as we apparently share a common interest in the sport. I suppose she is hoping we will somehow bond over it. Thankfully for me, Madge is unaware that hunting is best done in silence.

While this means that I’ve no opportunity to further my acquaintance with her husband, it also means that I am granted opportunity to observe him while not subjected to his tirades.

It is pleasant enough at first. Peeta was quite adamant I go when I attempted to cajole a refusal out of him instead. He insisted that the fresh air and exercise would do me good, to say nothing of the return to something that I have always felt comfort in doing. I pause a moment and tilt my head back to absorb the rays of the sun. He was right, my husband. Despite the questionable nature of the company, I needed this. Even if I catch nothing, I needed this journey into the woods, this breath of who I am and perhaps will always be.

“Fascinating,” Mr. Hawthorne murmurs and I sigh. The silence was of course too good to continue. I am simply grateful at this point that Mr. Hawthorne eschews the aristocratic hunting methods and does not favor hunting with hounds. I glance over at where he examines a snare. Not one of mine. I’ve never had much luck with snares. Perhaps one of my tenants, seeking a rabbit or squirrel for a meal.

“A snare,” I explain and he nods.

“Yes I know. A rather ingenious one. I wonder if…” he retrieves a stick and makes to spring the trap.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” I say and he glances back at me. “You would deprive a man of meat to fulfill your curiosity? Or do you know how to reset it?”

He thinks for a moment and stands. “You are quite right, Mrs. Mellark. I don’t suppose you happen to know the creator of this snare?”

“I’ve a few guesses. Some discreet inquiries might bring me the answer, although I warn you, they may not be willing to speak with an aristocratic stranger.”

“I have no title. I am not–”

“Not wealthy?” I ask and he glances down at his waistcoat.

“Perhaps I should adopt your habits of dress.” I snort at this but tug on my rough coat that I wear today. It is longer than one I would normally wear with breeches, as something about traipsing through the woods with a man who is not my husband whilst wearing breeches set off alarming thoughts in my head.

“You are not what you seem…are you, Mrs. Mellark?”

“I am exactly what I seem, if you are paying attention. You, however, are something of a puzzle. And our speaking will scare away the game,” I say as a scent reaches me. I attempt to place it, some long ago warning from my father taunting me just beyond the reaches of my memories.

Mr. Hawthorne huffs and then flings aside his stick.

“Don’t!” I shout as it crashes through the underbrush, arousing a terrible squealing noise. A boar thrashes the bushes and crashes out towards us. Mr. Hawthorne turns and shoves me against a tree. I cry out with pain at the impact as the wild pig careens past, snuffling and huffing, snorting in indignation as he turns again and prepares to charge.

I grab the nearest branch and haul myself into the tree. “Climb!”

Mr. Hawthorne makes to follow me, but the pig is too fast. I settle on a branch and swing my gun about and take aim. The blast surprises even me, but the pig falls. The hairy body slides across the foliage and thumps against the tree. Right below Mr. Hawthorne’s dangling boots. With a final snort, the beast dies.

I release a great puff of air and Mr. Hawthorne drops to the ground next to it, stares at it then up at me in my perch.

“You’ve wild boar in these woods.”

“Do you always state the obvious?” I ask and he shakes his head, almost laughing as he tilts his head to examine my kill.

“An impressive shot, Mrs. Mellark. Right in the eye.”

“Luck,” I say and place a hand over my heart, attempting to quell the thundering of it in my chest. I’ve no reason to fear. I was perfectly safe.

“You saved my life.” He crouches to further examine the dead beast, to trace the gnarled tusks.

“Please, there is no need for dramatics.”

“I believe there is. You could have easily let the beast kill me and claimed it as an accident. No one would have doubted you.”

“Those who know my skill would have.”

“Please, Mrs. Mellark. You are barely recovered from childbirth. None would have blamed you for diminished skill in the face of a charging wild boar.” I snort and he grins up at me. “The fact is…you saved my life.”

“My friend is not even a full year out of mourning. I would not wish to constrain her again in such a state so soon.” He did also protect me from the initial charge, although that fact rather irritates me so I refrain from mentioning it.

“Not even if it meant she would be wealthy beyond reason and you would gain Everdeen for your children all the sooner?” he murmurs and my eyes snap to his in shock. “Ah. I see my wife has not seen fit to tell you all the details of our arrangement. Perhaps she wished me to tell you myself. Trust me when I say that we are in complete agreement on many things, and she is as satisfied with all aspects of our marriage as I am. Half of it was her idea.”

“You make no sense.”

“And you are in a tree. Come down and claim your kill. Your house and your tenants will feast well this week.” He stands, extending a hand up to me. And there is that smile, the one that transforms his face to one that is kind and almost flirtatious. Loyal to those he cares about yet with a fierceness still in his eyes. The sort of face ladies would swoon over and friends such as Darius rush to protect…

My mouth drops open as I stare at him, his hand hanging in the air between us as a suspicion begins to form in my head. And I decide that perhaps trusting Mr. Gale Hawthorne would not be so bad.

I snap my mouth shut and carefully place my hand in his. His grip as he helps me from the tree is solid and firm, yet I feel no thrill the way that I do when Peeta touches me so. I tilt my head now to examine him, the way Mr. Hawthorne did to examine the snare, then the dead pig.

“Shall we?” he asks, motioning to the dead animal with a smile. I nod and we set to work. Preparing the carcass to move and then creating a litter of sorts to carry it.

When we return to Everdeen, there is much fanfare and clapping. My father praises us for our catch. It is a joyous scene. Crowded and too busy for me to have a chance to ask Mr. Hawthorne what he meant in the woods, about gaining Everdeen for myself. Or about my growing suspicions.

“Should I be jealous now?” Peeta whispers to me after dinner. He has caught me staring at Mr. Hawthorne again.

“No,” I answer and smile at him. I begin to wonder if perhaps Peeta has no reason at all to be jealous in regards to Mr. Hawthorne, but I do instead. “I was merely attempting to sort through a puzzle.

“It will come to you,” he whispers and kisses my hand. I am still sorting through the threads of conversations as we sit in the drawing room after dinner that night. Darius is flushed and perhaps a little drunk, having toasted to Gale and Mrs. Mellark, the founders of the feast, a few times more than is necessary. It was indeed a delicious meal, but his cheer seems to evaporate when Gale demands a rematch at chess. He and Peeta move towards the table. Mr. Fremont collapses in a chair beside me, swaying a bit and seeming to almost brood.

“You’ve still had no time to learn?” I ask him and he nods, rather morose for being left out of a game. I set my book on my lap, uninterested in reading if I might learn something from him or confirm my growing suspicions. Besides, I selected my book at random, more as a screen to provide me with privacy in a crowded room, or to observe unnoticed those around me.

Then something strange happens. Perhaps I would not even notice, it happens so quickly, except that my senses and mind have been so focused on my quarry all day that it stands out in sharp relief.

A piece knocked from the board, Peeta’s king, as they reset the pieces from a game left unfinished by other players. Peeta bends to retrieve it. My eyes follow the motion, half admiring his shape, and yet somehow I catch it from the corner of my eye… Mr. Hawthorne leaning to the side, eyes closely following Peeta’s motions. At first, I excuse it as Mr. Hawthorne ensuring that Peeta does not somehow cheat, but how could he with such a move? It is chess, not cards.

As my husband takes his seat, glances are exchanged. The heat of a blush and the grinding of teeth beside me. An embarrassed look away. Madge happily running her hands over the piano keys and chatting with Prim, unaware of her husband’s wandering eyes, of the almost jealous and contrite exchange happening between her husband and the man beside me…

Or perhaps, she is completely aware of them. Something falls into place in my head as Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat in a rather undignified manner. Then he focuses on the game. Sensing a new sort of hunt, I turn to Mr. Fremont with a smile.

“I must confess that I’ve made attempts to learn chess, but I’ve still no patience for it. The swift hunt is much better for me.”

“You were quite swift today, or so Gale tells me.”

“Fortunate,” I say, waving it off. “With instincts honed by a desire to protect that which matters to me. As I think many of us in this room are.”

Darius makes a strange noise as Mr. Hawthorne laughs across the room and I lift my book to hide my own blush. How extraordinary. Well…if he wishes my husband’s attentions, he will have to come armed with more than a handsome face and a ready laugh. I smile slyly at Mr. Fremont and he lifts one eyebrow at me.

“You wish to protect Gale? I was not under the impression his life would be important to you.”

“Not at the moment. How could I possibly wish to protect someone with designs on all that is…mine.” He barely responds to the pause, but it is there. Not that I can blame Mr. Hawthorne, if I am correct about his preferences. I feel the thrill of the pending kill, a much less violent and far more satisfying one than what happened in the woods today. “Although, I feel as though we’ve built a sort of tentative trust today. No, it is Madge whose welfare I am concerned with.”

“She has everything that she could want in her life, and in her marriage.”

“Does she?” I ask and lean closer. Almost too close as I whisper. “Do you, Mr. Fremont?”

He swallows and searches my face. A-ha! I think. Peeta would be quite proud of me, managing to glean such information and reassurances without shouting or dramatics. I lean back in my seat and lift my book to read and no intentions of doing so.

“Sometimes patience is indeed the key to the hunt, and other times, one must act. Swiftly, without mercy. The trick, I think, is to know which is the more appropriate action, and to have the right sort of allies,” I say.

“Mrs. Mellark…” Mr. Fremont says as he leans towards me, the flush on his cheeks shifting from an angry red to an almost boyish pink.

“Katniss,” I correct. “If we are to be friends and neighbours and allies with common interests, then you must call me Katniss.”

“Common interests?” he ponders and I let my eyes slide over to the chess board.

“Harmless flirtations are one thing, so long as one returns to their home untarnished at night, but… I would do anything to protect two of the people who mean the most in the world to me. My husband, and my dearest friend. There is no patience where keeping them safe is concerned. I sense that you are a kindred spirit in this regard, Mr. Fremont.”

“Darius,” he says and I let my book lower slightly. He smiles at me, but his eyes are still on Mr. Hawthorne. “A name for a name, Katniss. I believe it to be a fair trade. And a good foundation for an alliance.”

I cannot help but smile as I nod in agreement. His grin is quite infectious. There are things that Mr. Hawthorne and I may never agree on, and some that we do. As long as he continues to care for Madge, and not harm anyone else that I love, then I believe I might be able to forgive his arrogance, tho perhaps not his shameless ogling of my husband.

“Now tell me…are you interested in The Ancient Craft of the Sarcophagus out of a morbid sort of curiosity, or should I be concerned for any members of our party?” Darius’ eyes drop to the cover of my book and I glance at the title printed at the top of each page, nearly laughing at the humor of it.

“A true lady, as my Aunt Effie would say, can keep the darkest of secrets into her grave and on into the afterlife, Darius.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is strange, sometimes, how the truth can mean a lightening of hearts. Life continues in a happy manner as the harvest approaches. There is always work to keep us busy, amusements to keep us fulfilled. Peeta and I resume our daily rides, and I laugh with joy as Sagittaria carries me away on swift feet. I am unable to resist temptation the day of that first ride, and when we stop for a picnic in a wide meadow, I find myself arched beneath my husband, his hands buried in my hair and the blanket beneath me, the sun on his back, my hands scraping down his spine. The smaller flowers of late autumn and the tall grasses sway about us, concealing us from the world, and the clouds above us provide a tableau of beauty to reflect the beauty in my heart.

My daughters continue to grow and to thrive. My friendship with Madge is repaired and a source of comfort and happiness now. I miss her presence at Everdeen. Her and Maysilee brought a sort of brightness to the halls, but Miranda and Beatrice bring their own sort of brightness, and we never go too long without seeing one another.

Unfortunately, the happy circumstances of Willow Park and Jo’s employment with the new horse farm has left Everdeen stables in a quandary. Giles needs to retire and Charles is learning quickly but still too young to assume such responsibilities.

“Before Jo left us, I thought to hire her to the post,” my father explained when he put out word that Everdeen was seeking a stablemaster. “But now that she is gone, I will have to hire someone else.”

“Father…” I stated warily and he’d shaken his head. “How long have you known?”

“Not long. I’ve no anger over the matter, Katniss. I wish you had trusted me, and I am embarrassed to admit that I did not figure it out on my own. Your mother had to tell me. The only thing that matters to me now is that we find someone young and skilled enough to replace both her and Giles.”

Which leads me to the events of today. I fuss over Beatrice as she crawls about the nursery, until I’ve no choice but to go downstairs and meet my father. We are to interview a potential candidate for stablemaster today.

An odd sort of humming exists in my skull, and I find I am rather disappointed at the prospect of a new stablemaster. It was around this time last year when Peeta and I first consummated our marriage, when I discovered the boundless joys and pleasures to be found in his arms, and also when I discovered the depth of my love for him. The presence of a new stable master will curtail a repeat of our tryst in the hay and I am rather upset about that, so that I am near to scowling as the man stands from his seat in the kitchens to greet me and my father.

“Mr. Henderson, I presume?” my father asks and the man gives a slight bow of respect.

“Aye, Mr. Everdeen.” His voice is somehow soft and lilting. Soothing. His accent is unfamiliar to me, but he has the sort of calming voice that horses respond to.

“Shall we walk and talk?” The man nods and glances at me. “This is my daughter. She and her husband will one day run the farm in trust for their children, and she oversees much of the operations already. You will address her as Mrs. Mellark.”

The man drops his hat. My scowl deepens at this as he bends to retrieve it. “Of course, sir.”

Other than that slight at the beginning, the interview goes well. He seems kind enough, and the horses take to him immediately. Even Sagittaria preens for him.

“And this is Peeta’s horse…my husband’s,” I say as we come to the final stall. I quickly explain Cicero’s deafness and that Peeta will have to teach him the hand communications. Mr. Henderson nods and mentions that he’s heard of such techniques, but never seen them in action.

After that, it seems fairly straightforward. Mr. Handerson comes to us from an estate in Northwest Panem, bringing excellent references.

“If you do not mind my asking, why did you leave your prior employment?”

“Nothing to do with the job or the family, you see. My wife passed away last year.” He glances at me and I manage to look sympathetic, I believe. Either way, he continues to look into my eyes as he speaks. “She had a wasting disease, took her too young, but not ‘afore she had a second chance at life. Still…it were hard staying there without her. She were my second chance too. My second wife and well, it didn’t seem right to push my luck for a third chance with the same family, although they were good to us. Memories just got the better of me.”

“My condolences for your loss,” my father says and at this, some sort of spell seems to be broken. They manage an awkward transition to discussing the terms of employment and we make our way behind the stable to show him his new living quarters. He seems pleased enough, and once the deal is done, he sets to work.

Miranda races into the stables as Mr. Henderson sees Sagittaria saddled for our daily ride. Charles tends to Cicero and laughs as Miranda careens to a halt, grasping onto my skirts.

“Mother! I am going with you today!”

“Then it will be all the more fun.” I smile down at her then up at Peeta as he enters the stable. He’s favoring his leg again and I make an exasperated motion towards his laboured movements.

“I will rest when we return, my love, but I will not miss this time with my family,” he says and kisses me softly on the forehead before turning to Cicero.

I feel eyes on us the entire time, and as I watch Miranda handed up to sit with Peeta, I discover the culprit. Mr. Henderson seems to have a deep interest in my love or my daughter, or both… I take Sagittaria’s reins and make a note to investigate further after our ride.

It is a lovely day, and we picnic by the lake, visit with a few tenants, and then return home. I dismount quickly, take Miranda into my arms to allow Peeta to dismount. I feel the need to see to Beatrice, but a cough behind me as Miranda scampers off catches my attentions.

I turn to find Mr. Henderson twisting his hat in his hands, a nervous look about his brown eyes. “Your pardon, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. If you’ve a moment, I am afraid I’ve a confession to make.”

“We are no clerics, Mr. Henderson,” I manage to say politely, although I am beginning to think hiring him was a mistake.

“What I’ve to say is not for the Lord, Mrs. Mellark, but for him,” Mr. Henderson motions towards Peeta and I can see the surprise in my husband’s face.

“Should we perhaps talk elsewhere?”

“No, no,” Mr. Handerson says. “If you find what I’ve to tell you distasteful and it costs me this post, I’d rather be done with it now.” I am about to suggest we fetch my father first if his confession has bearing on his employment, but Mr. Henderson dives into his explanation.

“I wasn’t sure at first, see. I answered the listing by a Mr. Kent Everdeen. I’d no idea you would be here, too. Then I still weren’t sure when Mr. Everdeen introduced Mrs. Mellark. Mrs. Mellark…well with four acknowledged sons there had to be at least a few Mrs. Mellarks about, maybe it wasn’t you…but no. Then she calls her husband Peeta, your pardon for my familiarity sir, and then I knew.”

“Knew what?” Peeta asks, and there is a strain in his voice that frightens me.

“Who you are. Yer mother. Gertrude. Well, she went by Gertrude when we were married, but I suppose you wouldn’t know that. You’d know her as Nancy Thackeray, right?” The man only grows more nervous and agitated as his confession spills out. Peeta’s body only grows more rigid beside me. “She was sick, see? Found her on the back doorstep in Capitol nigh on eight years ago, naught but skin and bones, knocking on death’s door, hair dyed black and the dye fading already. I weren’t there. It was my sister who found her. She was the cook and another sister the housekeeper. Well they couldn’t bear to leave her dying so they took her in, nursed her back. The Odairs…well they’re kindly folk you know? Would never turn away a body in need if they could help it. Do you know the Odairs?”

“Not personally,” Peeta says. “Only by reputation. They’re a seafaring family.”

“They are. They were in Capitol at the time, beastly cold winter, but they went to see family and then had to stay when their son took ill. Well with the doctor already calling to see to young Sebastian, he didn’t mind seeing to Gertrude as well. Eventually she got well enough to work and…she worked. Ladie’s maid to Mistress Annie’s sister, Miss Patricia, who lived with the family at the time. Then when Miss Patricia were married, Gertrude worked as companion to Captain Odair’s grandmother. And I were stable master. When the family came home to their estate in Northwest Panem after that winter…well it were a second chance for us both, you see?”

“You were married,” I offer the encouragement, because I am not certain Peeta has not fallen into shock right now.

“Aye. And we were happy. I… I loved her dearly, I did. We were a comfort to one another. I’d lost my first wife and a son. Eventually, she told me all about you, and her first husband William. How she always wanted to see how you were doing but was scared.”

“Scared? Of what?” Peeta asks, perhaps more harshly than necessary, but to hear all of this now… He turns away from me and I place a hand on his back.

“Please understand, Mr. Henderson. We’ve been looking for Nancy for a year, Peeta has been looking even longer. Any news you have is welcome, but also a shock.” The man nods and swallows, looking directly at Peeta’s back as he speaks again, softly this time.

“She was afraid you would not recognise her. Or worse, that you would hate her for what she done. But she did it so you wouldn’t starve. She always told me you were brave and strong enough to be the best of men, even with the worst of fathers. And you were always in her heart. She drew your face most of all.” At this, Peeta turns slowly and Mr. Henderson produces a small book from his jacket. “Been carrying this since she died. Didn’t know what to do with it. Think now maybe providence wanted me to keep it for you. She said you used to draw with her.”

“Yes,” Peeta chokes out the word and takes the book. He does not open it but lifts watery eyes to Mr. Hendrson. “And Miranda? Was Miranda in her heart?”

“Miranda?” Mr. Henderson asks in true confusion and then understanding dawns. “You mean the babe? The one she left at the orphanage? That were right before my sisters found her. She never gave the babe a name. Had no…connection with the child. By then she were so lost and desperate…I cannot blame her for it. How do you know of the child?”

“We adopted her,” I explain. “We found her while we were looking for Nancy…for Gertrude. Now she is our daughter.”

“So you brought her home to be yours to love,” Mr. Henderson says and a bright smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head but there are tears in her eyes. “I’ll be. She were right then.” He tilts his head back to look heavenward and I bow my head, to allow him this moment.

I feel terrible, but a strange joy fills me at this. Every last doubt flutters off on the crisp autumn breeze. Miranda is well and truly our daughter. No disputes over the matter.

“She woulda been proud of you. A doctor, a husband, and a father beside.”

“She would have hated my face,” Peeta says and then rakes a hand through his hair. Mr. Henderson seems confused by this. “Never mind. Thank you, Mr. Henderson, for having the courage to tell me. Where is she now?” Peeta whispers, and I take his hand in mine, already knowing the answer and understanding now the import Mr. Henderson was trying to give me in his interview.

“She passed last autumn, about this time of year. I saw her buried in the church yard, next to my first wife and a child we lost. Made sure she had a nice marker, if you want to visit her some day.”

“Thank you,” Peeta murmurs one last time and then threads my arm through his. Before he can lead me away, I say one more thing to Mr. Henderson.

“See Mrs. Chilton if you’ve questions about meal times. Sae can answer any concerns about other household matters,” I tell him. His eyes widen and he nods.

“Then I’m not…”

“We are in need of a capable stable master,” I tell him and Peeta squeezes my fingers. “Welcome to Everdeen, Mr. Henderson.”

We move to leave and he steps after us, halting our retreat.

“She wouldn’t hate your face, Mr. Mellark. Mayhap your name, but…what’s in a name? She had about a dozen in her life, but that don’t change her heart, nor who she was.”

For some reason, Peeta smiles now, and manages one soft nod before we walk out of the stable and into the fading autumn light.

When we reach the house, there is a minor uproar. Several of Prim’s gowns have arrived from town, only enough to start her for the season. The rest will be waiting for her at Uncle Haymitch and Aunt Effie’s. Peeta and I will stay here to see to Everdeen while my parents take a much needed break, if overseeing the launching of a girl into society can be seen as a break.

Prim whispers to me that she not only has weeks worth of engagements already lined up, but she’s already received her first invite to a ball. The curiosity about the younger Miss Everdeen, as the eldest had such an exciting albeit brief season in town, has already made Primrose something of a novelty. Aunt Effie will be in her element, no doubt.

I usher Peeta into the library and order him off his feet, and even to remove his leg for some rest. When the chaos of the evening finally settles, I find him in our room, sitting before a cheering fire and dressed in his robe, his cane near at hand and his head bent as he peruses a small book.

“He said it was painless. In her sleep. She’d been sick for some time and it was slowly killing her anyways.” I sit beside him and twist my fingers through his curls, glance down at the sketches he now stares at. I recognise some of the faces, having seen portraits of Peeta and his brothers as a boy, having seen Peeta’s own sketches of William Thackeray. Mr. Henderson’s face is now familiar. There are several others who are strangers to me as well, some with names at the bottom.

“Curious,” I say. “Isn’t the name of this town the one Rory mentioned when he was speaking of the mines Gale has settled on him as a future wedding gift?”

“I believe so,” Peeta says. He turns to me then, his face void of emotion. “I have written to Haymitch and both our solicitors with the new information, asked them to confirm Mr. Hendrson’s story.”

“You do not trust him?”

“No, I do, only…I suppose I am holding out foolish hope, although for what I do not know.”

“Perhaps you only seek definitive closure.”

“Perhaps,” he says quietly. “Or perhaps it is fear. He said she passed this time last year and we…you and I…”

“Beatrice was conceived this time last year,” I say and he nods.

“Difficult to not wonder if there is some sort of connection. She never even knew you, or her grandchildren–” I silence his words with a kiss and when I lift my head, he does not speak again.

“She knew you, and if love can be felt in the afterlife, then she knows all the rest,” I say. Then I smile and press his body back to lay on the sofa. “Now husband…will you at last give me what I want?”

“Don’t I always?” I yelp as he flips us over and we tumble to the floor, tangled together and lips melded together. I sigh as his lips leave mine and he smiles at me. “But in the name of continued marital bliss and certainty, tell me exactly what you want, my pearl.”

“You, Peeta. I want you,” I say and he grins before kissing along my neck. I gasp out the rest before taking advantage and rolling us so that I straddle him. “And I want another child. Are you going to be stubborn again or are you going to let me have my way?”

“Please, my love. By all means, have your wicked way with me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Fin~

All that remains now is an epilogue, a taste of the future, and the final reveal.

You’ve found the words (perhaps) and now have a jumbled mess. My name is one letter, or is it? Take the first of each and unwind their path to find out who M is.

Thank you dear readers, and one final thanks to @everlarkficexchange for allowing me to write from behind a mask. Unmasked in its entirety, to include the epilogue, will post to Archive of Our Own within twenty-four hours and then there will be no hiding behind a mask for me. I wish you all happy writing and reading for this next exchange. Regards, ~M~

#submission #M #prompt 88 #springtime edition 2019

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ssaalexblake · 4 years ago

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I am, as they say, That person who has a huge ass pile of books to read that i’ve had, in some cases, for years, but i saw the new Suzanne Collins book was out and got an e-copy and read it immediately, you know, as you do when you have a huge pile of books to get through.

anyway, spoilers, definitely ---

I’ve never actually read a Book where the whole story was from the perspective of a terrible protagonist, i have read books where there have been spare chapters from the perspective of villains, but never has the villain been the Protagonist before in my experience. And this protagonist was showing danger signs of a seriously pathological narcissistic personality from the opening world building chapters, and it only got worse and worse as the stakes in his life got higher and higher.

And here’s the thing, i Know people were immediate and vapid in attacking Collins for this when the plot summary were released, and i will admit, my eyes rolled so very much at the immediate assumption that this was a story to make you sympathise wigh him, because, simply, i’ve read the trilogy. Collins’ doesn’t even make her Hero characters that sympathetic a lot of the time, with the exception of Prim and Rue, whose literary function demanded them to be symbols of purity and innocence, practically everybody else is in a shade of grey. The victors we love all have blood on their hands, even Peeta, who is also a symbol for non violent ideals, is corrupted by the narrative. This is not a series that is particularly nice to it’s cast of characters, even when we are meant to Like them.

But now after some brief fandom browsing i am now just going ‘wtf’ at the idea that people are Still holding onto the idea After having read it that, just because a story is about a bad guy, the author Must somehow be endorsing their actions. I’ve literally never read a story with a more unsympathetic protagonist. What a Disgusting person.

This story revealed that the villain is a pathological and possessive narcissist who is very much the hero of his own story, but sure as hell nobody else’s.

I also noted that people have been commenting that the book is too Coincidental in its references and that it made it a bad story, that they were just for clout. That Snow is in 12. The lake. The bakery and so on and so on, and that it put people off and seemed just a grab to keep people interested, but the thing is, it’s a Ballad. This isn’t ‘the novel of songbirds and snakes’, it’s ‘the Ballad’. It plays out, contextually, with the deliberate knowledge that all the readers have read how this story ends in the trilogy, as one of the covey’s songs.

I’m not sure how to phrase it, but i feel like viewing the story and plot itself as more of a folk song or limerick is the best way to look at it from, it’s not Meant to be a novel. It’s a Ballad. The literary devices in two such storytelling methods are very different, in a ballad i would Expect this type of thing which is fair because the book is named a ballad. In a novel i would find it a bit too coincidental, but i don’t think that was how we were supposed to look at it.

That all aside, i never actually had any feelings for Snow beyond the literary device he embodied, the power so vast and beyond you it is hopeless to even think of defying it. Now i have Many feelings about Snow, namely, that i actively hate him now.

This book may actually play out as a cautionary tale about being careful of narcissists, actually, and taking care to make sure they do not end up amassing too much power.

I would say Collins portrayed Snow as a mixture of the old Nurture versus Nature debate, his absolute lust for total control to no longer be the victim of something as horrific as the war was Clearly a case of circumstance... If he had never been in the war, he would not have felt the sheer powerlessness that has led to his absolute need for control.

There is also the other angle of his nurturing that plays into this, his Absolute sense of entitlement as a Snow. He was born a Snow, not some lowly normal capitol family, or worse, one of those ‘district animals’. In his mind, what was rightfully His was stolen from him when they lose the business in the war because of district 13, he got bit in the ass by capitalism, hilariously. His family’s business went under, and the loss of income from it took them from hero to zero, but he though he was Owed his money and status by virtue of his birth and did not see how fragile the perch of his wealth and status was even After the perch had been toppled and he was left penniless. The presence of irrefutable evidence that nothing but access to more dollars provided his life style did not even break through his entitlement.

But i mean, there are a lot of entitled capitalists in this world who think that just because they Used to have money and a thriving business means they are entitled to always have that, and while it makes them not that great, it doesn’t exactly make them Monsters. But here’s the thing, you also cannot claim that Snow is not just naturally a self centered narcissist. That is just a personality trait, and it is This that makes the above a horrifying problem.

When somebody else is harmed, it is about how it will effect Him. The tragedy in being assigned district 12, girl, was not that a girl was being stolen away to be murdered, but that he got stuck with one of the kids unlikely to win. Tigris’ implication of what she may have had to do to keep their family operating was first and foremost about how uncomfortable and disgusted it made Him. Other were reduced to utter horrors to survive the war and he judged them for it, all the while, he only escaped such a thing because of a crime his grandmother committed (looting was, technically, illegal). Clemmie maybe needing him? It wasn’t about her or her life, it was about how it might effect Him (to a point, it is fair to fear for your own life in such a situation, but most would bother to feel bad about it). This is just a handful of examples, but there are many, many more.

He is also Horrifyingly possesive. He, Literally, is a textbook case of an abusive boyfriend who kills their girlfriend because they might have priorities other than him. Lucy Gray may not be dead, i was not left with the impression he succeeded in killing her, but the deal sealer is in the attempt, not whether he succeeds. The entire narrative in his head towards his relationship with lucy contains every danger sign i’ve ever been warned against in men. He wishes to Own her, not love her, and that he was literally given her life on a plate as an experiment did not help with his narcissistic entitlement. His family and friends (though, he did not have friends) all assumed he loved her and because they said it he assumed it was true. But it was possession he was feeling.

He did not help Lucy out of the goodness of his heart, it was self serving. It was self serving the entire time. Us, having knowledge of his internal monologue are aware of his self centered intentions, but the characters around him, unaware of this, treat him as if he is a good person because they assume he has charitable motives. He very much does not. Him comforting Clemmie was, every step of the way, for his own benefit. He Certainly was not the saint Sejanus thought he was.

But he still Believes the people who tell him how great he is!!! Narcissist.

he is, in short, a right piece of work. What a monster it takes to get your ‘brother’ executed for treason and manage to make it about himself in about an Hour. What a monster it takes to attempt to do that to Lucy Gray. What a monster it takes to get the Plinth’s only child killed and take his inheritance and power out of a sense of entitlement and continue calling the grieving mother ‘ma’.

Anyway, brilliant character building. I Hate him.

I also Love the world building, the confirmation that Reaping Day is on July 4th, the idea that in the beginning even the capitol citizens thought the hunger games were barbaric and depressing and that they had to be won over by a propaganda campaign of dehumanization and entertainment. The idea that mentors were once capitol citizens, that it went wrong so they erased it from history but cherrypicked the parts that worked.

I found Dr Gall or whatever her name was gravitating towards Snow interesting, because people who are like that Naturally gravitate towards people who prove their world views right, and by all rights Snow does turn out very much like her (admittedly, with less an interest in science), who is to say she in turn was not less of a monster in earlier life but grew into it as well? She saw something in him and nurtured it with poison.

This is getting increasingly more random, But i love Peeta’s highjacking now. I was never against it, but it was never the plot for me, but now i am So into it. Because Sejanus is Very peeta like, that idealism. And how satisfying it must have been for Snow to finally be able to crack into that and destroy it because he has the Power to do so now.

On the flip side, I actually now wish we had Peeta perspective chapters, because there is a compelling argument to say Snow and Peeta have their similarities, too. I mean, their defining difference is that Peeta is a good person, but they have the same talent for sheer manipulation as each other, Peeta manipulated hunger games audiences into keeping Katniss alive longer, Snow did the same with Lucy Gray. They are both deeply charismatic, generally liked by their peers, popular, are sabotaged by small groups of people who hate them for reasons beyond their control. They are inversions, same coin, different sides.

The sexual slavery of the victors is now a more narratively interesting thing, as well, because snow is, in this book, Disgusted by the idea of any kind of sexual impropriety (not My opinion, but he considers it impropriety). He is disturbed by Tigris’ implication she may have had to engage in it. Was what he did to the victors merely a case of his disdain for district animals and wishing to subject them to the most degrading thing as possible? How did he get from A to B here?

Seeing the very first career pack was interesting, too. I wonder if the stronger districts started to band together in the games from realising the strategy had advantages or of the capitol subtly Encouraged the behavior themselves. The latter seems more likely, considering they were the ones out for a good show.

I was interested on canon confirmation on the peacekeepers, to be honest. I’ve seen fic discuss where exactly they come from, but to know they are made up from less wealthy capitol citizens And district people after either money/a way out of their assigned district’s profession or both was a nice lore drop.

I know it’s not Confirmed Tigris is the same Tigris who played a part in mockingjay but... it would be so wonderful if she were. Being brought down, in part, by she who nurtured him. Tigris loved Coryo because she thought he was somebody he was not, so when and how did she find out who he Really was?

In the end, i find the idea that this books Shows us Snow created the country we see in the trilogy through the reasoning that A) humanity is terrible and will always fight and try to destroy each other and that B) he decided that if point A was true, he’d amass enough personal power to make sure he would Always be in control of the fights and come out on top of them utterly Fascinating societal commentary, most of which is not really my lane to address so i won’t (also, it’s fairly obvious).

But the idea that Snow was one of the capitol ones who sees the district people in a more favourable light simply because he’s at least willing to admit they’re not zoo animals is Stunning when you put it in context of all the things He does to them. He’s not even close to the worst one and look what he did!

In the end, i think Collins has fleshed out this world and made it more horrifying than it was before. And Panem is meant to be a reflection of our own society’s failings. This book was not to say ‘oh Snow was an actual person so wasn’t That bad’, it was trying to say ‘Snow was an actual person and is Very much terrible’ because the idea is this series is a highlighted reflection of the real bad in our own world. If the monster Snow is cannot be relatable to a real person, how is it any kind of societal commentary at all? He cannot be one dimensional and totally evil from the womb if you want the story to actually say anything.

I also did find this story relied on Collins’ previously seen not necessarily realistic world from the original books to make its point, and i did not expect that to be a deal breaker for so many people considering the story from the trilogy relied on its audience’s skill to read into the meaning rather than the literal at times as well, but i stand by my assertation that the title is meant to be an indication of the type of narrative the book observes, it is a song, which is a very different style of story than that in any other kind of media.

#tbosas #tbosas spoilers #the ballad of songbirds and snakes spoilers #admittedly i only read this b/c i know i'd finish it quickly b/c it's not v long and wouldn't be like #reading level hard #b/c i can't be bothered with anything complicated right now #But i did enjoy it #i've enjoyed genuinely hating the person whose head i'm in #who knew

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sunflowerslyf · 6 years ago

Text

Unmasked ~~ Twelve

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @sunflowerslyf for generously offering up your inbox for posting this story as well as your patience in dealing with my editing errors and multiple submissions You’re a gem. Please enjoy the twelfth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 12 ~~

My dreams are pleasant and I wake to warm sunshine and cheerful bird song. When I sit up and examine the room, I see that Peeta is already awake and gone, but no matter. I feel as though we have made excellent progress, now that I know more about him. So many questions remain, about his life as a Mellark, but as last night proved, he is willing to provide them. Perhaps during our ride today we might discuss it some more.

As I enter the breakfast room, my eyes find him first. Maysilee sits perched on his knee, detailing their adventure for the day. As if sensing my presence, Peeta meets my gaze with a soft smile and an unexpected heat in his eyes. My toes curl in my shoes as I picture how that expression might appear in shadows and candlelight, between just him and I and our bed.

I think I need a confessional today.

I am ahead of myself, however and halt my musings. I do not even know my husband’s birth date nor any number of other inconsequential to momentous details about him. I know that he is a baker, an artist. He prefers to sleep with a window open. He always knots his cravat without the use of a mirror and he never takes sugar in his tea. I know the name of his true mother and father and the nature of his rather humble beginnings, yet there is so much more to him. I already know this and am quite eager to find out more.

And to think of how determined I was to proceed right to the consummation without the courtship. Why though? Perhaps to prevent a connection or affection from forming between us, to convince myself that he is the brute I believed him to be that first day we met. Now that I know the source of both his haste and his reluctance to dismount, I feel quite bad about my initial assessment of him, although I do not know if I am so low as to sabotage my own marriage. Perhaps then it was a desire to be done with it, to not have the deed hanging over my head, or perhaps still it was a means to make myself feel superior to Peeta. That last is ridiculous in light of the manner he has approached our lives together so far – as a partnership, an alliance as he called it that first time. But allies must be equal, each contributing to the further well being of the other and of the alliance.

This courtship idea of his is quite sound, I admit to myself. We now have the chance to get to know one another in a way we were not given time to before our wedding, which I hope can only serve to strengthen our bond.

I choose to ignore that the reason for my not knowing Peeta well is that I focused on pursuing his brother as a potential mate and not Peeta. Why did I make that choice anyways? Was it because of Peeta’s birth or because the one meeting I had already had with him unsettled me so? If the first, then I am a despicable and judgemental creature. If the second, then my judgment in general is suspect. Sir Robert had seemed a safer choice at the time, but his elopement with another women shows that to be utterly false.

I further ignore the man in the mask. Whichever brother it was that night can have no bearing on my future with Peeta. I must judge the character of the man before me, not dream of some fantasy that may have been a complete lie. And thus far, as my mother said that first day, it appears that I have before me a very fine man indeed.

Although I had little choice in our engagement, I have control over how I approach our marriage. I could do so with scorn and resentment, but that will do no one any good. It benefits no one to live in a household with the lord and lady ever at odds. No, I choose now to face my marriage to Peeta as he has done – with an open heart and hope for better things to come. At the very least, we can be good friends and equal partners in our life together.

I force myself into the room as Maysilee reclaims his attention. Standing at the sidebar, I fill my plate. I shall need extra sustenance today, I think. I do not plan to end this day a stranger to my husband nor he to me. Peeta can still take his time with all the niceties and pomp in courting me if he wishes, but I need to know as much as I can learn about him today.

Madge stands from the table and presses close to my side, questions in her eyes.

“What?”

“You practically glow this morning, Katniss,” she whispers. “What happened between you last night?”

“He told me about his mother – his birth mother,” I say, eyes averted. I can feel blood humming in my veins, rising to stain my cheeks pink and know that I will not get away with secrecy, yet I cannot stop thinking about what it means that he trusted me with such knowledge, and oddly enough, I cannot stop thinking about what kissing him in truth may feel like.

“That is not all that happened.”

“No,” I concede and then sneak a peek at the pair still engrossed in their breakfast and plans.

“Tell me, Katniss. The suspense and worry are killing me.”

“There is no reason to worry,” I say.

“So then… he has not hurt you? Been…unpleasant or rough at night?”

“Hurt me? No!” I whisper furtively, glancing over my shoulder and relieved to find Peeta engrossed with both Maysilee and Prim.

“Oh you’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that. He seemed such a gentleman, and his treatment of you appears above reproach, but I suppose who we are behind closed doors is never the same and both of you seemed so… so tired and distressed in a quiet sort of way and…” her words trail into breath and I stare at her for a moment.

I snort quite loudly. Madge’s brow draws together. We both check that no one eavesdrops before I explain, because I can hold it in no longer.

“On the contrary, Mr. Mellark is the utmost gentleman in the bedroom. One could say he is too much of a gentleman.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment and then her eyes widen. “Oh! You mean that he hasn’t…that the two of you have not…” She waves her hand about in a vague motion as I purse my lips and shake my head.

“He says he wishes to court me first.”

“But…you are already married!” She hisses under her breath and I smile, sly and satisfied with my next words.

“I think it terribly sweet of him.”

“Astonishing,” she says and we both turn to take our places at table. She whispers one more thing before we move within hearing range of the others. “There is still hope then for a truly blessed marriage.”

Hope. The feeling flowers inside me at her words.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Prim asks and I refocus on my food while Madge diverts attention from me and our whisperings.

*************************

I am unable to ascertain more of Peeta’s past during our ride as Doctor Aurelius arrives just as we are headed out, with plans to finally remove the plaster cast my father has worn since late spring, when Doctor Aurelius was finally satisfied with the setting of the bones broken in Father’s accident. A good thing too, as I have heard whispers that my father has been in and out of fever the past few days, but the source has remained a mystery.

I am distracted as we ride, unable to enjoy our time together. Sporadic winds kick up dry dust and the heat is stifling today. Even though I chose to wear breeches today, something I have not done in some time, I have sweat like a pig and am excessively dirty and disheveled in no time at all. Peeta suggests we cut our outing short to return, and I eagerly accept.

As we ride up to the house, Madge greets us, taking Sagitarria’s bridle in her hands. “Doctor Aurelius is still with your father. He wishes all of us present. I fear the news is not good, Katniss.”

I leap from my horse and hurry up the stairs, breathing hard as I enter the room.

“What news?” I ask, as I approach Doctor Aurelius. My mother barely looks at me and even Prim is subdued. The lack of response to my appearance confirms that the news is not good. The stench in the room is my second indicator of how bad the news must be. True there has been an overall smell in Father’s room, more stale and slightly foul. This is undeniably foul.

“One moment. This is news all of you need hear, as it will affect the entire household.” I huff in impatience as we wait. When Madge and Peeta join us, she closes the door and Doctor Aurelius nods. “Mr. Everdeen remains in his coma, unresponsive. There was always a risk of bed sores given the length of time, as well as infection. Come and see for yourself.”

He moves aside bed linens and the sleeve of my father’s shirt to reveal discolored skin, an angry red with sheets of it that have peeled off. I cover my mouth and nose at the pus oozing from several blisters. Doctor Aurelius shows the cut away cast, the sheets of discolored dead skin that have accumulated and adhered to the cotton interior.

“Gangrene,” Peeta says behind me and I turn to face him. Tears cloud my vision, making a muddled mess of his image, hazy and distorted like those drawings of his from distant battlefields.

“Quite. It has advanced too far already. I must amputate this arm immediately.”

“And if you do not?” I ask as my mother bends over my father, clutching his good hand, shoulders shaking with her quiet sobs.

“Your father will be dead in a matter of days.”

“Then amputate,” I say. “Take the blasted arm off!”

The doctor gives me a sympathetic look and Peeta’s hands grasp my shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.

“It is not that simple, Katniss,” my mother says, lifting her tear stained face.

“There is a chance the amputation itself will kill him. There is risk of further infection, a severe fever or even pneumonia in response to the amputation, it is possible that the infection began deep in his tissues at the same time as his fall or during the resetting of his bones and is only now manifesting where we can see it. In that case, it may have advanced further up his arm than I am able to observe and an amputation will not solve the problem at all. It is risky with a coherent patient. I have never amputated on a comatose one.”

“But there is a chance he will survive?” I ask and the doctor nods. “And no chance at all if you do not?”

“That is correct.”

“Then amputate,” I say again. Both of us look to my mother. She manages to nod in assent.

“What do you need from us?” Primrose asks.

“I will need assistance with the operation itself. Perhaps two people of stout constitution with some modicum of physical strength as well, a background in healing or medicine would be ideal…” Doctor Aurelius looks between my mother and my sixteen year old sister, clearly not impressed with his options. My mother has barely left the house since Father’s accident and has ceased all of her duties as healer. Without Mother’s supervision, Prim has had little practice in the past few months either.

Peeta steps around me then. “Doctor Aurelius, I have been present during a few amputations, although I am neither doctor nor healer. And…I have survived one.”

“Have you really?” The doctor squints at my husband.

“My left leg, sir.” The doctor’s gaze drops as if he could see through Peeta’s trousers. “I would show you, doctor, but there is an odd assortment of ladies present to include my wife and her as yet unmarried sister. I doubt that their mother would appreciate such a display.”

Madge laughs first, only a note or two, then strangely enough my mother joins her and Prim as well. Doctor Aurelius even cracks a small smile.

“Very well. Your assistance will be welcome, Mr. Mellark. I shall send for my kit, as I did not bring that one with me. Mrs. Mellark I need a boy to run the errand.” I move to the door and shout for Horatio. Doctor Aurelius eyes the clear evidence of outdoor exertion on Peeta’s clothes. “And you shall need a bath and change of clothes, Mr. Mellark. Then we need one more—“

“I will do it,” Mother says, rising from her chair on unsteady feet.

“Are you sure that is a good idea, Mrs. Everdeen?” The Doctor questions. Her resolve seems to waver a moment, and Peeta moves to speak directly to her.

“Madame, you know what we will need. A good, hot fire; supplies similar to what you would use to dress a laceration that requires stitches, in greater abundance as it will need to be cauterized,” Peeta tells her gently.

My mother nods and leaps into motion. The doctor watches her in astonishment, but it seems that having something to do for my father has given my mother purpose again. She is a healer, and having both brought many a babe into the world as well as held the hands of countless dying, it seems that what truly crippled her in this case was the waiting and impotence in regards to my father’s care. There was nothing she could do to revive him from his coma except to sit and wait.

“Katniss, we will also need a schedule of persons, perhaps in pairs, to sit vigil afterwards and tend to the wound we shall create. He will need observation at all hours of the day for a few days. See to the organization of that?” My mother says, even as she moves about the room.

The house becomes an uproar as a fire is built up in the grate in my parents’ room. The windows in every other room thrown open to release the heat that seeps through the walls. The door is strictly monitored to reduce the number of insects entering my father’s sick room. Supplies gathered. Baths ordered for Peeta and myself.

I’ve no time to linger in the room adjoining the kitchens, designed by my father to meet my mother’s needs as a healer. A clean body is less likely to contract infections, she would remind us each time we complained of the frequent baths she demanded of the entire household. My father, in an attempt to appease his wife as well as to ease the burden of carrying hot water or the large brass tub up stairs for baths, designed this room and oversaw its modifications. I take only a moment to appreciate the high windows that admit light without compromising privacy, the clean design of drainage, and wonder if this bathroom will be one of the few things we have left of him at the end of this week.

I dare not linger too long, though. Scrubbed clean and dressed in a simple gown, I gather the household and set a schedule for watching over my father for the next few days. Horatio returns with a leather bag for Doctor Aurelius and disappears with it into the chambers.

Silence descends. I pace the hall, unable to sleep as the doctor suggested I do to prepare, as I will sit the first watch with Charles. We eat a sparse lunch and after, Madge keeps Maysilee busy, distracting her from the somber mood that has covered my home. I cannot even hold my sister as she’s insisted on being present as well. As a healer in training.

Just as I am certain I can take no more, Maysilee yawns. “We should take you upstairs to nap.”

“Wanna nap here,” the child whines and Madge soothes her back a moment. “Mama, play music?”

Madge kisses her daughter and rises, settling Maysilee on the sofa with a blanket before moving to the piano. She sits and glances at me for one moment and then begins to play.

The melancholy notes drift through the house, entering my soul and permeating deep. I find stillness through them and close my eyes, recalling the words to the tune. On a deep breath, I release one line and then another. My voice cracks at first, uneven and hoarse from months of no singing at all. As the song continues and Madge ends it only to begin another on its heels, I sing. I sing until my voice warms and grows to something splendid, as it was on days when I would sing with my father.

With steady voice, shaking hands, and tears on my face, I sing and pray that my father will survive this day. I know not how many songs I sing as Madge plays, but when the notes from the piano stop abruptly and Madge gasps, I turn to face the door.

Peeta stands there, looking exhausted and with red speckled on his sleeves. I do not want to consider the amount of my father’s blood that was shed today, but Peeta nods to me.

“He is alright for now.”

I take three steps and then fling myself into his arms. He holds me tight to his chest and we stand there, feeling one another as the birds sing outside. When we move apart, he holds my cheek in his hand. I do not even know how to describe the look that he gives me then, only the effect that it has on me. He is so calm and so steady in this moment, when I feel as though my world is crumbling to pieces. I need not be strong for Peeta, as he knows what anguish I live in right now. His hold on me reminds me that I can survive this. We can survive this, and all hope is not lost.

“Go see him,” he whispers and I need no more urging to race up the stairs.

The room is unbearably hot, although the fire has been extinguished for now. My father lays perspiring in his bed, his body twitching, already caught in fever. My mother wipes his face with a damp cloth, her hair a mess and her eyes distressed. Servants gather stained sheets and dressings and aprons, bustling from the room with grim looks on their faces.

“When did he become so thin?” I ask no one and no one answers.

“I should have seen it,” my mother whispers instead.

“Mother, it is not your fault.”

“I fear that it is. I spent so many days sitting beside him, waiting for him to return to us, that I…I told myself I could not become a ghost. You were engaged to be married. Primrose spoke of Mr. Hawthorne with such fondness and… Life was passing by and I was spending it here, neglecting my daughters for a husband who might never return to us and I tried to right it. I tried to right it and instead failed your father. I should have—“

I halt her words with an embrace and hold her until her tears are spent. “You could not have seen beneath the cast, Mother.”

She sniffles to end her cry and nods. “I shall sleep well knowing he is in your care now, Katniss.”

My mother kisses my cheek and then leaves as Charles enters. Ours is the longest watch, beginning as soon as the operation is deemed complete and continuing to midnight, an easy time for all to remember, and a chance for all who shall sit vigil to complete tasks or to sleep as needed. At midnight, we will begin our regular rotations. Charles and I work through the evening and into the night, refreshing bandages, bathing Father’s fevered skin. Charles nods off and I sing quietly to my father, wishing that perhaps I had done so sooner, as my mother had once asked of me.

When Madge and Joe relieve us near midnight, I head to the kitchen, unsurprised to find Peeta there, kneading dough. Words are not needed between us as I sit, and yet as he works, we begin to talk. I speak of my father, as though sharing all my cherished memories now might somehow preserve his spirit. Peeta listens and encourages my words. We eat slices of a hearty bread, heavy with nuts and grains, a goat cheese with dill in it melting into the pores and slices of cucumber. Then we retire to our room.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Peeta wakes me from a terrible dream. I cling to his shirt and refuse to let him go until he climbs into the bed with me. I fall back asleep wrapped in his arms, his fingers caressing over my shoulders and back.

It becomes our routine. The entire household moves in rotations, everyone showing the strains of long days and long nights. I sing to my father on my shift with him. After a late night of keeping watch over my father, I join Peeta in the kitchens. He bakes. We talk and eat. And then we retire. After that first night, he does not even bother falling asleep in the chair, but settles beside me in the bed. He is there to wake me and comfort me from the terrible visions of the night.

The fears are easier to manage with him beside me in the darkness, warm and steady, healthy and whole. A survivor of such an ordeal, his wholeness gives me hope to cling to. In the mornings, he rises early to take his turn caring for my father, kissing my cheek before he goes. I hunt and take Sagittaria for long rides. Life somehow continues in this strange way.

“Is this how you lost your leg?” I ask one night in the kitchens as the stars burn and Peeta kneads dough for tomorrow’s bread. Mrs. Chilton, our cook, mentioned that she has begun to leave some for him to work on each night, since he seems so fond of it. I watch his motions as another question forms in my head before he answers the first.

“No,” Peeta says. “I did not lose my leg to gangrene, although I saw others who did lose limbs in this manner.”

“Then how?”

“A sword,” he says simply and I think he will not continue as the silence stretches. Then he does. “It sliced deep enough that I needed a tourniquet or I would have bled to death. The ironic part is that my job was to care for the wounded soldiers who could be saved, treat them enough on the battlefield that they might be then moved to the medical tents. If I could not help them at all…they perished on the field.

“Most days I was not in the midst of heavy fighting, but rather followed the movements of the soldiers. That day, I was…overwhelmed with patients and did not notice the shift in the tide of fighting until it was too late and I was suddenly in the thick of it. I applied the tourniquet to myself after I was wounded and continued to help others whom I could drag myself to reach, but when the fighting was over, I should have been left where I lay.”

“Someone moved you?”

“Joe. As a horse trainer and stable hand, he had a gentle touch and demeanor with the beasts and could coax them into places they would otherwise shy from. He drove the cart that moved the wounded from battlefield to medical tent, and then the dead to their graves when only the dead held the field. Joe and I had already become friends of sorts. He lied to the others about how close I was to death and ordered them to get me on the cart, after I had already told him to leave me.

“By the time I was moved to the medical tent, there was no saving my leg. The doctor amputated immediately, sutured and cauterized, and then left me on a cot, bidding me good luck in surviving.”

I stare at my hands then, thinking on how close he must have been to dying that day.

“Your father does not have an easy road, Katniss. If he survives, there will be a host of challenges when he wakes.”

“But you have survived it, so you know how,” I say and lift my gaze to him. “Will you stay to help?”

“I have no plans to leave,” he tells me. Such gravity in his eyes as he makes his promise to me. I add it to the ones he gave me on our wedding day, and for one moment, I am certain that he is going to kiss me. So of course, this is when a soft, silly laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “What are you thinking of?”

“That I would not describe Joe as having a gentle touch.”

“Only where horses are concerned,” Peeta says with a smile and we both manage a laugh then. It is a relief to still be able to laugh.

I begin to form an enticing though not yet complete picture of my husband.

“You are more familiar with that bread than I would expect someone who ceased baking at ten to be,” I say on another late night.

“I did not stop at ten.”

“You would sneak into the kitchens of the Mellark household to bake then?”

“It caused a great deal of lectures and strikes of the strap. Such a chore is beneath the son of a Marquis, apparently.” I silently fume at his words. Although I am not surprised to hear that the Marquis resorted to such punishments, as it is quite common, I know that they are not necessary. My mother and father never once struck us that I can recall. Why would one wish to cause your own child physical pain? It seems a brutish practice to me.

“At first I would bake during the day, with the servants, but when the Marquis and Marchioness began to blame the cook for encouraging inappropriate behavior in their ward instead of blaming me for convincing the servants to let me, I began to bake at night instead. By then I was old enough to not need any supervision in the task and no one would suffer except perhaps our poor arithmetic tutors who could not entice me to stay awake for lessons.”

I laugh at the image of a stern man in spectacles attempting to wake a tired Peeta as he dreamt of bread rather than equations.

“It must have been so lonely and confusing for you.” I watch a hundred emotions pass across his face in seconds and know that I have found the truth of it. His adjustment to living in the Mellark household after a mostly happy childhood with William and Nancy Thackeray was not at all easy.

“In many ways, it was…but I did have one brother who became an instant friend and ally. He was more interested in my skill as a playmate and at talking our way out of scrapes than who my parents were.”

“Robert,” I say and cannot meet his eyes, although I see Peeta nodding in my periphery.

“Robert was the only one in that household whose acceptance and welcome of me was both immediate and unconditional. He called me his twin and his brother the very first day and never stopped. He defended me to those who would use my birth as an insult.”

“You must love him a great deal,” I whisper, thoughts of the things Peeta did in the name of protecting his brother foremost in my head. What would I do to protect Prim? Marry someone I knew did not wish to marry me? In a way, that is precisely what I did in marrying Peeta.

“I do. He is my brother. I love him as you love Primrose,” he says and finishes with tonight’s loaf.

Four long days after Doctor Aurelius amputates his arm, my father’s fever breaks. It is during my shift, and I cry out with relief as I feel the sweat finally cooling on my father’s brow, his skin clammy and cooling as the heat dissipates. Charles is near asleep on his feet by then, and I send him to fetch Peeta to relieve him and help me. Peeta and I bathe my father and cover him with a warm blanket, changing his dressings one last time as the day ends, and a new begins. My mother enters as soon as she receives word.

“Thank heaven,” she says when I confirm the change.

“He remains unconscious,” I remind her.

“Yes, but it is enough for now.” She takes Peeta’s cheeks in her hands and pulls him down so that she may kiss his brow. “Thank you, dear boy, for taking care of my Kent. You are nothing like your father at all and such a welcome addition to our family.”

She hugs me and tells me to get some rest, reminding me that the crops will keep.

We walk through the house in silence as I consider my mother’s words and before I can think of something to say, we reach the bath room and Peeta speaks first. “You go ahead. I will see about some food for us.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say.

After I bathe, as Peeta takes his turn, I find a tray of food in our room. I am famished and dive right in to eat. My eyes droop, and as much as I try to stay awake, I am unable to do so. I wake to Peeta tucking me beneath the covers and protest when Peeta does not join me but moves towards the sitting area instead.

“Peeta?”

He shakes his head from the chairs and arranges a pillow. “Your father is out of immediate danger. I assumed that meant that I should–”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Get in the bed,” I say and his eyes widen for a moment. “You are keeping me awake, husband.”

His lips twitch and he nods, joining me, pausing only to sit on the edge of the mattress to remove trousers and false leg before laying beside me with a relieved sigh.

We shift and move, trapped in a sort of limbo of uncertainty. Do I touch him? He has held me every night since Father’s amputation and now we lay with an ocean of space between us. On those nights, even though he held me close, I felt a thousand leagues away, drifting in a haze of concern for my father. Tonight, despite the space between us, I am very aware of Peeta’s presence.

I roll to my side, attempting to discern his profile in the dark room and unable to do so. I listen for any snoring and discover none. I wait and listen to each sound around us, the steady cadence of breath in the night as we attempt to find sleep. I shift to my other side, with my back to him and stare towards the window. The drapes drift on the breeze, revealing brief hints of moonlight.

I cough once and then he moves. His warmth approaches me and even in darkness, I can feel him watching me.

“Is there something you want, madame?” I swear I hear laughter in his voice, but do not care as I reach behind me, feeling through the sheets for his hand. Once I have it, I wrap his arm around me until he moves closer, close enough for us to settle in an intimate embrace. “Better?”

“Quite,” I say. “Now hush so I may sleep, husband.”

“Yes, wife,” he murmurs, but his lips brush the back of my neck as he does and I cannot stop the delight that simmers inside my heart as I find sleep.

**************************

To be continued…look for chapter thirteen on the blog of @justajjfan

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aaltena26 · 6 years ago

Text

Unmasked ~ Eleven

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @aaltena26 and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the eleventh chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 11 ~~

I sleep wretchedly. In fact, I am certain that I slept better in the days leading up to our wedding than I do on the wedding night, despite being left utterly alone and untouched. There are a few moments of tension in the morning, with Peeta and I moving around one another in an attempt to prepare for the day.

“I swear this room was enormous just two days ago,” I mutter as we nearly collide for the fourth time. Peeta laughs then and reaches behind him to grasp my morning dress from where it lays. I hold my dressing gown closed tight, hoping he will not be able to see how my chest heaves with my rapid breathing as he hands the garment to me.

“I suppose this will require some further adjustment on both our parts. I will try not to be so much underfoot, madame,” he say, offering the gown to me.

“It is your room as well,” I mutter through clenched teeth, accepting my dress and turning away from him, giving him some semblance of privacy to dress as I wash my face.

In the mirror, I catch a brief glimpse of him and avert my gaze. Heat creeps up my neck like grasping vines of ivy climbing walls. The sensation will not cease and urges my eyes up and up against my will until I become a spy, stealing a glimpse of my husband with no shirt and barely any pants on his body.

The day we met, I considered that what appeared to be broad shoulders beneath his coat might be a trick of the tailor, but no. There is no trick at all. Peeta is solidly built. As he moves, I feel as though some sort of string has been tied between his arms with their evident strength, and my gut. Surely that is the reason for my reaction to him, for the hollow feeling when his shirt is in place and he asks me a mundane question about the arrangements for church today.

I answer him and finish scrubbing. By the time Mary arrives to help me dress, Peeta is fully garbed and leaves me in the clutches of my maid. I am in a daze until I reach breakfast and eagerly grasp at the food as a distraction from the feelings churning inside me. It does little good with the source of my distraction seated across the table, engaged in easy conversation with his brother and sister-in-law, Maysilee perched in her now usual spot on his knee and Emma beside her, explaining how she combines flavors of jams to create new ones and what does Maysilee think of strawberry-apricot?

“Katniss are you feeling well?” Madge whispers to me and I startle, nearly spilling my tea.

“What? Fine!” I hiss under my breath so that no one might hear. She glances between Peeta and I, and I can see the concern in her eyes. It is then that I notice the faint rings beneath Peeta’s eyes that speak of poor sleep. At least he suffers as I do. Serves him right. “I will tell you later.”

Church presents its own form of torture, being forced to sit still and exude pious serenity with so much turmoil in my brain, especially given how centered on the bedroom and copulation my thoughts are this morning. Father Crane prattles on about devotion, the need to fulfill one’s promises even in the face of extreme adversity. I fume silently, twitching with the heat in the stifling building and hoping the sermon is burning my husband’s ears. Devotion indeed.

Father Crane continues, berating those who might attempt to influence the Hand of God, to alter their fate or question the Almighty’s plan, to escape their duties. I am certain that I have heard this exact sermon before and tune him out. His nasal voice disturbs my thought processes and I must be focused if I am to sort out the mess that is my marriage.

Peeta sits across the church from me, apparently serene and focused on the words, head bowed slightly. The sun even dares to shine on his hair in such a way that he seems almost divine. Beside him, Haymitch snores, although no one bothers to wake him. To do so would cause more disturbance to the sermon than the snores themselves, Although Father Crane sends him several withering glares throughout. On Peeta’s other side, his brother Henry stares out the windows, as though longing for an escape.

He is playing some game by not touching me, my husband. I am certain of it. Perhaps he means to force a divorce or an annulment by claiming that I have neglected my duty as a wife. Yes! That is it. If we do not consummate our marriage, he can use the lack of children to discard me. Or perhaps he means to weaken me somehow in refusing to act as a husband, lulling me into a sense of security before claiming what he truly wants. Whatever game it is he plays, I cannot allow this. I have worked too hard to secure a husband and a fortune to support my family to allow it to all fall apart now. I will simply have to seduce him tonight.

With a plan and resolution, I am better able to sit still through the sermon. It is once we are at home after that things begin to fall apart.

“Katniss,” Madge grabs my arm and keeps me back from the remainder of our party. “Are you alright?”

“Quite fine, now that I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Madge asks, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh no. Was it that awful last night?”

“Awful? Yes, it was wretched.” I bite out the words, unable to hide how embarrassed I feel. Why I am embarrassed is beyond me. I am not the one in the wrong here. It is Peeta who is shirking his duty in our bedroom, not I.

The more that I think about it, the more I am convinced that he either is repulsed by my scars and is therefore the worst sort of hypocrite, or he is using this to somehow manipulate me. I will not allow that. I will instead outmaneuver him.

Before Madge can question me further, I tear myself away from her and focus on our guests. Most of them will depart tomorrow, leaving us in peace to establish our new lives. I will have time to talk with Madge then, after I have seduced my husband.

************************

In the evening, there are games and conversation. Music and laughter. Primrose plays on the piano to great appreciation and the atmosphere is cheerful, lively. Haymitch and Peeta engage in a game of chess. Aunt Effie and Angelica Mellark somehow find common topics to discuss. Henry reads and on occasion joins in with the ladies’ conversation. Madge embroiders and I sit content with my book. A strange sort of domestic tranquility settles over the group. Frivolity continues into the evening and yet my book fails to win my interest.

In fact, the warmth of the scene lulls me into a relaxed, almost dreamy state. I blame the exhaustion of the past few days as I am jostled partially awake, lifted into arms and held against a solid chest.

“If you could assist her in preparing for bed, Mary--”

“Of course, Mr. Mellark,” I hear Mary answer as I am moved through the hall. “Poor dear has had an exciting few days.”

“Haven’t we all?” he says and I hear my maid chuckle.

“Where is Mrs. Everdeen?”

“Upstairs with the Mister.”

It is a haze of movement and whispers. I drift in and out, only aware of vague instructions that I follow until I am tucked in and content, fall asleep.

In the middle of the night, I wake, startled by thoughts that finally coalesce. I sit up and stare at the back of my husband’s head as he sleeps in the chair, seemingly at peace.

“Curse him!” I mutter. He evaded me, the bastard.

************************

Our wedding guests depart, and I discover just how inept I am at seduction. I am thwarted at every turn. Peeta fabricates all manner of excuses to remain out of our room until late at night, past the time I fall asleep alone in our bed. Other nights, if I attempt to stay awake with him, I inevitably fall asleep in a chair or sofa only to have him carry me to bed and leave me alone there, still a maid.

Madge frets over me, concern apparent in her eyes each morning at the breakfast table as I struggle to hide my growing fatigue. I do not know how to tell her that my lost sleep is due not to a situation similar to hers, but to an entirely different dilemma. She might tell me how fortunate I am to not have to suffer my husband’s amorous attentions, and that would only aggravate me even further. My only consolation is that my husband appears to be suffering the same affliction as I. The circles beneath his eyes gradually darken and his limp grows more pronounced. My indignation grows with them.

“Mr. Marvel comes to call this week to discuss terms of sale,” I tell anyone who will listen one morning.

“Is that usual?” Peeta asks and Madge’s eyes dart between us. I can see her increasing desire to ask private and prying questions. I hope she does not. I am not sure how to answer them.

“Yes, they are fond of establishing terms of sale in person.”

“Perhaps you should have Peeta with you for that meeting,” my mother suggests and I scowl at her.

“Mr. Marvel knows me. Father always had me present at our negotiations in the past.”

“Yes but your father will not be there this time.”

“Are you suggesting I cannot handle the bargaining and sales on my own? That I need a man to accomplish it for me?”

“Of course not, Katniss,” my mother answers with clear exasperation. “I am simply considering the implications of you conducting business alone with two men.”

“I am married now. That affords me some freedom and protection from scandal, does it not?”

“I think perhaps,” Peeta says softly, leaning towards me as though we are conspiring. I turn my head to better hear him as he continues, “that your mother means to protect Mr. Marvel from your strong will and any hard bargains you might drive, madame. And perhaps from that ferocious scowl of yours.”

This, of course, only serves to make me scowl at him and he grins in response. After a beat of silence, Prim’s laughter rings out. My mother smiles and I lift one shoulder in indifference. “It is not my fault if a man cannot hold his ground in negotiations with me. Very well then husband, if you must attend, by all means, do so to protect Mr. Marvel from being intimidated.”

I can feel Madge’s eyes on us through the entire exchange and my cheeks heat in shame and embarrassment. I feel as though I am somehow lying to her, yet I do not know how to soothe her concerns for me.

Two days later, Mr. Marvel arrives with his son to conduct business.

“Ah, Miss Everdeen. A pleasure to see you again. Where is your father?”

“My father is indisposed, Mr. Marvel, I wonder that you had not heard.”

“I did hear of his accident in spring but had hoped he would recover by now.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Surely then the rumors of a recent wedding are false then? I cannot fathom Miss Primrose marrying without your father’s blessing.”

“My sister is not married,” I say, spine stiffening at his words, at the assumption that it must be Prim who married. Am I so undesirable that everyone believes it impossible for me to find a husband? “Now are there any changes you wish to make to--”

“I am glad to be reassured of Miss Primrose’s prudence,” he says, turning to share a strange look with his son and it occurs to me that perhaps Mr. Marvel means to see his snivelling son wed to my sister. Not likely. “Surely it is unseemly to negotiate with your father indisposed? Miss Everdeen, a young, inexperienced, and unmarried woman--”

“Mrs. Mellark,” I say. It is the first I have demanded someone refer to me by my married name and causes a strange tingling in my skull.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is Mrs. Mellark, not Miss Everdeen. The rumors of a wedding were quite true, Mr. Marvel, only not in regards to my sister. How rude of me to neglect introductions. Mr. Marvel, this is my husband, Mr. Peeta Mellark,” I turn then to find him standing right beside me, if slightly behind, in a position of support and solidarity. He inclines his head to Mr. Marvel and his son as the introductions continue.

“My dear girl how did this happen?” Mr. Marvel asks, near to sputtering.

“It took a great deal of convincing on my part, I am afraid,” Peeta says, giving me what can only be termed as a very convincing look of complete devotion. “But I fell madly in love with her and simply could not allow her to escape.”

“Yes,” I say with as much charm as I can muster at his complete lie. “I could not imagine my life without you, husband.”

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes, but he deflects whatever his thoughts were, lifting my hand to his mouth in a gesture of affection. It gives me the chance to gather my wits and refocus on Mr. Marvel. “My father would be more apt to encourage the continuation of life as normal, Mr. Marvel, than to have his family wallow in sorrow and allow the farm to deteriorate. So if there are no further objections, shall we adjourn to the study and order refreshments?”

“Very well then, if you insist.”

As we turn to enter the study behind the Misters Marvel, Peeta offers me his arm. My hand shakes slightly as I take it. He covers my hand with his, and presses down, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “They are already shaking in their boots, atremble with fear. You’ve no idea the effect you can have.”

I am uncertain what that means, or even if it is meant as compliment or insult, but I’ve no time to discern which as Mr. Marvel launches immediately into negotiations

“Mrs. Mellark, I have issue with this price for the sage.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes it is much too high. It will fetch no profit at six pounds a bushel.”

“That is the same price you paid last year, and as I recall, you were quite pleased with your profits.”

“Indeed but demand for such herbs has lowered.”

“What price then do you suggest?” I barely notice Peeta accepting tea from Mary and pouring for us as the younger Mr. Marvel stares at my husband. Is it so shocking that a man might pour tea?

“Four pounds.”

“A one third reduction? Mr. Marvel, that is ridiculous.”

“Yes of course. This is why ladies should be left to the tea service and the gentlemen to the bargaining. Were it left to them, we would pay our entire income for a trifle,” Mr. Marvel states as he accepts the tea from Peeta. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Mellark?”

“Not at all. Mrs. Mellark is an expert on the functions of her farm and the values of her product. If you are disinterested in a fair price and exceptional product, no matter. We have other buyers more than willing to meet our price.” I glance at Peeta, uncertain where he is taking this as he hands me my tea. It is true that we have other buyers, but the Marvels have long been one of our larger sales. “Here you are, my dear.” I thank him for the tea. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Mellark?”

“Indeed it is,” I say automatically, too bewildered to question or contradict him. Such a thing might make the situation worse than I have already done.

“In fact one such buyer plans to expand our market beyond the borders of Panem. Oh dear I cannot seem to remember the name. Harmon? Blackthorne?”

“Hawthorne,” I say the name most present in my mind that fits and Peeta snaps his fingers with a bright smile.

“That’s the one! Mr. Gale Hawthorne. He is traveling abroad at the moment but should pay us a visit...within the fortnight, isn’t it dear?”

“I believe so, husband,” I say, catching on to his game.

Mr. Marvel blusters still, yet his son engages with him in furious conference. Peeta’s eyes meet mine as he sips his tea, almost tranquil. If I were not looking directly at him, I would miss the subtle wink he sends me.

“We are loyal customers, Mrs. Mellark. You cannot in good conscious sell our wares to someone else.”

“On the contrary, I can. Until you sign, the wares are not guaranteed for you. Mr. Hawthorne has offered a most generous price.”

“How much?” Mr. Marvel squeaks.

“Five percent increase from last year,” Peeta says. My stomach drops and I attempt to signal that this is too much.

“Ridiculous! I shall offer you a two percent increase.”

“Three,” I counter. “A bargain for an old friend. A sign of my father’s respect for your business acumen, Mr. Marvel.”

“Done,” he says and smiles as though he truly did just achieve a bargain. “Shall we discuss terms for this goat cheese your father mentioned in his last letter to me in the spring? I am most intrigued by the possibility.”

“Of course. Shall we ring for a few samples?”

The meeting proceeds quite smoothly from there, and as Peeta and I stand on the front steps, waving farewell to our visitors, I watch Peeta in my periphery. Today has given me a new appreciation for him, and when he turns to face me again, I am struck with my good fortune in finding, however unknowingly, such an apt partner and ally, despite our remaining differences.

“Have I anything I need apologize for?” Peeta asks me, true concern in his eyes. I consider my feelings on what he did today, but I do not feel that he did anything to demean or countermand me. True that he showed how smoothly he is capable of lying and yet I feel...empowered. I set out to find a business partner, not a romance, and that is precisely what I seem to have gotten. A partner I can rely on. He suggested that his presence would protect Mr. Marvel from my biting tongue and stubbornness, yet it turns out that what Mr. Marvel truly needed protection from was Peeta and I working together.

“No. Nothing today, husband,” I tell him and he smiles, tilting his head as if in regret.

“I shall try harder tomorrow then, wife.”

“Well, it shall be a new day with fresh opportunities.”

“If it is to be spent with you, then I look forward to it.”

Once more, he lifts my hand to his lips, no audience, no buyers to convince, and the effect of it is overwhelming. A brush of heat up my arms that gives rise to the thought that perhaps I am failing so completely at seducing my husband because he is attempting to seduce me, in a different way.

***********************

The days begins to shape a pattern. In public, Peeta and I are the picture of domestic tranquility. It is strange how easily we work together. How simple he makes the labor and how smoothly he defers to my judgement, even when people first seek his approval as the man. Our encounter with Mr. Marvel and his son is only one example in what becomes a pattern of us working together, and I quickly learn just how dependable my husband truly is. He is as at home laboring beside the common folk -- as evidenced by the day he spends digging and shoring up drainage systems after a rainstorm nearly washes away half of a field -- as he is negotiating terms of business in the parlor.

In the privacy of our rooms, it is another matter entirely.

Why does he not wish to touch me, anyways? He has proved himself most persuasive and does not hesitate to compliment me and yet he has not used that power tempt me into bed with him. It confuses me. I cling to the idea that he must be repulsed by my scars, although that does not hold up under even a cursory examination.

He is not afraid to touch me in smaller ways and has never once flinched from contact with me. With a grasp of my hand in assistance into or out of a carriage, he causes flutterings of sensation up my arm. A simple touch of his palm on my back, a deference of the lead to me as we move from one room to another, is like a shovel digging those unpleasant worms right back up to turn my innards into a squirming mess. I will not even speak of what happens when he assists me down from Sagittaria after our daily rides.

Each day passes much the same as the last. The hours while the sun hangs high in the sky are spent dealing with the business of the estate, preparations for the harvest and for selling our wares. Contracts are drawn up and signed. The goat cheeses we now offer in all their varieties of flavor begin to take off with great popularity. There are moments of quiet when I will catch Peeta working diligently over a book he seems to carry with him at all times. I wonder at the contents but do not muster the courage to ask just yet.

In the evenings, after retiring to our chamber, Peeta and I will sit before the fire and share a drink. We restrict our talk to that of the business of the estate and family. Everdeen -- all of his concerns seem to revolve around Everdeen. It is unemotional and forthright. It is maddening.

When it is time to sleep, he remains in the chair. Most nights he removes his trousers and I think his false leg as well. I cannot be certain as I am too occupied hiding beneath the sheets, battling an insane desire to demand that he consummate our marriage. Why? I ask myself. He has given me what amounts to a stay of execution and here I am considering pulling the lever on the guillotine myself.

Most nights, I lay awake and analyse each brush of fingers at the dining table, and most especially each reassuring squeeze of my hand or comforting caress of my shoulders when father’s health looks to be taking a turn for the worse. Caresses on my scarred shoulder, nonetheless.

What remains of my hold on my quest to seduce him disintegrates when my mother asks Peeta about his time in the infantry at dinner one evening. He speaks of several of the foreign lands he has been to, strange cultures that sound lovely and exotic -- and so exciting. He enchants the entire table and I am left feeling small, inconsequential.

My husband has seen the world, experienced so much of life. Despite what Haymitch said of the absence of any lovers in Peeta’s past, I cannot believe it. A soldier traveling in foreign lands would have a much simpler time disguising his dalliance with a mistress or lover. No one would think twice about it nor consider it amiss for him to have such worldly experiences. What do I know of seduction compared to the exotic women he has likely lain with? Absolutely nothing. Of course he is not tempted by me, why should he be? The last time I attempted any sort of flirtation or seduction before this, it turned out horribly. I drove away every other potential suitor and then my intended eloped with another woman!

I sit vigil over my father that night rather than going to bed and facing the chasm between Peeta and I. It must be near midnight when my mother wakes me.

“Katniss, darling you should be in bed, not here,” she whispers, soothing back my hair and kissing my brow.

“I was worried about Father,” I argue and she nods.

“As am I. We shall ask Doctor Aurelius to make another visit as soon as he is able. In the meantime, your husband surely worries after you.”

I do not argue with her, although I am certain he could not care less. Gathering the frayed ends of my resolve, I return to my bedchamber only to find it empty. Peeta’s coat is draped over the chair as usual. The fire, left unattended, has burned down to mere embers.

I disrobe and change to my nightdress and dressing robe before examining the area where he sleeps for clues to his whereabouts. His book which he usually carries with him is set on the small table, open to a page. I should not pry so, but my eyes are drawn to it despite my intentions.

An exquisite sketch of Maysilee smiles up at me from the parchment, her youthful glee over the flower in her hand sparkling with such light, even rendered so in charcoal pencil. I gasp and snatch up the book, forgetting Peeta’s privacy as I turn the pages, reversed from here to the front of the book, and marvel at the drawings he has made. Dozens of pages filled with renderings of Everdeen and her people, her teeming wild life and cultivated life as well. Beauty leaps from every page, leaving me breathless and misty eyed.

There are a few scattered pages that have been torn from the book, as though their presence angered or offended the artist. Then I find one of a beautiful woman with softness and love glowing in her expression. It stops me cold. I do not recognize this face at all, but the way Peeta has so lovingly depicted her, I know that she is exceptionally important to him.

Now the coldness lives in my veins as something that has never before occured to me strikes deep in my heart. There are pictures of everyone at Everdeen -- Maysilee, my mother and Prim, any number of the servants and laborers, even Madge and Haymitch and Aunt Effie -- yet there are none of me. Only this strange woman with her soft smile. Perhaps in marrying me, Peeta lost someone he loves, someone he wished to marry.

I dare to flip another page to find more of my mother and Prim, more of Everdeen, one of Cicero and Joe. Near the front, there are several more pages torn from the book and then the drawings shift to people and places I do not recognize -- with the exception of his brothers and their families. The strange woman makes several appearances throughout. She is the one constant. The drawings grow somehow darker and more disturbing the closer I get to the start of the book, until finally, I reach the beginning. Staring aghast at the first ten pages, I discover distant battlefields, bodies in agony, hazy nightmares, the haggard face of a tired man.

I move to return the book and then decide against it. No, I wish to know more. I wish to know more of the nightmares that plague him. I wish to know who this woman who crosses my husband’s mind so often is. What place in his heart she holds.

Clutching the book tight to my chest, I venture forth into the midnight darkness of my home to seek out Peeta and confront him with my questions. My bare feet grow cold and I chastise myself for not pausing to don slippers. Noises from the kitchen alert me to human presence and I turn in that direction. The sight that greets me halts my tirade on my lips.

In the light of the fire, Peeta stands dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled up and flour kissing his forearms. His hands are sunk into a mass of dough as he kneads it with fluid motions. A stray lock of hair falls across his forehead, his blue eyes intent on his task. My mouth falls open at the domestic scene before me.

I must make some sort of noise that draws his attentions to me. Pausing in his motions, Peeta lifts his head and smiles at me, the expression slow, soft and welcoming, yet also shy in such a way that I momentarily forget about the strange woman in his drawings.

“You have discovered me, madame. I hope you do not mind.”

“I am not precisely sure what to think….since I do not know precisely what you are doing.”

“Kneading bread dough,” he offers and I can’t stop the short note of laughter.

“That much is clear. What is not clear is the why.”

“It helps me to relax.”

“That is a strange hobby for a soldier and field medic, the son of a marquis, to assume,” I say and he shakes his head.

“But not so strange for someone raised as the child of a baker.” I do not know what to say in response to that and remain silent. He sees my confusion and uses one hand to beckon me into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry? I confess to baking one of the loaves meant for tomorrow to sate my own hunger. This is meant to replace what I plan to eat.” He motions to the dough on the table before returning to his task.

Intrigued, I slide the sketch book into my robe and enter the room, taking a seat opposite to where he works.

“Is this where you vanish to in the night? When you are trying to avoid me?”

“Ah, I see I have not been as subtle as I would have wished,” he says and glances at me, holding my gaze for a moment before he continues. “Please understand, it is not meant as an insult. I simply needed something to help me sleep. This helps.”

“You say you were raised by a baker?” I ask rather than dwell on the hurt I feel, despite his reassurances.

“I did not always live with the name Mellark,” he whispers and sudden warmth fills my cheeks. Haymitch urged me to ask of Peeta’s past, and yet I did not, perhaps to protect myself. More likely to protect my animosity towards him. If I remained angry with him, righteous over the way I was forced into marriage, it was easier to forget that Peeta was forced into this marriage as well. That seems silly now, although there is still the strange woman in the sketch book to contend with. Perhaps I can learn her identity as well if I learn of his past.

“Where did you live before? Before you went to live as a Mellark, then?”

“With my mother,” he says simply and gives me another smile, this one sad. “My real mother.”

“What was she like?” I ask, drawn in to the story before he even begins, seduced perhaps by the crackling fire and the comforting smell of spices and herbs and yeast that lingers in the kitchen.

“She is...she was...beautiful.” I fold my feet beneath me and arrange my robe for warmth and comfort.

“Tell me more?”

“You really wish to know?” I nod eagerly, curiosity eating away at my patience.

“I would not ask if I did not.”

“Very well. She was not glamorous or wealthy, Katniss. She was a maid. Specifically a lady’s maid to the three daughters of a very prominent and wealthy family. The ladies my mother served… their names at the time she began her employment were Tabitha, Fanny, and Chastity Hilston. When Tabitha was married, my mother remained with Fanny and Chastity at their parents’ estate.”

I blink and search my memories for a connection. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Peeta seems to recognize my quandary and, slapping more flour on the table, flips the dough and resumes kneading.

“You would know her as Lady Tabitha Mellark, Marchioness de Vale.” I stare at him in shock and shake my head, denying the truth of where I sense this story is headed. “You still wish the sordid tale, madame?”

“I--” I swallow and search for courage. I find it in the challenge in his blue eyes as he levels a stare at me. Sitting straight, I nod to him. “Yes. I wish to know your origins, husband. Your past and all your family’s secrets shrouded in darkness. You have become privy to mine, after all.”

His lips twitch and he watches his own hands as he works and speaks.

“It is quite simple, really. Moving through society as someone no one wishes to see and is therefore generally ignored, I have since seen it more frequently than I would care to acknowledge. A man of wealth, power, and privilege can claim most anything he desires with little consequence, even in the home of another wealthy man.

“The Marquis, even after they were wed and had children, would often take his Marchioness home to visit her sisters and parents at their country estate -- how thoughtful of him allowing this family connection to continue rather than cleaving her from her beloved mother. They would bring their children and stay for some time. While there, Lady Tabitha would enjoy the service of her old maid who now served only her sisters now that she herself had a much fancier lady's maid befitting her title. And the Marquis...well he demands a different sort of service of the maid.”

“He raped her?” I ask, appalled and Peeta shakes his head.

“I believe so. I speak based only on the conversations I overheard between my mother and my father as a child. I do not think my mother fought the Marquis or denied him in so many words, but I believe that is because she felt that she could not. But not fighting, a sort of frightened acceptance of the thing, is still not equal to a desire to participate in the act,” he says. I mull over that for a moment. “When I was a child and Lady Tabitha would visit with her husband and sons, my mother would inevitably fall ill. She would sequester herself, despite Lady Tabitha’s pleas for her former maid to dress her and fix her hair.

“I did not understand the connection, nor why my father would insist that I stay in the kitchens and work with him during those visits. I was scarcely allowed outside the servant’s quarters while the Mellark family was present.”

“Your father?” I ask, confused momentarily with his choice of words.

“The man who raised me. The man I knew as my father until I was ten years old.” He pauses then to set the dough aside to rise, covering it with a cloth and checking the bread in the oven.

“The baker then? You knew the baker as your father.”

“Yes,” he says, using the paddle to remove the bread from the fire and setting it on the table before me. He sighs as he takes a seat, the steaming and fragrant loaf between us. “That will need to cool before we slice it.”

“Then you have time to tell me more,” I say and he folds his hands together, tilting his head to examine me.

“You are not scandalised yet?”

“I am not so fragile as that,” I whisper and he smiles. It courses through me, warm and comforting as the bread cooling between us.

“No you’re not, are you? As you wish, madame. The man I knew as my father was named William Thackeray, and he was a baker at the Hilston country seat. He and my mother, Nancy, had fallen in love as children living and working there. They had plans to marry when the Marquis...took liberties he should not be allowed. When my mother discovered she was with child as a result, she attempted to break her engagement with William. He refused, insisting that he loved her and that they could still marry and raise the child as theirs. Which is precisely what they did for ten years.”

“You had a happy childhood then?” I ask, touching the loaf of bread, my fingers dancing lightly over the crisp, golden surface to avoid burns.

His eyes dip to the motions then back up before he continues.

“I did have a happy childhood. Loving parents, a cousin who was the child of another serving couple and a dear friend--”

“Delly?”

“Delly,” he confirms with a smile. “As I have told you before, she was like a sister to me.”

“So then what happened?”

“My father -- William, the baker -- died when I was ten. For years, my parents had kept me separate from the Mellarks when they came to visit, fearing the truth coming to light. Until then, no one looked closely enough at the servant’s child to notice. There was no reason to. That year, without my father around to keep me occupied and protected, and with my mother fighting her usual response to the presence of the Marquis, worse this time without her husband around...well let’s just say that Lady Mellark was furious to find her youngest son playing with a servant boy who looked to be his brother.”

“No.”

“Yes. You can imagine what happened. My mother was let go, dismissed without references and thrown from the house with her son and little else. She struggled for close to a year to support us, I helped any way that I could, but no family nearby would take her in and the city offered only questionable sorts of employment for a widowed mother. One day, when we were both nearly dead from hunger, she stole a bar of soap and told me to wash. It was pouring rain that day and bitterly cold. We took to the streets, she claimed so that she might find work, but instead she knocked on the door of the Mellark household.”

“Oh Peeta,” I gasp, holding my nightdress collar closed against the imagined feel of the rain, against the heartache Nancy Thackeray must have felt in giving up her son.

“She demanded that the Marquis see to the needs of his illegitimate son, if nothing else, demanded that at least her child be cared for since he had cost her everything. I will never forget the things Lady Tabitha called my mother that day, but the Marquis...he accepted. He promised my mother he would give me his name, educate me, give me a future and a home, raise me as his son. On the condition that she would leave and never see me or any of them again.”

We sit in silence, the fire the only sound as the pop and crack of the wood does little to dispel the chill in my bones at his story.

“Some days, I am convinced he only did it to anger Lady Tabitha, to remind her of the power he holds over the lives of everyone around him.”

I blink the unwanted tears from my eyes and bring forth the sketch book from my robe. I stare at the cover and then glance up to catch his furrowed expression. “I am sorry. You left it on the table...open and…” I cannot finish and find one of the many drawings of the strange woman. How desperate and sad she must have been that day. How terrified Peeta must have felt, abandoned and lonely in a strange home with strange people, many of whom likely resented his presence if not outright loathed him for it. How sad and confused he must have been for months, perhaps years of not understanding why his mother had left him so. “This is your mother...is it not?”

“Yes,” he says softly.

“What happened to her?”

“I do not know,” he says, and I hear the resounding crack of pain and regret in his voice. “I never saw her again after that day in the rain, although I have looked for her.”

He takes the book from me, running one finger down the side of the page before shutting it and setting it aside. I watch his fingers splay over the cover as something else strikes me.

“That day in the rain -- with me -- when you brought me home,” I prompt and he confirms with a nod.

“I had news of someone who might be her. That is where I was headed in such a hurry.”

“Oh no. Peeta, I am so sorry,” I whisper as guilt floods through me. His warm fingers brush over mine and pry my hand free of my dressing robe.

“I was days late, Katniss. Practically a week late, in fact. Not hours. By the time I arrived, whoever she was had moved on long before. Stopping to help you did not cause me to lose her trail again. It was already cold.” I stare down at our hands as he winds our fingers together. It is comforting, this small touch, almost a promise in itself as I realise just how much of his heart he has revealed to me, entrusted to me, tonight. When I lift my eyes, he’s watching me with a steady sort of trust or understanding.

“And to think I was angry with you so long for not dismounting. Such a silly thing and--” Peeta’s laughter halts my words.

“I imagine that had I dismounted to assist you, we would have both wound up in the mud.” He leans over and I cannot help but chuckle at the strange sound his fist makes on his false leg. “But enough of that, we should not let this bread go to waste,” he says and stands abruptly, releasing my hand to pick up a knife and slice the bread.

I reach out to halt his motions, my hand on his wrist. He stares first at my hand then into my eyes. I take a deep breath and rise up to kiss him.

A brief touch of warm lips and a flutter of pulse is all I am allowed before he lifts his head away from me and places his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head as I wonder what objections he could possibly have now.

“Pity is no better a reason than duty, Katniss.”

“It is not pity I feel right now.”

“Then what is it?” He asks the question, still close enough that were I to pitch forward the slightest bit, we would be kissing instead of speaking. I search my heart and attempt to put a name to the thing blossoming inside me and yet I cannot.

“I do not yet know.”

“At least you are honest. I would rather have the truth between us, wife. The last kiss we shared with false ideas in our heads did not result in much good.” He gently pushes me back and I sit heavily as he continues slicing bread. “When you determine what it is, and still wish to kiss me, then perhaps I shall kiss you back.”

I grip my braid as he sets aside his knife and looks around the kitchen.

“Do you happen to have any goat cheese? Perhaps some apples,” he says and I stand, glad for the task. I find what he needs, and with a few more swipes of the knife, Peeta hands me a slice of bread, spread with goat cheese and topped with apple slices. “And now, wife...it is your turn to tell me a story.”

“What sort of story?” I ask and he thinks for a moment.

“A happy story, I should think.”

I hum and bite into the treat Peeta has made us, closing my eyes to savor the tastes as they caress my tongue. Finally, I settle on a story, telling him of the time Father took me into town to purchase a birthday present for Prim. I had the most elegant blue ribbons selected for her, but on our way home, we stopped to speak with the Goat Man. As my father conversed, I gazed into a pen where several goats were busy feasting on their lunch.

“I was not paying nearly close enough attention and one of the goats snatched Prim’s ribbons right out of my hand and ate them! I started shouting and kicking up a fuss, so loud that my father thought the goat had bitten me. When he finally discerned what had happened, I demanded the slaughter of the goat so that we might retrieve the ribbons.”

Peeta laughs at this, preparing a second slice for each of us. “You were quite bloodthirsty. So then what did he do?”

“He bought the goat with the condition that the goat man provided an undigested blue ribbon. I tied the ribbon around the goat’s neck, after lecturing her that she was not to eat any more ribbons, and that was Prim’s birthday gift instead.”

“That is a very happy story,” he says, our fingertips brushing as he hands me the slice of bread.

“Indeed. That goat produced excellent milk. You are in fact eating cheese made from the milk of one of her many granddaughters.”

“The beginnings of your goat cheese empire then,” he says. “All born of your love for sister.”

“The goat owed me after eating those ribbons,” I say, lifting my nose in a haughty gesture.

“And she wouldn’t dare disappoint you.”

The night hours dwindle as we talk and eat, sharing pleasant stories of childhood and friends. When we are both full and content, we clean up our mess, bank the fire, and walk upstairs. Peeta is limping again and so, despite my freezing feet and the beckoning of my bed, I slow my pace to one that seems more comfortable to him.

When we reach our room, a strained silence fills the air. I twist my braid round my fingers, round and round as I consider my next course. Do I kiss him again, and risk another rejection? I was telling the truth, it is not pity that I feel for him, but something more akin to...understanding. He opens our door and then pauses, stepping aside to let me pass first, ever the gentleman. I move to do so.

“Wait, Katniss,” he says, stepping forward and filling half the opening. I might still pass by him if I wanted, but I find myself standing perfectly still, gazing up at him as he caresses over my cheek, back to my ear. He takes a breath and leans towards me, halting with a pained look on his face, close enough that I can see the freckles that grace the bridge of his nose, each individual lash. They are so long that I wonder how they do not tangle when he blinks.

“I told you that I would spend months courting you, would you grant them to me.” An almost foolish happiness forms in my chest and I strain to keep it contained.

“Are you asking to court me, then, husband?”

“As best I can, given the circumstances.” His fingers trail down my neck, over my scarred shoulder with layers of fabric still between us.

A smile curls my mouth upwards at the idea. It is so sweet and endearing and utterly maddening. “I will...allow it.”

His smile mirrors mine then and he once more laces our fingers together, as they were downstairs. “Then allow me to escort you home, madame.”

I nod and turn into our room, trailing Peeta behind me and then beside me as we approach the bed. It rises in the darkness, draped in welcoming fabrics like the arms of a lover, inviting whispers and secrets. I turn and lift on my toes, kissing his jaw, not out of pity or duty, but because I wish to do so.

He assists me onto the mattress and essentially tucks me safely beneath the covers before turning towards the fire and his chair, a soft smile on his face. For one moment, I consider inviting him into the bed with me, but as I lay down and finger my smiling lips that still tingle with the scrape of his stubble beneath their caress, I think that such a kiss is a very good start indeed.

To be continued...look for the next chapter on the blog of @sunflowerslyf

#Unmasked #thehungergames #submission

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kriscme · 6 years ago

Text

The next three chapters

Hi! Still working on this story. It won’t be up on AO3 until it’s finished. I like the option of going back to change things if it suits the plot. I don’t write to a plan. The characters decide which direction the story will go. There’s been one minor plot change. Sateen and Arthur did find the factory safe after their factory was bombed. Chapter 13

“Katniss! Wait!” My feet slow to a stop and I reluctantly turn to face him. He’ll want to talk about the note I left for him. I knew I’d have to face Peeta sooner or later. I was hoping for later. Much later. His face his flushed with exertion by the time he catches up to me, his breath misting the frosty air. He probably can’t wait to let me have it. How I threatened to have nothing more to do with him unless he tried to get his memories back. And that now I’m giving up on it. Even going to far as to imply that it was a waste of time and I’m fine with him staying just the way he is.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asks. “Of course not,” I say, giving him a weak smile. At least he doesn’t seem mad so that’s something. I resume walking and Peeta falls in alongside me. There’s only one road from the Village and that leads to the town. I’m meeting Sateen and Arthur for a lunch date at a new café that’s opened recently. I assume Peeta is heading into town to call on Lace and then they’ll go out somewhere together. They go out a lot. To the swimming pool when the weather is warm for their swimming lessons. To the ice-cream parlor for Lace to lick ice-cream off his face. Or out to dinner at a restaurant. Peeta’s never taken me anywhere, even as a friend. Oh, there was that one time to the ice-cream parlor. But that was to soften me up before he told me to stop coming over at night when I had a nightmare. How could I ever forget that? But otherwise, he wasn’t even keen to have me walk into town with him – not after he met Miss Face-licker.

Peeta gets right down to it. “I got your note.”

I nod. I steel myself in anticipation. Here it comes.

He takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology.” “Huh?” I exclaim, taken completely by surprise. An apology is the last thing I expect. “I’m sorry I’ve made you think I don’t trust you. Katniss, I wouldn’t have asked you to watch the tapes with me if I didn’t.” “But you said – “ “Yes, I know what I said. But it wasn’t true. And even if it was, it was a tactless, even cruel thing to say, whether I meant it or not.” I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve come to accept that the hijacking has changed how you see and feel about me. And I’d much rather you were honest and didn’t sugarcoat it.” “But it’s not how I feel at all. It’s like I told you before. I have all these feelings and I don’t know where to put them. But wherever the distrust came from it’s not with you. Please, I need you not to give up on me.” His hand reaches out to tug on my arm, urging me to look at him. His face is full of entreaty and for a moment, I feel my resolve soften. But then I remember that he’s out walking with me because he’s on his way to see Lace and it hardens again. “It’s not giving up on you,” I say, as convincingly as I can. No, it’s more like letting you go, I say to myself. Although I would hard pressed to explain the difference if asked. I turn my attention back to the road to avoid looking at him. “It’s time for Haymitch to take over anyway. Dr Aurelius hasn’t sent you anything about your own Games before we became allies. And why would he if he knows I’m the one watching the tapes with you? And what comes after too, like what happened behind the scenes with the berries, or in the Quell, for instance. Haymitch would know all that. I don’t.” “But why can’t you be there anyway? There might still be questions that Haymitch can’t answer.” I shake my head. “No, it wouldn’t work. My presence might discourage him from speaking as freely as he would like.” “Yeah, I guess you have a point,” he reluctantly concedes. “It’s just that I hardly get to see you anymore. With the dinners gone, watching the tapes was the only time we spent together.” There’s something about his tone that annoys me. Like it’s all my fault that we see so little of each other. He said so himself that he was neglecting Haymitch and me in favour of Lace and now he complains that he doesn’t see enough of me? “I thought you’d be glad about the dinners,” I retort. You were the one who wanted to keep switching them around so you could be free to take Lace out.” “I never meant that we shouldn’t have them. It was only changing the days.” “For your convenience. Those dinners were to help all of us establish a routine. A routine means doing the same thing at the same time.” “Well, it’s no routine at all if we don’t have them,” he points out with a reasonableness that annoys me even more. Since I can’t think of a comeback, I stare ahead in stony silence instead. It’s then I notice that dark clouds have gathered over the mountains. It seems sort of apt, considering how this conversation is going. “Look, Katniss, I don’t want to argue,” he continues. “I don’t care about dinners. I just want to spend time with you. You’re one of my best friends and lately it feels as if we’re drifting apart. I had this idea. We could have hang-out days.” “What’s that?” “It’s when you hang-out with a friend. You know, mess around. Do whatever you feel like doing.” It takes a few seconds to get my head around it. A day with no purpose behind it, other than to mess around? I’ve never had one of those days in my life. When I met with Gale, we had serious work to do. If we weren’t hunting, we were trading. As for Peeta, when did he ever have time for a hang-out day between school, wrestling practice and working at the bakery? “What made you think of that?” “Oh, nothing really,” he says. He sounds embarrassed. “Maybe the tape we watched last week. You know, with the picnic on the roof. We seemed to have a lot of fun, just messing around. It looked a good way to spend time with a friend.”

So that’s how he’s interpreted our roof top date – as “hanging-out” with a friend. I wonder how many friends he’s had rest their head in his lap while he plays with their hair.

“Tell me, how do hang-out days with a girl you were supposedly once in love with fit with being a good boyfriend?” I ask.

“I didn’t mean – “

I don’t let him finish. Whichever way he’s rationalized it, I’m not interested. We’ve come to the intersection where we part ways, anyway. He to Lace’s shop and me to the café to meet Sateen and Arthur. I turn to look him squarely in the face. “You can’t have us both, Peeta. Not the way you want to.” He stares at me, uncomprehending at first and then as if struck by a sudden, and painful realization. I don’t wait for a response. I spin on my heel and stalk off. I’ve had enough of Peeta Mellark for one day. I glance backwards once I have some distance between us. He’s still standing where I left him, gazing confusedly around him, as if he can’t quite work out how he got there. And then he starts walking in the direction of Lace’s shop. Unbelievable! Even as a naïve sixteen-year-old I knew my days as Gale’s hunting partner were numbered once he met a girl he was serious about. And that was working together! Not “hanging-out.” And apparently, I’m not even his best friend either, but just one of. I don’t feel bad about that letter anymore. In fact, I think I might even have had a lucky escape. If this is his idea of a good boyfriend then I’m better off without him. And he’s not only not a good boyfriend. He’s not a good friend either. Lace can have him! By the time I’ve reached the café, I’ve worked myself into quite a state. Before I enter, I take a deep calming breath. I don’t want to spoil a friendly get-together by starting out in a bad mood. When I push open the door, I see brightly painted walls, potted plants, and mis-matched “pre-loved” furniture. The “alternative look” Effie called it. Very on trend, she had said. And almost as fashionable as district ruins. My guess is that the proprietors are ex- Capitolites and have no idea that shabby was never a fashion choice in 12, but just the way things were. However, I can’t deny that the ambience is very homely and comfortable and gives the impression that most of the love is lavished on the food. I search for Sateen and Arthur and at first think I must have arrived before them. But then I spy Arthur, partially hidden behind a rubber plant, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. He’s alone. I take the chair opposite him. “Hi.” My eyes sweep the room, looking for Sateen. “She’s not here,” says Arthur. “She has a migraine.” “Oh.” Poor Sateen. Madge’s mother had suffered greatly from migraines. They had been very debilitating and she had needed morphling to relieve the pain. That was how Madge could get hold of some for Gale when he was whipped. “Does she get them often?” Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh. “No. This is the first time. And it came on just before we were about to leave.” There’s no point in pretending. We both know what Sateen’s intentions are. “She’s determined to get you paired off, isn’t she?” Another sigh. “Yes. She thinks because we went to the Mayor’s party together there must be something between us. I told her over and over it was a business arrangement but she wouldn’t listen.” “Why is it so important to her? I’m sure you’re capable of finding someone, if that’s what you want.” “Thank you. Would you mind telling Sateen that? But it seems she wants me settled before she goes back to 8.”

“Sateen’s going back to 8?” This is news to me. I thought she had moved here permanently. “Yes, to marry. Didn’t she tell you? “ I shake my head no. “Well, it hasn’t been long. She probably didn’t want to say anything until she was sure. She had a falling out with her fiancé before we came here but it seems they’ve patched things up. I don’t expect it will be a long engagement. Not if know my sister.” Not if I know her either. This fiancé of hers will be marched down the aisle double-time. Sateen doesn’t like to mess around. “But in the meantime,” Arthur goes on, “Sateen seems to have intensified her efforts to get me married off too.” He gives his head a rueful shake. “She’s always been over-protective, even though I’m the eldest. I suppose it’s because there was really just the two of us after our mother died. Our father was mostly absent running the business.” “Yeah, I know how that feels,” I say. I think about Prim and how protective I was of her. I wonder if Prim might have worried about me if she was to leave the district to marry. Would she be concerned about leaving me alone, and hopeful of seeing me “settled” before she left? Especially if she thought of me as socially inept? I think she might have. Now that that subject is exhausted, the conversation comes to an awkward stop. Arthur and I have as much in common as night and day and neither of us are good at small talk. Peeta would have come in very useful right now. I could always relax knowing that he’d shoulder the burden of keeping the conversation running smoothly. When the waitress comes with the menu it provides a welcome diversion and I make a play of examining it closely. Arthur does the same. “They have a very unusual selection,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “Chicken and chickpea salad with a marshmallow dressing. I’d never have thought of that.” “No, it’s most unusual,” Arthur agrees. More silence. I decide to bite the bullet. I ask, “did you get any business from the Mayor’s party?” Arthur’s face clearly shows his relief. And then he launches into his favourite subject – the clothing industry. I prepare to be bored for the next hour, but it’s better than the two of us staring into space with nothing to say to each other. When the waitress returns, we give her our order; pulled horse panini with a side of deep-fried cabbage for us both. And Arthur keeps on talking, and talking . . . “Imagine seeing you here!” squeals a female voice at my back. I spin around and just a few feet away are Lace and a very uncomfortable looking Peeta. This lunch date just got a whole lot worse. “Do you mind if we join you?” asks Lace, although she’s already pulled over a chair from an adjoining table. “Lace, I think we should leave them alone,” says Peeta in a low voice. His eyes flicker between Arthur and me. “It’s OK, isn’t it?” Lace smiles at Arthur but ignores me. “Of course, it is. The more the merrier,” says Arthur in an uncharacteristic jovial voice. Peeta drags over a chair and reluctantly takes a seat. I try to avoid looking at him but it’s hard with him sitting so close. “Well, this is cozy,” gushes Lace. “I was all set for an afternoon of cutting out patterns, when Peeta called in. Very timely it was, right on lunchtime.” “Well, you’ve got to eat,” says Arthur. “Is that how you like to work? Doing all your cutting at once?” And then they’re off. Peeta and I may as well not be here. I smile and pretend to be interested. I become aware of Peeta’s eyes on me, and once or twice, I get the feeling he wants to say something before deciding against it. The waitress comes to take their orders and asks if we’d like all four meals brought together. Before I can say no thanks, Arthur jumps in to accept. Now we’ll all finish eating at the same time. No excuse for an earlier exit now.

The meals come. Lace has ordered pumpkin and yoghurt soup with pork crackling. Peeta, spinach and cheese custard with wild rice.

The horse panini is surprisingly tasty and so is the deep-fried cabbage. Lace pulls a face when she takes her first mouthful of soup and picks out all the crackling to give to Peeta. “Here Peeta, you should like this.” Lace turns to Arthur. “Peeta’s family were pig farmers,” she explains. “As well as bakers.” “We were never pig farmers,” corrects Peeta. “We kept one pig at the back of the shop. It was cheap to raise because we could feed it scraps and any food we couldn’t sell.” Like burned bread, I think, remembering the bread Peeta tossed to me on that awful night in the rain so long ago. His mother had told him to feed it to the pig.

“Well, I’m sure the pig appreciated it,” says Lace. There’s a faint emphasis on the word “pig”. Lace’s expression is devoid of any hidden intent. But just the same, I get the impression she’s talking about me. She could have learned the bread story from either Peeta or the interview Cressida did of me. “It did,” I say, lightly. “Best fed pig in the district. Better fed than most of the residents of Seam actually.” “That’s where you lived, Katniss?” asks Arthur. “I recall you mentioning it in the Games.” “Yes. It’s all gone now though, thanks to Snow. But it lay between the town and the forest to the north. Most of us worked in the mines, and there was rarely enough to eat. It wasn’t uncommon to die of starvation. But I suppose it was like that in other districts too. Among the poorer classes, anyway.” Arthur nods. “Our workers had it very bad. And we couldn’t increase their wages because it was set by the Capitol. My father would sometimes slip a few coins to the worst cases, but there were so many in need.” My eyes turn to Lace, who has suddenly taken an inordinate interest in her food. Lace worked in a factory in 8 but somehow had the resources to travel to another district to set up a business. And she attended Victory Tour parties too. I don’t recall seeing any impoverished guests at those events. “Was it like that for your family, Lace?” I ask. Lace’s head jerks up from her soup. “What? Oh, yes, a bit,” she stammers.

“It could vary,” says Arthur quickly. “So, the two of you didn’t actually meet until the Games, then?” “Oh, um, no, not officially,” I say, taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject. And did I just see Lace caught in a lie, and then Arthur cover for her? “But we knew of each other,” I add. “We were in the same year at school.” “I noticed Katniss from the very first day,” says Peeta quietly. “My father pointed her out. She wore a red plaid dress and her hair was in two braids. And when she sang the Valley Song at music assembly the – “

“The birds stopped to listen,” Lace chips in. “And then you were a goner. It’s a sweet story. We all thought it so romantic when we heard it on TV. But that’s Peeta for you. He certainly knows how to romance a girl. Doesn’t he, Katniss?”

Lace dimples at me as if we are two friends sharing a confidence about a boy they’ve dated. If I’ve been unsure of Lace’s veiled taunts before, I’m certain of this one. The implication is clear. Peeta had made up or exaggerated the story. If not for the cameras, at least then to sweet-talk me. I glance over at Peeta. He’s looking disapprovingly at Lace. This must be the first time I’ve seen him anything other than love-struck. But she could have only got the impression from you, Peeta. Afterall, I was the one who had people suspecting the star-crossed lovers were an act, not you.

“Yes. He does,” I say tightly. I don’t return her smile. Suddenly I can’t stand to be here another minute with these people. Boring Arthur, smug Lace and false friend Peeta. If I were with Sateen and Arthur as arranged, I would be leaving by now anyway. I push my chair back from the table so abruptly that it makes a harsh grating sound against the timber floor. “Sorry, I have to go now,” I say in a rush. “I’m expecting a phone call from my mother.” I reach into my pocket for some money and drop it to the table. And then I leave with a hasty goodbye. I make it to the corner before the tears begin to fall. Those memories of our time in the cave had been precious to me but now they’re ruined too. For all I know, he had made up that story all along and I had fooled myself into thinking it was true. I did wonder about it when I first heard it. Peeta’s not the only one who doesn’t know what’s real or not real anymore. Afterall, he can make people believe anything. Why should I be any different?

And how could I have let Lace get to me like that? It must seem so obvious from the way I hurried out that she had upset me. I had been doing so well too, keeping it together. I should have laughed it off. Pretended I was in on the joke. Or that I didn’t care. Then maybe I might have preserved some dignity and shown that I don’t care one jot that Lace has him. Lace! How she must love this. Katniss Everdeen, running off because she knows she’s lost.

Oh, what does it matter anyway? The dinners are gone. So too are the tape viewings. Peeta and I don’t work together anymore either and I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in hang-out days. Peeta and I will hardly see each other. I’ll see even less of Lace. As for Arthur, the only thing we have in common is Sateen. And she’ll be returning to 8 to get married. Perhaps it’s worked out for the best. It makes the break from Peeta more final now and the fewer fond memories I have of him the better. Better for him too, if there’s nothing to keep him back from going forward with his new life. I swipe the tears away with the back of my hand. Fortunately, there’s not many people about on this wintry afternoon to see them. The clouds I observed earlier are now directly overhead, heavy with the threat of imminent rain. Arthur and Lace live in the town, so they don’t have far to get home. I should make it home before the weather breaks but Peeta will almost certainly be caught in it. If he has any sense he’ll go home with Lace. It’s where he belongs now, anyway. The first icy drops catch me as I pass through the Village gates. By the time I reach my front porch, it’s plummeting. I brush the raindrops off my coat before hanging it in the hall closet. And then I get a roaring fire started in my sitting room and make a pot of tea. Pamper myself, that’s what I need to do. I pull up my most comfortable chair in front of the television and then switch it on. It’s some silly reality show from Plutarch based on a houseful of people under constant surveillance, but it’s mindless escapism and just what I want right now. Buttercup jumps onto my lap, careless of the cup of hot tea I’m holding. There, what else could I possibly need? I have a warm, comfortable house, a comfortable chair, a comfortable animal purring on my lap, and I’m sipping a comforting beverage while people on TV are making fools of themselves for my entertainment. A perfect recipe for contentment. I don’t know what makes me look up from the television and out my sitting room window at that particular moment. Perhaps it’s the sudden surge in rainfall pounding against the roof, or the sound of a tree branch creaking in protest at the wind. But there, in the distance, on the other side of the road, I see Peeta, soaked to the skin, struggling to unlock his front door, presumably with fingers numb with cold. Why on earth didn’t he stay at Lace’s until the storm passed? I hope he gets out of those wet clothes at once and warms himself by a fire. I’m tempted to give him a call and invite him over to share mine. But then I remember that Peeta and I are to live separate lives from now on and I turn my attention back to the television.

Chapter 15

With remarkable timing the train pulls into the station just as I finish the magazine article I’ve been reading. It’s an interview with someone called Marcus Muir. He wants forests designated as national parks for “conservation and recreation.” Apparently, they had them in the old days before fences were put up and everyone was shut out. Well, almost everyone. I guess it makes sense. More people will use the forests now and it will need to be regulated to prevent abuses. I take children into the forest myself on a regular basis to familiarize them with it. I’m a bit concerned about what this will mean for hunting though. Will that need to be regulated too?

No time to worry about that now, though. I hope Sateen and her husband-to-be are here to meet me. I have no idea where I’m supposed to go if they don’t show up. But just as I step out onto the platform Sateen rushes forward. Close behind her is a very tall man with the blue-grey eyes and ash brown hair typical of people from 8. Sateen’s hair is now the same colour as Lace’s – number 654 Light Mahogany Brown.

Sateen proudly introduces her fiancé. “Katniss, this is Roy.” He gives me a shy smile and we shake hands. I know quite a bit about him now. His full name is Corduroy Button and his family owns one of the few factories that survived the bombings in 8. They met when Sateen was sixteen and Roy nineteen and, according to Sateen, there had been some kind of understanding between them. However, Roy dragged his feet when it came to making it official, and Sateen, fed up, went with Arthur to 12. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, for Roy pined for Sateen, phoning her frequently and eventually proposing marriage. As Sateen puts it, “he came to his senses at last.” Cars are almost as scarce in 8 as they are in 12, but the wealthy Buttons own one. Sateen chatters to me from the front seat full of news about her wedding arrangements. I try to appear interested. If she only knew that talk of wedding gowns and floral bouquets bore me to tears. My real attention is on the scenery flashing by outside my window. I barely recognize it from my last visit. The dingy, crowded tenements are being replaced by pleasant, low rise apartment buildings with courtyards. There’s no sign of any factories, yet I know that textile manufacture is still the main industry, so they’ve evidently been zoned away from residential areas. And most surprising of all, I see the establishment of parks and gardens, when before you’d be hard pressed to find a single tree.

It was all bombed out buildings and rows of ugly grey warehouses when I was here last. It was from the roof of one of those warehouses that Gale and I joined Commander Paylor and other rebels to shoot at enemy hovercraft. Haymitch was hopping mad afterwards because I had cut off communication by pulling out my earpiece and disobeyed an order to retreat to a bunker. But as unimpressed as Haymitch was, I think I earned the respect of Paylor that day, who didn’t appear to know what to make of me when I had turned up hours earlier to visit the wounded in my shiny new Mockingjay outfit, surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards and a camera crew. Maybe that’s what persuaded her to grant me permission to visit 8. Another is Sateen. When Sateen invited me to attend her wedding, I had to decline. The terms of my release stipulated that I was confined to 12 until further notice and I hadn’t as yet received any. But Sateen reacted in typical Sateen fashion. She went over my head. She was straight on the phone to Paylor, who, as it turns out, is an old family acquaintance. The only condition is that I keep my visit low key. Sateen told me this with such a sorrowful face. Apparently, the key to the city and a plaque unveiling had been in the works but would have to be abandoned now. “You mean so much to us, Katniss. The rebellion started in 8, you know. We still talk about the time you came here during the war. It would have been so nice to commemorate it with a ceremony, at least.” Inwardly I had sighed in relief. Thank you, President Paylor!

Roy drops me off in the town centre at 8’s newest hotel. Not enough room at the Button residence, explained an apologetic Sateen. Not with every available bed occupied by assorted relatives. Another welcome reprieve. I like my space and Sateen can be a little . . . overwhelming, let’s say. I’ll see plenty of her over the next few days anyway.

After a shower and change of clothes, I take a walk through the town. As with 12, there are many new buildings. But unlike 12, there are still many old ones too. Although 8 had sustained heavy bombing, it hadn’t been leveled like 12 had. I pass by the Justice Building. I hadn’t before noticed how handsome and imposing it is. I last saw it on our Victory Tour when it was in a very dirty and shabby state. But then, I was hardly in the right state of mind to appreciate the architecture. Not with the stress of the tour, and Peeta and I doing our best to quiet the rebellious mood in the districts with little or no success. Especially in 8, where our mere presence seemed to stir tensions. I move on. I don’t want to think of those days. Or of Peeta either. Especially Peeta. I peer into shop windows. They appear to have everything from bakeries to book shops. And an abundance of clothing and tailor shops too. I can see why someone starting out in the clothing industry, like Arthur and Lace, would choose to move to 12. The market is saturated here.

Eventually, weary of walking, I come to a small park and take a seat on one of the benches. There’s hardly any shade to speak of - all the plantings are new, but a retaining wall gives some shelter from the weather. The wind is cold and biting, but compared to the snowy conditions in 12, winter here is comparatively mild. That’s one advantage in coming here. The other is distraction. At least, I thought it would be. But Peeta is everywhere. Even in 8.

I thought I’d see less of him when I withdrew from the tape viewings and begin the process of removing myself from his life, but it hasn’t worked out that way. In fact, I see even more of him. Peeta’s hours at the bakery have changed and we now start work at the same time. So, when I set off for the school, Peeta is there waiting for me so that we can walk into town together. I don’t know how to avoid him as there’s only that one road in and he knows what hours I work. He seems determined for us to remain friends. And at least walking in plain view and engaged in the common purpose of travelling to work is more acceptable for a man in a relationship than hang-out days. But it doesn’t help my cause any for the two of us to live separate lives from now on. I should really move out of the Village. But so far, no luck in finding a suitable house. And to make it even more awkward, he sometimes gives me these strange looks. It’s not unlike when we were at school, when I’d find his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I suppose it’s because I made a fool of myself that day at lunch. He can’t work me out. Not that I blame him. I can’t work myself out half the time.

I don’t know if Peeta has kept up with the tapes. At my request, Haymitch and I don’t talk about him. But I do know that if Haymitch is helping with them, it’s not on a Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, because I’ve checked to see if he visits at that time from my sitting room window.

I take a look at my watch. Half past four. I ought to get back to the hotel now to get ready for dinner with the Buttons. I’m to be picked up at six. I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I won’t know any of them except Sateen and Arthur. I wish Max were with me to act as a kind of buffer. Sateen’s wedding has coincided nicely with the winter break, so Max could have come. And he already has a suit (the vomit came out OK). But the invitation said “Miss Katniss Everdeen”, not “Miss Katniss Everdeen and partner.” I know the Buttons aren’t short of money so the omission isn’t about keeping costs down. It likely means only one thing – Sateen still thinks Arthur and I are a chance. Max thought it hilarious when I told him about Sateen’s hopes for Arthur and me. He likes to tease me about it. You wonder why I give him more ammunition, but the Katniss Ever-ready jokes were getting old. In vain I told him that Capitol gowns are meant to be worn without underwear. But Katniss Ever-ready was just too good to be let go easily without something to take its place.

For dinner I wear a Cinna designed cocktail dress in emerald green teamed with black patent leather shoes. With five minutes to spare, I find a chair in the lobby near the window and make myself comfortable. I’m not kept waiting long. Right on six, I see the same car I came in pull up just in front of the hotel. From the driver’s seat emerges a young man with a quick, energetic stride. He recognizes me immediately. Something I’m still not quite used to.

“Katniss! Hi! I’m Roy’s brother – Tweed. All ready to go?”

I follow him out to the car and get in the front passenger seat. I quickly learn that Tweed is a very different driver to Roy. My body is slammed into the back of the seat with the sudden surge of speed as we set off. And when we come to some traffic, or what counts for traffic in 8, Tweed weaves and cuts his way through it as if we’re in a tearing hurry to get where we’re going. Roy drives like an old woman in comparison. In fact, Tweed seems the opposite of Roy in nearly every respect. Short rather than tall. Bleached blond hair rather than a natural brown. Talkative rather than quiet. He dresses differently too. No conservative suit in a dark colour for Tweed, but a jacket in a bright floral brocade with purple velvet lapels piped with gold braid and matching purple trousers with gold braid down the sides. He could be a walking advertisement for Capitol fashion.

“So, Katniss, what do you think of 8 so far?” he asks. “Um,” I begin, trying to focus my thoughts on the question as Tweed brakes and accelerates around a series of bends, “it’s very different than I remember it. A much pleasanter place to live. You know, for the factory workers, now that they have better housing and parks to walk in. I suppose it’s the same for the field workers?” Tweed’s brow creases in puzzlement. “Field workers? We don’t have field workers here. 8’s always been manufacturing. Why did you think that?”

“Oh, just something a friend of mine was told. They said there were three social classes: merchant, factory workers and field workers, with the field workers being at the bottom. I guess either he or the other person got it wrong,” I reply. Tweed laughs. “Did they ever? I mean, like all the districts, 8 does produce some of its own food but it’s mostly for personal use, like keeping chickens or growing one’s own vegetables. The bulk of it is imported from other districts. And as for raw materials for our factories, natural fibers such as cotton, flax and jute come from 9, and animal products like wool and leather are from 10. The exception is silk, which we do produce here but it hardly requires field workers. And furs end up in 1. I don’t know where they get them from. Synthetic fibers we make here, of course.” “Of course,” I repeat. I hardly hear him, too preoccupied with what Tweed had said earlier about field workers. Lace! She told Peeta there were three social classes. A resident of 8 would know there wasn’t. What other bullshit has she fed him? “You couldn’t can get any lower than a factory worker, anyway,” says Tweed. “Not the way it was then. There’s only so far you can starve or ill-house people and still get a decent amount of work out of them.” They were like us in Seam then. Barely surviving. Merchant would be the equivalent to factory owner here, then. “Even us owners were doing it tough,” Tweed continues. “Before the war our profit margin was set by the Capitol. It was so small I couldn’t even afford to buy the clothes I’m wearing now, for instance, that our very own factory produced! ” He says it so indignantly, that I almost laugh. “When I first saw you, I thought you could be a walking advertisement for Capitol fashion,” I tell him. “Thanks,” he says, chuffed at the compliment. He doesn’t know that I find Capitol fashion ridiculous. Except for Cinna’s, of course. His tone becomes plaintive. “You can’t imagine how frustrating it was producing all these gorgeous garments and not being able to wear any of them.” “It must have been awful,” I say, doing my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I bet the people who actually did make them would have traded the gaudy jacket he’s wearing for a square meal any day. Tweed turns the car into a long driveway and we come to a surprisingly modest house surrounded by a garden. “Well, here we are. The family home. Won’t be for long, though. A much bigger one is being built closer to town.” “Business must be booming,” I say, as I unclip the seat belt I’d been clutching since we left the hotel. He’s halfway out of the car, but he stops to turn his head in my direction. “Yeah, well, it helps that most of the competition was put of business. And now that the market, rather than the Capitol, decides how much profit we make.” Once inside, I’m led into an entrance hall and then through a sitting and dining room. I don’t see anyone. But from somewhere at the back of the house I can hear muffled voices and then a sharp voice telling everyone to shut up. I have a bad feeling about this. Tweed opens a set of double doors and my fears are confirmed. There are bright lights, streamers and balloons, and a banner across the far wall. “Welcome Katniss Everdeen” it reads, “From a grateful District 8.” A loud cheer goes up and Sateen rushes forward to pull me in for a hug. ‘We fooled them. There was no way we could let a visit from Katniss Everdeen go by without doing something to show our gratitude,” says Sateen with tears in her eyes. I think she’s been into the punch already. She’s so proud of herself that I don’t have the heart to do anything but return the hug and thank her. “Let me introduce you,” she says. I meet cousin Chambray and Uncle Chino. Aunt Chiffon. Roy and Tweed’s sister, Georgette, and her husband Dobby. Friends Damask and Loden. Grandpa Serge and Grandma Taffeta. Twins Voile and Viyella. Parents of the groom Organza and Oxford. Nieces Chenille and Gabardine. Babies Braid and Denim. “Does everyone here have a name to do with textiles?” I ask Tweed later. “Almost everyone,” he replies, pointing his glass in Arthur’s direction. “Among owners, anyway. It’s not so common with workers, though. Aren’t there name traditions in 12?”

“Some,” I answer. “Flower names for girls. And for merchant boys, the family profession they’re born into.” “Awful, isn’t it? It’s like having a label stuck on you. I hated Tweed, growing up. Rhymes with weed. Could be worse I suppose. At least I’m not a Moleskin like my great-aunt Paisley wanted. That was her husband’s name – he’s been dead the past fifty years.” “Which one is she?” I ask, looking around the room. “I don’t think I met her. Is she here?” “Unfortunately, yes. She’s the dried-up old witch with the walking cane over by the buffet table. You need to watch that cane. She’s liable to poke you with it.” “Can I meet her?” I like the look of her. Despite her age, there’s an alertness about her. It’s in her eyes, bright and curious. I bet nothing gets past her. Tweed shrugs. “Sure. It’s your life. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He walks over to Aunt Paisley and I follow. Her eyes rake him from head to foot. It’s clear she doesn’t approve of his choice of attire. “Aunt Paisley, this is Kat –“ “I know who she is. I may be old but I’m not stupid,” she says, cutting him off. She pats the chair beside her and says to me, “Sit down dear, and we’ll a have a chat.”

“Thank you, Tweed. You can go now,” she says dismissively. He rolls his eyes as if to say “see what I mean?” but he does as she says. I have a feeling that Aunt Paisley nearly always gets her way and makes life difficult for everyone until she does. Her family have learned that it’s easier not to fight it. “That boy has turned into a popinjay,” she says, not bothering to lower her voice. “As Capitol as they come. He’ll be wearing make-up next. They should have called him Lame and without the accent on the “e”. Luckily Tweed doesn’t appear to have heard her. Or maybe he did and doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. If that’s his intention, it worked. Aunt Paisley seems disappointed that her barb has apparently missed its target. With a snort of disgust, she turns her attention back to me.

“So why isn’t the Mellark boy with you? I was hoping to meet him too,” she says almost accusingly. She’s the first person to ask me about him. I suspect that Sateen has warned everyone not to. Perhaps she missed Aunt Paisley, or Aunt Paisley, with her lack of tact, has chosen to ask anyway. But far from it being awkward, it’s just what I want. I need answers. And maybe Aunt Paisley can give them to me. “We’re not together anymore,” I say sadly. “He wasn’t the same when he returned from the Capitol. He’s dating a girl from 8 now. Perhaps you know of her. Her name’s Lace Bomul.” A bony hand reaches out to clasp mine. “I’m sorry, child. I wouldn’t have said anything if I had known.” Yes, you would, you old liar. But it’s not sympathy I want from you. But information. “Lace Bomul, you say?” she asks, pursing her lips. I nod. “Yes. She said she was a factory worker but I doubt that. She’s been to Victory Tour parties.” Aunt Paisley shakes her head vehemently. “Workers weren’t allowed to attend Victory Tour parties. She’s lying about something – either the parties or being a worker.” “I thought it sounded strange,” I say. But Aunt Paisley isn’t listening. She’s deep in thought. “Bomul,” she says, rolling it over her tongue as if trying it out. “It’s a common name here. If she was a worker, she could be one of thousands. I do know of one Bomul family who owned a factory but I don’t recall a Lace among them. There was a lot of scandal attached to the family at one time.” “Auntie, I hope you’re not spreading gossip,” chimes in Organza, who’s helping herself to the buffet. “What else is there to do at my age?” says Aunt Paisley, peevishly. “But since you’re here, listening in, you can at least tell me the name of that young slut who got herself knocked-up by a worker.”

“Really, Auntie,” chides Organza. “She’s not a slut. Just because she happened to fall in love with someone outside her class.” “She’s a slut,” says Aunt Paisley in a voice that won’t tolerate dissent. “We have class distinctions for a reason. People should stick to their own. She was a disgrace to her family and she should have been thrown out and disowned.” “Well, I heard she lost the baby anyway. And he was killed in the uprising, so it all came to naught. Chantilly, I think her name was. It’s very sad.” “Sad, my foot. The whole family should have been shot. What about when their factory was bombed and how every Bomul just happened not to be at work that day. The factory that they owned, and that every one of them was employed in. It’s mighty suspicious. That’s all I have to say.” “I doubt it,” says Organza drily. “I’m sure you have a lot more to say. But the only thing I’ll add is that it’s all rumour. And the fact that none of them was there isn’t proof of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to eat my meal. Katniss, don’t let her bash your ear too much.” “Fuck off then,” says Aunt Paisley to her retreating back. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the Bomuls . . .” According to Aunt Paisley, the Bomuls owned a factory that specialized in Peacekeeper uniforms. It was a family run business. There was nothing unusual about that, most District 8 factories were, with the whole family involved in the running of it. Children of owners were given a broad education in the textile industry from the spinning of yarn, to the making up of garments. “So such children could be tailors or seamstresses, it they wanted to?” I interrupt. “Well, yes. They would have had the knowledge of it, and could take it further if they wished,” she answers. “Most didn’t, of course. That would have been a step down. But with the war, and with so many factories destroyed, many of us have had to take on whatever work we can find. Arthur and Sateen, for instance. Most of the tailoring and dressmaking shops in the town are run by the owner class.”

“And what about a worker? Could they be a tailor or a seamstress?”

Aunt Paisley laughs. “No dear,” she says in a condescending tone. “It’s clear you haven’t had factories in 12, or you wouldn’t ask such an absurd question. Workers in factories have very specific tasks. It could be cutting out fabric, or sewing buttonholes. But not to put together an entire garment from start to finish.”

“I see,” I say slowly. The puzzle pieces are falling into place. “So where are the Bomuls now?”

“Some of them are still around, I believe. Some migrated to other districts. But I haven’t got to the best part of the story yet. After the first uprising failed – the one where the slut’s lover was killed – the Capitol ordered a lockdown. It was terrible, child. Everyone had to stay in their homes, or they’d killed on the spot if they even so much as stuck their nose out the door. There was no food, or coal. It didn’t matter who you were, we all went hungry. But just when it was almost as bad as it could get, the order was given to re-open the factories and return to business as usual.”

She pauses here for dramatic effect. “What happened then?” I ask encouragingly, eyes wide. But I already know what happened. I’d heard the story from Bonnie and Twill, the refugees from 8 whom I’d met at the concrete house in the woods, fleeing to District 13.

“The Bomul factory was bombed, killing everyone who worked there. Except for the Bomuls, that is, who were all conveniently sick that day. The talk is that the uprising was planned from their factory and somebody told the Capitol,” she says knowingly.

“And you think the Bomuls were the informants?”

“Well, it fits.”

I shake my head. “But it makes no sense. Why would they want their own factory destroyed? And all their workers killed? What could they possibly achieve from it?”

“Information in exchange for immunity, of course. The slut’s lover was among the rebels, remember. They could have traced him, not only to the Bomul factory, but to the slut herself. That brings the entire family under suspicion. So, they get in before the Capitol does. That way they are seen as being loyal to the Capitol. “ “But their factory was still blown up,” I point out. “True, but the Capitol had to been seen to punish the conspirators to send a message, or look weak otherwise. After all, it was the Bomul factory where the rebellion was hatched, and it was known that at least one family member was fraternizing with the rebels. But all the Bomuls were spared, nonetheless. And, what’s more, somehow, they still had enough money to wait out the war and set themselves up in various businesses once it ended. Losing the factory was a small price to pay for their lives. “

“But what about their worker’s lives?” Aunt Paisley shrugs. “The workers risked their own lives with their plotting. They brought it on themselves. But it was the Bomul girl’s dalliance with a worker that brought down suspicion on every one of us, worker and owner alike. After that, factories were bombed at random as if the whole district was responsible. Look at Sateen and Arthur, their inheritance gone, family members killed. We were just lucky that the bombs didn’t fall on us.” My feeling is that Capitol bombs would have fallen anyway, even if this conspiracy theory of hers is true. Besides, since when did Snow make deals? He would have taken the information and then killed them all regardless.

“Well, I guess it’s possible,” I say carefully. I don’t want to ruin the party by getting into an argument with Aunt Paisley. “But the Bomuls could have been sick that day. Perhaps with something highly infectious, especially if they were weakened from lack of food. And, as for the money, they might have retrieved the money from the factory safe, like Sateen and Arthur did.” It wasn’t as if Lace was flush with cash when she arrived in 12. Her only equipment was an aging sewing machine. “Humph, don’t believe it. The Bomuls were always a disreputable bunch. Look at that Chantilly. Spreading her legs for an inferior and getting herself pregnant to boot. And her family, instead of doing the right thing by throwing the harlot out, actually had a wedding planned for the two of them. Any family who’d sell out their own social class, would have no compunction selling out to the Capitol either. And no one will ever convince me otherwise,” says Aunt Paisley stoutly.

It’s a good thing I have no intention of trying then. A part of me wants to tell her about my parents. How my Merchant mother defied social norms to marry a miner. Or remind her that I’m Seam and would have married Merchant Peeta. It dawns on me that Aunt Paisley and my maternal grandparents would have got along like a house on fire.

After excusing myself, I seek out Tweed. There’s one question I have left to ask.

“Tweed, what kind of fabric is chantilly?”

“Chantilly? It’s a type of lace.”

Chapter 16 The next day I’m driven around 8 and taken to the Button factory for a tour. I’m accompanied by Tweed, his girlfriend, Velvet, and Arthur. I don’t know why Arthur came, except that he likes factories. We haven’t spoken much since I arrived here. There seems to be a tacit agreement between us to have as little to do with each other as possible without appearing rude. Maybe it’s partly to put to rest, once and for all, Sateen’s attempts at matchmaking, but I think it’s mostly because we find each other incredibly boring. Sateen is resting up for the big day doing nothing more strenuous than having facials and manicures with her four bridesmaids. I was invited to join them. But after a few seconds of deliberation, I decided that a factory tour would probably be the more exciting option.

It’s a Sunday, so there’s no one working in the factory today and we wander where we like. I marvel at the long rows of work benches each topped with a sewing machine and imagine the din they must create when run simultaneously. Certainly enough noise for seditious plots to be made without being overheard by bosses or guards. Bonnie and Twill told me that’s how word of the uprising was passed around in the factory they had worked in. Arthur is beside me. I had hoped that he’d go off on his own and leave me to look around by myself. We had left Tweed and Velvet a short time ago to tarry a while longer in the room where the fabrics are stored. Tweed wanted to show Velvet the colours that will be fashionable this year, but from the giggles that were coming from behind the bolts of cloth as we were leaving, I don’t think that’s all he was showing her.

“It’s very impressive,” I say, to break the silence.

“Isn’t it?” replies Arthur. “I intend to model my own factory along similar lines. When I’ve raised the funds, that is.” I smile and nod. I’m not falling into the trap of asking how his plans are working out. He’s likely to tell me. I continue my slow walk down the rows, wishing once again that he’d go away. I’ve never felt entirely at ease with Arthur. I’ve put it down to the discomfort of not having much to say to each other and the added awkwardness of Sateen’s machinations to get us together. But today it feels almost creepy. Why did he join the party when he and I are trying to convince everyone that there’s nothing between us? To see a factory that he’s already familiar with? And why is he staying so close?

“You and old Mrs Button get along well,” says Arthur hesitantly. “Hm?” I say, in surprise. This is a huge departure from Arthur’s usual conversation. “Oh, you mean Aunt Paisley?” “Yes, Aunt Paisely. What did you think of her?”

“Um, interesting,” I say cautiously, not sure how I should respond. I don’t know whether Arthur likes her or not. “Very firm in her opinions,” I venture. There, that’s an honest assessment and can be taken as either a positive or a negative.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he says. “I prefer bigot, myself. She gets away with it because of her age and because she has control over most of the family’s finances. Organza said she overheard her telling you about the Bomuls. I think you should know that it’s idle talk. The Bomuls didn’t inform on anyone. But there’s always those who like to think the worst and spread gossip with no consideration for who it might hurt. I hope . . . I hope that it doesn’t go any further.” Ah, so that’s why Arthur is here. For a chance to speak to me alone before we return to 12. I’ve no intention of spreading the story. Few people know better than me how Snow operates. If he’d had his way, everyone associated with the factory would have been obliterated in the bombing as a warning. To workers who dare to rebel. And to owners who allow it to happen under their roof.

“It won’t,” I assure him. “I didn’t believe it, and I wouldn’t say anything even if I did. Lace had nothing to do with it. That’s who you want to protect, isn’t it?

His face stiffens with surprise. “How did you know?” I raise an eyebrow. “Well, the name is a big giveaway, for a start. Why didn’t she change it?” Arthur grimaces as if had questioned the wisdom of it himself. “Bomul is a common name here, especially among workers. She thought that would offer some protection. In any case, not all the family wanted to change it. Her brother, the one who moved to 12, is one of them. It would have seemed odd if they had different last names. He doesn’t think the family has anything to be ashamed of. But then, he hasn’t been blamed as Tilly, I mean Lace, has.” “I already knew about Lace’s fiancé,” I reply. “I didn’t know he was a worker though. Lace gave it away when we watched an old tape of the Victory tour. There was an incident in 11 when Peacekeepers pulled some men from the crowd to be shot. It reminded her of when her fiancé was killed.” “Yes, it would. And then losing the baby soon after too, I suppose. Poor Tilly. It was a horrendous time. For everyone in 8, actually. The rebellion had been going so well until – “

“Until reinforcements came from the Capitol,” I finish for him. “And after that, the lockdown. I met a couple of refugees from 8 making their way to 13 who told me about it. They had worked in a factory specializing in Peacekeeper uniforms.” “That would’ve been the Bomul factory then. It was the only place that made them.” We come to the end of the row and Arthur gestures to me that we continue our walk along the periphery of the building and then back to where we left Tweed and Velvet. They should nearly be finished looking at fabric samples by now. “So, how do you know Lace?” I ask. And he tells me. As he does, this normally reserved man’s face is soft with a light I haven’t seen in him before. It reminds me of how Peeta once looked at me. He loves her, I realise. More than that, he’s in love with her. And he doesn’t hold out any hope, either. There’s a sad resignation in his posture, in the tone of his voice. Or maybe it just takes one to know one. He gives me the bones of his story. I flesh out the rest. Or “fill in the blanks”, as Peeta might say. The Bomuls and the Bobbins had known each other for years. They were not only neighbors, they were also related through marriage. An aunt of Arthur’s had married an uncle of Tilly’s. Arthur had always been a self-contained little boy who preferred to be an observer rather than a participant when it came to games and social activities. Tilly, five years younger, was sociable, exuberant, and embraced life head-on. Arthur was instantly drawn to her. When Tilly was seventeen, he asked her to be his date at the Victory Tour party. All children of prominent citizens over the age of sixteen were required to attend these parties, although it was usual to go as a pair. But Arthur, in his diffident way, gave the impression that he was asking as a friend. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference for him anyway. Tilly, like many girls her age, was too enthralled at meeting the latest heartthrob, Peeta Mellark, to be aware that the quiet young man she had known since childhood, felt anything other than friendship for her. Meeting Katniss Everdeen was less exciting. She was, after all, an impediment – something that stood between her and her heart’s desire. Nonetheless, she wore her ash brown hair in the side-plait that Katniss had made fashionable. If Peeta liked it, then Tilly would do it. But unfortunately for Tilly, although Peeta was friendly and polite, he paid her no more attention than any other girl there. His eyes were all for Katniss. Tilly was heartbroken. But at least one person was hopeful. Now that that infatuation had been deflated, maybe there was a chance for him. No such luck, however. Tilly very soon after fell in love with one of her family’s employees. A fiery young man with dark hair, dark eyes and dangerous ideas. When Tilly became pregnant to him, her family was initially very disappointed and upset. Inter-class marriages just didn’t happen in District 8. There was condemnation all round, and the general feeling was that Tilly should be shunned by polite society, and made to work in a factory, since she had so obviously shown her preference for the people who worked in them. But her family didn’t want that. They decided to make the best of it and planned for the couple a small quiet wedding to be attended by close family and friends. The few who were still talking to them, that is. But then the rebellion happened. It had escalated so quickly, that everyone who wasn’t directly involved were caught unawares. The wedding would have to wait. At first everyone was hopeful that the rebellion would succeed, but then the Capitol sent in thousands of Peacekeepers to retake the city and shoot to kill anyone they saw in the streets. People desperately tried to make it safely back to their homes. Tilly witnessed the panic from a window in the apartment where she and her family lived. Her fiancé was among those who ran for their lives. He almost made it when he was shot through the head, his blood and brains spattering the cobblestoned street.

A few days later, Tilly miscarried. Terrible days of depression followed, compounded by the lack of food and fuel from the enforced lockdown. Then the entire family was stricken with a gastro complaint - “the runs” we called it in Seam - which left them incapacitated when an order came from the Capitol to return to work. Later that day, the Bomul factory was bombed killing everyone in it. As often happens when something goes wrong, people look for someone to blame. They settled on the Bomuls. Conveniently ill that day, they said. The daughter involved with a known rebel sympathizer, they said. Clearly, they had informed on their workers to save their own skins. There was no proof that the allegations were true but it didn’t stop the talk. It didn’t help that the Bomuls had the resources to keep themselves afloat during the war despite the loss of their factory, while the rest of the populace struggled. They didn’t accept their explanation that they had retrieved the money from the factory’s safe. It was blood money, they said. Given to them by the Capitol in exchange for information. While the war came to an end, the grudge against the Bomuls didn’t. Their reputation was in tatters. And particularly that of Chantilly Bomul. The family took the last of their savings and gave it to Tilly to start a new life in a new district. She had with her the basic tools of the clothing trade, including an old, but still workable, sewing machine. Her real talent was design but she sewed well enough to pass as a seamstress. Other family members were to follow later, once they had the means. Meanwhile, life hadn’t been easy for the Bobbins either. Their factory was also bombed and they barely escaped with their lives. A week later, their few remaining relatives were killed in a separate bombing. Arthur and Sateen were now on their own. However, they too had managed to retrieve money from the factory safe but they lived sparsely, careful to avoid the censure that had dogged the Bomuls. And, as there was only two of them, there were sufficient funds left by the end of the war to fully outfit a shop, in whichever district they chose to set up business. For Arthur there was only one choice. And that was District 12 where Tilly had settled. He hoped to not only rekindle their friendship, but also persuade her to consider him as a suitor. Alas, it was not to be. Not only had Tilly changed her name, her hair colour, and concocted a story about her background, she had also entered into a relationship with none other than Peeta Mellark, for whom she was as infatuated as ever. Arthur swallowed his pain and supported her as best as he could, although as a friend and not the lover he wanted to be. “Peeta should be told,” I say, when Arthur stops speaking. “He has a right to know.” Arthur nods. “I’ve told Tilly that. But once you’ve told a lie, it’s hard to walk it back.” “He’ll understand. He’s good like that,” I reply. Yes, Peeta won’t hold any ill-will, once he knows why Lace hasn’t been honest with him. But he might be angry if she continues to keep it from him and he hears it from someone else. Trust is important to Peeta. But will Lace tell him? I only know that it can’t come from me. It will look like interference and bad grace on my part. I’m not supposed to be involved in his life anymore, anyway. But Haymitch could do it. Yes, I’ll tell Haymitch when I’m back in 12. Then it’s his problem to decide whether to tell Peeta or not. Arthur and I are almost back to where we started when Tweed and Velvet emerge from the storeroom. It must be an exciting colour palette this season, to judge by the flush on Velvet’s face. We bundle back into the car to drive to a nearby restaurant to meet the immediate family for an early dinner. Sateen has that look back in her eye as her gaze flits between Arthur and me. But at least I have a greater understanding for why she does it. It’s more than just wanting Arthur to settle down. She wants him to move on from Lace. That this love he’s cherished for years is destined to go nowhere. It occurs to me that at last Arthur and I have something in common. We’re both in love with people who are not in love with us. And who just happen to be in love with each other.

Since Arthur’s dilemma reminds me so much of my own situation, it doesn’t put me in the best mood for the wedding the following day. But at least we have one thing in our favour. It’s not Peeta and Lace’s wedding, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they were the next of our acquaintance to get engaged. Peeta would want to marry. He’s a romantic who believes in a one true love and a happy-ever-after. Only it’s not with me anymore. It’s with Lace.

As for Lace, she’s got herself the Victor she fantasized about. Rich too. That should help with bringing the rest of the family out to 12. No, that’s not fair. Maybe she does really love him. The man himself. Not just the image. He’s a lot to take on, though. With the memory loss, and the flashbacks. She doesn’t understand him, as I do. Or knows where he comes from, and where he’s been. And what does Peeta know about Lace, really? He hasn’t even had the truth from her. But Arthur knows her. He has the same background, the same determination to succeed. But the heart wants what the heart wants, as the saying goes. Maybe it will work out. There’s a part of me that hopes that they do marry. The sooner the better. To get it over and done with so I can get on with my life too. The wedding takes place in a converted warehouse owned by the Buttons, freshly renovated and decorated with winter foliage and white tulle. The bridesmaids wear floaty pastel gowns and matching wide-brimmed hats. Sateen wears ivory satin and greenery in her mahogany hair. It takes a moment for me to recognize it as a copy of one of the gowns Cinna designed for my wedding to Peeta. That reminds me how close we came to marrying. I console myself with the thought that it would have been awful, anyway. I didn’t want to marry then. I only got engaged to save people’s lives. And we would’ve lived in fear of our children being reaped. But now, if he asked me . . . Well, there’s no point in thinking of such things. Truth be told, I don’t think Peeta’s fit to marry anyone right now. Roy is elegant in a dark suit, with greenery in the buttonhole of his lapel to match the bride’s headpiece. I wonder if Arthur made the suit for him. It looks like his work. Best man Tweed seems ill at ease, in a suit identical to Roy’s. I think he’d rather have been a bridesmaid. At least then he would have got to wear something more colourful. After the words are spoken, a ritual unique to District 8 follows. It’s called “threading the needle.” The bride holds in front of her a large wooden replica of a sewing needle. Then the best man threads a length of stiffened rope through the eye and the groom pulls it all the way through. Max would love it. It would keep him going for weeks with jokes about what happens on wedding nights in 8. They then sing an ancient wedding song, which likens marriage to sewing a garment. I wonder if Peeta and Lace will include this when they marry. I don’t want to think about them having a toasting.

There’s food, and speeches and dancing after. I don’t know any of the District 8 dances, so I stand to the side, clapping my hands and trying my best to look as if I’m having a good time. Sateen and Roy are at the center of the couples swirling around them, gently swaying to the music and smiling into each other’s eyes. Arthur, dancing dutifully with one of the bridesmaids, shuffles past and we momentarily lock glances. We seem to know what the other is thinking. Today we celebrate one marriage, and tomorrow we dread news of another.

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silasmadams · 5 years ago

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💔💝❤️A Mild Defense of Love Triangles 🚶‍♂️👫

INTRO

As the title indicates I want to offer my defense of the love triangle. In my opinion, shitting on the love triangle is the equivalent of beating a dead horse and if you want to continue beating said dead horse, go right ahead. Who am I to stop you? But that being said, I think love triangles get a bad rap. I will say that a lot of the criticism of love triangles, especially in more recent works, is fair. A lot of the criticisms bring up important points and shine lights on the overuse of this trope, to the point that when it’s used well people still decide to shit on it or call it out. Now, the YA genre especially can do this poorly. I love YA, for the uninitiated that just means Young Adult. I think YA is a fantastic genre and there are hundreds of gems within it but again there’s a lot of overuse of the love triangle and when it’s used well, even within the YA genre, it’s still seen as bad because people have decided that using the love triangle is automatically only for cheap romance or unneeded drama or what have you. And this is true in certain cases but not all.

As such it’s unfair to dismiss this trope so easily. I mean I get it, we’ve all got tropes we hate, I absolutely despise the constant setting of fantasy within a medieval England type sphere or the trope of when there’s one female character in a group whose sole purpose is to be the love interest OR the dark brooding bad boy who’s an absolute asshole but we’re expected to like him and be into his bastardry because of his tragic backstory, and so on. Suffice to say I’ve got my fair share of issues about tropes in the literature world but as a whole, love triangles aren’t my top priority among them, hence the title.

I’m going to discuss three books/series that I feel do the love triangle justice. Regardless of the book’s own merit, I feel this aspect of them was done well. I believe there are two main ways that the love triangle can be done right. The first is pure emotions where the characters bounce off each other perfectly and make you invested in all the involved parties. That is to say, not a love vector, not a love segment with an additional point on the periphery, but an actual triangle where all three characters have some relationship with one another be it romantic, platonic, or hate-filled. The second is by having the love interests double as different ideologies/beliefs that the main person must choose. These two types can and often do overlap which only further adds to the strength of the love triangle that’s depicted.

Fair warning, there will be spoilers (mild or otherwise) for the following: The Infernal Devices series by Cassandra Clare, The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins, and My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante (the first book only).

EXAMPLE 1: THE INFERNAL DEVICES BY CASSANDRA CLARE

The Infernal Devices series by Cassandra Clare. I have long since fallen out of love with her books, but I feel as though this series is a good example of the love triangle based on pure emotions done right. Whatever opinions you may have of this author it’s important to give credit where credit is due.

Within the Infernal Devices, there is the main love triangle between Will, Tessa, and Jem. Will is your typical bad boy with a heart of gold except in Victorian England, Jem is a kind-hearted musician with a drug addiction. Tessa is the newcomer to the magical world that the boys know and she is an avid reader who constantly talks about the books she's read or would like to read. Now the reason this love triangle works as well as it does is because each party, in their own way, is in love with the other person. Will loves Tessa and the reader sees that through their escapades, their secret romances, their longing gazes and what not. Jem also loves Tessa and the reader similarly sees that through their shared conversations and affectionate moments. Tessa loves both of these boys which is evident through her internal dialogue that we as the reader are able to peer into, and if Clare had stopped there then this would be a poor love triangle, however, she doesn’t. She instead chooses to establish a strong and clear relationship between Will and Jem that showcases their own love for each other. They have a connection that is incredibly strong and goes beyond the terms of simple ‘bromance’ if you will. Jem, as someone who was forced to take a life altering drug and then became addicted to it, is an individual that is constantly in poor health and Will constantly cares for and protects him. He’s worried for him and tries to keep him safe and happy as best he can. They are the link in the love triangle that allows it to be as engaging as it is. They are not merely two boys fighting over a prize, they are two people that love each other and also happen to love the same girl. When Jem and Tessa become engaged, Will is heartbroken but it comes off as a heartbreak from both sides, he’s hurt by both Jem and Tessa choosing each other and leaving him. Tessa herself is unsure of the match because she continues to harbor feelings for Will while also being in love with Jem.

Within the series, it’s not just one side you care about. Sure, there were people who were rooting for Will over Jem or Jem over Will but the vast majority didn’t want anyone hurt, they were invested and they wanted a solution that would end with neither one of them upset. I, as a reader, cared for these characters and not just in the sense of who Tessa would choose but in the sense of the boy’s relationship with each other. Was this something they could move past, were they strong enough to get through these emotions and come out stronger on the other side? When reading it myself I clearly remember that tension and that desire for these characters to be happy.

In this sense, the emotions drive the series and even as I was starting to lose interest in Clare’s writing style and her books, I stuck around to see the conclusion of this romance. I’ll admit I was upset and am still somewhat bitter about the ending. You had all the chances to make it an excellent Polyamory ship, Clare but you didn’t! Regardless of the lackluster ending of this love triangle, I’d still put this as a great example of the emotional aspect in a love triangle done right, due in part to the lasting impact it has. Because, even years after finishing the series I still think about it and I still hope to write a relationship like that in my own stories, one that sticks with the reader long after they’ve finished the series or even have fallen out of love with the authors books.

EXAMPLE 2: THE HUNGER GAMES BY SUZANNE COLLINS

When I talk about this series I am specifically talking about the books, not the movies. The movies are well done, don’t get me wrong and they stick close to the series but the marketing of the movies and the desire to push the whole “Team Peeta” or “Team Gale” is something that muddies the movies for me. I know this is something that was present in the books as well but I wasn’t too active online when I first read them so I never had that aspect of the books in my head. I also want to note that the romance isn’t the main focus of this series but the love triangle in it serves a good example of a well done love triangle based on equating the individual to an identity/belief system.

What I mean by the boys representing a belief system/different life/identity is this; I mean that someone like Gale is the old world belief, the more stringent, masculine, and typical. He is attractive and he is familiar, he is something that Katniss has known her whole life and as such he’s the obvious choice. It’s something expected, they’re not only from the same class but they share a similar backstory. Gale is the type of person Katniss would be expected to go with. They are the perfect pair because they are not a change from the status quo they are acceptable. Peeta, on the other hand, is from a different class than Katniss, a higher class. He is not the traditionally masculine option, he’s not a miner or a hunter but a baker. He doesn’t have the same views as Gale and is seen as the gentler of the two boys. Where Gale is strength, Peeta is kindness, where Gale is anger, Peeta is forgiveness, and so on. These two are diametric opposites even in terms of their physical appearances. Gale looks like Katniss, that is brown skin, dark hair, dark eyes because that is what the lower classes look like, that is how the reader is meant to initially discern from poor and rich with the exception of Prim and Katniss’s mother. Her mother having married lower than her class and her sister having the resemblance of their mother, subtly insinuating that Prim is the sister meant for greater things. Typically the higher classes, like the one Peeta is a part of, are light-skinned with light hair, light eyes, they are the merchants and local politicians, etc. Therefore they, the boys, not only represent different beliefs but different life-styles all together. When the third book in the trilogy comes around and Katniss is given a choice of mercy or revenge, Gale stands on the side of revenge, on the side that says they should take the children of the capitol and have them fight each other, Hunger Games style. Peeta on the other hand stands on the side of mercy where he argues that it is inhumane and cruel and by going forward with the plan for revenge they are no better than the people they took down, they are not saviors but rather they are the people here to replace Snow. When Katniss shoots Coin instead of Snow, she chooses mercy and thus she chooses Peeta, she chooses a quiet and gentle life rather than an extravagant one under cameras. By having the boys be polar opposites in ideological beliefs it makes Katniss’s choice of the two boys not about romance, which seems fitting for her considering she isn’t exactly a romantic and more interested in doing what she believes to be right, but about choosing and sticking with a certain belief/ideology/etc. It explains her waffling between the two boys as well, she is trying to understand her own viewpoints and the flip flopping from one boy to the other allow her to explore said points.

EXAMPLE 3: MY BRILLIANT FRIEND BY ELENA FERRANTE

In all honesty, this book alone deserves its own review and I have been meaning to talk about in detail but I don’t want to start talking about it until I’ve finished the entire series. For now, I’ll be talking about the first book and its use of love triangles, squares, so on. Love shapes if you will. This series follows the friendship of two girls in post-war Italy from childhood to early adulthood. Unlike the other examples, this isn’t a YA book but a Historical Fiction, adult book.

I’ve already discussed the use of emotions and angst as well as belief systems. This book is an example of both being used. The boys in this book are a way to depict how the women are meant to navigate the world they live in while the women themselves, Lila and Elena are a depiction of pure emotion. Each character that shows interest in Lila and to an extent Elena serves as a way to depict different forms of ideologies/government/etc. There is not one love triangle, but multiple love triangles happening at once. As such I can’t touch on every aspect here so I’m going to only give a quick run-down.

The men or boys in question that are after Lila are Stefano (Capitalism), Marcello (Fascism), Pasquale (Communism), while the boys after Elena are Nino (Academia/Education) and Antonio (The Plebs/Common Folk/Poverty). Within this group there are love triangles galore and since I can’t focus on all of them, I’m going to briefly talk about the love triangle of Lila, Pasquale, and Elena. This love triangle is one that’s more towards the beginning of the novel and its set when the girls are beginning to grow out of childhood and into adulthood. Pasquale is the first boy to show interest not in Elena but in Lila. This brings out jealousy in Elena because even though Lila has always been smarter than her, she has always been the more beautiful of the two friends. Once Pasquale starts to show interest in Lila, it becomes a gateway for the other boys to look on and also begin to fawn over Lila. Hence why it goes Pasquale, Marcello, and Stefano, much like the history of Italy itself (though I’ll admit I’m no expert on that). However, whenever the boys do fawn over Lila, Elena is always present. Lila and Elena themselves have deep rivalry and love that goes back years. They are constantly at each other's throats but they are also best friends. Their bond is something that goes unbroken, even when they fight, they obsess over each other and refuse to let the other out of their mind. In all of the love triangles that show up there is always a version that involves the girls in some way. For Example, the love triangle is Lila, Pasquale, and Marcello. There is ofcourse a version of it where Elena is involved, being Lila, Elena, and Marcello. Unlike the other two series examples, this one is more intricate and complex, that by no means takes away from the other two but it shows how the love triangle can be more than what most people give it credit for. It can be a series of interlocking relationships each as convoluted and twisted as our relationships in real life tend to be. When reading all these relationships and love triangles I was never struck with a feeling of boredom and I never felt the urge to roll my eyes. I was invested in the stories and the links, I wanted to know what would happen, I wanted to know where the relationship of Lila and Elena went, I wanted to know who or if they would choose a suitor. I was entrenched in their lives, I cared what happened along with seeing the parallels of ideologies that were offered their way. This is probably one of the best examples of modern love triangles I can think off.

CONCLUSION

I don’t really have a deep thing to say here at the end. I don’t even know if you’re convinced by ramblings or not. I just think people should allow themselves to be more creative with the love triangle trope. A trope is after all, only bad when it's blatantly predictable and doesn’t make the reader feel anything. I think it’s high time we gave the love triangle another go instead of constantly shoving it back in a corner or looking down on it because ‘romance bad’ especially since its purpose isn’t just romance but relationships of various natures. The love triangle deserves far more credit than being relegated to what a lot of people deem a ‘lesser’ genre. So, have I changed your mind? Do you remain steadfast in hating the love triangle? Tell me if you want or go about your day as usual if you’d rather not.

A VIDEO THAT TALKS ABOUT LOVE TRIANGLES THAT YOU SHOULD CHECK OUT:

https://youtu.be/QojOfp8V7rA

I came across this video after having written this but I thought it was also an interesting take on the defense of/falling back in love with the love triangle.

BOOKS MENTIONED:

The Infernal Devices by Cassandra Clare

The Infernal Devices Book Series

The Infernal Devices, the Complete Collection: Clockwork Angel; Clockwork Prince; Clockwork Princess

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The Hunger Games Book Series

The Hunger Games Trilogy Boxed Set (1) (8601400319468): Suzanne Collins: Books

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

https://www.alibris.com/search/books/isbn/9781609450786?utm_source=Google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=NMPi_Smart_Shopping&utm_term=NMPi_Smart_Shopping&ds_rl=1264488&ds_rl=1264488&gclid=Cj0KCQiAnL7yBRD3ARIsAJp_oLanfQZ7YxglG4iP0K1_LaJhsVUDMCH6HJVo_BSrS9IBFCvGe2-r4KkaAtTrEALw_wcB&gclsrc=aw.ds

My Brilliant Friend: Neapolitan Novels, Book One: Elena Ferrante, Ann Goldstein: 8601400235683

OR get them all at your library, it’s free after all. If your library is closed due to the pandemic, a lot of libraries have ebooks you can borrow. They typically have a large collection online so go ahead and try your luck there, and of course, stay safe and stay inside if you can.

CHECK OUT MY BLOG:

https://silasmadams.home.blog/2020/04/09/%f0%9f%92%94%f0%9f%92%9d%e2%9d%a4%ef%b8%8fa-mild-defense-of-love-triangles-%f0%9f%9a%b6%e2%80%8d%e2%99%82%ef%b8%8f%f0%9f%91%ab/

#love triangle #books #elena ferrante #suzanne collins #cassandra clare #trilog #the infernal devices #the hunger games #my brilliant friend #defense #blog #book blog post

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missguided-ink · 7 years ago

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ten questions tag

Thanks for the tag, @bcbybee!

my questions:

disclaimer: I don’t have a particular wip right now, so I’m answering these based off of a novel I’m trying to get published called, How Darkness Falls

1. what is your wip about? HDF is about two preteens, Renna and J, who meet through horrible circumstances. They don’t live particularly good lives, so when they meet, it’s impactful. They get torn apart (of course) and perhaps they meet up again twelve years later as badass adults?!?!

2. what inspired you to start that wip? Thanksgiving day 2012 (yup, that long ago) I couldn’t stop thinking about these two kids in my head. I knew they were burdened kids and when they found each other, they found hope. I knew I had to tell their story. (Why do I want to cry like a proud mama?)

3. who is your favourite oc, and why? Probably Renna, one of the MC’s. She had all the decks stacked against her, but she fought to have the life she has today. She’s also a strong woman (physically, mentally, and badass-ally WHILE being vulnerable and soft at times). To me, that was important when creating her. Tough women can be soft and loving too!

4. if you could change one major thing in your wip, what would it be? This question stresses me out, since I’ve spent the past six years editing, adding, subtracting, etc. There is one character who I could omit/absorb into another character to clean things up... that’s all I got!

5. what music do you listen to while writing? Mostly singer/songwriter, or movie soundtracks, video game soundtracks. Anything that won’t distract me too much from the task at hand.

6. what inspires you to write? Wanting to be a storyteller, empathy, it’s my way of giving back and connecting with others through characters, lately my writing classes (I’m about to start my MFA in CW!).

7. how do you get past writers block? Writing prompts are wonderful, engaging with other writers, workshops are unbelievably helpful!

8. what is the aesthetic of your wip? We begin in Baltimore 2000 in alleys, behind tenement buildings, and then we journey to police stations. The world is somewhat drained of color from the lack of joy and love in Renna’s and J’s lives. When we jump twelve years in time, color creeps back in. Landscapes are more vibrant, edges no longer blurred. Think Jessica Jones meets The Punisher series?

9. how has your wip changed from when you first started it? Oh man, so much! I’ve learned so much from when I started, as a writer, a storyteller, being a woman on my own. I was really concerned with making my villain scary and horrid. I was so focused on that, that I ran away from getting to know him. BIG MISTAKE. It wasn’t until I explored who he was, what made him tick, that the story came to life in a way it hadn’t before.

10. what fictional characters inspire your own characters? Emma Swan, Aelin Galathynius, Jan Eyre, Lisbeth Salander, Peeta Mellark, Shakespeare’s Viola and Kate, Jamie Fraser.

I really liked these questions, so I’m keeping them! I tag: @writerlyn, @neenorroar, @inkonagedpaper, @writing-with-a-heart-of-fire, @lets-write-a-story-101, @katerbatewriting, @an-author-and-his-books, @thelook-or-thewords, @asherdevereauxauthor and @tinamarie2726!

you can do it if you like, but no pressure. if you do do this, please tag me!

#personal #me #writeblr #on writing #writers life #writers #wip #my wip

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itesfashion · 7 years ago

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How come Complete You will Apparent Powerful Verdict?

Did you ever hear which family members gain knowledge of diversely? Well, it truly is true.

And although lots of people could possibly understand by perusing all the regarding the way to take something, a person master differently—you need true examples.

Just like a protester, political leader, as well as superhero, I am just right here to lead with example. We’ve put together a directory of article finish examples the fact that includes lots of tips as well as composition models to function as stepping-stone for your own personel writing.

Prior to I get within the article ending recommendations, to find out the reasons why coming up with an effective finish is indeed important. Any decision isn’t necessarily an important introduction to so what you’ve by now written.

Authentic, it will be slightly regarding summarizing, but it really really should bring your current article a measure further. Your main result should really reply to any unresolved problems and also conclusion a essay or dissertation along with a smash!

and shorter, an incredible composition summary is usually tremendous fundamental while it rounds your try along with causes it to be truly feel complete.

Today on to the wonderful stuff…

Investigative Composition Summary Recommendations

Area #1: Evaluate your design in concern personally persona around the Hunger Online games series.

The most self-evident methods of concern inside Being hungry Video games may well be Katniss and Peeta, however the smoothness whom personifies pity ideal has been Prim. All through the series, the woman compassion is noted once your lady may keep secrets and techniques with the girl mummy designed for Katniss, whenever your woman rehabs Gale following he becomes whipped, together with throughout earphones conduct yourself involved with her life like this lady pushes to save lots of small children on the Capitol. The lady actually activities Albert Schweitzer’s phrases, “Objective of person’s our life is to help serve, and even to indicate empathy along with the could to aid others.”

Topic #2: So what generated the particular Civic Struggle?

The need for any risk factor for any Usa Municipal Conflict might be discussed, yet what on earth is inescapable fact is always there were various factors which usually brought this Southern region to help secede. Thralldom, says’rights, and also the selection of Abraham Lincoln subsequently with the presidency—though certainly no assert with the Southern region elected for the purpose of him—virtually all led for the war. Even when many experts have roughly 150 numerous years for the reason that Municipal Battle completed, examples of the other part in between North plus To the can still be witnessed in modern day America.

Niche #3: Analyze Facebook’s influence upon Our country’s youth.

Composition final thoughts can be simple once you know the actual framework. A great deal comes all the way down to 3 most important components: a good move as a result of earphones figure passage, a new summary of these thesis survey and principal specifics of this article, and also a closing document this gadgets everything up. Should pretty much all college students was confident this easy supplement, maybe essay creating could well be simplier and easier for the purpose of everyone.

Niche #6: Is there a medical way?

These technological procedure frequently occurs sense. 1st, individuals must have a study thought he expects clarified and also just a little qualifications skills about the subject. Consequently the owner types a good conjecture, or even what exactly this individual says the answer to the research real question is, of which the patient lab tests by having an experiment. Last but not least, the individual might review the data and then attract a good conclusion. Using these services is employed in the not to mention away from methodical nation, assessment many techniques from background that will communal issues.

Subject matter #7: Just what are the reasons homelessness?

Moving by just a dispossessed people is actually normal, specifically in city settings. Homelessness is often caused by several components, which includes task decrease, deficit of family help support, plus the diminishing use of affordable housing. Although it is normally easy for a handful of for you to think homelessness is due to internal difficulties and / or total idleness, there are more elements towards consider. Only if the main style regarding drastically renowned can easily community initiate to think of a comprehensive solution.

Matter #8: What’s the subject matter principal result in of climatic change?

Almost all research workers acknowledge that will wipeout of the earths is due to a swift increase involving techniques fumes as the Business Revolution. And some could possibly conisder that manufacturer farming tend to be the major trigger of around the world and other people will probably articulate it’s always contemporary society’s transportation techniques, the key purpose is clear: mankind.

Plot Dissertation Decision Illustrations

Content #9: Think about what exactly it would be live to be given to the pages of Romeo not to mention Juliet.

Really being launched in the pages of Romeo and also Juliet would are loaded with various customs shock. Gentlemen should be transporting swords and additionally fighting with each other 1 another in your street. Young girls could possibly be having a wedding from 13 many old. Previously had When i the information of an amount turned into within the star-crossed enthusiasts, Appraisal have got informed Romeo who Juliet’s death became a hoaxes not to mention to hang about until your wife woke up. This valuable, keep in mind, will make your take up extremely several, but yet We come to feel going without shoes was in fact the accountability soon after obtaining wasted and so enough time using the characters.

Question #10: A time machines has taken an individual back up in interact with your chosen article author (Edgar Allan Poe from this case). Develop that meeting.

Since Edgar along with That i were discussing the everyday styles in addition to dim imagery from an individual’s is effective, your server cut off us. Simply put i hit with regard to the wine carafe, added myself personally any cup, plus instructed in cases where he would just like some.

“Not any kudos,” he said, joking grimly. “All things considered, it usually is poisoned.”

Field #11: Say to around your proudest moment.

Standing just for your little sibling forced me to be find that the type so,who everyone loves with those after-school sitcoms. When i was able to experience the little one who was simply intimidation our small amount of friend without having to use provocations or maybe bricks-and-mortar force. Finally, telling each of the a great open dialogue helped bring them all finer, as well as while they may do not be close friends, not less than they could esteem every single other.

Subject matter #12: Look at opertation which usually made a person what you are today.

My mistreat did not and does not specify my family, but yet We wouldn’t be the identical specific obtained I just not even used it. This got a little while and then there were being difficulties, and yet I’m a much better, further loving human being due to their terrible activities in which happened. I’m hoping many others never have to examine a similar thing Used to do, but once they will, Lets hope they may learn from your case study and discover assistance they should be alter their own issue for any better.

(Learn on crafting narration essays.)

Gripping Composition Final result Ideas

Theme #13: Need to Hermione possess ended up with Harry rather than Ron on the Ravage Potter series?

Ravage may just be the chief temperament about the Harry Potter line as well as J.K. Rowling often have mentioned most recently which perhaps your lady thinks about Hermione not to mention Ravage needs to have ended up being together with each other, even so the individuals are much too similar. That they tend to be organic frontrunners, that will develop a whole lot of romantic relationship tension. Ron, even so, will be Style N in order to amount Hermione’s Model Your personality. Considering that Harry wound up with Ron’s babe, Ginny, the 3 principal roles are actually engaged to be married directly into a similar family. In which obviously will make family vacation get-togethers alot more entertaining.

Matter #14: Needs to advanced schooling coaching be zero cost?

“College student Fiscal loans Wall membrane St Sign” by Funding Zen, Flickr.com (CC BY 2.0)

The level of education loan arrears is an proof which anything is without a doubt mistaken when using the system. However schools will want a salary to survive, buying a school schooling really should also can be bought from not any guide cost you for the student. Free of cost educational background allows just for a lot more professional country as one, them would depart numerous learners with more a chance to do the job further on his or her research projects compared with his or her’s careers, and also it may well promote universities and colleges to obtain additional creative. In the event additional educational institutions accepted the Pay back Them In advance machine, any Usa Affirms may perhaps come to be the most intelligent cities while in the world.

Area #15: Exactly what is the central thing students ought to be understanding however , might not be?

There’s lots of places where people senior high school learning could quite possibly increase, but yet a very important is definitely financial planning. Even though some could possibly claim meant for more suitable diet regime or possibly physical fitness programs, which information is easily obtainable online and even in commercials—and may in fact be taught commencing during basic school. Tougher budgetary preparing curricula would most likely give higher schoolers tips on how to create consumer credit rating, tips on how to spare with regard to retirement living, and how to budget. All of these really are very important to lifetime in the real world although may be filled up with unclear jargoon in addition to selling schemes. By means of Americans getting additional than $11 trillion with big debts, you need to the younger iteration learn the simplest way not really that they are another statistic.

Niche #16: Ought to children get involvement trophies?

Many Babe Boomers assume that participation trophies function as a sign involving millennials’knowledge with entitlement. The simple truth is, these participation trophy isn’t going to trim sense at all about rivalry or even drive intended for improvement. As soon as there can be performance-based cash incentives together with contribution funds, this magnifying wall mount mirror any real-world whereby average-performing staff nevertheless get payed together with well-performing customers find add-ons, grows, plus promotions.

Argumentative Seek Summary Types

Issue #17: Should atomic weapons wind up being forbidden to all nations?

A result of political trepidation relating to unique nations, it’s not possibly which a worldwide forbidding upon atomic guns might be pursued by almost every earth leader. It is recommended who other nations be prepared to guard theirselves from future disorders together with similarly tough weapons. Even so, even more limitations in tests as well as unveil authorizations ought to be enforced to assure hot-headed frontrunners avoid or perhaps expose most of these unsafe pistols just being indicate with force.

Issue #18: Will be pre-employment medication tests a particular breach for privacy?

However agencies need to have to rent capable, trustworthy sales staff, they must be unable to necessitate everything that their sales staff neutralize comfortableness of their own homes. You can find good ways with determining even if anyone suits a job, such as educational background, earlier business, individual in addition to high quality references, as well as trial run periods.

Issue #19: Will need to criminals need the to suffrage?

Although most people concern the fact that according criminals the right to vote may lead to more enjoyable regulations around specified violations, prisoners are generally a section of the Usa population. A very popular activity may include every one’s sounds, possibly even individuals who have generated mistakes.

Niche #20: Should certainly father and mother end up permitted to spank their kids?

Spanking is actually a particular older in addition to laid back strategy for sticking it to children. Them shows these individuals that may assembly other people’s damaging actions by using wildness can be acceptable. In the event that kids are tall enough to help you realize why they will think you are spanked, these are who are old enough to consider their own harmful behaviour pragmatically plus discover why that it was wrong.

(Learn more details on penning argumentative essays.)

The Previous Concept in Remaining Paragraphs

Since most likely recognized assigned all the different try conclusion recommendations previously, there are a number of the way to absolve a great essay. Often, you’ll encounter any bottom line, nonetheless narrative documents may perhaps take a great exception.

A lot of these works permit you to be a little more extremely creative with the conclusion. You have to nonetheless be sure to terminate these dissertation using feeling of shutdown despite the fact that, since in the example of Area #8, this simply means arriving on your relatively forbidding note.

No matter how you actually understand, it is actually fairly practical to receive effective examples. And then now you undertake, you can find that will completing your essay.

interview essay conclusion examples

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everlarkficexchange · 5 years ago

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Unmasked ~ Twenty-Four

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Dear readers, we continue with our game. I thank you for allowing me to write and share with you from behind a mask, for embracing this story wholeheartedly despite not knowing my identity. Remember, learn my name, you must use the clues in each chapter starting with 21 until the end to hunt for a word in the text of each chapter itself. Gather the words, hold onto them, for they will provide the final clue to the puzzle.

Please enjoy the twenty-fourth chapter of this adventure. It is again a lengthy chapter. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 24 ~~

The morning we leave Everdeen dawns cold and grey. Frost covers the ground and a chill seeps from the stones through my boots as I make my way outside to the stables. Inside is warm, the pungent scent of horse and hay heavy in the air. Peeta is already here, silent as he communicates somehow with Cicero, through touch alone. Peeta turns to give me a wan smile, alerted to my presence by the response of both horses to my scent. We have chosen to leave our mounts here at Everdeen, in Johanna’s able care, and will travel by carriage, but we cannot leave them without a farewell. We stand side by side as we do so.

When we leave the stables, my hand seeks out Peeta’s and he twines our gloved fingers together. We walk with matched steps towards the carriage, two well worn trunks tied to the top and a quartet of horses waiting, stamping their hooves in the chill air to keep warm. Frederick sits atop the box, draped in coats and scarves and blankets for warmth.

We embrace and bid farewell to our family. The last time I left, it was with determination and trepidation. I feel those same things again this morning as Madge murmurs words of encouragement to me. Yet there is more inside me. As I ascend into the carriage, my fingers tucked into Peeta’s as he assists me, I also feel a joyful sort of anticipation.

The carriage leaves, and we wave to those we leave behind until they are out of sight, faded into the distance. I ensure that my healing kit is secure beneath my seat, then I seize one of the fresh, warm blankets Sae stocked the carriage with and leap across to the opposite seat to sit beside him.

Peeta laughs as I insert myself in his arms, pressed tight to his body. He adjusts the blankets about us, creating a cocoon of comfort. “Much better,” I declare as he leans down and kisses the tip of my nose.

The journey takes several days, all of which begin cold, and gradually warm to a comfortable temperature by afternoon. Night brings the chill once again. As we travel north, the cold only permeates deeper, lasts longer, until the day is nothing but cold. We spend our time in the carriage seated as close as possible, talking or reading, and on one especially dull stretch of road…kissing madly. Peeta’s hand wanders beneath my skirts, toying with the ribbons on my stockings and teasing me until my thighs quiver with the need for him to touch me, to bring me to climax on those clever fingers of his.

Unfortunately, just as I think we’re getting somewhere, we reach our midday stop and he withdraws his hand. I consider pleading ill and demanding we take a room at the inn for the night rather than merely stopping for sustenance, but this is not a purely pleasurable trip. We’ve a child waiting for us and can not afford to tarry longer than planned.

After our noon meal that day, I curl up and sleep, content and warm, reclined against Peeta’s shoulder. There are occasional unplanned stops when the nausea and dizziness overwhelm and I can no longer withstand the jostling of the carriage. On those stops, I must run for the side of the road. Peeta is unfailingly there to help me right myself and to comfort me after. He is, for the entire journey, perfectly solicitous and perhaps a tiny bit overly protective of me. I feel it in the way he guides me in and out of establishments when we stop, in the way he uses his body as a physical shield between mine and strangers. It is in the way he tucks me into blankets and confers with Frederick to ensure everything is safe and secure before we depart. The knife always near at hand, even when we are locked in our room for the night and tucked into bed.

At night, we sleep bodies pressed tight together on cramped inn beds, too tired to engage in much beyond holding one another and a few murmured words before we sleep. Besides that, I am uncertain of the cleanliness of these beds and their comfort leaves much to be desired, so I restrict myself to chaste nights with my husband. De Vale will certainly have clean, comfortable beds for us to make use of and provide time for us to better rest.

Peeta does not seem to mind. In fact, the closer we get to de Vale, the more distant he becomes. At first, I am annoyed and hurt by this, but then I think about what it must mean to him, what it must take to fulfill this request – no this demand – from the man who might biologically be his father but whom is such only because he raped Peeta’s mother. What a sticky, uncomfortable position that must have constantly put Peeta in as a young man, even now as a man fully grown. Their relationship forever one part reluctant gratitude and one part utter loathing.

I cannot fathom how he handles it and manage my annoyance at his growing distance by lacing my fingers with his, kissing his cheek, and murmuring that I love him and that he can speak to me if he wishes to.

On the third day of travels, Peeta shifts uncomfortably, waking me from a nap after a fitful night of sleep. “What is it?”

“We’ve reached the border of de Vale,” he says simply.

“Oh good. I could use a cup of tea and a long stroll to stretch my legs,” I say and Peeta caresses over my cheek, tilting my lips up to his.

“I’m afraid that is still a few hours away, my love.”

“What?” I ask and practically crawl across his lap to lift the curtain and stare out at the lands.

Sharply sloped hills lead to craggy cliffs. Snow twirls through the air, tossed about by haphazard winds. The land is grey and brown and dismal, the snow sticking to the ground in patches without accumulation that make it appear… spotted and ugly. There is no sign of a house or a lane.

Peeta shifts me so that I may see better, ties back the curtain. I shiver and he wraps his arms and the blanket around me.

“It’s so…cold,” I say and he nods.

“And we’re not even to the house yet.”

I snort and set my hands over his so he will continue to hold me. “Is it truly another several hours’ journey?”

“Yes,” he says and I sigh.

We pass the next few hours sharing only scattered words. I would demand he put his hands under my skirts again to distract him, except he seems so agitated that I am uncertain of his response. As we draw closer, I can no longer stand the silence.

“Should we pretend to be miserable together? Would that satisfy the Marquis enough to hasten our visit?”

“It does not matter how we present ourselves. He will think he has won somehow.” I have no answer for that and turn a quizzical look towards Peeta. He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls that have behaved themselves all morning since we left the inn, but he explains. “If we are miserable, he will delight in it and claim it is because it is what we deserve. If we are happy, he will claim credit for that and arrogantly assume it is all his influence.”

I snort at this and make another suggestion. “And if we are silent and apathetic?”

“Close enough to miserable for him delight in that as well.”

“Are you not supposed to be making me like this man? He is technically your father.”

“He was never my father, not in any real sense. More of a benefactor.” Peeta looks out the window, away from me. His jaw tense and his frame rigid in his seat. I slide across the carriage seat to wrap my arms around him and kiss one cheek, then the other, claiming his attention.

“Then we might as well be just as we are, husband, no pretending, no games.”

“And what are we, wife?”

“Madly in love and ridiculously happy, of course,” I tell him and he smiles.

“That is an act I can manage quite easily, for it is no act at all,” he says and we distract ourselves with kisses for a few minutes.

Then the carriage slows and curiosity gets the better of me. I lean against the window as we turn down a lane marked with a massive stone archway, carved with intricate statuary. Angels pluck harps, wild stag flank the entrance, a fox scampers low to the ground. There are words inscribed at the apex of the arch, but I do not have a chance to read them before we are beneath it and moving on.

Peeta shifts again and when I turn to him, he is tugging at his collar as though it chokes him. I take his hand and pull it away. Our eyes meet and I tend to his collar and cravat, ensuring that it is once more perfect.

“Thank you.”

“It is just a cravat,” I whisper and I see my own feelings reflected in his eyes. We both know he means to thank me for far more than a bit of knotted silk. “And what of my appearance?”

“Perfect, although I now wish I had more time to have you looking well kissed,” he says with a slow, lopsided smile that makes me feel as though I could brave just about anything with Peeta by my side.

“I am always well kissed if you are present, husband.”

It seems to take an age to traverse the lane, almost as long as it would take to travel the breadth of Everdeen in its entirety, and still I am not prepared when the house finally comes into view.

“That is a castle… not a house,” I say and Peeta chuckles, the sound rather dark, but I shake my head, wondering how he can laugh. I imagine him as a boy, frightened and facing this for the first time. I am a woman fully grown and I feel the urge to run and hide at the imposing facade. “How terrified you must have been coming here for the first time.”

“It was not the first such manor I had seen. I grew up on one.” I glance back at him and scowl, waiting for the truth. He shrugs and examines his gloved fingers, folded in his lap. “It is quite different entering through the front door of one of these places as opposed to the servants’ entrances… So yes. I was petrified. By the time the Marquis brought me here, I had been living as part of his household for nearly six months and had already made an infinite number of errors, been at the sharp end of a strap countless times. At first, I feared the Marquis would toss me from the moving carriage on the road somewhere between Capitol and here and be done with me. I think in some ways I almost hoped for that to happen.”

“But he did not,” I say and Peeta nods.

“My presence kept Robert occupied and entertained so that the Marquis could read his papers the entire journey. I suppose he saw me as useful for the first time after that.”

My scowl and my dislike of the Marquis only deepens. Peeta takes my hand and squeezes once as the carriage reaches the courtyard. As soon as it halts, the door is opened.

“Master Mellark. Welcome home,” a nasal voice greets and Peeta gives the man a half smile that is more grimace than anything else as he heaves himself from the carriage.

“Thank you, Branson. How is Anastasia?”

“Ill with the grippe again, sir.” He sounds more annoyed than worried and I wonder at this.

“My condolences. I presume Doctor Hassel has been to see her?”

“We expect him this afternoon, sir.”

“Good,” Peeta says and extends his hand to me. I take it and carefully descend. “Branson, my wife, Katniss Mellark.”

“An honour, Madame,” says the dour looking man as he bows to me. He snaps upright and spins about, waving his hands in some sort of signal. A handful of servants descends on the carriage as Peeta and I slowly walk towards the front of the house. A carved archway, identical to the one over the gate, frames the front door, a massive and imposing thing of polished wood with ornate handles and knockers that I am not certain I could even grasp, they are so thick. I can make out the words on the archway this time and read them.

“Non ducor, duco.”

“I am not led, I lead,” Peeta translates and I shudder. From what I know of the Marquis, he is the last sort of man who should be allowed to lead anyone. Controlling and manipulative, cruel and untouchable, amoral yet seen as an example.

As we ascend the stairs, a woman with regal bearing and dressed in deep shades of purple steps onto the wide verandah, her hands folded in front of her.

“Whatever you do, do not give in to her bait,” he says under his breath. “She will attempt to have you screeching in anger or crying in despair at some point during this visit.”

“You wait to tell me this now?” I ask and he sighs.

“I feared that if I told you, you’d abandon me to face this alone,” his voice carries a slight whine and I cannot help but laugh at his discomfort.

“How many times must I remind you, husband…”

“You are not so fragile,” he finishes with a smile at me, but it fades as we reach the verandah. His usual, easy expression vanishes in favor of one far more somber than I am used to seeing. It is an expression suited to a funeral, not a homecoming.

“You grace us with your presence at last,” the woman calls out as we reach the top.

“Lady Mellark,” Peeta says when we halt in front of her. He bows and I curtsy, but I keep my eyes on this woman, who could have been my mother in law and instead is now simply a nuisance to me. “May I present my—“

“I know precisely who she is. The chit who was not exceptional enough for my Robert.”

Lady Tabitha Mellark is rather petite and delicate looking. Her brown hair a light shade, close to that of some of the reeds that grow alongside the lakes of Everdeen. Her nose tilts up the smallest amount and her green eyes seem almost vacant and unseeing, or perhaps bored as she flicks her gaze over us, dismisses us both. I add haughty and bitter to my list of descriptors for her.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Mellark,” I say in as sweet a voice as I can muster.

“Hm. Well, you’re not as pretty as a Mellark wife ought to be, but at least you are only married to an illegitimate son.” I’ve no idea how to respond to such insults and hold my tongue, refusing, as Peeta suggested, to rise to her bait. “Branson will see you to your rooms. Tea in an hour. Do not keep me waiting.”

Her edicts delivered, she spins about, her skirts flaring and her slippers clicking on stone then marble as she leaves us in the doorway.

“That went well, I think.”

“No bloodshed, tears, or screeching. I deem that a rousing success,” Peeta says and I laugh. The sound bounces off the walls as we enter the hall and I spot at least one servant who is startled by the noise.

We are barely over the threshold when a silent servant pauses in front of Peeta and presents a silver tray with a folded and sealed piece of parchment on it. I attempt to hide my surprise as Peeta accepts it with a murmured thanks and the servant disappears. He opens it, the sounds unbearably loud in the hall. As he reads, I examine the foyer and understand in an instant why Peeta implied that the house itself would seem far colder than the weather outside.

The place is a monument to wealth but feels nothing like a home. The foyer alone would hold one whole wing of Everdeen. Ornate fixtures and paintings turn the walls into a veritable museum. Tall narrow windows admit the faint winter light but the heavy, dark blue velvet drapes that hang in perfect shapes to imitate waterfalls give more the feeling of entrapment. I cannot help comparing the shimmering crystal chandeliers, and perfectly polished marble floors with no carpets to add warmth to the room with the warm tones, abundance of fabrics, the sturdy metal light fixtures, and worn wooden floors of Everdeen. The sprawling ceilings of de Vale to the cozy comfort of my own home.

I shiver and Peeta grumbles as he pockets the note, turning to rub warmth into my arms. “I am summoned already. Will you be alright getting us settled on your own?”

“I will be fine,” I assure him and tilt my head back to accept his soft kiss, a reassurance that I need before I watch him walk across the hall in one direction while the dour butler named Branson leads me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs in the other direction. The hallway on the second floor is lined with gleaming wooden doors on one side and more of the massively tall and narrow windows with their suffocating, imitation waterfall drapes on the other. Still no carpets. I will need to wear shoes at all times in this place.

I am pleasantly surprised by the room Branson shows me to, however. The wealth in it is still an excess and a little intimidating, but there is a cheery fire in the hearth, several thick rugs to hold the warmth, and the bed appears luxurious and inviting. Decorated in cheering yellows and warm green tones, the room is a circle of spring in a vast winter prison. It is the nicest piece of de Vale I’ve yet seen. A maid bobs a curtsy and scurries from the room as the butler mutters something to her. I do not hear the words, but I do hear the biting tone.

“Welcome to de Vale, Madame,” the butler says to me with a bow. “Lucy will be in shortly to assist in your unpacking. If there is anything you need, the bells are on the wall.”

“The bells?” I ask and turn towards where he gestured. A quartet of velvet cords all with etched placards. Kitchens. Laundry. Personal Maids. Housekeeping. “How efficient,” I mutter but when I turn around, Branson has disappeared.

In his place, a footman carries in my trunk and sets it near the bed. He bows and is gone before I can even speak. It is strange and coldly efficient and…aggravating. A maid appears on his heels, not the one from before, and curtsies before moving towards my trunk.

“There’s no need,” I say and she purses her lips.

“You do not wish to unpack?”

“I can manage for myself,” I say and smile at the girl. She’s young. Barely older than Prim, if I had to guess. This must be Lucy.

“But the Mistress…”

“Oh there is no need to worry about that. She’s no need to know that I unpacked my own things.” The maid stands there, looking confused and something strikes me then. “Where is…where is my husband’s luggage?”

“It would have been taken to his rooms,” Lucy states as though that is obvious.

“His rooms? Next door then?” I look about for a door to an adjoining room, for surely that must be what the maid means by his rooms, but I see none.

“No, ma’am. His rooms are in the east wing, with the family.”

“And what is this?” I ask, growing more aggravated by the second.

“This is the west wing…for guests.” I stare at her and she shifts her weight on her feet.

“For guests,” I say and clench my teeth. Whether this is Lady Full of Insults or Lord High and Mighty Mellark’s doing, the message is clear. I am not welcome. I am a guest, an interloper, and despite our marriage, despite that they never truly loved him as I do, Peeta somehow still belongs to them, not to me.

“Shall I unpack your things now?”

“Indeed not,” I say and move towards the door.

Glancing up and down the hallway I hail yet another servant who is carrying a parcel of firewood down the hall. “You there! Do you know your way about this monstrosity?”

“Er…me?”

“Yes, you. There is no one else presently in the hall.” He glances about him and seems almost surprised that he is in fact alone. “Where is that firwood bound?”

“The Neptune Room….just there.” He tilts his head towards the door adjacent to mine and I nod.

“Very well. If you would be so kind as to deliver your firewood and then return to assist me with my things? Oh I suppose I should ask…are you capable of carrying them to Mr. Peeta Mellark’s rooms?”

“Master Peeta’s room?” The man gapes and turns nearly puce at the mention of the name. I gather my skirts and my temper as I respond.

“Yes. He is my husband and by some error, I seem to have been banished to the far reaches of Egypt instead of placed with him.” Lucy the maid snorts and the man still gapes at me. “Can you assist me?”

“Assist you with your things?”

“Yes,” I say and smile. “Unless I need ask Branson to–”

“No!” The man nearly shouts then clears his throat. “No need, Madame. I can see to your needs.” He scurries down the hall and I grasp hold of my healing kit. The footman returns, wiping his hands on his trousers and lifts my trunk. “This way.”

Lucy follows us, despite my earlier assurance that I do not require her assistance. It is a bit of a long journey, winding through the halls to the other side of the house, and when we reach it, there’s little difference in the decor. Wealth drips from the trimmings and trappings and yet none of it appears loved or worn or even lived in. The place is spotless. Even as a bright shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom outside and lays across the floor, I find no dust motes dancing in the illuminated air. I feel as though one must tiptoe in a place such as this and place a protective palm over my womb, as though our mere presence in such a soul sucking place might snatch the life growing inside me straight from my body.

Then I catch Peeta’s voice coming from an open door that spills warm firelight and the welcome tones I am now so familiar with into the hallway. I hurry around the footman and ignore his mild protest as I come to a halt in the doorway.

“Oh. Forgive the intrusion,” I say as two sets of eyes turn towards me. One set is blue and belongs to my husband, the other is green and belongs to a man of similar build and vaguely similar features, though not an exact replica. His hair is stick straight and a soft shade of light brown, the exact shade as Lady Mellark’s. He is undeniably handsome, impeccably dressed, and his lips quirk as we stand examining one another.

“Ah, Katniss this is Ethan,” Peeta explains, motioning towards his brother.

“So I gathered,” I say and manage a slight curtsy as the eldest Mellark son examines me from a distance. No matter, I am doing the same, attempting to determine if this is an ally or a foe. Peeta’s only spoken of him in vague terms. I keep my eyes on Ethan and aim my words at Peeta. “I’ve had my things moved.”

“Moved?” Peeta asks and I nod.

“Yes, it seems there was some mistake that placed me in the west wing. Lovely room, but the distance to the dining room and parlor seemed rather formidable. I suppose with such a large house and so many guests in and out that it is a mistake that must happen at least once. I’ve seen it remedied and had my things moved to your rooms, husband, with the assistance of this fine man.” I motion towards the footman still balancing my trunk.

“Jefferies?” Peeta asks and the footman shifts nervously on his feet.

“Yes, sir. I’ll just deliver this and be back to my chores,” the footman says and shuffles down the hall several doors. I then examine the room where Ethan and Peeta stand and notice the family crest, complete with the motto in Latin, woven into the tapestry on one wall. A portrait of the Marquis and Marchioness hanging over the mantle along with a pair of crossed swords. A door leading into a separate bedroom, for this is only an antechamber, a sitting room. This is the room of a first born son and heir, I realise – Ethan’s room, not Peeta’s. I flush at my blunder before taking a step back.

“Well. I think I shall go freshen up for tea. Wouldn’t want to be late,” I say and incline my head towards them before sliding down the hall.

“Good lord. You were not exaggerating,” I hear Ethan say with laughter in his voice. I would take offense at this seeming insult, but Peeta’s answer comes with a clear note of admiration in it, the words themselves praise as well.

“Not in the least. The heart of a lioness.”

“She’ll need it. Mother’s itching for a squall.”

“Is that why you’re here without Sarah and the children?”

“Partly, though now I regret it. I feel as though your wife and mine might make a formidable pairing.”

“Crafty, unstoppable, and terrifying,” Peeta answers, his words slightly muffled as though uttered into a glass near his mouth. Ethan laughs at this.

So the Marchioness is itching for a squall, is she? I’ve no need to hear any more. I roll my shoulders back and march towards the door through which the footman disappeared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first glance, I thought his room to be much like the others – imposing with its impeccable wealth and taste, cold in its impersonal attempts at intimidation, masculine with its heavy woods and dark draperies – but the longer I examine it, the more I notice the small touches of Peeta hidden throughout.

A well worn sofa before the fire with plush cushions and even a large footstool. I examine the thing and make notes to add such a piece to our own sitting area. A low shelf with books, both for reading and for sketching. A box tucked next to the sofa filled with watercolors and charcoals. He should bring those with him when we depart. A cane leaning against the mantle, the handle worn smooth. We should take that as well, as he mentioned that sometimes the cold weather aggravates his leg and makes walking difficult.

Paintings adorn the wall, not the classic portraiture in heavy gilt frames meant to impose feelings of gratitude for the Lord and Lady, but a wide landscape painted directly on the plaster walls, sprawling green fields and gentle rolling hills dotted with sheep and trees, up to the ceiling painted as a sky around the ornate mouldings. It looks very much like Everdeen and I wonder who painted it.

As Lucy and I unpack, I open a rather ancient looking wardrobe to perhaps hang my dress for dinner and startle at the black as night coat trimmed in blood red and moonlight silver that greets me. Peeta’s uniform. It is ready to be worn again, odd for a garment that has spent more than a year hanging here unused and will likely never be worn again. The bright brass buttons are polished to a high shine and the silver braiding over the cuffs and lapels gleams even in the faint winter light, the red collar stands at attention. I reach out and run my hand over the shoulder, turning it slightly and staring at the decorations pinned to the breast. A regimental insignia and an ornate cross hanging from a short bit of red ribbon. I slide my hand beneath it and read the words etched into the polished silver.

Cum Fortitudine et Honore

My Latin is patchy at best, primarily focused on botany and the natural sciences, but even I can decipher the phrase. “With Courage and Honour.” Did my husband receive some sort of medal of valour then? I’ve no answer and will not find it here. I step back away from the thing and then step forward again to push it into the shadows. Then I hang several of my dresses next to Peeta’s other coats, ones I recognize, to better hide the reminder of where the Marquis sent Peeta to disappear, to perhaps die.

By the time Peeta joins me, I have freshened up and changed my dress with assistance from Lucy, and am now enjoying some quiet time to myself. I sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire and tapping my nails on my teeth, forming a battle plan as best I can to prepare for tea. The sound of the door shutting startles me and I relax when I see Peeta leaning against the panel.

“Who is Jeffries?” I ask and Peeta shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“Straight as an arrow and right to the ugly. Jeffries used to be Robert’s valet. After Robert eloped with Delly, the Marquis dismissed him. Or at least, I thought he had. Ethan tells me that Jeffries begged for mercy. His wife was with child at the time, they now have a newborn infant. She had been one of the seamstresses the Marchioness employs. Now she is a laundry maid and he is a footman. A significant pay cut and demotion for them both, and I suspect something else possibly unsettling although I cannot yet be sure, but at least they are not starving on the streets.”

“Such generosity,” I sneer and Peeta moves to sit beside me. “I should think he deserves a raise, not a demotion.”

Peeta laughs and turns my face to kiss me. “I did consider hiring him, and his wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but as I was not certain you would want to add any more bodies to our household right now, I did not wish to make a decision without consulting you.”

“I think it inspired! As thanks for the great favour he did us both. Although I think we should warn poor Jeffries that a post as your valet will be most trying.”

“As will a post as your seamstress,” Peeta says, encircling me with his arms. I care not if he will wrinkle my dress. I feel that I need this moment with him before we take the field against the Mellarks, and it seems that he does too, as we both quickly yield to the need to kiss one another.

“Your room is the most welcoming in the house,” I say forlornly when he lifts his head, and he sighs.

“It was not when it first became mine. It required several years of secret alterations and at least a dozen arguments with Lady Mellark to make it so.” I tilt my head and gaze into his eyes, trying to imagine what that must have felt like.

“We should give Miranda a choice of rooms.”

“That or give her the option to change whatever she wishes, to make her feel at home, as though she has some form of choice,” Peeta agrees. We pass what time we have left before tea just like that, murmuring soft plans for our future with an adopted child. Ensuring that we are in agreement, a united front as parents, before we even sign the papers for her custody. We need not even say why, but being here in this house makes it clear to me what sort of parents we do not wish to be.

Eventually, we can tarry no longer and Peeta leads me down the halls and into the parlor. I feel as though I am being crushed almost the moment I enter. The ceiling soars to a painting of angels and demons locked in some sort of combat and the dark shades of burgundy and purple make me think the walls are bleeding. What a pleasant room for tea.

My fingers clench on Peeta’s arm as Ethan joins us. The two of them resume their conversation as though nothing is amiss. Ethan shares news of Sarah and his children, his voice happy and light. He speaks of a place called Medora and Peeta explains that it is one of the family’s lesser properties, acquired as part of a dowry nearly a century ago.

“The place is gothic but Sarah adores it,” Ethan explains. “Until we moved in, it rarely saw any use. Now it is thriving. You should visit for Christmas sometime. Sarah sees the place decorated with so much green it feels near to summer inside. The children fashion ornaments to hang from all those grim suits of armour in the hall.”

“That sounds lovely,” I manage to say, because the more Ethan speaks about his family, the more I think he was right. I grow to like the sound of his wife and his family and wonder at how the first born son and heir wound up so different from the current Marquis. How did he avoid the influence and shaping his personality after his father as so many young men attempt to do?

We’ve sat and talked for close to a half hour before Lady Tabitha finally deigns to join us. It is rather annoying, her tardiness after her insistence that we not be late. Tardiness is apparently reserved for the titled and wealthy, the privilege of others excusing your poor manners due to your wealth. She sweeps into the room with a maid bearing tea service in trail.

“Mother, you look well,” Ethan greets and stands, as does Peeta. Ethan kisses her cheek lightly when she turns it up for him. She sweeps right past Peeta with no acknowledgement and stands in front of me.

“You will serve, and you will not embarrass this family,” she orders and then turns to carefully arrange her skirts before sitting, prim and stiff. She watches me closely, every movement of mine under scrutiny. What little conversation we have is stiff and formal.

“Sugar?”

“Two lumps, if you please…no not that one. Those are stuck together.”

“How were the roads, Ethan?”

“Cold and barren but not much ice yet. It should still be safe for me to return to Sarah as planned.”

“Hmmm and how do you find de Vale so far….?” It takes a moment for me to realise she addresses me since she gives no name.

“Magnificent. I do so love the mural in our rooms. Is the artist still living or was that done some time ago?”

“Mural? What mural? There is no mural in the Proserpina Room.”

“Oh no, Madame. I am not staying in the Proserpina Room, but with my husband.” I say and take a delicate sip of my tea. Ethan attempts to hide his smile as Lady Mellark turns to Peeta.

“I suppose this was your doing? Countermanding me again? Have you no shame?” Before he can answer, she moves on. “I suppose you’ve grown accustomed to how things are done in a less refined area of the country. How do you find your new residence?”

“Thriving and fertile, madame.” Her face colours at these words and the bare minimum of courtesy seen to, she returns focus to her son.

“The children should come home for Christmas, Ethan.”

“We would, Mother, except Sarah is…well not feeling well lately.”

“Is she with child?”

“No, Mother. We’ve spoken about this.”

“It is ridiculous. You need a second son. I bore three. Sarah can manage two.”

“She had great difficulty with Genevieve. We do not wish to risk–”

“Pish. Motherhood is sacrifice. Marriage to a Marquis is a duty. She must be willing to make the sacrifice and perform her duties to carry on the name or not be a mother at all. Really Ethan, you have been married far too long for her to be so derelict. You must guide her in these matters if her understanding is so lacking.”

Somewhere in this exchange, I begin to wonder if there is nightshade or perhaps hemlock growing anywhere on the grounds. I might attempt more pepper in the tea at the very least if that would cease her damnable judgements, only I fear some poor servant would feel her wrath instead of me, much like Jeffries. While I am contemplating lacing her tea with poison, Peeta devises an entirely different method of dealing with her.

“If it is the continuation of the Mellark name you worry for, my lady, then there is still much hope. Katniss and I are happy to announce that we are expecting.”

“Indeed we are. Sometime in the summer,” I confirm and bat my lashes shamelessly at Peeta.

Ethan coughs violently into his tea and I bask in the angry flush that sprouts around Lady Tabitha’s collar and quickly spreads up her neck to her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Tabitha does not attend dinner, begging off with a headache and choosing to take her meal in her chambers. The Marquis does attend dinner, however, and my opinion of him remains unchanged from our first meeting. I search for redeeming qualities in him, as he must have something redeeming, but by the end of the meal, I am convinced that any good qualities he can lay claim to are not truly his…they belong to his sons.

The Marquis spends the time interrogating me on everything from the health of my father and my uncle to the status of our harvest to Peeta’s announcement at tea that I am with child. He sneers at most of my responses and I see precisely what Peeta meant in the carriage. The man clearly believes the world revolves around him. The arrogance, conceit, the need to lay claim to and control every aspect of his miniscule environment is astonishing and infuriating. I am struck with the insane urge to call the man out for a duel for the sheer audacity of insulting my husband at every turn. I care not that he was somewhat generous in financially providing for Peeta. He is a wretched father. To all his sons.

I am forced to sit next to Ethan, Peeta across the table from me. I would complain and pitch a fit, except that he has shifted his seat so that his booted foot is pressed up close to mine beneath the table. This small connection feeds me at least a touch of his steadiness and strength, bolstering me enough to deal with the constant line of questioning and beratement, and the fact that I am unable to finish a single course.

The food appears, enticing in aroma and appearance. Clearly the Marquis employs only the finest for his kitchen staff, yet I am not given opportunity to enjoy it. He asks the questions, I am expected to answer. I do so as quickly as possible, and Peeta does attempt to answer in my stead several times. Unfortunately, the Marquis seems to recognise this tactic of his and manages the conversation so that I am almost forced to answer, and before I can take more than a few bites, the dishes are whisked away, hardly touched in my case.

When dessert is finally cleared, I am ready to leap after the poor footman to claw my slice of cake from his grip and scarf it down in one bite.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” the Marquis states, pulling my chair back and helping me from it when dinner is done. His touch on my hand has my skin crawling and I manage a forced smile as I compliment the excellence of the food. He nods as though it is expected, then turns to his two sons. “Shall we retire to the study?”

Peeta lingers, risking censure no doubt for the signs of affection he bestows on me. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “I have something waiting for you in our rooms. Don’t wander or it will spoil.”

I nod and fight back tears. I am tired and hungry, angry and heartsick and he is abandoning me to drink bourbon and smoke cigars in the study with his arrogant bastard of a father, sending me straight to bed like an errant child. Peeta gives me a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek and then he is gone. I consider wandering about the halls against his advice, but I am so tired and fear another bout of nausea that I trudge back to our rooms.

When I arrive, I shut the door and am preparing to fling myself on the bed to have a good cry when I notice the massive silver tray with a domed cover sitting on the footstool before the fire. I hurry over and lift the cover, laughing and crying at the sight of an entire dinner, all of the courses I missed out on, waiting for me. I savor them and relish the tastes. One dish at a time. A creamy, yellow squash soup, a plate of cool greens and ripe cucumbers in a dressing flavored with dill. How did they manage cucumbers at this time of year? There must be a greenhouse for vegetables somewhere on the grounds. Roast quail and orange marmalade, crusty bread with rosemary. Beef braised in a dark almost cherry flavored wine sauce. Fluffy chocolate cake and a creamy white chocolate beverage.

When I finish with my feast, I ring for Lucy and dress for bed. When Peeta joins me, I am sitting on the footstool, warming myself by the fire and brushing my hair.

“Thank you for the dinner,” I say softly. “It was delicious.”

“You should have been allowed to eat it at the table with the rest of us. I am sorry that I could not keep him from interrogating you so.”

“Hm,” I hum and chuckle slightly. “I begin to understand what you meant when you first described the reason for this visit.” He sits on the sofa behind me and takes the brush from my hands, assuming the task of brushing my hair.

“I used to despise this place, this room. I may have altered it to fit my tastes as much as possible, but it was still never truly mine. I was reminded of that constantly, reminded that I would always be unwelcome,” he whispers. I relax under his gentle ministrations and tilt my head so he may kiss my neck. I shiver at each intimate touch. I can smell the sweet smoke of cigar on him, but underneath that, unable to be fully doused or eradicated, I catch the scents of vetiver from Everdeen and Peeta’s skin. He is still mine, we are still us, despite what rifts the Marquis and Marchioness may attempt to cause. He sets the brush aside and begins braiding my hair for me. “You make it feel more like home than it ever could have before. I think because you have become my home, Katniss.” When he is done, he slides his arms around my waist, his palms spanning my stomach, protecting our child. “Should I apologise for my abrupt announcement at tea?”

“No,” I say as he once more kisses my neck, causing such delightful shivers to tremble through me. “No it was worth it to see her lose her grasp on her arrogance. If only we could come up with some such announcement to affect the Marquis.”

Peeta chuckles against my neck and continues kissing me. “She would have badgered Ethan another hour if no one shocked her out of it.” But I do not wish to speak of Ethan nor of Lady Mellark when there are much more pleasant things we could be doing.

“Peeta, I feel as you do. Everdeen is my home, but you are as well. We brought our home with us in a way. Let me show you?” I whisper and turn to face him. I kiss him, tasting the bourbon on his tongue, gently pushing him back to relax on the sofa, so that I might climb into his lap and curl up in his arms, to kiss him for as long as I wish to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you know what I want right now?” I say into the stifling darkness of our rooms as we lay in bed, the moonlight a cool companion and the fire a crackling balm.

“Mmmm, I would not even attempt to guess at the desires of a pregnant lady. I however,” Peeta murmurs and pulls me roughly up against his chest, “would like a smaller bed so that my wife would cease wandering so far. I am beginning to miss those tiny beds at the inn.”

I chuckle at this and wriggle deeper into his arms. My stomach makes a most unladylike noise then. “But clearly that will not be what you are wishing for so let’s have it, wife. Was the dinner I had sent in not enough?”

“It was at the time, but I am making a child. This requires great sustenance.”

“What do you need, my love? Say the word and it is yours.”

“Bread,” I say and sit up. “Fresh, warm bread.”

“Now that I think I can help with,” he says and joins me in sitting up. We are giddy as children as we pull on whatever clothing we have nearest and cover it with dressing robes and slippers. We scurry through the vast, empty halls, ignoring the cold and the snow as it falls outside the wide windows.

“When we were children and would sneak to the kitchens like this for a late snack, Robert and I would pretend the halls were haunted. We had to evade all the ghosts and goblins that inhabited the drapes at night.” I laugh as he continues telling me the story, imagining the two boys dodging spectres while in search of a tasty pudding or wedge of cheese.

We reach the massive kitchens and I gasp in appropriate awe. He laughs and fires up the ovens, inserts a loaf that has finished rising to bake. Then he quickly sheds his dressing robe and rolls up his sleeves. I do the same and stand before the wide table.

“Teach me?” He smiles and turns me so that he stands behind me, his arms around me and his hands guiding mine as we flour the surface then mix the ingredients and work the dough together. As we knead, he murmurs instructions. It is heady, rhythmic work, coaxing the dough into something usable and nourishing. I barely hear his words, my entire body alive and pulsing with warmth at performing the simple task with him. When our bread is set aside to rise and the loaf he placed in the oven sits sliced on the counter, emitting curls of steam and burning my fingertips as I grasp a slice, I smile and hoist myself onto the plank, kicking my feet as he moves to stand near me.

“Tell me about your father.” A cloud passes over his eyes and I shake my head, grasp hold of his shirt and pull him closer, to stand between my knees. “No. Not him. I meant the baker. William Thackeray. Tell me more about him.”

“He was…kind and quiet, but when he spoke, it was always worth listening. He…he always had a story to tell me, some about the people on the estate, many more that I’ve no idea where he came up with them. Perhaps they were born of his own mind.”

Peeta’s face relaxes then, and as he speaks and we eat, the kitchen fills with warmth and light, laughter and evident love. The cold intimidation of this place cannot touch us here. He tells me the stories. About the man who raised him, taught him kindness and to view the world as it ought to be rather than how it is. Who taught him the importance of acting as one ought rather than as one can get away with. A man who could spin tales from nothing but sugar and air and coaxing them from words the way we did bread from dough.

“I wish I could have met him,” I say when he falls silent and Peeta nods, lifts my hand to his lips.

“As do I. He would have adored you, but then… you and I likely never would have married. Probably never even met, had he lived.” The truth of Peeta’s statement does little to dull the regret that I see in his eyes, that I feel in my soul. I shift my arms to wrap around his neck and hold him close, close enough to remove all of the cold air between us, close enough to wrap my legs around him and bring him closer still. Peeta buries his face in my hair, his strong arms around me and his lips just touching my neck, sending warmth spiraling through me, down to my toes. My fingers twist strands of his hair and this…this moment here feels far too good to let it end.

“I think I am ready to sleep now, husband.” I eventually say when a loud yawn over takes me.

“Sleep or…is there something else you require, now that you are fed?” He lifts one eyebrow at me and I laugh.

“No, sleep will suffice. We will need our rest for the morning. I am sure the Marchioness will have regrouped and be prepared with fresh salvos readied for breakfast.”

Peeta laughs and hand in hand, we return upstairs to our bed where he holds me close to him through the long, cold night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days pass much like the first. I see little of the Marquis, although he does send word every so often, summoning Peeta to his side for one thing or another. When I am forced to be in the Marquis’ presence, I am constantly unsettled, uncertain if the roiling nausea is due to pregnancy or to the way in which Peeta’s father regards me, like some sort of specimen to be dissected and then consumed. He frightens me with his cold blue eyes that could be Peeta’s, his joyless smile that could be Peeta’s. His well crafted biting words and insults that could be Peeta’s, for even in his cruelty I can recognise the talent with words that his son wields, only with far more kindness and grace.

And that, I think is the crux of what makes me so ill at ease, seeing this dark, twisted, mutilated version of the man I love and knowing that Peeta could have been like this… except that he is not.

I spend half my mornings bored and sitting in the parlor with Lady Mellark, pretending to be industrious at sewing. Afternoon tea with Lady Mellark and Peeta by my side where we trade veiled insults as much as we trade pleasantries. It feels like a constant war and after one particularly gruesome tea time, I mutter to Peeta that the infantry must have felt like a stay of execution after life here. Dinner with Lord Mellark, Ethan, and Lady Mellark if she feels up to it, then I am sent to my room like an errant child, banished from the evening, manly entertainments.

It is a strange manner of entertaining guests, so unlike how we entertain at Everdeen. There, it is an entire event, all focused on ensuring the happy nature of our guests’ visit. Here, I feel as though guests are not welcome. A nuisance, and interruption of the importance of the family. When I am not expected to perform for our hosts, I spend my time wandering. I walk in the gardens or explore the vast halls. Peeta is able to join me on some days and instead of boring me with the history and importance of each room, he weaves a different sort of tale, just as he did our first night here.

As he speaks, he paints such a picture that I can see it as though it is happening before me. Peeta and Robert as boys, enacting the stories William Thackeray gave to his son, a dowry of irreplaceable wealth for the life he was to lead here and then adding their own creations to the repertoire – sword fighting with the suits of armor outside the dining room, launching expeditions into the cellars to slay dragons, befriending them instead and pretending their dragon companions accompanied them as protectors on all future expeditions.

“Phineas and Isabelle,” Peeta tells me. “They preferred to eat lemon custard and cherry tarts rather then boys and lambs.”

“They did or their human companions did?” I ask with a smile and Peeta shrugs.

“The poor dragons were blamed for any number of pilfered desserts.”

The ballroom becomes a desert to be crossed and the gardens outside their wall of stained glass doors the oasis. A little used kitchen intended to prepare quick meals for the guests to consume in their rooms is turned into a sailing ship, each guest room a new island to be explored. Treasure buried under mattresses or wardrobes, disgruntled maids and guests when they discovered it. The grounds themselves presented limitless possibilities, too many for Peeta to cover while we are indoors but his words give me an inkling. All of the stories Peeta’s father brought to life in a warm kitchen on another estate in another time, used here as a shield against the dismal silence and suffocating expectations, a source of bonding for a pair of half brothers both in desperate need of someone to love them unconditionally, to care for them.

It sounds so lovely when he describes it, so much like my own childhood with Madge, hiding in corners of our own homes, venturing forth on the grounds. But here at de Vale, the lofty house almost demands more fantastical imaginings than she and I conjured, and Peeta provided. A thousand different worlds unleashed from his mind with Robert by his side, then locked away again when the Lord and Lady entered the room. I am glad that Peeta was able to find some shred of light, laughter, happiness, beauty, and love here.

On days when he cannot join me, I dress warm and wander on my own, all about the gardens, impressive even in their dormant winter state, through the humid greenhouses as I inhale the pungent scent of warm earth, digging my fingers into the soil to feel any sort of connection with my home, to remember who I am. Into forgotten rooms still kept pristine, where lessons were once taught and now silence reigns. An art studio with brushes awaiting an artist, half done paintings on a pair of easels, paints in a neat line, the only proof of use the speckles of color on the floor beneath and on the lip of the easel itself. A library with shelves upon shelves of books on every subject imaginable. I read as much as possible, sitting upon a cushioned window seat and basking in the cool shafts of winter sun that dare to poke through the clouds. The place is silent most of the time, like a tomb or a palace lost in time. So very silent and somber, it drives me near mad, and I am grateful when Peeta is able to join me and fills the world with such beautiful imaginings.

“Because Ethan and Henry both refuse to live here with their children,” Peeta explains the silence now. There are no more children to fill the barren halls of de Vale with laughter and games.

Together, we find some hidden treasures that I cannot resist asking Peeta about. In a room that Peeta calls the Music Room, there are half a dozen instruments covered in canvas coverings, piles of untouched sheet music beside the piano bench, and a half covered painting. When I peel back the fabric draped over it, I gasp in shock. It depicts a stunning woman and her lover, caught in an amorous embrace, only a sheet wrapped about their hips to preserve a shred of modesty.

“That would be Aunt Chastity. Not my aunt, but Robert’s and the others as well. Lady Tabitha’s sister.”

“How does a lady named Chastity wander into such a …salacious painting? In her sister’s home no less!”

“Chastity ran off to the continent to become an opera singer. She was rumored to be exceptional. Eventually, she became a paramour to a French prince. She sent this painting of herself and her prince as a birthday gift for Lady Tabitha one year. The Marchioness wished to burn it, the Marquis refused. They fought terribly over it and the final solution was to hang it in the Music Room. None of us have taken up an instrument and Lady Tabitha has not played since years before I even came here, so it remains mostly unseen back here.”

I laugh for at least an hour over that story. Although I should feel some pity for Lady Mellark, I instead feel some affinity for the mysterious and daring Lady Chastity. We leave the painting uncovered when we depart the room.

Despite our shared moments of levity, I begin to dream of a fog, silent and lethal as it creeps towards me and chokes the breath from me. When that happens, Peeta is there to soothe me, his own sleep poor in a place full of unpleasant memories. We do what we can, holding one another, sneaking into the kitchens late at night to bake and to talk.

Perhaps it would be easier to manage if we were not separated so much during the days. Perhaps it would be easier if we could lose ourselves in physical love in the nights, but with each night that we remain here, passion and desire seem to drain from us a little more. The cold surroundings leech all warmth that dares to challenge the manor’s solemn hold, and that includes lust. This place steals it from us in small degrees until I feel it is near a miracle that we even embrace as we sleep.

It does not help that I am in constant war with my own body, as the violent swings in mood continue. I cycle between ill, irritable, and sad with alarming speed and no warning. The moments of feeling happy or desire become shorter and infrequent, and it frightens me but I’ve no idea how to cure such a thing. I write to Mother about it yet know the answer will not reach me until we are in Capitol.

Every night, I lay close to my husband, resting my ear on his chest that I might feel and hear the steady thump of his heart, a soothing lullaby. His physical warmth and the steady strength of his arms about me serves as both a shield against the crippling cold of this place and as a reminder of the warmth, the heat that lives and breathes as part of his soul, even if it is forced into submission and retreat in this tomb of a house. I will not allow it to be extinguished. I cannot lose the man in the mask, my husband, my love, my Peeta.

Near the end of our stay, I ask Peeta to show me the family portrait gallery, that we might repeat our game from the masquerade. Most of them are as expected, grim and somber, an entire family full of its own importance. Peeta has very few stories to share about them, though.

“Ethan would be better able to give you the family history,” Peeta admits but then I find one he must know about and drag him before it. “Ah yes. The Marchioness delivers an heir.”

I tilt my head and examine the portrait of Lady Tabitha, smiling and benign, holding a chubby infant looking equally as tranquil. “The painter failed to capture the essence of her smile.”

Peeta shakes his head, clearly hiding laughter as we move to the next. Lady Tabitha again with yet another cherubic looking infant. “Henry?”

“Henry. And Ethan in the frame next to him at three years of age.” I smile at the painting of Ethan sitting and looking disgruntled with either his bonnet or the wooden toy horse in his meaty fists. “It became a tradition thereafter. First at birth, then every three years after, a new portrait of each of her sons. The math conveniently worked out as they were spread three years then six years apiece.”

I take another step and quickly peruse the next set. Ethan at six, standing and holding the reins to a squat horse, Henry as a toddler with a wooden sword and a vacant expression. Then onwards to Lady Tabitha with Robert on her lap as an infant. Nine year old Ethan in what appears to be a school uniform, six year old Henry sitting at a desk with quill and parchment. A pictorial timeline of the boys as they grow older by three year leaps with every few steps that I take.

My shoes scrape the marble as I halt and stare at a face out of the timeline, to be certain, I glance back at the ones I’ve only just viewed. Ethan at one and twenty, dashing and confident. Henry at eighteen, stoic and studious. Robert at twelve, charming and mischievous. Here now a fourth face in the grouping. I glance back at Peeta for an answer.

“Robert refused to sit for his portrait the year he turned twelve…unless I sat for one as well. The Marchioness spent a full three days in isolation after the Marquis ordered it hung here.”

I turn back and tilt my head to examine Peeta at fourteen years old, his blonde curls haphazard. Blue eyes somber. There is, as always, no denying the brotherly similarities.

“So there are more portraits of you here?” An excitement fills me at the idea of seeing some part of Peeta’s growth through the years.

“It was one of Robert’s many small acts of rebellion, in addition to insisting on calling me his twin. Every three years, he demanded that I be painted in portrait and join them here as one of the brothers Mellark, ensuring that I was at least shown to be part of the family, if not always made to feel as such.”

“No wonder you would do so much for him,” I muse as I continue down the line of portraits.

While I note the maturation of each brother as we walk, it is Peeta’s face I seek with each new set. At seventeen, showing the signs of the man he would become, the full lips and chiseled jawline more prominent, his youth still evident in slightly rounded cheeks. And then…

“Oh,” I say as I stop once more in front of him, at the age of twenty this time.

“What is it?”

I do not know how to account for the difference. It is still his face, the same collection of features though aged and mature — the devil may care styling of his curls, freckles dusting his nose, limpid blue eyes, the exact curve of cupid’s bow, his ears just right. Yet this portrait is entirely different, and not simply because he is all man in appearance. It is undeniably clear in his expression as well. The hint of a smile lurks about his lips and the expression in his eyes!

Heaven and mercy! had I been in Capitol for Madge’s debut as had been planned the year this portrait was painted, and not at Everdeen dealing with a poor harvest year, had I met this expression across a ballroom, I fear that my heart would have been forfeit in an instant. Even now it patters madly at this almost knowing and teasing and tempting expression. This gaze that taunts and whispers: Follow me to shadowed alcoves. Share your secrets. Lift your skirts a bit. The pleasure I can offer will be worth the danger of ruin.

I am heated then chilled in rapid turns and cannot look away as my knees acquire all the rigidity of blackberry jam. Then words rise up from memory to provide an answer, an explanation for the change in him.

The stupid impetuousness of youth.

Of course. This portrait is of a young man who has recently discovered the thrill and satisfaction to be found in a woman’s body. The portrait of a man who has recently removed a corset and thus his boyhood.

“Who was she?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The woman you were thinking of when you sat for this.”

“What do you mean?” I turn to face him and clench my hands together, a sense of dread and foreboding filling me.

“Peeta… I am not stupid, nor am I so naive. I’ve seen you look at me with this expression. I know what it means. Who was she?”

“Ah,” Peeta makes a noise or two of discomfort.

“Who was she?” I repeat.

“Are you certain you wish to hear? I cannot take it back, Katniss. I cannot change the past.”

“No but I can use it to understand who you are now.” He hesitates and then turns me back to face the paintings. To face his captured visage as he discovered manhood and sexual prowess. I hate her. Whoever she is, I hate her, as illogical as it may be.

“Her father was on commission with the Marquis. He painted every portrait in this series,” he points back down the hall from whence we just came, “and she was his apprentice for nearly thirty years until his death, some time prior to my twentieth birthday. While the Marquis and Marchioness had reservations hiring a female painter when it came time for this set to be done, she challenged them to give her a chance. She painted Ethan first,” he moves me back down the line and points to the difference in skill, in the fidelity and shading, the techniques between the years before and this set. I must admit to myself that even Ethan at nine and twenty and Henry at six and twenty appear more like themselves, more alive when captured with her brush than they did under her father’s. “The Marquis acknowledged her skills far surpassed her father’s. She has painted every portrait since.”

“And how did you wind up beneath her skirts?” I ask, unable to keep the bite of jealousy from my voice.

“We shared a commonality, low birth and an interest in art,” he says as we return to the portrait of him. “I began drawing as a child. Pigs and cats and things drawn with bits of rock and chalk, on the paving stones at Hilston House. Then parchment and charcoal when I continued to show a desire to draw. My mother… my mother taught me. She used to draw as well and my father would spend what he could spare on parchment and pencils for us. When I came here, Robert learned of the interest and asked the Marchioness to hire a painting master to teach him, and by that he meant to teach us, even though Robert had no interest in studying the arts.”

“Because she would have refused if she knew it was truly for you.” Another way in which Robert showed his affection for Peeta.

“Yes. She,” he points back at the portrait, “was willing to speak with me at length about art and that led to discussing other topics. We became friends of a sort.”

“And that led to not talking and not being friends,” I mutter. “You had a torrid love affair with a painter who was twice your age.” Peeta does not answer, for there is no need to.

It burns, the knowledge that this expression of sublime flirtation and desire was aimed at some other woman than me. I knew there had been someone before me, but seeing him thus, through her eyes, burns almost as badly as running through open flames. Because I have seen something like this expression myself, hovering over me in our bed, teasing me across drawing rooms when he knows my thoughts wander to the salacious and I can do nothing about it. I thought that look was mine and mine alone yet here it is in oil pigments, permanently captured and saved for someone else to remember his lips, his embrace, his body against hers.

I can see it so clearly. Peeta sitting in a chair, confidently flirting, slinging witty remarks and distracting a blushing beauty as she attempts to paint him, admonishing him to stop moving so she may finish and they might engage in other activities. His hands wandering up her skirts, eliciting soft moans and high pitched cries of pleasure. His mouth…learning the intricacies of a woman’s pleasure under her tutelage…bodies spread across that massive bed beneath the wide azure sky painted on his ceiling… I am on fire with rage and jealousy and the need to smash something and watch it burn too.

“Katniss, please,” he reaches for me. I feel the approach of his touch in the change in the air around me. My body responds and I shake my head, stepping out of his grasp. “You wanted to know.”

I did, and now that I have asked, a hundred more questions tumble about in my mind, several of them spill from my lips, forced out by the sheer overcrowding of my thoughts.

“Did she paint your mural? Your beautiful sky and meadows? Did she leave her permanent mark on your bedroom walls after you loved her in your bed? Did she stare up at that blue sky and think the color matched your eyes as she cried out your name in ecstasy? Is that why the Marchioness would not give the name of the artist? Because it belonged to your lover?” My voice is shockingly cold and calm, given the fires raging inside me.

“Had Lady Mellark known of the affair, she would have given you every detail she knew of and several she would have made up, simply to cause a chasm between you and I.” He is undoubtedly correct and still I seethe. “Lady Mellark would not give you the name of the artist because I painted that mural.” I stop moving away from him, stunned. “I started it when I was twenty, yes. But I had known her,” he gestures towards his own face, “several years before that. She may have given some guidance at the start, but she never saw the mural itself… because she never set foot in my chambers.”

I march down the hall, uncertain that I believe him and unseeing until I reach the frame that will show him at three and twenty. I spin on my heel, prepared for another assault of a happy, seductive Peeta and am instead met with ice. My fury is quenched in an instant.

There has always been an undeniable physical resemblance to the Marquis, but there was always something in his eyes and the way he holds his mouth, in his manner of expression, that belonged only to Peeta, that set him apart from his sire. But this painting… in this painting, he truly and fully looks exactly like his father.

My jaw drops open as I stare at him, at the cold and foreboding glower of a man with no joy and no love in his life. Once again the change from the previous painting is astonishing and unnerving. Still dashingly handsome, nearly devastatingly so, but his eyes burn now not with the playful desire and flirtation of a young man engaged in a love affair, but the cold reticence of a man who has seen far too much. He wears his uniform in this one and his face…his face is scarred. So then he had already spent time away at war. Had already saved Johanna’s life and was keeping her secret. Had killed a man, slaughtered him like a pig, perhaps more than one.

“I came home on a medical furlough after they removed shrapnel from near my ribs. Just in time for Robert’s birthday.”

“And yours.”

“And mine… so we sat for our portraits and I could barely sit still. Nothing would hold my attention for long. I felt…out of sorts in all company. I was in pain and unsure if it was from healing wounds or something fractured in my soul. This place… had begun to feel more like I might belong before I had left but when I came back, I was a stranger again.”

His words strike on memory. I burn as he speaks. Not with rage or jealousy but with memory. The sudden looks of pity, disgust, uncertainty. The carefully treading of well meaning people as they come to believe my worth, my place in the world, my chances for happiness, have been forever destroyed. How to treat a creature mutilated and damaged by flames, be they the flames of war or the flames of a fire. I burn with the cold radiating from his expression and know…I was right about us. We recognise and understand something in one another that few others can. The way scars on the soul burn deeper than scars on the skin.

“As I attempted to hold pose and she attempted to cajole me into laughing for her… I couldn’t even smile. My body wouldn’t even allow a false one. That essentially describes my entire week at home before I returned to my regiment.” I nod mutely as I absorb the aura of the painting.

“Did you and she…while you were at home that is…?”

“Yes. Once. We were not in my chamber. As I said before… She never saw that room at all, so to answer your other questions, all of them… No.”

I want to ask him where then, where did he lay her down and love her? Perhaps one of the guest rooms. Or did he make the effort to leave this place and seek her out elsewhere? Perhaps they conducted their affair in dark corners of the manor here, frantic fumbling and the thrill of a rushed tumble in shadows.

“What is this line of questioning truly about, Katniss? Do you truly wish for me to paint a sordid picture for you? Or is there something else prompting this?” He asks and runs a hand through his hair.

“Have you thought of her when we are in bed together here?” Some of my fury leaves me as I voice the words and I realise it is because I thought he had touched her, loved her, seduced and been seduced by her in the sanctuary of his room, in his bed that we have now shared, yet has not known our love, as he has barely touched me since being here. And my jealous mind now assumes it is not because this place discourages romance as I had thought, clearly that is not the case if he had an affair right under the nose of his benefactors, but because he must be remembering her.

“No. I’ve not given a single thought to her until this moment when you asked me who she was. Katniss… I love you. I married you. I have pledged my life to you. I would not change that for the world. And I have neither seen nor spoken to her since the last time she painted my portrait. She was a piece of my past but she was only one part. You… you are everything to me. I am, in every way… yours.”

I nod and he seems to deflate a little, but I know it is in relief. Still, I have a few lingering curiosities and so I ask.

“Why did it end?” I ask softly and he takes my hands in his and lifts them to his lips, his eyes growing hazy and pained as he explains.

“She told me that there was something twisted and dark inside me. She wanted me to be who I was at twenty, but I was no longer that young man. You see the scars on my face in that portrait. You know what caused them. What I had seen and done. She knew none of it, only saw the effects and did not care for them. I returned to my regiment … and my leg was… and I realised she was right about me. There is something dark and twisted. You have seen it too. But I—“

I cover my mouth with my hand and close my eyes. Was he as wild with her during their last time together as he was that night with me? Did the savage and riotous force of his need to love and be loved frighten her? Did she recoil in horror from the brute? I can feel the damnable wetness leaking from my eyes down my cheeks. The schism inside him in these paintings, the change within his eyes alone is staggering and unbearable. But I know that this is only one piece of my husband. A portrait can capture only a moment, a brief instance, and one expression. There is far more to him than this one moment. Surely a painter would have known that? And that’s when I realise what a fool she was and accept that I’ve no reason to envy her. It falls away lime the cloak of winter, shed to absorb the warmth and light of spring, of hope.

Just as I cannot sever my scars from my skin, from my soul, neither can Peeta. I already knew this when I wrote to him that I could handle the brute in the night and the gentleman in the sun. That I am strong enough for all of him. And that is when I understand. She held a piece of him for a short time. I hold all of him, from now until death parts us.

“Katniss.”

“I do not know why I am crying!” I say and Peeta brings me to his chest, holds me in his arms. He soothes me when it is I who should be soothing him. I cling to him and expel my tears onto his coat, and when he tilts my chin up and whispers my name, I cannot help kissing him. Kissing him even in the middle of the hall with sunlight slanting across the marbled tile and his face. I invite the brute and welcome the force of his kiss. I demand it.

And when he finally releases me, I cannot help asking one more thing. “What was her name?”

He stares at me and finally answers, the syllables dull on his tongue. No remorse, no excitement, nor any longing. Simply stating a fact. “Ophelia.”

I nod and then compose myself, running my hands over the fabric of his coat, ironing out any wrinkles I may have caused in our moment of abandon. “I will be present at the sitting for your portrait come this spring or you’ll not be painted at all, husband.”

“Of course you will be present, if there is such a sitting. I would want you to be painted beside me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, and I would not complain if we took some inspiration from Aunt Chastity for it.”

“Lecher!” I accuse, but I am suddenly laughing and smiling, as is Peeta when he gives me one more, chaste kiss. “Even if there is something dark and twisted inside you, you do not let it rule you. That makes you the man, not the monster.”

He smiles at me and caresses my cheek, such a loving gesture and I am struck with an idea. I tuck it away for later, another time when I am alone. For now, I take his hand in mine and lead him towards our room, shutting the door and uncaring if it is unseemly to do this in the middle of the day. We have never paid heed to that stupid rule of propriety anyways.

“We haven’t much time,” he whispers as we kiss and heat builds and builds inside me, pushing out the numb of the past few days.

“We have enough,” I whisper back as we lay across the bed and he lifts my skirts to my waist. I cling to his hair and relax into his touches and kisses, gaze up at the blue, blue sky above me. Then down at his eyes between my thighs as he watches me unfold. I gasp, keeping the sounds quiet as he loves me. I hold tight to it, so tight that I’ve no warning and no chance to prepare. My sex seizes all control as I am flung into rapture, my spine arched on the bed and his name a ragged cry that echoes off the ceiling back to my ears. My body convulsing in waves. I shudder and moan and then his lips are on mine, feeding me the taste of my own desire, my own pleasure, my own release.

I watch him struggle with his trousers, myself still drifting on a cloud of sublime release, and then he groans in frustration when there is a knock on the door.

“What is it now?” He growls and climbs off of me, yanking my skirts back down to cover me and leaving me feeling hollow, needing him to fill me, as he strides across the room and opens the door enough to speak to but not enough to reveal any of the room to the person on the other side.

“Lady Mellark reminds you of tea, sir,” comes the timid squeak of an answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension continues to build, even though I’ve gained more of an understanding of it and of Peeta as a result. There are more members of the household feeding it than just us. It is like a sleeping demon preparing to rise and wreak havoc on all the world. I grow agitated and jumpy and Peeta is the same as tea is served.

Steam curls from my cup in tranquil tendrils yet I know the violence that rages inside the kettle as it heats. I press my thighs together beneath my skirts, eager for this to be over that Peeta and I might find a quiet moment to continue where we were interrupted. I have had my release and still feel the pressure building inside me. He must be near to bursting.

Then, the stifling quiet build of tension is broken at last by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. Sir Robert.

As he enters the parlor in the middle of tea, Lady Tabitha rises with a smile on her face. It is the first genuine such expression I have seen on her.

“Robert, my darling!” She says and practically falls on top of him. “Do you travel alone?”

I give Peeta a questioning look at her eager inquiry and he shakes his head, indicating that I should watch, observe, before I speak.

“Mother. Yes, I travel alone this time.”

“Oh I am so happy to see you! You have been away from home far too long, neglecting your mother. How long will you stay?”

“Not long. Only a night and then I must return to town.”

“No, Robert! So soon?” Lady Mellark laments.

“I am afraid so, Mother. I only came to collect a few things and to make my excuses for Christmas in person.”

“Not coming for Christmas?” Robert ignores his mother’s whining question and forges onward.

“And I have good news to share. Delly and I have secured lodgings of our own.”

“What?” Lady Mellark practically yells and Ethan once more coughs in his tea. Peeta asks if he takes pepper in it, peering into his brother’s cup, and while Ethan and Robert both laugh at this, Lady Mellark only seems befuddled.

“Of course not. Why would Ethan take pepper in his tea?”

“Katniss poured today,” Ethan answers through his tears and I give Lady Mellark my best look of innocence as she scowls and shakes her head, clearly deeming it not worth her inquiries as she turns back to Robert.

“But darling, you are always welcome here. You know that! What will I do without you?”

“I have quite decided on it, Mother. And you will be fine! You’ll finally have time to yourself as you’ve always wished for more. Besides that, Peeta was right. I cannot continue to be a burden on you and Father. I am a married man now and must stand on my own feet, care for my wife. My wife and I thank you, brother, for the assistance. I shall pay you back, as promised.” Lady Mellark whirls and glares at Peeta, opening her mouth and clearly prepared to launch into a tirade, but Ethan intervenes.

“Splendid! I shall bring the girls and Thomas by sometime soon! Where will you be staying?”

“Hartford Road,” Robert says and Lady Mellark sputters some more.

“But that is…you cannot!”

“I cannot live in the Merchant Quarter? But whyever not? My wife is a cobbler. It is an excellent location for her to build her trade. And I am to be a barrister – oh! That is the other bit of news I had for you. I have–” he claps his hands together gleefully “– at long last decided to make use of that fine education you and Father provided for me with a profession of my own!”

“Drinks are in order!” Ethan declares and hurries across the room to a sidebar as Lady Mellark flounders, her face growing redder by the second. “Happy news for all the family!”

The brothers move to distribute glasses and see Lady Mellark seated before she swoons. I get the distinct impression that this is a carefully orchestrated, well practiced routine for them.

“What news for you, Ethan?”

“Sarah wrote that she is much better. The doctor believes it a bad reaction to clams. So the solution is simple! No more eating clams! I detest the things anyways. Slimy little buggers.”

“Henry and Angelica?” Peeta asks now.

“Emma has surpassed Mr. Bowland’s skills by far in her studies of Greek, Latin, and Hungarian. They are making plans to travel to the continent next summer to immerse her in the cultures and languages as well as to hire more skilled tutors,” Ethan reports. Toasts are made to Emma’s brilliance and likely future as a scholar. Lady Mellark grips the cushions beneath her. She takes deep breaths, the sounds whistling through her teeth.

“That leaves you, Peeta,” Robert says with a grin and Ethan once more delivers the news, gesturing towards me.

“Expectant father!”

“Congratulations, brother!” Robert shouts and smacks Peeta heartily on the back.

Lady Mellark screeches then and Robert thrusts a glass in her hands. “Oh Mother, forgive my rudeness. Your sherry.”

She gulps it down and then stands, storming from the room and throwing the glass as she goes. It shatters against one of the paintings on the wall. A door slams down the hallway and all three brothers drink calmly, as though nothing had happened.

“Is that painting difficult to repair?” Robert asks.

“Probably,” Peeta mutters and Ethan shrugs.

“I am certain Miss Ophelia will be glad of the work.”

Their nonchalance in the face of such hysteria is troublesome. For one moment, I feel sorry for Tabitha Mellark. I stand slowly and clear my throat. “Do none of you feel guilty for antagonizing her to cause that scene?”

“Oh trust us, it would have happened sooner or later,” Robert says with a heavy sigh. “Best to get it over with fast. The longer it takes, the messier the resulting fit.”

As if hearing this, there’s shouting down the hall and the sudden sounds of more smashing glass. “AND SEND FOR THE DOCTOR! I cannot breathe! And my heart! Oh! You have broken me this time! Are you happy for breaking your poor mother’s heart?”

I watch as Robert mouths her entire diatribe nearly word for word until the last, which makes him visibly wince.

“…UNGRATEFUL WRETCH!”

A harried looking maid practically runs past the door to the parlor as the one down the hall once more slams shut.

“Oh good. An immediate call for Doctor Hassel. Usually she waits for at least an hour before she does that,” Robert says.

“You did tell Mrs. Hastings that you were here with announcements, to give the staff a warning, yes?” Ethan asks.

“Of course! I am not a complete ass,” Robert says. Then smiles at me. “Most of the time. I’ve made rather a habit of it lately but I am trying to turn it around.”

An apology. Having learned all that I have of their life here and of more of his relationship with Peeta, I am inclined to accept it.

“That poor maid,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Who was it this time?”

“Noelle,” Peeta answers and Ethan nods.

“I’ll see she’s compensated, as usual. If Henry were here, he could tell us just how fast we managed it this time. It seemed rather swift, did it not?” Ethan says, returning to their previous line of talking.

“Robert usually isn’t the cause. I think she was unprepared for that,” Peeta points out and Ethan laughs, punching Robert on the shoulder.

“At long last, the favoured brother falls.”

Robert heaves a sigh, the sound oddly relieved. “It was still Peeta that sent her over the edge, getting his wife pregnant. For shame, man!”

“I am happy as always to fulfill my family role,” Peeta says and I sit back down, strained laughter spilling from my lips.

“Are you alright, Katniss?” Robert asks me then and I shake my head.

“I think I have been here far too long.”

“Cheers to that,” Ethan says and lifts his glass to me with a wry smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, we spend an hour of talk in our bed. Peeta caresses over my back and my shoulders as I whisper in the dark, spilling more of my own secrets, the days following the fire and how it affected all my hopes for the future. He listens as I tell him of the young man who had been writing poetry to me, perhaps the early stages of courtship and how his desire turned cold after the fire. The knowledge of my scars a deterrent to love.

After, when I’ve run out of words and my throat aches, Peeta kisses me softly, across my cheek and down to my scars. “He was a fool. You are exquisite in every way.”

Peeta sleeps soundly that night, yet I cannot. Excitement courses through me with each beat of my heart. Tomorrow we leave. Tomorrow we head to Capitol and if all goes as planned, in a few days we will be bound for Everdeen with one addition to our family.

I trace the dark circles under my husband’s eyes as he sleeps. Kiss each one and then his lips before I slide from our bed and slip into my slippers and dressing robe. I find a taper and light it, silently leaving him to sleep as I seek out the room I need.

The cold is biting tonight as I hurry on silent feet through the strange halls. I imagine the ghosts pointing the way, helpful spectres who only desire to be left in peace to rest. When I finally reach it, I inhale the lingering scents of paint and turpentine.

At first, I plot a thousand kisses to overshadow his memories in this room, a thousand ways to make this ours when we are next forced to visit here, and when I spot a divan I had not noticed on my previous visit, I have one lurid thought before it careens out of control and instead of dreaming of Peeta touching me, I am picturing him holding paint stained skirts out of the way and thrusting between creamy unmarked thighs wrapped about his hips, glossy hair spilling over the divan and fingers spotted with bright oil paints gripping his buttocks.

I shake my head and turn away from the divan. Perhaps they did conduct their affair here. And perhaps Peeta is right. He cannot change it, and I cannot erase it. This room, that affair is a thing of the past. I have only struggled with it so because I have been faced with the proof of it, whereas before coming here, I had only a vague knowledge of it. Now the lover has a name and a story. Ophelia.

I run my hands over the soft bristles and note characteristics of the brushes that Peeta would have used. His birthday is in a few months, and now I know precisely what to get for him, another piece of him to welcome to Everdeen and bring home with us.

Satisfied that I have gleaned all that I can from the history in this room, I leave and return to bed, sliding with ease into Peeta’s arms. He wraps me in his embrace and murmurs in his sleep.

“Katniss, my love.”

And with that, I am at last able to find rest as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Mellark remains closeted the rest of the day after her fit at tea and into the morning. Her throwing the wine glass is the last I see of her. Lord Mellark delays our departure in the morning by summoning Peeta after breakfast and keeping him far too long. I pace the marbled hall, dressed for travel and ready to leave.

Robert has already departed an hour ago, calling me “sister” with an odd sort of affection and soliciting a promise that Peeta and I would see him and Delly in town. Ethan too, has long since left, rising with the sun and departing before the rest of the house had even stirred, leaving only a note reminding Peeta that we are welcome at Medora any time we wish. Even Jeffries and his wife Lydia have left in a hired carriage, a trunk filled with Peeta’s things as well as their own belongings in their care, a letter in my hand addressed to Father explaining who they are and how they are to be employed at Everdeen.

Our own bags are packed and the horses hitched. Frederick sits on the box with reigns in hand. I await only my husband. At long last, he hurries up to me, grasping my arm and fairly charging out the door.

“Do not look back. Just leave,” Peeta mutters. He moves rather swiftly, given the wooden leg. He steers me down the stairs and into the carriage, following right behind with four words of instruction. “Capitol, with haste Frederick.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

I am still settling in as the coach lurches into motion and I fall backwards, right into Peeta’s lap. His arms surge around me and he holds me tight. He inhales and releases it, a shuddering and desperate sound. “God I couldn’t bear another second of it. It’s harder to bear, knowing life need not be like that at all.”

“Peeta…I cannot breathe.”

“Apologies,” he says and loosens his hold enough to help me onto the seat. “I hope you did not forget anything. If you did, I fear it is now lost. I will not go back there for all the riches in the world.”

“What happened?”

“They were bickering and making it impossible for me to cross a room without risking something being thrown at my head.” I gasp and push his hat off his head to examine him for injuries, he chuckles and takes my hand in his, bringing it to his lips in what has become a familiar and comforting gesture between us. “No injuries, my love. Only a desperate need to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible for as long as possible.”

“For me as well, husband,” I murmur and settle in, comfortable against his shoulder and chest. “What were they arguing over?”

“Me, or rather what we did.”

“Oh?”

“They did not take the news well that I had hired myself a valet and a seamstress for my wife.”

I glance up at him and he smiles at me. I return the expression and kiss his jaw, happy that Jeffries and his wife will no longer suffer. I am too afraid to ask what the other thing is that Peeta suspected was happening to the couple, what other payment the Marquis had extracted for Jeffries protecting Robert.

We ride in silence for a time, watching the snow dance outside the carriage. It is already nearly midday and we still have a fair distance to travel.

“We might need to stop at an inn on the edges of town,” Peeta says and I nod. “We’ll send word ahead to Haymitch when we stop.”

“Peeta,” I say, attempting to order my words and waiting for him to make a sound of encouragement for me to continue. “How is it that none of you wound up anything like the Marquis? Or the Marchioness?”

“Well…for Ethan I think it was school. He spent most of his life away at boarding schools. The best ones, only the best for Ethan. He stayed away for so long that by the time he returned home to learn the particulars of the title and estates he was to inherit, he was already his own man. Henry…no one paid any mind to Henry. They did not know how to handle his thirst for knowledge and his constant questioning of everything. They left him to his books instead, hired tutors and left him in their charge. He found mentors and guidance elsewhere, through his academic studies and letters he sent to scholars, anyone who would correspond with him. Then he too went away to university and met Angelica. Robert spent more time in the care of the Marchioness than the others did. In many ways, he is most like them out of us all. In others he is nothing like them. Since he was the third son, the Marquis had no interest in parenting Robert other than using him as a source of pride. He was content to leave the youngest in his wife’s hands.”

“Until you came along.”

“Until I came along. Then Robert spent a great deal more time with me than anyone else in the household since we shared tutors and school lessons, went off to school together for several years.”

“I suppose that is why she favours him and despises you.”

“Likely, among other things. Robert grew closer to me and grew away from her. She has accused me more than once of poisoning both Robert and the Marquis against her, which is laughable. I am not her son in any form. She has no reason to care for me at all, and she has never once called me anything other than ‘you’ or ‘that boy.’ I only serve as a constant reminder of her husband’s indiscretions and his disregard for her wishes. I am not the only bastard he has fathered. I am not even the only acknowledged one, but I am the only one she was forced to even converse with.”

“I almost felt sorry for her. Up until she insulted me for the thousandth time and threw a glass across the room. It is not as though she could control her husband’s actions, but she can control how she treats everyone around her. Look at Madge. She was married to a tyrant and managed to maintain the kindness of her soul. As did you,” I say. I yawn then and snuggle closer to my husband.

“Are you suggesting that I married a tyrant?” He asks, and I smile inside at the teasing note in his voice yet I turn a scowl to him.

“Not as long as you packed some of those rolls with the cheese on them.”

“They are under your seat.”

I gasp in delight and he chuckles. As I search for them, I find something that I packed as well and present it to him.

“Why did you bring this?”

“For the cold days to come. You mentioned that the cold affects your leg.” He smiles at me and I can see the lifting of the dark clouds from his eyes as he accepts the cane and sets it next to his seat. Then he grasps my arms and hauls me into his lap.

“You are too good to me,” Peeta whispers and nuzzles my nose.

“It is what you and I do, husband. Take care of one another.” He kisses me then, my entire body awakening as we drive away from the tomb that is de Vale. It is as though spring has arrived early. Warmth blooming in my chest and birdsong fluttering in my head.

From there it is far easier to speak and enjoy the ride, wrapped up in his arms and cosied together, and yes kissing here and there.

Only as we continue, it becomes clear that this journey is taking far longer than expected. The roads and ice necessitate a slower pace. We stop for a late midday meal that will likely double as dinner. We send word with a rider ahead to Haymitch. Frederick lights the lanterns to dispel the darkness. Peeta wraps me in warm blankets and fur, and I allow him to pamper me. Then we continue on. I am drowsy and begin to nod off as the sun sinks from the sky.

The sounds of horse and carriage remain as I dream, swaying and floating in a strange sort of way. My feet grow cold as I walk through frosted woods. Flashes light the trees and I cannot place them as I follow faint tracks in the frost painted ground. I catch the scents of cinnamon and dill, vetiver. There’s a brush of a hand on my cheek and I attempt to capture the hand, to hold Peeta close to me. His fingers slip through my grasp.

A loud crack of thunder startles me. My eyes fly open to the screaming of horses, a sound of collision I cannot place, the lurch forward as the horses break into a mad gallop, the precarious swaying of the carriage as it dashes through the night. The lanterns outside follow the movement, a macabre dance of flames through the glass. Peeta attempts to move me and I am sluggish to respond. Then the carriage leans to the side too far and Peeta shouts something, grabs my shoulders and turns me away. We are suspended for one moment then I land on my back atop him.

Glass shatters and wood splinters. My head strikes something. The already dark world turns hazy and spins before my eyes, then everything turns black. Black as death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

Your clue for chapter 24: When we build a life with someone, we are already a person with a past, secrets, and this one word you seek. Words rise up from it to cause a bit of strife. A stroll down this lane can be painful, cathartic, and sometimes both but usually necessary to reconcile past and present in the name of the future.

#Springtime Edition 2019 #late submission #M #prompt 88 #submission

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