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Chapter no 6

Catching Fire (The Hunger Games, #2)

โ€ŒIn that one slight motion, I see the end of hope, the beginning of the destruction of everything I hold dear in the world. I canโ€™t guess what form my punishment will take, how wide the net will be cast, but when it is finished, there will most likely be nothing left. So you would think that at this moment, I would be in utter despair. Hereโ€™s whatโ€™s strange. The main thing I feel is a sense of relief. That I can give up this game. That the question of whether I can succeed in this venture has been answered, even if that answer is a resounding no. That if desperate times call for desperate measures, then I am free to act as desperately as I wish.โ€Œ

Only not here, not quite yet. Itโ€™s essential to get back to District 12, because the main part of any plan will include my mother and sister, Gale and his family. And Peeta, if I can get him to come with us. I add Haymitch to the list. These are the people I must take with me when I escape into the wild. How I will convince them, where we will go in the dead of winter, what it will take to evade capture are unanswered questions. But at least now I know what Imust do.

So instead of crumpling to the ground and weeping, I find myself standing up straighter and with more confidence than I have in weeks. My smile, while somewhat insane, is not forced. And when President Snow silences the audience and says, โ€œWhat do you think about us throwing them a wedding right here in the Capitol?โ€ I pull off girl-almost-catatonic-with-joy without a hitch.

Caesar Flickerman asks if the president has a date in mind.

โ€œOh, before we set a date, we better clear it with Katnissโ€™s mother,โ€ says the president. The audience gives a big laugh and the president puts his arm around me. โ€œMaybe if the whole country puts its mind to it, we can get you married before youโ€™re thirty.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™ll probably have to pass a new law,โ€ I say with a giggle.

โ€œIf thatโ€™s what it takes,โ€ says the president with conspiratorial good humor. Oh, the fun we two have together.

The party, held in the banquet room of President Snowโ€™s mansion, has no equal. The forty-foot ceiling has been transformed into the night sky, and the stars look exactly as they do at home. I suppose they look the same from the Capitol, but who would know? Thereโ€™s always too much light from the city to see the stars here. About halfway between the floor and the ceiling, musicians float on what look like fluffy white clouds, but I canโ€™t see what holds them aloft. Traditional dining tables have been replaced by innumerable stuffed sofas and chairs, some surrounding fireplaces, others beside fragrant flower gardens or ponds filled with exotic fish, so that people can eat and drink and do whatever they please in the utmost comfort. Thereโ€™s a large tiled area in the center of the room that serves as everything from a dance floor, to a stage for the performers who come and go, to another spot to mingle with the flamboyantly dressed guests.

But the real star of the evening is the food. Tables laden with delicacies line the walls. Everything you can think of, and things you have never dreamed of, lie in wait. Whole roasted cows and pigs and goats still turning on spits. Huge platters of fowl stuffed with savory fruits and nuts. Ocean creatures drizzled in sauces or begging to be dipped in spicy concoctions. Countless cheeses, breads, vegetables, sweets, waterfalls of wine, and streams of spirits that flicker with flames.

My appetite has returned with my desire to fight back. After weeks of feeling too worried to eat, Iโ€™m famished.

โ€œI want to taste everything in the room,โ€ I tell Peeta.

I can see him trying to read my expression, to figure out my transformation. Since he doesnโ€™t know that President Snow thinks I have failed, he can only assume that I think we have succeeded. Perhaps even that I have some genuine happiness at our engagement. His eyes reflect his puzzlement but only briefly, because weโ€™re on camera. โ€œThen youโ€™d better pace yourself,โ€ he says.

โ€œOkay, no more than one bite of each dish,โ€ I say. My resolve is almost immediately broken at the first table, which has twenty or so soups, when I encounter a creamy pumpkin brew sprinkled with slivered nuts and tiny black seeds. โ€œI could just eat this all night!โ€ I exclaim. But I donโ€™t. I weaken again at a clear green broth that I can only describe as tasting like springtime, and again when I try a frothy pink soup dotted with raspberries.

Faces appear, names are exchanged, pictures taken, kisses brushed on cheeks. Apparently my mockingjay pin has spawned a new fashion sensation, because several people come up to show me their accessories. My bird has been replicated on belt buckles, embroidered into silk lapels, even tattooed in intimate places. Everyone wants to wear the winnerโ€™s token. I can only imagine how nuts that makes President Snow. But what can he do? The Games were such a hit here, where the berries were only a symbol of a

desperate girl trying to save her lover.

Peeta and I make no effort to find company but are constantly sought out. We are what no one wants to miss at the party. I act delighted, but I have zero interest in these Capitol people. They are only distractions from the food.

Every table presents new temptations, and even on my restricted one-taste- per-dish regimen, I begin filling up quickly. I pick up a small roasted bird, bite into it, and my tongue floods with orange sauce. Delicious. But I make Peeta eat the remainder because I want to keep tasting things, and the idea of throwing away food, as I see so many people doing so casually, is abhorrent to me. After about ten tables Iโ€™m stuffed, and weโ€™ve only sampled a small number of the dishes available.

Just then my prep team descends on us. Theyโ€™re nearly incoherent between the alcohol theyโ€™ve consumed and their ecstasy at being at such a grand affair.

โ€œWhy arenโ€™t you eating?โ€ asks Octavia.

โ€œI have been, but I canโ€™t hold another bite,โ€ I say. They all laugh as if thatโ€™s the silliest thing theyโ€™ve ever heard.

โ€œNo one lets that stop them!โ€ says Flavius. They lead us over to a table that holds tiny stemmed wineglasses filled with clear liquid. โ€œDrink this!โ€

Peeta picks one up to take a sip and they lose it. โ€œNot here!โ€ shrieks Octavia.

โ€œYou have to do it in there,โ€ says Venia, pointing to doors that lead to the toilets. โ€œOr youโ€™ll get it all over the floor!โ€

Peeta looks at the glass again and puts it together. โ€œYou mean this will make me puke?โ€

My prep team laughs hysterically. โ€œOf course, so you can keep eating,โ€ says Octavia. โ€œIโ€™ve been in there twice already. Everyone does it, or else how would you have any fun at a feast?โ€

Iโ€™m speechless, staring at the pretty little glasses and all they imply. Peeta sets his back on the table with such precision youโ€™d think it might detonate. โ€œCome on, Katniss, letโ€™s dance.โ€

Music filters down from the clouds as he leads me away from the team, the table, and out onto the floor. We know only a few dances at home, the kind that go with fiddle and flute music and require a good deal of space. But Effie has shown us some that are popular in the Capitol. The musicโ€™s slow and dreamlike, so Peeta pulls me into his arms and we move in a circle with practically no steps at all. You could do this dance on a pie plate. Weโ€™re quiet for a while. Then Peeta speaks in a strained voice.

โ€œYou go along, thinking you can deal with it, thinking maybe theyโ€™re not so bad, and then you โ€”โ€ He cuts himself off.

All I can think of is the emaciated bodies of the children on our kitchen table as my mother prescribes what the parents canโ€™t give. More food. Now that weโ€™re rich, sheโ€™ll send some home with them. But often in the old days,

there was nothing to give and the child was past saving, anyway. And here in the Capitol theyโ€™re vomiting for the pleasure of filling their bellies again and again. Not from some illness of body or mind, not from spoiled food. Itโ€™s what everyone does at a party. Expected. Part of the fun.

One day when I dropped by to give Hazelle the game, Vick was home sick with a bad cough. Being part of Galeโ€™s family, the kid has to eat better than ninety percent of the rest of District 12. But he still spent about fifteen minutes talking about how theyโ€™d opened a can of corn syrup from Parcel Day and each had a spoonful on bread and were going to maybe have more later in the week. How Hazelle had said he could have a bit in a cup of tea to soothe his cough, but he wouldnโ€™t feel right unless the others had some, too. If itโ€™s like that at Galeโ€™s, whatโ€™s it like in the other houses?

โ€œPeeta, they bring us here to fight to the death for their entertainment,โ€ I say. โ€œReally, this is nothing by comparison.โ€

โ€œI know. I know that. Itโ€™s just sometimes I canโ€™t stand it anymore. To the point where . . . Iโ€™m not sure what Iโ€™ll do.โ€ He pauses, then whispers, โ€œMaybe we were wrong, Katniss.โ€

โ€œAbout what?โ€ I ask.

โ€œAbout trying to subdue things in the districts,โ€ he says.

My head turns swiftly from side to side, but no one seems to have heard. The camera crew got sidetracked at a table of shellfish, and the couples dancing around us are either too drunk or too self-involved to notice.

โ€œSorry,โ€ he says. He should be. This is no place to be voicing such thoughts.

โ€œSave it for home,โ€ I tell him.

Just then Portia appears with a large man who looks vaguely familiar. She introduces him as Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker. Plutarch asks Peeta if he can steal me for a dance. Peetaโ€™s recovered his camera face and good-naturedly passes me over, warning the man not to get too attached.

I donโ€™t want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I donโ€™t want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. Iโ€™m not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at armโ€™s length as we turn on the floor.

We chitchat about the party, about the entertainment, about the food, and then he makes a joke about avoiding punch since training. I donโ€™t get it, and then I realize heโ€™s the man who tripped backward into the punch bowl when I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers during the training session. Well, not really. I was shooting an apple out of their roast pigโ€™s mouth. But I made them jump. โ€œOh, youโ€™re one who โ€”โ€ I laugh, remembering him splashing back into

the punch bowl.

โ€œYes. And youโ€™ll be pleased to know Iโ€™ve never recovered,โ€ says Plutarch.

I want to point out that twenty-two dead tributes will never recover from the Games he helped create, either. But I only say, โ€œGood. So, youโ€™re the Head Gamemaker this year? That must be a big honor.โ€

โ€œBetween you and me, there werenโ€™t many takers for the job,โ€ he says. โ€œSo much responsibility as to how the Games turn out.โ€

Yeah, the last guyโ€™s dead,ย I think. He must know about Seneca Crane, but he doesnโ€™t look the least bit concerned. โ€œAre you planning the Quarter Quell Games already?โ€ I say.

โ€œOh, yes. Well, theyโ€™ve been in the works for years, of course. Arenas arenโ€™t built in a day. But the, shall we say, flavor of the Games is being determined now. Believe it or not, Iโ€™ve got a strategy meeting tonight,โ€ he says.

Plutarch steps back and pulls out a gold watch on a chain from a vest pocket. He flips open the lid, sees the time, and frowns. โ€œIโ€™ll have to be going soon.โ€ He turns the watch so I can see the face. โ€œIt starts at midnight.โ€

โ€œThat seems late for โ€”โ€ I say, but then something distracts me. Plutarch has run his thumb across the crystal face of the watch and for just a moment an image appears, glowing as if lit by candlelight. Itโ€™s another mockingjay. Exactly like the pin on my dress. Only this one disappears. He snaps the watch closed.

โ€œThatโ€™s very pretty,โ€ I say.

โ€œOh, itโ€™s more than pretty. Itโ€™s one of a kind,โ€ he says. โ€œIf anyone asks about me, say Iโ€™ve gone home to bed. The meetings are supposed to be kept secret. But I thought itโ€™d be safe to tell you.โ€

โ€œYes. Your secretโ€™s safe with me,โ€ I say.

As we shake hands, he gives a small bow, a common gesture here in the Capitol. โ€œWell, Iโ€™ll see you next summer at the Games, Katniss. Best wishes on your engagement, and good luck with your mother.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ll need it,โ€ I say.

Plutarch disappears and I wander through the crowd, looking for Peeta, as strangers congratulate me. On my engagement, on my victory at the Games, on my choice of lipstick. I respond, but really Iโ€™m thinking about Plutarch showing off his pretty, one-of-a-kind watch to me. There was something strange about it. Almost clandestine. But why? Maybe he thinks someone else will steal his idea of putting a disappearing mockingjay on a watch face. Yes, he probably paid a fortune for it and now he canโ€™t show it to anyone because heโ€™s afraid someone will make a cheap, knockoff version. Only in the Capitol. I find Peeta admiring a table of elaborately decorated cakes. Bakers have come in from the kitchen especially to talk frosting with him, and you can see them tripping over one another to answer his questions. At his request, they assemble an assortment of little cakes for him to take back to District 12,

where he can examine their work in quiet.

โ€œEffie said we have to be on the train at one. I wonder what time it is,โ€ he says, glancing around.

โ€œAlmost midnight,โ€ I reply. I pluck a chocolate flower from a cake with my fingers and nibble on it, so beyond worrying about manners.

โ€œTime to say thank you and farewell!โ€ trills Effie at my elbow. Itโ€™s one of those moments when I just love her compulsive punctuality. We collect Cinna and Portia, and she escorts us around to say good-bye to important people, then herds us to the door.

โ€œShouldnโ€™t we thank President Snow?โ€ asks Peeta. โ€œItโ€™s his house.โ€

โ€œOh, heโ€™s not a big one for parties. Too busy,โ€ says Effie. โ€œIโ€™ve already arranged for the necessary notes and gifts to be sent to him tomorrow. There you are!โ€ Effie gives a little wave to two Capitol attendants who have an inebriated Haymitch propped up between them.

We travel through the streets of the Capitol in a car with darkened windows. Behind us, another car brings the prep teams. The throngs of people celebrating are so thick itโ€™s slow going. But Effie has this all down to a science, and at exactly one oโ€™clock we are back on the train and itโ€™s pulling out of the station.

Haymitch is deposited in his room. Cinna orders tea and we all take seats around the table while Effie rattles her schedule papers and reminds us weโ€™re still on tour. โ€œThereโ€™s the Harvest Festival in District Twelve to think about. So I suggest we drink our tea and head straight to bed.โ€ No one argues.

When I open my eyes, itโ€™s early afternoon. My head rests on Peetaโ€™s arm. I donโ€™t remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but heโ€™s already awake.

โ€œNo nightmares,โ€ he says. โ€œWhat?โ€ I ask.

โ€œYou didnโ€™t have any nightmares last night,โ€ he says.

Heโ€™s right. For the first time in ages Iโ€™ve slept through the night. โ€œI had a dream, though,โ€ I say, thinking back. โ€œI was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice.โ€

โ€œWhere did she take you?โ€ he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. โ€œI donโ€™t know. We never arrived,โ€ I say. โ€œBut I felt happy.โ€

โ€œWell, you slept like you were happy,โ€ he says.

โ€œPeeta, how come I never know when youโ€™re having a nightmare?โ€ I say. โ€œI donโ€™t know. I donโ€™t think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just

come to, paralyzed with terror,โ€ he says.

โ€œYou should wake me,โ€ I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down.

โ€œItโ€™s not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you,โ€ he says. โ€œIโ€™m okay once I realize youโ€™re here.โ€

Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and itโ€™s like being hit in the gut. Heโ€™s only answering my question honestly. Heโ€™s not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if Iโ€™ve been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I donโ€™t know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since weโ€™re officially engaged now.

โ€œBe worse when weโ€™re home and Iโ€™m sleeping alone again,โ€ he says. Thatโ€™s right, weโ€™re almost home.

The agenda for District 12 includes a dinner at Mayor Underseeโ€™s house tonight and a victory rally in the square during the Harvest Festival tomorrow. We always celebrate the Harvest Festival on the final day of the Victory Tour, but usually it means a meal at home or with a few friends if you can afford it. This year it will be a public affair, and since the Capitol will be throwing it, everyone in the whole district will have full bellies.

Most of our prepping will take place at the mayorโ€™s house, since weโ€™re back to being covered in furs for outdoor appearances. Weโ€™re only at the train station briefly, to smile and wave as we pile into our car. We donโ€™t even get to see our families until the dinner tonight.

Iโ€™m glad it will be at the mayorโ€™s house instead of at the Justice Building, where the memorial for my father was held, where they took me after the reaping for those wrenching good-byes to my family. The Justice Building is too full of sadness.

But I like Mayor Underseeโ€™s house, especially now that his daughter, Madge, and I are friends. We always were, in a way. It became official when she came to say good-bye to me before I left for the Games. When she gave me the mockingjay pin for luck. After I got home, we started spending time together. It turns out Madge has plenty of empty hours to fill, too. It was a little awkward at first because we didnโ€™t know what to do. Other girls our age, Iโ€™ve heard them talking about boys, or other girls, or clothes. Madge and I arenโ€™t gossipy and clothes bore me to tears. But after a few false starts, I realized she was dying to go into the woods, so Iโ€™ve taken her a couple of times and showed her how to shoot. Sheโ€™s trying to teach me the piano, but mostly I like to listen to her play. Sometimes we eat at each otherโ€™s houses. Madge likes mine better. Her parents seem nice but I donโ€™t think she sees a whole lot of them. Her father has District 12 to run and her mother gets fierce headaches that force her to stay in bed for days.

โ€œMaybe you should take her to the Capitol,โ€ I said during one of them. We werenโ€™t playing the piano that day, because even two floors away the sound caused her mother pain. โ€œThey can fix her up, I bet.โ€

โ€œYes. But you donโ€™t go to the Capitol unless they invite you,โ€ said Madge

unhappily. Even the mayorโ€™s privileges are limited.

When we reach the mayorโ€™s house, I only have time to give Madge a quick hug before Effie hustles me off to the third floor to get ready. After Iโ€™m prepped and dressed in a full-length silver gown, Iโ€™ve still got an hour to kill before the dinner, so I slip off to find her.

Madgeโ€™s bedroom is on the second floor along with several guest rooms and her fatherโ€™s study. I stick my head in the study to say hello to the mayor but itโ€™s empty. The televisionโ€™s droning on, and I stop to watch shots of Peeta and me at the Capitol party last night. Dancing, eating, kissing. This will be playing in every household in Panem right now. The audience must be sick to death of the star-crossed lovers from District 12. I know I am.

Iโ€™m leaving the room when a beeping noise catches my attention. I turn back to see the screen of the television go black. Then the words โ€œUPDATE ON DISTRICT 8โ€ start flashing. Instinctively I know this is not for my eyes but something intended only for the mayor. I should go. Quickly. Instead I find myself stepping closer to the television.

An announcer Iโ€™ve never seen before appears. Itโ€™s a woman with graying hair and a hoarse, authoritative voice. She warns that conditions are worsening and a Level 3 alert has been called. Additional forces are being sent into District 8, and all textile production has ceased.

They cut away from the woman to the main square in District 8. I recognize it because I was there only last week. There are still banners with my face waving from the rooftops. Below them, thereโ€™s a mob scene. The squareโ€™s packed with screaming people, their faces hidden with rags and homemade masks, throwing bricks. Buildings burn. Peacekeepers shoot into the crowd, killing at random.

Iโ€™ve never seen anything like it, but I can only be witnessing one thing.

This is what President Snow calls an uprising.

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