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Chapter no 3

Catching Fire (The Hunger Games, #2)

โ€ŒThe smell of blood . . . it was on his breath.โ€Œ

What does he do?ย I think.ย Drink it?ย I imagine him sipping it from a teacup.

Dipping a cookie into the stuff and pulling it out dripping red.

Outside the window, a car comes to life, soft and quiet like the purr of a cat, then fades away into the distance. It slips off as it arrived, unnoticed.

The room seems to be spinning in slow, lopsided circles, and I wonder if I might black out. I lean forward and clutch the desk with one hand. The other still holds Peetaโ€™s beautiful cookie. I think it had a tiger lily on it, but now itโ€™s been reduced to crumbs in my fist. I didnโ€™t even know I was crushing it, but I guess I had to hold on to something while my world veered out of control.

A visit from President Snow. Districts on the verge of uprisings. A direct death threat to Gale, with others to follow. Everyone I love doomed. And who knows who else will pay for my actions? Unless I turn things around on this tour. Quiet the discontent and put the presidentโ€™s mind at rest. And how? By proving to the country beyond any shadow of a doubt that I love Peeta Mellark.

I canโ€™t do it,ย I think.ย Iโ€™m not that good.ย Peetaโ€™s the good one, the likable one. He can make people believe anything. Iโ€™m the one who shuts up and sits back and lets him do as much of the talking as possible. But it isnโ€™t Peeta who has to prove his devotion. Itโ€™s me.

I hear my motherโ€™s light, quick tread in the hall.ย She canโ€™t know,ย I think.ย Not about any of this.ย I reach my hands over the tray and quickly brush the bits of cookie from my palm and fingers. I take a shaky sip of my tea.

โ€œIs everything all right, Katniss?โ€ she asks.

โ€œItโ€™s fine. We never see it on television, but the president always visits the victors before the tour to wish them luck,โ€ I say brightly.

My motherโ€™s face floods with relief. โ€œOh. I thought there was some kind of trouble.โ€

โ€œNo, not at all,โ€ I say. โ€œThe trouble will start when my prep team sees how Iโ€™ve let my eyebrows grow back in.โ€ My mother laughs, and I think about

how there was no going back after I took over caring for the family when I was eleven. How I will always have to protect her.

โ€œWhy donโ€™t I start your bath?โ€ she asks.

โ€œGreat,โ€ I say, and I can see how pleased she is by my response.

Since Iโ€™ve been home Iโ€™ve been trying hard to mend my relationship with my mother. Asking her to do things for me instead of brushing aside any offer of help, as I did for years out of anger. Letting her handle all the money I won. Returning her hugs instead of tolerating them. My time in the arena made me realize how I needed to stop punishing her for something she couldnโ€™t help, specifically the crushing depression she fell into after my fatherโ€™s death. Because sometimes things happen to people and theyโ€™re not equipped to deal with them.

Like me, for instance. Right now.

Besides, thereโ€™s one wonderful thing she did when I arrived back in the district. After our families and friends had greeted Peeta and me at the train station, there were a few questions allowed from reporters. Someone asked my mother what she thought of my new boyfriend, and she replied that, while Peeta was the very model of what a young man should be, I wasnโ€™t old enough to have any boyfriend at all. She followed this with a pointed look at Peeta. There was a lot of laughter and comments like โ€œSomebodyโ€™s in troubleโ€ from the press, and Peeta dropped my hand and sidestepped away from me. That didnโ€™t last long โ€” there was too much pressure to act otherwise โ€” but it gave us an excuse to be a little more reserved than weโ€™d been in the Capitol. And maybe it can help account for how little Iโ€™ve been seen in Peetaโ€™s company since the cameras left.

I go upstairs to the bathroom, where a steaming tub awaits. My mother has added a small bag of dried flowers that perfumes the air. None of us are used to the luxury of turning on a tap and having a limitless supply of hot water at our fingertips. We had only cold at our home in the Seam, and a bath meant boiling the rest over the fire. I undress and lower myself into the silky water

โ€” my mother has poured in some kind of oil as well โ€” and try to get a grip on things.

The first question is who to tell, if anyone. Not my mother or Prim, obviously; theyโ€™d only become sick with worry. Not Gale. Even if I could get word to him. What would he do with the information, anyway? If he were alone, I might try to persuade him to run away. Certainly he could survive in the woods. But heโ€™s not alone and heโ€™d never leave his family. Or me. When I get home Iโ€™ll have to tell him something about why our Sundays are a thing of the past, but I canโ€™t think about that now. Only about my next move. Besides, Galeโ€™s already so angry and frustrated with the Capitol that I sometimes think heโ€™s going to arrange his own uprising. The last thing he needs is an incentive. No, I canโ€™t tell anyone Iโ€™m leaving behind in District 12.

There are still three people I might confide in, starting with Cinna, my stylist. But my guess is Cinna might already be at risk, and I donโ€™t want to pull him into any more trouble by closer association with me. Then thereโ€™s Peeta, who will be my partner in this deception, but how do I begin that conversation?ย Hey, Peeta, remember how I told you I was kind of faking being in love with you? Well, I really need you to forget about that now and act extra in love with me or the president might kill Gale.ย I canโ€™t do it. Besides, Peeta will perform well whether he knows whatโ€™s at stake or not. That leaves Haymitch. Drunken, cranky, confrontational Haymitch, who I just poured a basin of ice water on. As my mentor in the Games it was his duty to keep me alive. I only hope heโ€™s still up for the job.

I slide down into the water, letting it block out the sounds around me. I wish the tub would expand so I could go swimming, like I used to on hot summer Sundays in the woods with my father. Those days were a special treat. We would leave early in the morning and hike farther into the woods than usual to a small lake heโ€™d found while hunting. I donโ€™t even remember learning to swim, I was so young when he taught me. I just remember diving, turning somersaults, and paddling around. The muddy bottom of the lake beneath my toes. The smell of blossoms and greenery. Floating on my back, as I am now, staring at the blue sky while the chatter of the woods was muted by the water. Heโ€™d bag the waterfowl that nested around the shore, Iโ€™d hunt for eggs in the grasses, and weโ€™d both dig for katniss roots, the plant for which he named me, in the shallows. At night, when we got home, my mother would pretend not to recognize me because I was so clean. Then sheโ€™d cook up an amazing dinner of roasted duck and baked katniss tubers with gravy.

I never took Gale to the lake. I could have. Itโ€™s time-consuming to get there, but the waterfowl are such easy pickings you can make up for lost hunting time. Itโ€™s a place Iโ€™ve never really wanted to share with anyone, though, a place that belonged only to my father and me. Since the Games, when Iโ€™ve had little to occupy my days, Iโ€™ve gone there a couple of times. The swimming was still nice, but mostly the visits depressed me. Over the course of the last five years, the lakeโ€™s remarkably unchanged and Iโ€™m almost unrecognizable.

Even underwater I can hear the sounds of commotion. Honking car horns, shouts of greeting, doors banging shut. It can only mean my entourage has arrived. I just have time to towel off and slip into a robe before my prep team bursts into the bathroom. Thereโ€™s no question of privacy. When it comes to my body, we have no secrets, these three people and me.

โ€œKatniss, your eyebrows!โ€ Venia shrieks right off, and even with the black cloud hanging over me, I have to stifle a laugh. Her aqua hair has been styled so it sticks out in sharp points all over her head, and the gold tattoos that used to be confined above her brows have curled around under her eyes, all

contributing to the impression that Iโ€™ve literally shocked her.

Octavia comes up and pats Veniaโ€™s back soothingly, her curvy body looking plumper than usual next to Veniaโ€™s thin, angular one. โ€œThere, there. You can fix those in no time. But what am I going to do with these nails?โ€ She grabs my hand and pins it flat between her two pea green ones. No, her skin isnโ€™t exactly pea green now. Itโ€™s more of a light evergreen. The shift in shade is no doubt an attempt to stay abreast of the capricious fashion trends of the Capitol. โ€œReally, Katniss, you could have left me something to work with!โ€ she wails.

Itโ€™s true. Iโ€™ve bitten my nails to stubs in the past couple of months. I thought about trying to break the habit but couldnโ€™t think of a good reason I should. โ€œSorry,โ€ I mutter. I hadnโ€™t really been spending much time worrying about how it might affect my prep team.

Flavius lifts a few strands of my wet, tangled hair. He gives his head a disapproving shake, causing his orange corkscrew curls to bounce around. โ€œHas anyone touched this since you last saw us?โ€ he asks sternly. โ€œRemember, we specifically asked you to leave your hair alone.โ€

โ€œYes!โ€ I say, grateful that I can show I havenโ€™t totally taken them for granted. โ€œI mean, no, no oneโ€™s cut it. I did remember that.โ€ No, I didnโ€™t. Itโ€™s more like the issue never came up. Since Iโ€™ve been home, all Iโ€™ve done is stick it in its usual old braid down my back.

This seems to mollify them, and they all kiss me, set me on a chair in my bedroom, and, as usual, start talking nonstop without bothering to notice if Iโ€™m listening. While Venia reinvents my eyebrows and Octavia gives me fake nails and Flavius massages goo into my hair, I hear all about the Capitol. What a hit the Games were, how dull things have been since, how no one can wait until Peeta and I visit again at the end of the Victory Tour. After that, it wonโ€™t be long before the Capitol begins gearing up for the Quarter Quell.

โ€œIsnโ€™t it thrilling?โ€

โ€œDonโ€™t you feel so lucky?โ€

โ€œIn your very first year of being a victor, you get to be a mentor in a Quarter Quell!โ€

Their words overlap in a blur of excitement.

โ€œOh, yes,โ€ I say neutrally. Itโ€™s the best I can do. In a normal year, being a mentor to the tributes is the stuff of nightmares. I canโ€™t walk by the school now without wondering what kid Iโ€™ll have to coach. But to make things even worse, this is the year of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games, and that means itโ€™s also a Quarter Quell. They occur every twenty-five years, marking the anniversary of the districtsโ€™ defeat with over-the-top celebrations and, for extra fun, some miserable twist for the tributes. Iโ€™ve never been alive for one, of course. But in school I remember hearing that for the second Quarter Quell, the Capitol demanded that twice the number of tributes be provided for the

arena. The teachers didnโ€™t go into much more detail, which is surprising, because that was the year District 12โ€™s very own Haymitch Abernathy won the crown.

โ€œHaymitch better be preparing himself for a lot of attention!โ€ squeals Octavia.

Haymitch has never mentioned his personal experience in the arena to me. I would never ask. And if I ever saw his Games televised in reruns, I mustโ€™ve been too young to remember it. But the Capitol wonโ€™t let him forget it this year. In a way, itโ€™s a good thing Peeta and I will both be available as mentors during the Quell, because itโ€™s a sure bet that Haymitch will be wasted.

After theyโ€™ve exhausted the topic of the Quarter Quell, my prep team launches into a whole lot of stuff about their incomprehensibly silly lives. Who said what about someone Iโ€™ve never heard of and what sort of shoes they just bought and a long story from Octavia about what a mistake it was to have everyone wear feathers to her birthday party.

Soon my brows are stinging, my hairโ€™s smooth and silky, and my nails are ready to be painted. Apparently theyโ€™ve been given instruction to prepare only my hands and face, probably because everything else will be covered in the cold weather. Flavius badly wants to use his own trademark purple lipstick on me but resigns himself to a pink as they begin to color my face and nails. I can see by the palette Cinna has assigned that weโ€™re going for girlish, not sexy. Good. Iโ€™ll never convince anyone of anything if Iโ€™m trying to be provocative. Haymitch made that very clear when he was coaching me for my interview for the Games.

My mother comes in, somewhat shyly, and says that Cinna has asked her to show the preps how she did my hair the day of the reaping. They respond with enthusiasm and then watch, thoroughly engrossed, as she breaks down the process of the elaborate braided hairdo. In the mirror, I can see their earnest faces following her every move, their eagerness when it is their turn to try a step. In fact, all three are so readily respectful and nice to my mother that I feel bad about how I go around feeling so superior to them. Who knows who I would be or what I would talk about if Iโ€™d been raised in the Capitol? Maybe my biggest regret would be having feathered costumes at my birthday party, too.

When my hair is done, I find Cinna downstairs in the living room, and just the sight of him makes me feel more hopeful. He looks the same as always, simple clothes, short brown hair, just a hint of gold eyeliner. We embrace, and I can barely keep from spilling out the entire episode with President Snow. But no, Iโ€™ve decided to tell Haymitch first. Heโ€™ll know best who to burden with it. Itโ€™s so easy to talk to Cinna, though. Lately weโ€™ve been speaking a lot on the telephone that came with the house. Itโ€™s sort of a joke, because almost no one else we know owns one. Thereโ€™s Peeta, but obviously I donโ€™t call him.

Haymitch tore his out of the wall years ago. My friend Madge, the mayorโ€™s daughter, has a telephone in her house, but if we want to talk, we do it in person. At first, the thing barely ever got used. Then Cinna started to call to work on my talent.

Every victor is supposed to have one. Your talent is the activity you take up since you donโ€™t have to work either in school or your districtโ€™s industry. It can be anything, really, anything that they can interview you about. Peeta, it turns out, actually has a talent, which is painting. Heโ€™s been frosting those cakes and cookies for years in his familyโ€™s bakery. But now that heโ€™s rich, he can afford to smear real paint on canvases. I donโ€™t have a talent, unless you count hunting illegally, which they donโ€™t. Or maybe singing, which I wouldnโ€™t do for the Capitol in a million years. My mother tried to interest me in a variety of suitable alternatives from a list Effie Trinket sent her. Cooking, flower arranging, playing the flute. None of them took, although Prim had a knack for all three. Finally Cinna stepped in and offered to help me develop my passion for designing clothes, which really required development since it was nonexistent. But I said yes because it meant getting to talk to Cinna, and he promised heโ€™d do all the work.

Now heโ€™s arranging things around my living room: clothing, fabrics, and sketchbooks with designs heโ€™s drawn. I pick up one of the sketchbooks and examine a dress I supposedly created. โ€œYou know, I think I show a lot of promise,โ€ I say.

โ€œGet dressed, you worthless thing,โ€ he says, tossing a bundle of clothes at me.

I may have no interest in designing clothes but I do love the ones Cinna makes for me. Like these. Flowing black pants made of a thick, warm material. A comfortable white shirt. A sweater woven from green and blue and gray strands of kitten-soft wool. Laced leather boots that donโ€™t pinch my toes.

โ€œDid I design my outfit?โ€ I ask.

โ€œNo, you aspire to design your outfit and be like me, your fashion hero,โ€ says Cinna. He hands me a small stack of cards. โ€œYouโ€™ll read these off camera while theyโ€™re filming the clothes. Try to sound like you care.โ€

Just then, Effie Trinket arrives in a pumpkin orange wig to remind everyone, โ€œWeโ€™re on a schedule!โ€ She kisses me on both cheeks while waving in the camera crew, then orders me into position. Effieโ€™s the only reason we got anywhere on time in the Capitol, so I try to accommodate her. I start bobbing around like a puppet, holding up outfits and saying meaningless things like โ€œDonโ€™t you love it?โ€ The sound team records me reading from my cards in a chirpy voice so they can insert it later, then Iโ€™m tossed out of the room so they can film my/Cinnaโ€™s designs in peace.

Prim got out early from school for the event. Now she stands in the

kitchen, being interviewed by another crew. She looks lovely in a sky blue frock that brings out her eyes, her blond hair pulled back in a matching ribbon. Sheโ€™s leaning a bit forward on the toes of her shiny white boots like sheโ€™s about to take flight, like โ€”

Bam!ย Itโ€™s like someone actually hits me in the chest. No one has, of course, but the pain is so real I take a step back. I squeeze my eyes shut and I donโ€™t see Prim โ€” I see Rue, the twelve-year-old girl from District 11 who was my ally in the arena. She could fly, birdlike, from tree to tree, catching on to the slenderest branches. Rue, who I didnโ€™t save. Who I let die. I picture her lying on the ground with the spear still wedged in her stomach. . . .

Who else will I fail to save from the Capitolโ€™s vengeance? Who else will be dead if I donโ€™t satisfy President Snow?

I realize Cinnaโ€™s trying to put a coat on me, so I raise my arms. I feel fur, inside and out, encasing me. Itโ€™s from no animal Iโ€™ve ever seen. โ€œErmine,โ€ he tells me as I stroke the white sleeve. Leather gloves. A bright red scarf. Something furry covers my ears. โ€œYouโ€™re bringing earmuffs back in style.โ€

I hate earmuffs,ย I think. They make it hard to hear, and since I was blasted deaf in one ear in the arena, I dislike them even more. After I won, the Capitol repaired my ear, but I still find myself testing it.

My mother hurries up with something cupped in her hand. โ€œFor good luck,โ€ she says.

Itโ€™s the pin Madge gave me before I left for the Games. A mockingjay flying in a circle of gold. I tried to give it to Rue but she wouldnโ€™t take it. She said the pin was the reason sheโ€™d decided to trust me. Cinna fixes it on the knot in the scarf.

Effie Trinketโ€™s nearby, clapping her hands. โ€œAttention, everyone! Weโ€™re about to do the first outdoor shot, where the victors greet each other at the beginning of their marvelous trip. All right, Katniss, big smile, youโ€™re very excited, right?โ€ I donโ€™t exaggerate when I say she shoves me out the door.

For a moment I canโ€™t quite see right because of the snow, which is now coming down in earnest. Then I make out Peeta coming through his front door. In my head I hear President Snowโ€™s directive,ย โ€œConvinceย me.โ€ย And I know I must.

My face breaks into a huge smile and I start walking in Peetaโ€™s direction. Then, as if I canโ€™t stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips โ€” he still isnโ€™t entirely in command of his artificial leg โ€” and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and thatโ€™s where we have our first kiss in months. Itโ€™s full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know Iโ€™m not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he wonโ€™t expose me in front of the cameras. Wonโ€™t condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. Heโ€™s still looking out for me. Just as he did in the arena. Somehow the

thought makes me want to cry. Instead I pull him to his feet, tuck my glove through the crook of his arm, and merrily pull him on our way.

The rest of the day is a blur of getting to the station, bidding everyone good-bye, the train pulling out, the old team โ€” Peeta and me, Effie and Haymitch, Cinna and Portia, Peetaโ€™s stylist โ€” dining on an indescribably delicious meal I donโ€™t remember. And then Iโ€™m swathed in pajamas and a voluminous robe, sitting in my plush compartment, waiting for the others to go to sleep. I know Haymitch will be up for hours. He doesnโ€™t like to sleep when itโ€™s dark out.

When the train seems quiet, I put on my slippers and pad down to his door. I have to knock several times before he answers, scowling, as if heโ€™s certain Iโ€™ve brought bad news.

โ€œWhat do you want?โ€ he says, nearly knocking me out with a cloud of wine fumes.

โ€œI have to talk to you,โ€ I whisper.

โ€œNow?โ€ he says. I nod. โ€œThis better be good.โ€ He waits, but I feel certain every word we utter on a Capitol train is being recorded. โ€œWell?โ€ he barks.

The train starts to brake and for a second I think President Snow is watching me and doesnโ€™t approve of my confiding in Haymitch and has decided to go ahead and kill me now. But weโ€™re just stopping for fuel.

โ€œThe trainโ€™s so stuffy,โ€ I say.

Itโ€™s a harmless phrase, but I see Haymitchโ€™s eyes narrow in understanding. โ€œI know what you need.โ€ He pushes past me and lurches down the hall to a door. When he wrestles it open, a blast of snow hits us. He trips out onto the ground.

A Capitol attendant rushes to help, but Haymitch waves her away good- naturedly as he staggers off. โ€œJust want some fresh air. Only be a minute.โ€

โ€œSorry. Heโ€™s drunk,โ€ I say apologetically. โ€œIโ€™ll get him.โ€ I hop down and stumble along the track behind him, soaking my slippers with snow, as he leads me beyond the end of the train so we will not be overheard. Then he turns on me.

โ€œWhat?โ€

I tell him everything. About the presidentโ€™s visit, about Gale, about how weโ€™re all going to die if I fail.

His face sobers, grows older in the glow of the red taillights. โ€œThen you canโ€™t fail.โ€

โ€œIf you could just help me get through this trip โ€”โ€ I begin. โ€œNo, Katniss, itโ€™s not just this trip,โ€ he says.

โ€œWhat do you mean?โ€ I say.

โ€œEven if you pull it off, theyโ€™ll be back in another few months to take us all to the Games. You and Peeta, youโ€™ll be mentors now, every year from here on out. And every year theyโ€™ll revisit the romance and broadcast the details of

your private life, and youโ€™ll never, ever be able to do anything but live happily ever after with that boy.โ€

The full impact of what heโ€™s saying hits me. I will never have a life with Gale, even if I want to. I will never be allowed to live alone. I will have to be forever in love with Peeta. The Capitol will insist on it. Iโ€™ll have a few years maybe, because Iโ€™m still only sixteen, to stay with my mother and Prim. And then . . . and then . . .

โ€œDo you understand what I mean?โ€ he presses me.

I nod. He means thereโ€™s only one future, if I want to keep those I love alive and stay alive myself. Iโ€™ll have to marry Peeta.

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