Catching Fire

“I didn’t think you’d want to miss it,” he says.
    “Thanks,” I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don’t want to miss any of them.
    We don’t go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us.
    “I’m glad. I’m tired of making everyone around me so miserable,” says Peeta. “Everybody crying. Or Haymitch . . .”He doesn’t need to go on.
    We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.
    The next morning, we’re roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. “You remember what Cinna told us,” Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.
    Peeta has to return to his room for prep, and I’m left alone with Venia and Flavius. The usual chatter has been suspended. In fact, there’s little talk at all, other than to have me raise my chin or comment on a makeup technique. It’s nearly lunch when I feel something dripping on my shoulder and turn to find Flavius, who’s snipping away at my hair with silent tears running down his face. Venia gives him a look, and he gently sets the scissors on the table and leaves.
    Then it’s just Venia, whose skin is so pale her tattoos appear to be leaping off it. Almost rigid with determination, she does my hair and nails and makeup, fingers flying swiftly to compensate for her absent teammates. The whole time, she avoids my gaze. It’s only when Cinna shows up to approve me and dismiss her that she takes my hands, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “We would all like you to know what a . . . privilege it has been to make you look your best.” Then she hastens from the room.
    My prep team. My foolish, shallow, affectionate pets, with their obsessions with feathers and parties, nearly break my heart with their good-bye. It’s certain from Venia’s last words that we all know I won’t be returning. Does the whole world know it? I wonder. I look at Cinna. He knows, certainly. But as he promised, there’s no danger of tears from him.
    “So, what am I wearing tonight?” I ask, eyeing the garment bag that holds my dress.
    “President Snow put in the dress order himself,” says Cinna. He unzips the bag, revealing one of the wedding dresses I wore for the photo shoot. Heavy white silk with a low neckline and tight waist and sleeves that fall from my wrists to the floor. And pearls. Everywhere pearls. Stitched into the dress and in ropes at my throat and forming the crown for the veil. “Even though they announced the Quarter Quell the night of the photo shoot, people still voted for their favorite dress, and this was the winner. The president says you’re to wear it tonight. Our objections were ignored.”
    I rub a bit of the silk between my fingers, trying to figure out President Snow’s reasoning. I suppose since I was the greatest offender, my pain and loss and humiliation should be in the brightest spotlight. This, he thinks, will make that clear. It’s so barbaric, the president turning my bridal gown into my shroud, that the blow strikes home, leaving me with a dull ache inside. “Well, it’d be a shame to waste such a pretty dress” is all I say.
    Cinna helps me carefully into the gown. As it settles on my shoulders, they can’t help giving a shrug of complaint. “Was it always this heavy?” I ask. I remember several of the dresses being dense, but this one feels like it weighs a ton.
    “I had to make some slight alterations because of the lighting,” says Cinna. I nod, but I can’t see what that has to do with anything. He decks me out in the shoes and the pearl jewelry and the veil. Touches up my makeup. Has me walk.
    “You’re ravishing,” he says. “Now, Katniss, because this bodice is so fitted, I don’t want you raising your arms above your head. Well, not until you twirl, anyway.”
    “Will I be twirling again?” I ask, thinking of my dress last year.
    “I’m sure Caesar will ask you. And if he doesn’t, you suggest it yourself. Only not right away. Save it for your big finale,” Cinna instructs me.
    “You give me a signal so I know when,” I say.
    “All right. Any plans for your interview? I know Haymitch left you two to your own devices,” he says.
    “No, this year I’m just winging it. The funny thing is, I’m not nervous at all.” And I’m not. However much President Snow may hate me, this Capitol