Chapter Text
“No really, you should come,” Peeta says with that open, friendly smile, “Rye said to invite everyone.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean me,” I protest, kicking a pebble down the road as we walk towards the Seam.
“Can I come?” Prim pipes up. I turn to shush her but Peeta beats me to it.
“I’d love to have you both there,” he replies with a sweeping gesture, “I’ve already started working on the cake and I’d hate for you to miss it.”
“What’ll it be? Roses for Rosie?” I ask with more condescension in my tone than is fair.
I hate when Peeta does this, pretends there’s no divide. Just because he and I are friends doesn’t mean his neighbors don’t give Prim and I weird looks when he walks through town with us, or that his family wants us at his brother’s toasting. They aren’t all bad, but I’m not exactly welcome at the bakery when his mother is there, and some of his townie friends whisper nasty things when he’s not looking. Most merchant folk ignore us Seam kids and the other way around. There’s a tense but amiable divide between the two halves of twelve and as long as no one crosses the line, everyone is content to pay no mind to the way the others live. But Peeta is determined to pretend the line doesn't exist and is always dragging me across it.
“Who doesn’t love a baked good with their name sake flower on top?” He teases, ignoring my tone and nudging Prim in the shoulder with his arm.
He made her three sugar cookies with buttercream primroses last month for her fourteenth birthday. I’d never have been able to afford them and I would have refused the charity of it but he outfoxed me. Handed them directly to Prim before I knew what he’d done. I couldn’t exactly take them out of her hands at that point so I tried for a week to pay him back in squirrel meat and wine berries but he wouldn’t take them. He’s pulling the same stunt now, inviting us in front of Prim so I can’t argue.
I scowl at him. He winks over Prim’s head. I scowl at my boots instead.
“There will be plenty of people there so don’t expect to be the center of attention,” Peeta continues, looking at Prim even though it’s clear the words are for me, “but I’ll save you both cake and when I’m done with my part I’ll come and find you. And we can dance!”
Prim is giddy. She starts taking quick, bouncy steps as he talks and keeps spinning to look at me every few words. I can see her trying not to skip like a little girl. I wish she wouldn’t resist. It seems too early for her to give up on silly childish things.
Peeta glances at me and adds with studied casualness, “you can bring Gale if you want.”
“Ha ha,” I say with a tilt of my head.
“I mean it,” he insists.
I shake my head. Most people may be content to live amiably in our divided district but Gale is not one of them. If he was caught anywhere near a wedding for the baker's son and the blacksmith's daughter, he would end up causing a scene. He’d make a snide comment about the excess or the expense, someone would take offense, he’d refuse to back down, and it would come to nothing but trouble. Gale doesn’t even like that I’m friends with Peeta, although even he admits we get better trades at the bakery now, despite my best efforts to force Peeta to trade fair. All that frosting gives him a bad head for business I think.
“No, that’s not a good idea,” I reply, leaving out the depth of why. It’s not that I don’t agree with Gale about the injustice of our lives versus Peeta’s life. The bakery doesn’t do as well as I used to imagine but still, at our final reaping this summer Peeta’s name was in the bowl the minimum seven times. I had twenty eight entries. On Gale’s last reaping two years earlier he had forty two slips with his name on them. The odds are most certainly more in Peeta’s favor than in ours. I might resent him too if I didn’t understand the rest of it.
“But you’ll come?” Asks Peeta hopefully. Always hopeful. This is why I don’t tell him about the nasty comments and the dirty looks. I don’t want to be the one who wipes that look off his face.
“I’ll ask my mother,” I reply. It’s his turn to scowl, though he’s not very good at it. He knows I don’t listen to a word my mother says.
“Please Katniss,” Prim begs.
“Well little duck,” I muse, running one of her blonde braids through my hand and laying it over her shoulder, “if you get your black damp paper done by Saturday and you help me fix the gate, I’ll think about it.”
She grins widely, “the gate’s fine like you have it. Lady can’t get out, I checked.” Prim is a much better negotiator than Peeta, it would seem. I’ve trained her well.
“It won’t be once we have snow on the ground in a couple of months, with the way it’s dragging. Unless you want to shovel snow all winter,” I add, walking sideways to poke her in the stomach and make her laugh and swat away my hand.
“Fine, but then you have to wear one of mom’s dresses,” Prim counters.
“I’m done with reaping clothes.”
“It’s not reaping clothes, it's for a toasting. And you can’t dance in pants.”
“I'm sure Peeta will find a way.”
“Katniss,” she drags the vowels of my name out in a childish whine but I don’t relent. Although, when we leave Peeta at the edge of town, I do agree to see him Saturday, despite my reservations.
The morning of Peeta’s brothers toasting is colder than the days leading up to it. An early autumn chill settles over the district and my breath hangs in the air before floating into deep green foliage just beginning to turn orange. I’d like to make a few trips to my lake before the water fowl leave for the winter and I don’t like going on Sundays because those are the only days I can see Gale now that he’s started working in the mines. Bringing in enough game is the only thing that will stop me from having to follow him down there. Today would be a perfect day for the trip, but I’ve already promised Prim we’d go to the toasting and I’m not sure I’d make it back in time, so I settle for two squirrels, a rabbit, some early acorns, and sassafras roots. One of my snares got tripped by a mouse, which I drop into my game bag even though it’s too small to be worth anything. I’ll have to ask Gale to re-set it. I must have made a mistake with the mechanism. A mistake I can’t afford heading into our first winter with no tesserae.
I’m trying to stockpile coins and salted meat and to pickle what roots and greens I can, but it hasn’t been enough. This cold day is a harsh reminder that I’m running out of time. The biting chill turns my nose red and creeps under my father’s hunting jacket like an ill omen, whispering of hollow cheeks and empty stomachs. I spent so long wishing for the day I would be free of the reapings and now looking into the teeth of a winter with no grain and no oil, the risk to my life now a worthless trade, I wonder if I shouldn’t have taken those reaping years for granted.
When I get home I toss the mouse at Buttercup, who’s sleeping under the coal stove. He has the gaul to hiss in my direction before hesitantly sniffing the offering.
“If that’s not fancy enough for you, you can always go be some other saps cat,” I mutter at the ungrateful thing. Prim, ever his defender, gives me a look from the kitchen table where she’s carefully smoothing wrinkles out of a ribbon with a warm cast iron skillet.
I skin and clean my kills, opting to keep the meat today instead of taking any of it to the hob or to trade at any merchant back doors. We need every ounce of protein we can save. Prim will need new soles for her winter boots before the snows come in, but what if the squirrels I lose to get that rubber end up being the difference between life or death come December? I might wish I’d left her in shoddy shoes with one more mouthful of food.
When Prim brings up the topic of my outfit again, I stand firm. Something about intentionally dressing up for these people makes me uneasy. Nothing I can do will make me look like I belong at this wedding and somehow trying makes it worse. I won’t put on a show for them, I don’t intend to look a mess though. My mother has laid out clean pants and I pull on a thin green sweater that’s so faded its closer to grey, picking nervously at the pilling under the arms while Prim does my hair. The hair above my ears gets woven into two braids that join at the back of my head and leave the bottom half of my hair loose and straight around my shoulders. Prim declares that since I never wear it this way, it counts as a special occasion look, and I give her the softest smile I can manage. At our mothers suggestion, Prim slept with her hair is complex knots last night that, when taken down, leaves her pretty golden hair falling around her face in waves.
“You’ll look right at home,” I whisper, tucking a bit of the soft sunshine behind one of my sister’s ears.
“So will you,” she says.
I tap her nose with one finger instead of replying, because she’s wrong. I know she only means we could never be at home anywhere without each other, but I look just as out of place at the Mellark’s as she does at the Hawthorns. I tie her hair ribbon in as symmetrical a bow as I can, and we head off down the Seam towards the merchant section of town. When we make it in sight of the bakery, light spilling out the back door and people already milling about, I hesitate, suddenly regretting not wearing the dress.
The couple have already signed their papers at the justice building earlier today. Close friends and family likely went with them to witness the signatures and sing the wedding song in the streets on their way to open their newly assigned home for the first time. Thankfully, we didn’t get roped into that more intimate affair, but are instead arriving with the larger crowds of acquaintances and cousins at the bakery for the reception. In the Seam, a wedding celebration would consist of very little. Those close to the couple would offer what gifts they could of furniture or food, there might be a bit of fruit or white liquor if you’re lucky, and if anyone can convince Old Larkin to play, some fiddling and dancing. Here, for Rye and Rosie, there’s a much bigger affair. Mismatched tables are laid out in the yard between the bakery and the old apple tree, some even have brightly colored table clothes, others candles. There are piles of tiny meat pies and quiches, a few festive breads with braided tops, and at the center of it is Peeta’s masterpiece. Prim audibly coos and tugs me towards it by the hand.
Two round layers of cake, one smaller than the other, sit perfectly on a plate raised above the table on an unturned glass tumbler. Every inch is covered in dozens upon dozens of delicate sugar roses, laid out in loops and bundles around the confection and interspersed with what looks like real greenery tucked in behind the frosting petals. He chose oranges and yellows alongside the traditional red, so the cake appears to be just as much autumn foliage as it is rose garden. I’ve never seen roses like these, not even real ones. How did he think to make them?
“Sooo?” A voice at my right ear murmurs, “what do you think?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “It’s amazing, Peeta,” I say. It’s nothing short of the truth.
“I love when you do the flowers,” Prim sighs.
“Oh good. I’m happy with it,” he says, beaming, then adds in a whisper, “Except for a few lopsided flowers. But I hid those in the back.” He puts a finger to his lips and I snort a small laugh.
“Aren’t you worried I’ll tell the neighbors your shameful secret?” I ask.
“Not at all, I’m trusting you with my life here.”
“Foolish,” I shake my head with a smile.
“Nonetheless,” he shrugs, “my reputation rests in your hands.”
I may not have worn my reaping clothes, but Peeta definitely did. He’s got on a crisp white shirt that hugs his shoulders, navy slacks, and his curls are dampened and brushed back away from his face. It makes him look older. No longer the boy standing in the square, hoping his name is never called.
“I have to cut and serve cake for a bit but when I’m done, how about a dance?” Peeta asks me.
I nod. He smiles. And right then I hear his witch of a mother burst out of the back door of the bakery. A few other women are with her, merchants I suspect—I recognize one as the shoe makers wife—and her head is thrown over her shoulder talking to them as she descends down into the yard so I’m able to make myself and Prim scarce before she spots us. Peeta may be convinced we’re legitimate guests but I’m not taking a chance with his mother’s opinion on the subject.
We retreat to the apple tree to watch the festivities. Rye walks his bride around the lawn on his arm, beaming that beautiful Mellark smile. Rose clings to her husband, always either blushing down at her toes or shaking her head with a wry smile. She’s wearing one of the handful of white dresses you can rent in district twelve, with the addition of a wreath of greenery around her head. I’ve rarely spoken to her, but she’s always struck me as a rather soft person, with her wide doe eyes and quiet nature. I wonder if she really cares about Rye, or if it was pressure from their parents that brought them together. It’s not uncommon to see arranged marriages among the business owning families, my mother once told me. Im grateful that at least in the Seam no one cares that I’ll never marry. There will be no family business to suffer for my lack of offspring.
Prim chats to me about the decorations for a while and then spots a few of her friends and runs off. Either the kids her age are less judgmental or the fact that her hair is blonde like theirs lets them forget it also has a perpetual layer of coal dust dulling its shine. Either way, I’m glad she has townie friends. They seem to be sweet to her and my best hope for her future is that she marries a business owner. It’s her best path to consistent food without venturing into the mines or out into the woods.
I watch Peeta serve cake. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I can see his proud grin as he hands people slices adorned with soft and lovely flowers he spun from butter and sugar. He laughs jovially, ducks his head to accept compliments, shakes hands with boys we went to school with. He’s always so sure of himself. Every strong pat on the shoulder and smiling nod comes so easy to him. I can’t help noticing his shoes are clean and well maintained, double knotted laces and soles strong enough to last. Should I envy him? Should I be angry the way Gale is angry that Peeta can afford the shoes I’m struggling to buy for Prim? I can’t seem to feel it.
A group of girls our age huddles around the cake table and Peeta slides the pewter serving knife through the cake again, smiling and greeting his friends. Everyone in twelve seems to be friends with Peeta. Several of these girls are engaged already, they’re all past their final reaping, they’ve graduated school, and are ready to start their lives now that they know they get to have one. Peeta makes all the toasting cakes so I’m sure they’re excited to fawn over the roses and dream of their own designs. Why Ira Wyatt has such an interest I don’t know. She’s not engaged, although I’m not sure I would know if she was. When Peeta hands her a little stoneware plate she seems to make a bit of a mess of things and get a smudge of bright orange cream on her hand which she holds away from her like it’s poison. I chuckle as Peeta fumbles to take the plate back from her while reaching for a napkin at the same time and nearly drops everything he’s holding. But then Ira reaches up with her frosting afflicted hand and playfully smudges a bit right onto Peeta’s cheek, then seems to giggle and takes the napkins from him. Peeta’s face is hard to read but when she wipes each of her perfect, unscared fingers clean and then reaches to fix his face for him he takes the napkin from her and does it himself with a slight smile and something charming to say that I can’t hear.
A sharp heat twists in my belly and I’m about to storm over there and put a stop to whatever underhanded game Ira is playing when Mrs Mellark makes an appearance again and it stays my steps. Myself, Peeta, and his mother in the same situation only ever leads to trouble for Peeta. It’s happened before.
I have a strange sense of being more than one version of myself as I stand at the apple tree and look off at the bakery where Peeta Mellark stands next to his mother. It’s as if I can reach back to that starving eleven year old girl I was in this very spot the day he threw burnt bread out into the rain. I feel the weakness in her limbs, the hollow in her center, the heat of the bread clutched to her chest. That life saving gift and the boy with the bruise he paid for it. It feels like no time has passed. It feels like I am eleven and I can see myself now, eighteen and strong but still looking at the warm glow of the bakery windows with hunger. Still watching the boy with the bread.
By this time a guitar and a fiddle have started to play and people begin gathering in the grass under fading evening light and pairing off, so instead of shoving Ira’s face into the remainder of Peeta’s cake and ruining Rye’s wedding, I go find Prim with her friends at the quiche table and pull her away to dance with me. Prim loves to dance. Our father used to balance her on his toes and waltz her around the kitchen before he blew to bits in the mines. I don’t know many of the steps but spin her around in big circles until she’s laughing and gasping for air, then release her back to her friends who all gather in a flock of girls to hold hands and dance in a ring and squeal.
“So, Katniss.” The second time he’s snuck up on me today. He’s usually not this quiet. Maybe it’s the music. Or my overfull head. “How about that dance?”
I glance up at him and he’s smiling, then offering me his hand.
“You’ve got a little…” I motion at my own cheek to show him where the last bit of orange frosting is stuck to his face. He wiped the wrong cheek and looks at me questioningly.
I shake my head. “No its…” I give up explaining and just smooth the mark off his cheek bone with my thumb, brushing soft bits of buttercream away from his freckles with a quick motion before I realize what I’m doing and drop my hand. Peeta gives me a shy smile that reminds me of being thirteen and finally working up the courage to thank him for the bread. I’d fumbled through a poorly prepared speech before leaning over to kiss his cheek, right where the bruise had been. But either I missed or he moved and somehow, to my horror, my lips landed on the side of his mouth with a soft puckered smack sound. He’d looked at me just like this, boyish and nervous, and I had wordlessly run away. I can’t run this time because he’s taking my hand and leading me into the spinning group of dancers before I can decide if I should run for the Seam or the fence.
“Do you know how?” He asks, tentatively placing a hand on my lower back.
“A little,” I answer. I take one of his hands in mine and rest the other on his shoulder. He tugs me closer, closer than he needs to, but I allow it.
“Like this?” He asks.
“Something like that,” I answer.
It actually helps to be so wrapped in his arms when he takes off spinning and I nearly fall over. I laugh at him but he doesn’t seem bothered, just pulls me along in an off beat and fumbling version of a two step, with a lot of glancing down at our feet. His hands are broad and warm and I can feel his breathless laugh all the way down my chest. Have I really never danced with him before? I don’t know when I would have, but it feels so ordinary. Like we’ve been terrible dancers together many times. He puts pressure on my back to try and turn me with him but I don’t react right and trip over either his feet or mine, I can’t tell. Luckily when I fall, I fall into Peeta and he’s able to catch me against his chest and I don’t loose my footing. When he breathes a laugh I feel it on my cheek and then straight down my spine. I pull back a bit, feet safely on the ground, a workable amount of space between us so we can see our shoes, and let him begin again. We finish that song and the next without further embarrassing ourselves. But by the end we’re breathing hard and grinning and Peeta’s turned almost as red as one of his buttercream roses.
After that comes a group dance with lots of trading partners, do-see-does, and weaving down the line, which splits us up. I end up arm in arm with Rye part way through, who smiles genuinely at me proving at least he was okay with me being here. He shoots Peeta a look across the yard and then I’m spinning off again.
When it’s time to walk the bride and groom to their new house and usher them inside for their private toasting, I grab Prims hand and decide to fade into the darkness before the other guests are gathered around and saying their goodbyes. Peeta catches me sneaking off and tries to walk us home but I adamantly refuse.
“You can’t leave right now. You need to finish your brother’s wedding,” I insist.
“Then come too. Their new place isn’t far, and I’ll walk you after,” he suggests, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.
“It’s late,” I say with a shake of my head, “and we know our way home.”
And I don’t want him wandering around the Seam after dark without me to watch him, but I don’t say that part.
“Okay,” he concedes, with a glance toward the party who is already departing down the road. “Thank you. For coming Katniss. And Prim, I didn’t get a dance so you owe me one next time.”
“We can dance at your wedding,” Prim agrees.
Peeta’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, but his smile doesn’t fade as he replies, “I’m sure we will.”
Then he wishes us goodnight with one quick look into my eyes, and jogs away to catch up to the others.
The next day brings good hunting with Gale and a repaired snare but I’m growing increasingly concerned. Even in the woods where I am my most free, I feel terror closing in around my throat. Our haul is enough to feed us today, but it’s not enough to save what we need to get through the winter when the game will be scarce and the plant life all but non-existent. Gale has his miners salary, which is stretched thin with three younger siblings, but they’re going to survive. His mother brings in some money with her laundry work while my mother’s healing rarely sees anything in return. I should have gone to the lake yesterday, not wasted my time dancing. Prim needs dinner more than she needs a slice of cake and a spin around the bakery’s back yard.
I determine to dedicate every minute I have to gathering food until winter comes. If I’m unable to get enough, I will be forced to follow every adult from my neighborhood into the earth to risk my limbs and lungs carving out a living from the rock beneath twelve. The thought of taking that elevator down into the dark leaves me so shaky I have to sit down. No, I won’t have to do it. Not if I can get enough. I will head out at first light and be in the woods until I meet Prim at the bakery each day to walk her home from school. Not that she needs it at her age, but it’s a habit, and since I’m trading with Peeta after the hob most days anyway it’s a good spot to meet. I’ll also start taking long trips to the lake on Saturdays for as many ducks and katniss roots as I can carry on my own. I briefly consider bringing Gale to the lake, I never have and he could help carry more weight, but as much as I rely on his companionship in the woods, the lake belonged to my father, and I can’t quite bear to share it. Not yet.
On Monday, when I arrive at the bakery with Peeta’s squirrel, he’s not there.