the element of surprise throw them? Had they no defenses left? Children are precious to 13, or so it has always seemed. Well, not me, maybe. Once I had outlived my usefulness, I was expendable. Although I think it’s been a long time since I’ve been considered a child in this war. And why would they do it knowing their own medics would likely respond and be taken out by the second blast? They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. Snow’s lying. Manipulating me as he always has. Hoping to turn me against the rebels and possibly destroy them. Yes. Of course.
Then what’s nagging at me? Those double-exploding bombs, for one. It’s not that the Capitol couldn’t have the same weapon, it’s just that I’m sure the rebels did. Gale and Beetee’s brainchild. Then there’s the fact that Snow made no escape attempt, when I know him to be the consummate survivor. It seems hard to believe he didn’t have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life. And finally, there’s his assessment of Coin. What’s irrefutable is that she’s done exactly what he said. Let the Capitol and the districts run one another into the ground and then sauntered in to take power. Even if that was her plan, it doesn’t mean she dropped those parachutes. Victory was already in her grasp. Everything was in her grasp.
Except me.
I recall Boggs’s response when I admitted I hadn’t put much thought into Snow’s successor. «If your immediate answer isn’t Coin, then you’re a threat. You’re the face of the rebellion. You may have more influence than any other single person. Outwardly, the most you’ve ever done is tolerated her.»
Suddenly, I’m thinking of Prim, who was not yet fourteen, not yet old enough to be granted the title of soldier, but somehow working on the front lines. How did such a thing happen? That my sister would have wanted to be there, I have no doubt. That she would be more capable than many older than she is a given. But for all that, someone very high up would have had to approve putting a thirteen-year-old in combat. Did Coin do it, hoping that losing Prim would push me completely over the edge? Or, at least, firmly on her side? I wouldn’t even have had to witness it in person. Numerous cameras would be covering the City Circle. Capturing the moment forever.
No, now I am going crazy, slipping into some state of paranoia. Too many people would know of the mission. Word would get out. Or would it? Who would have to know besides Coin, Plutarch, and a small, loyal or easily disposable crew?
I badly need help working this out, only everyone I trust is dead. Cinna. Boggs. Finnick. Prim. There’s Peeta, but he couldn’t do any more than speculate, and who knows what state his mind’s in, anyway. And that leaves only Gale. He’s far away, but even if he were beside me, could I confide in him? What could I say, how could I phrase it, without implying that it was his bomb that killed Prim? The impossibility of that idea, more than any, is why Snow must be lying.
Ultimately, there’s only one person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. To broach the subject at all will be a risk. But while I think Haymitch might gamble with my life in the arena, I don’t think he’d rat me out to Coin. Whatever problems we may have with each other, we prefer resolving our differences one-on-one.
I scramble off the tiles, out the door, and across the hall to his room. When there’s no response to my knock, I push inside. Ugh. It’s amazing how quickly he can defile a space. Half-eaten plates of food, shattered liquor bottles, and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage scatter his quarters. He lies, unkempt and unwashed, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out.
«Haymitch,» I say, shaking his leg. Of course, that’s insufficient. But I give it a few more tries before I dump the pitcher of water in his face. He comes to with a gasp, slashing blindly with his knife. Apparently, the end of Snow’s reign didn’t equal the end of his terror.
«Oh. You,» he says. I can tell by his voice that he’s still loaded.
«Haymitch,» I begin.
«Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice.» He laughs. «Well, Plutarch’s going to be happy.» He takes a swig from a bottle. «Why am I soaking wet?» I lamely drop the pitcher behind me into a pile of dirty clothes.
«I need your help,» I say.
Haymitch belches, filling the air with white liquor fumes. «What is it, sweetheart? More boy trouble?» I don’t know why, but this hurts me in a way Haymitch rarely can. It must show on my face, because even in his drunken state, he tries to take it back. «Okay, not funny.» I’m already at the door. «Not funny! Come back!» By the thud of his body hitting the floor, I assume he tried to follow me, but there’s no point.
I zigzag through the mansion and disappear into a wardrobe full of silken things. I yank them from hangers until I have a pile and then burrow into it. In the lining of my pocket, I find a stray morphling tablet and swallow it dry, heading off my rising hysteria. It’s not enough to right things, though. I hear Haymitch calling me in the distance, but he won’t find me in his condition. Especially not in this new spot. Swathed in silk, I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is. But as I journey into night, I feel more and more trapped, suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my ruined body and unlock the secret to growing flawless wings. Despite enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature, fired into my current form by the blast from the bombs.
The encounter with Snow opens the door to my old repertoire of nightmares. It’s like being stung by tracker jackers again. A wave of horrifying images with a brief respite I confuse with waking—only to find another wave knocking me back. When the guards finally locate me, I’m sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, tangled in silk, screaming my head off. I fight them at first, until they convince me they’re trying to help, peel away the choking garments, and escort me back to my room. On the way, we pass a window and I see a gray, snowy dawn spreading across the Capitol.
A very hungover Haymitch waits with a handful of pills and a tray of food that neither of us has the stomach for. He makes a feeble attempt to get me to talk again but, seeing it’s pointless, sends me to a bath someone has drawn. The tub’s deep, with three steps to the bottom. I ease down into the warm water and sit, up to my neck in suds, hoping the medicines kick in soon. My eyes focus on the rose that has spread its petals overnight, filling the steamy air with its strong perfume. I rise and reach for a towel to smother it, when there’s a tentative knock and the bathroom door opens, revealing three familiar faces. They try to smile at me, but even Venia can’t conceal her shock at my ravaged mutt body. «Surprise!» Octavia squeaks, and then bursts into tears. I’m puzzling over their reappearance when I realize that this must be it, the day of the execution. They’ve come to prep me for the cameras. Remake me to Beauty Base Zero. No wonder Octavia’s crying. It’s an impossible task.
They can barely touch my patchwork of skin for fear of hurting me, so I rinse and dry off myself. I tell them I hardly notice the pain anymore, but Flavius still winces as he drapes a robe around me. In the bedroom, I find another surprise. Sitting upright in a chair. Polished from her metallic gold wig to her patent leather high heels, gripping a clipboard. Remarkably unchanged except for the vacant look in her eyes.
«Effie,» I say.
«Hello, Katniss.» She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has occurred since our last meeting, the night before the Quarter Quell. «Well, it looks like we’ve got another big, big, big day ahead of us. So why don’t you start your prep and I’ll just pop over and check on the arrangements.»
«Okay,» I say to her back.
«They say Plutarch and Haymitch had a hard time keeping her alive,» comments Venia under her breath.
«She was imprisoned after your escape, so that helps.»
It’s quite a stretch. Effie Trinket, rebel. But I don’t want Coin killing her, so I make a mental note to present her that way if asked. «I guess it’s good Plutarch kidnapped you three after all.»
«We’re the only prep team still alive. And all the stylists from the Quarter Quell are dead,» says Venia. She doesn’t say who specifically killed them. I’m beginning to wonder if it matters. She gingerly takes one of my scarred hands and holds it out for inspection. «Now, what do you think for the nails? Red or maybe a jet black?»
Flavius performs some beauty miracle on my hair, managing to even out the front while getting some of the longer locks to hide the bald spots in the back. My face, since it was spared from the flames, presents no more than the usual challenges. Once I’m in Cinna’s Mockingjay suit, the only scars visible are on my neck, forearms, and hands. Octavia secures my Mockingjay pin over my heart and we step back to look in the mirror. I can’t believe how normal they’ve made me look on the outside when inwardly I’m such a wasteland.
