The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes / Баллада о змеях и певчих птицах (by Suzanne Collins, 2020) - аудиокнига на английском

Hereby it is manifest, that during the time men live without a common Power to keep them all in awe, they are in that condition which is called Warre; and such a warre, as is of every man, against every man.” — Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, 1651 “The state of nature has a law of nature to govern it, which obliges every one: and reason, which is that law, teaches all mankind, who will but consult it, that being all equal and independent, no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions. . . .” — John Locke, Second Treatise of Government, 1689 “Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.” — Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract, 1762 “Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; — We murder to dissect.” — William Wordsworth, “The Tables Turned,” Lyrical Ballads, 1798 “I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him.” — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, 1818 Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling water and swore that one day it would never pass his lips again. But this was not that day. He needed to eat a large bowl of the anemic stuff, and drink every drop of broth, to prevent his stomach from growling during the reaping ceremony. It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum. That at eighteen, the heir to the once-great house of Snow had nothing to live on but his wits. His shirt for the reaping was worrying him. He had an acceptable pair of dark dress pants bought on the black market last year, but the shirt was what people looked at. Fortunately, the Academy provided the uniforms it required for daily use. For today’s ceremony, however, students were instructed to be dressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated. Tigris had said to trust her, and he did. Only his cousin’s cleverness with a needle had saved him so far. Still, he couldn’t expect miracles. The shirt they’d dug from the back of the wardrobe — his father’s, from better days — was stained and yellowed with age, half the buttons missing, a cigarette burn on one cuff. Too damaged to sell in even the worst of times, and this was to be his reaping shirt? This morning he had gone to her room at daybreak, only to find both his cousin and the shirt missing. Not a good sign. Had Tigris given up on the old thing and braved the black market in some last-ditch effort to find him proper clothing? And what on earth would she possess worth trading for it? Only one thing — herself — and the house of Snow had not yet fallen that far. Or was it falling now as he salted the cabbage? He thought of people putting a price on her. With her long, pointed nose and skinny body, Tigris was no great beauty, but she had a sweetness, a vulnerability that invited abuse. She would find takers, if she had a mind to. The idea made him feel sick and helpless and, consequently, disgusted with himself. From deep in the apartment he heard the recording of the Capitol anthem, “Gem of Panem,” kick on. His grandmother’s tremulous soprano voice joined in, bouncing off the walls. Gem of Panem, Mighty city, Through the ages, you shine anew. As always, she was painfully off-key and slightly behind tempo. The first year of the war, she’d played the recording on national holidays for five-year-old Coriolanus and eight-year-old Tigris in order to build their sense of patriotism. The daily recital hadn’t begun until that black day when the district rebels had surrounded the Capitol, cutting it off from supplies for the remaining two years of the war. “Remember, children,” she’d say, “we are but besieged — we have not surrendered!” Then she would warble the anthem out of the penthouse window as the bombs rained down. Her small act of defiance. We humbly kneel To your ideal, And the notes she could never quite hit . . . And pledge our love to you! Coriolanus winced a little. For a decade now, though the rebels had been silent, his grandmother had not. There were still two verses to go. Gem of Panem, Heart of justice, Wisdom crowns your marble brow. He wondered if more furniture might absorb some of the sound, but the question was academic. At present, their penthouse apartment was a microcosm of the Capitol itself, bearing the scars of the relentless rebel attacks. The twenty-foot-high walls were veined with cracks, the molded ceiling was dotted with holes from missing chunks of plaster, and ugly black strips of electrical tape held in place the broken glass of the arched windows that looked out over the city. Throughout the war and the decade that followed, the family had been forced to sell or trade many of its possessions, so that some rooms were entirely empty and closed off and the others sparsely furnished at best. Even worse, during the bitter cold of the siege’s final winter, several elegant, carved wooden pieces and innumerable volumes of books had been sacrificed to the fireplace to keep the family from freezing to death. Watching the bright pages of his picture books — the very ones he’d pored over with his mother — reduced to ashes had never failed to bring him to tears. But better off sad than dead. Having been in his friends’ apartments, Coriolanus knew that most families had begun to repair their homes, but the Snows could not even afford a few yards of linen for a new shirt. He thought of his classmates, riffling through their closets or slipping into their newly tailored suits, and wondered just how long he could keep up appearances. You give us light. You reunite. To you we make our vow. If Tigris’s revamped shirt was unwearable, what was he to do? Fake the flu and call in sick? Spineless. Soldier through in his uniform shirt? Disrespectful. Squeeze into the red button-down that he had outgrown two years ago? Poor. Acceptable option? None of the above. Perhaps Tigris had gone to ask help from her employer, Fabricia Whatnot, a woman as ridiculous as her name but with a certain talent for derivative fashion. Whether the trend was feathers or leathers, plastics or plush, she could find a way to incorporate it at a reasonable rate. Not much of a student, Tigris had forgone university when she’d graduated from the Academy to pursue her dream of becoming a designer. She was supposed to be an apprentice, although Fabricia used her more as slave labor, requiring her to give foot massages and clean clumps of her long magenta hair from the drains. But Tigris never complained and would hear no criticism of her boss, so pleased and grateful was she to have a position in fashion. Gem of Panem, Seat of power, Strength in peacetime, shield in strife. Coriolanus opened the refrigerator, hoping for something to liven up the cabbage soup. The sole occupant was a metal saucepan. When he removed the lid, a mush of congealed, shredded potatoes stared back at him. Had his grandmother finally made good her threat of learning to cook? Was the stuff even edible? He replaced the lid until he had more information to work with. What a luxury it would be to toss it in the trash without a second thought. What a luxury trash would be. He remembered, or thought he did, being very small and watching garbage trucks operated by Avoxes — tongueless workers made the best workers, or so his grandmother said — humming down the streets, emptying large bags of discarded food, containers, worn household items. Then came the time when nothing was disposable, no calorie unwanted, and no item unable to be traded, or burned for heat, or tucked against a wall for insulation. Everyone had learned to despise waste. It was creeping back into fashion, though. A sign of prosperity, like a decent shirt. Protect our land With armored hand, The shirt. The shirt. His mind could fixate on a problem like that — anything, really — and not let go. As if controlling one element of his world would keep him from ruin. It was a bad habit that blinded him to other things that could harm him. A tendency toward obsession was hardwired into his brain and would likely be his undoing if he couldn’t learn to outsmart it. His grandmother’s voice squeaked out the final crescendo. Our Capitol, our life! Crazy old woman, still clinging to the prewar days. He loved her, but she’d lost touch with reality years ago. Every meal, she’d rattle on about the Snows’ legendary grandeur, even when their fare consisted of watery bean soup and stale crackers. And to hear her tell it, it was a given that his future would be glorious. “When Coriolanus is president . . .” she often began. “When Coriolanus is president . . .” everything from the rickety Capitol air force to the exorbitant price of pork chops would be magically corrected. Thank goodness the broken elevator and her arthritic knees prevented her from going out much, and her infrequent visitors were as fossilized as she. The cabbage began to boil, filling the kitchen with the smell of poverty. Coriolanus jabbed at it with a wooden spoon. Still no Tigris. Soon it would be too late to call and make an excuse. Everyone would have assembled at the Academy’s Heavensbee Hall. There would be anger to deal with as well as disappointment from his communications professor, Satyria Click, who had campaigned for him to receive one of the twenty-four coveted mentorships in the Hunger Games. Besides being Satyria’s favorite, he was her teaching aide, and doubtless she would need him for something today. She could be unpredictable, especially when she’d been drinking, and that was a given on the day of the reaping. He’d better call and warn her, say he couldn’t stop vomiting or something but would do his best to recover. He steeled himself and picked up the phone to plead dire illness when another thought hit him: If he failed to show, would she allow them to replace him as a mentor? And if she did, would that weaken his chance for one of the Academy prizes presented at graduation? Without such a prize, he had no way to afford to go to university, which meant no career, which meant no future, not for him, and who knew what would happen to the family, and — The front door, warped and complaining, scraped open. “Coryo!” Tigris cried out, and he slammed the phone down. The nickname she’d given him when he was a newborn had stuck. He flew out of the kitchen, almost knocking her over, but she was too excited to reproach him. “I did it! I did it! Well, I did something.” Her feet did a rapid little run in place as she held up a hanger draped in an old dress bag. “Look, look, look!” Coriolanus unzipped the bag and stripped it from the shirt. It was gorgeous. No, even better, it was classy. The thick linen was neither the original white nor the yellow of age, but a delicious cream. The cuffs and collar had been replaced with black velvet, and the buttons were gold and ebony cubes. Tesserae. Each had two tiny holes drilled through it for the thread. “You’re brilliant,” he said earnestly. “And the best cousin ever.” Careful to hold the shirt out of harm’s way, he hugged her with his free arm. “Snow lands on top!” “Snow lands on top!” Tigris crowed. It was the saying that had gotten them through the war, when it was a constant struggle not to be ground into the earth. “Tell me everything,” he said, knowing she would want to. She so loved to talk clothes. Tigris threw up her hands and gave a breathy laugh. “Where to begin?” She began with the bleach. Tigris had suggested the white curtains in Fabricia’s bedroom looked dingy and, while soaking them in bleach water, had slipped in the shirt. It had responded beautifully, but no amount of soaking could entirely erase the stains. So she’d boiled the shirt with dead marigolds she’d found in the bin outside Fabricia’s neighbor’s, and the blossoms had dyed the linen just enough to conceal the stains. The velvet for the cuffs was from a large drawstring pouch that had held some now-meaningless plaque of their grandfather’s. The tesserae she had pried from the interior of a cabinet in the maid’s bathroom. She’d gotten the building maintenance man to drill the holes in exchange for mending his coveralls. “Was that this morning?” he asked. “Oh, no, yesterday. Sunday. This morning, I — Did you find my potatoes?” He followed her into the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and pulled out the pan. “I was up until all hours making starch from them. Then I ran down to the Dolittles’ so I could have a proper iron. Saved these for the soup!” Tigris upended the mess into the boiling cabbage and stirred it around. He noticed the lilac circles under her golden brown eyes and couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked. “Oh, I’m fine. I ate the potato skins. They say that’s where the vitamins are anyway. And today’s the reaping, so it’s practically a holiday!” she said cheerfully. “Not at Fabricia’s,” he said. Not anywhere, really. Reaping day was terrible in the districts, but not much of a celebration in the Capitol either. Like him, most people took no pleasure in remembering the war. Tigris would spend the day waiting hand and foot on her employer and her motley crew of guests while they exchanged morose tales of the deprivation they’d experienced during the siege and drank themselves senseless. Tomorrow, nursing them through hangovers, would be worse. “Stop worrying. Here, you better hurry up and eat!” Tigris ladled some soup into a bowl and set it on the table. Coriolanus glanced at the clock, gulped down the soup without caring that it burned his mouth, and ran to his room with the shirt. He had already showered and shaved, and his fair skin was, thankfully, blemish-free today. The school-issued underwear and black socks were fine. He pulled on the dress pants, which were more than acceptable, and crammed his feet into a pair of laced leather boots. They were too small, but he could bear it. Then he pulled the shirt on gingerly, tucked in the tails, and turned to the mirror. He was not as tall as he should have been. As for so many of his generation, a poor diet had likely compromised his growth. But he was athletically trim, with excellent posture, and the shirt emphasized the finer points of his physique. Not since he was little, when his grandmother would parade him through the streets in a purple velvet suit, had he looked so regal. He smoothed back his blond curls as he mockingly whispered to his image, “Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem, I salute you.” For Tigris’s sake, he made a grand entrance into the living room, extending his arms and turning in a full circle to show off the shirt. She squealed in delight and applauded. “You look amazing! So handsome and fashionable! Come see, Grandma’am!” It was another nickname coined by little Tigris, who’d found “Grandma,” and certainly “Nana,” insufficient for someone so imperial. Their grandmother appeared, a fresh-cut red rose cupped lovingly in her tremorous hands. She wore a long, black, flowing tunic, the kind so popular before the war and so outdated as to be laughable now, and a pair of embroidered slippers with curled toes that had once been part of a costume. Strands of her thin, white hair poked from the bottom of a rusty velvet turban. This was the tail end of a once-lavish wardrobe — her few decent items were saved for company or the rare foray into the city. “Here, here, boy. Put this on. Fresh from my roof garden,” she ordered. He reached for the rose, but a thorn pierced his palm in the shaky exchange. Blood welled from the wound, and he held his hand out to keep it from staining his precious shirt. His grandmother seemed perplexed. “I only wanted you to look elegant,” she told him. “Of course, you did, Grandma’am,” said Tigris. “And so he shall.” As she led Coriolanus into the kitchen, he reminded himself that self-control was an essential skill, and he should be grateful his grandmother provided daily opportunities to practice it. “Puncture wounds never bleed long,” Tigris promised him as she quickly cleaned and bandaged his hand. She snipped away at the rose, preserving a bit of greenery, and pinned it to his shirt. “It does look elegant. You know what her roses mean to her. Thank her.” So he did. He thanked them both and sped out the door, down the twelve ornate flights of stairs, through the lobby, and out into the Capitol. His front door opened onto the Corso, an avenue so wide that eight chariots had comfortably ridden side by side on it in the old days when the Capitol had put on displays of military pomp for the crowds. Coriolanus could remember hanging out the apartment windows as a young child, party guests bragging that they had front-row seats to the parades. Then the bombers arrived, and for a long time his block was impassable. Now, though the streets were finally clear, rubble still lay in piles on the sidewalks, and whole buildings were as gutted as the day they’d been struck. Ten years after the victory, and he was dodging between chunks of marble and granite as he wove his way to the Academy. Sometimes Coriolanus wondered if the debris had been left there to remind the citizens of what they had endured. People had short memories. They needed to navigate the rubble, peel off the grubby ration coupons, and witness the Hunger Games to keep the war fresh in their minds. Forgetting could lead to complacency, and then they’d all be back at square one. As he turned onto Scholars Road, he tried to measure his pace. He wanted to arrive on time, but cool and composed, not a sweaty mess. This reaping day, like most, was shaping up to be a scorcher. But what else could you expect on July 4th? He felt grateful for the perfume of his grandmother’s rose, as his warming shirt was giving off a faint scent of potatoes and dead marigolds. As the finest secondary school in the Capitol, the Academy educated the offspring of the prominent, wealthy, and influential. With over four hundred students in each class, it had been possible for Tigris and Coriolanus, given their family’s long history at the school, to gain acceptance without much difficulty. Unlike the University, it was tuition-free and provided lunch and school supplies along with uniforms. Anyone who was anyone attended the Academy, and Coriolanus would need those connections as a foundation for his future. The grand staircase up to the Academy could hold the entire student body, so it easily accommodated the stream of officials, professors, and students headed for the reaping day festivities. Coriolanus climbed it slowly, attempting a casual dignity in case he caught anyone’s eye. People knew him — or at least they had known his parents and grandparents — and there was a certain standard expected of a Snow. This year, beginning this very day, he was hoping to achieve personal recognition as well. Mentoring in the Hunger Games was his final project before graduating from the Academy in midsummer. If he gave an impressive performance as a mentor, with his outstanding academic record, Coriolanus should be awarded a monetary prize substantial enough to cover his tuition at the University. There would be twenty-four tributes, one boy and one girl from each of the twelve defeated districts, drawn by lottery to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. It was all laid out in the Treaty of Treason that had ended the Dark Days of the districts’ rebellion, one of the many punishments borne by the rebels. As in the past, the tributes would be dumped into the Capitol Arena, a now-dilapidated amphitheater that had been used for sports and entertainment events before the war, along with some weapons to murder one another. Viewing was encouraged in the Capitol, but a lot of people avoided it. How to make it more engaging was the challenge. With this in mind, for the first time the tributes were to be assigned mentors. Twenty-four of the Academy’s best and brightest seniors had been tapped for the job. The specifics of what this entailed were still being worked out. There was talk of preparing each tribute for a personal interview, maybe some grooming for the cameras. Everyone agreed that if the Hunger Games were to continue, they needed to evolve into a more meaningful experience, and the pairing of the Capitol youth with the district tributes had people intrigued. Coriolanus made his way through an entry draped in black banners, down a vaulted passage, and into cavernous Heavensbee Hall, where they would watch the broadcast of the reaping ceremony. He was by no means late, but the hall was already humming with faculty and students and a number of Games officials who were not required for the opening day’s broadcast. Avoxes wove through the crowd with trays of posca, a concoction of watery wine laced with honey and herbs. It was an intoxicating version of the sour stuff that had sustained the Capitol through the war, supposedly fending off illness. Coriolanus took a goblet and swished a little of the posca around his mouth, hopefully rinsing away any trace of cabbage breath. But he only allowed himself one swallow. It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years he had seen upperclassmen make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply. The world still thought Coriolanus rich, but his only real currency was charm, which he spread liberally as he made his way through the crowd. Faces lit up as he gave friendly hellos to students and teachers alike, asking about family members, dropping compliments here and there. “Your lecture on district retaliation haunts me.” “Love the bangs!” “How did your mother’s back surgery go? Well, tell her she’s my hero.” He traveled past the hundreds of cushioned chairs set up for the occasion and onto the dais, where Satyria was regaling a mix of Academy professors and Games officials with some wild story. Although he only caught the last line — “Well, I said, ‘I’m sorry about your wig, but you were the one who insisted on bringing a monkey!’” — he dutifully joined in the laughter that followed. “Oh, Coriolanus,” Satyria drawled as she waved him over. “Here’s my star pupil.” He gave her the expected kiss on the cheek and registered that she was several glasses of posca ahead of him. Really, she needed to get her drinking under control, although the same thing could be said for half the adults he knew. Self-medication was a citywide epidemic. Still, she was amusing and not overly uptight, one of the few professors who allowed students to call them by their first names. She drew back a bit and surveyed him. “Beautiful shirt. Where did you get such a thing?” He looked at the shirt as if surprised by its existence and gave the shrug of a young man of limitless options. “The Snows have deep closets,” he said airily. “I was trying for respectful yet celebratory.” “And so it is. What are these cunning buttons?” Satyria asked, fingering one of the cubes on his cuff. “Tesserae?” “Are they? Well, that explains why they remind me of the maid’s bathroom,” Coriolanus responded, drawing a chuckle from her friends. This was the impression he fought to sustain. A reminder that he was the rare person who had a maid’s bathroom — let alone one tiled with tesserae — tempered with a self-deprecating joke about his shirt. He nodded at Satyria. “Lovely gown. It’s new, isn’t it?” He could tell at a glance that it was the same dress she always wore to the reaping ceremony, refurbished with tufts of black feathers. But she had validated his shirt, and he needed to return the favor. “I had it done especially for today,” she said, embracing the question. “Tenth anniversary and all that.” “Elegant,” he said. All in all, they were not a bad team. His pleasure drained as he spotted the gymnasium mistress, Professor Agrippina Sickle, using her muscular shoulders to maneuver her way through the crowd. Behind her was her aide, Sejanus Plinth, who was carrying the ornamental shield Professor Sickle insisted on holding for the group photo each year. It had been awarded to her at the end of the war for successfully overseeing Academy safety drills during the bombings. It was not the shield that caught Coriolanus’s attention but Sejanus’s outfit, a soft charcoal gray suit with a blinding white shirt offset by a paisley tie, cut to add flow to his tall, angular frame. The ensemble was stylish, brand-new, and smelling of money. War profiteering, to be exact. Sejanus’s father was a District 2 manufacturer who had sided with the president. He had made such a fortune off munitions that he’d been able to buy his family’s way into a life in the Capitol. The Plinths now enjoyed privileges that the oldest, most powerful families had earned over generations. It was unprecedented that Sejanus, a district-born boy, was a student at the Academy, but his father’s lavish donation had allowed for much of the school’s postwar reconstruction. A Capitol-born citizen would have expected a building to be renamed for them. Sejanus’s father had only requested an education for his son. For Coriolanus, the Plinths and their kind were a threat to all he held dear. The newly rich climbers in the Capitol were chipping away at the old order simply by virtue of their presence. It was particularly vexing because the bulk of the Snow family fortune had also been invested in munitions — but in District 13. Their sprawling complex, blocks and blocks of factories and research facilities, had been bombed to dust. District 13 had been nuked, and the entire area still emitted unlivable levels of radiation. The center of the Capitol’s military manufacturing had shifted to District 2 and fallen right into the Plinths’ laps. When news of District 13’s demise had reached the Capitol, Coriolanus’s grandmother had publicly brushed it off, saying it was fortunate that they had plenty of other assets. But they didn’t. Sejanus had arrived on the school playground ten years ago, a shy, sensitive boy cautiously surveying the other children with a pair of soulful brown eyes much too large for his strained face. When word had gotten out that he’d come from the districts, Coriolanus’s first impulse had been to join his classmates’ campaign to make the new kid’s life a living hell. On further reflection, he’d ignored him. If the other Capitol children took this to mean that baiting the district brat was beneath him, Sejanus took it as decency. Neither take was quite accurate, but both reinforced the image of Coriolanus as a class act. A woman of formidable stature, Professor Sickle cruised into Satyria’s circle, scattering her inferiors to the four winds. “Good morning, Professor Click.” “Oh, Agrippina, good. You remembered your shield,” said Satyria, accepting a firm handshake. “It worries me that the young people will forget the real meaning of the day. And, Sejanus. How smart you look.” Sejanus attempted a bow, sending a wayward lock of hair into his eyes. The cumbersome shield caught him in the chest. “Too smart,” said Professor Sickle. “I told him if I wanted a peacock, I’d call the pet store. They should all be in their uniforms.” She eyed Coriolanus. “That’s not terrible. Your father’s old mess dress shirt?” Was it? Coriolanus had no idea. A vague memory of his father in a dashing evening suit dripping in medals came to him. He decided to play out the hand. “Thank you for noticing, Professor. I had it redone so as not to suggest I’d seen combat myself. But I wanted him here with me today.” “Very fitting,” said Professor Sickle. Then she directed her attention to Satyria and her views on the latest deployment of Peacekeepers, the nation’s soldiers, to District 12, where the coal miners were failing to produce their quotas. With their teachers engaged, Coriolanus nodded at the shield. “Getting a workout this morning?” Sejanus gave a wry smile. “Always an honor to be of service.” “That’s a fine polish job,” Coriolanus replied. Sejanus tensed at the implication that he was, what, a suck-up? A lackey? Coriolanus let it build a moment before he diffused it. “I should know. I do all Satyria’s wine goblets.” Sejanus relaxed at that. “Really?” “No, not really. But only because she hasn’t thought of it,” said Coriolanus, seesawing between disdain and camaraderie. “Professor Sickle thinks of everything. She doesn’t hesitate to call me, day or night.” Sejanus looked as if he might continue, then just sighed. “And, of course, now that I’m graduating, we’re moving closer to the school. Perfect timing, as usual.” Coriolanus suddenly felt wary. “Whereabouts?” “Somewhere on the Corso. A lot of those grand places will be going on the market soon. Owners not being able to afford the taxes, or some such, my father said.” The shield scraped the floor, and Sejanus hefted it up. “They don’t tax properties in the Capitol. Only in the districts,” said Coriolanus. “It’s a new law,” Sejanus told him. “To get more money for rebuilding the city.” Coriolanus tried to tamp down the panic rising inside him. A new law. Instating a tax on his apartment. For how much? As it was, they barely eked out a living on Tigris’s pittance, the tiny military pension his grandmother received for her husband’s service to Panem, and his own dependent benefits as the child of a slain war hero, which would cease on graduation. If they couldn’t pay the taxes, would they lose the apartment? It was all they had. Selling the place would be of no help; he knew his grandmother had borrowed every cent on it she could. If they sold, there would be next to nothing left. They would have to move to some obscure neighborhood and join the grimy ranks of everyday citizens, without status, without influence, without dignity. The disgrace would kill his grandmother. It would be kinder to toss her out the window of the penthouse. At least that would be quick. “You all right?” Sejanus peered at him, puzzled. “You just went white as a sheet.” Coriolanus regained his composure. “I think it’s the posca. Turns my stomach.” “Yeah,” Sejanus agreed. “Ma was always forcing it down me during the war.” Ma? Was Coriolanus’s place about to be usurped by someone who referred to his mother as “Ma”? The cabbage and posca threatened to make a reappearance. He took a deep breath and forced his stomach to hang on to it, resenting Sejanus more than he had since the well-fed district boy with the cloddish accent first wandered up to him, clutching a bag of gumdrops. Coriolanus heard a bell ringing and saw his fellow students converging at the front of the dais. “I guess it’s time to assign us tributes,” Sejanus said glumly. Coriolanus followed him to where a special section of chairs, six rows by four, had been set up for the mentors. He tried to push the apartment crisis out of his head, to focus on the crucial task at hand. More than ever, it was essential that he excel, and to excel, he must be assigned a competitive tribute. Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of the Hunger Games, was overseeing the mentor program personally. He presented himself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and, as usual, doped up on morphling. His once-fine physique was shrunken and draped with sagging skin. The close-clipped precision of a recent haircut and crisp suit only threw his deterioration into relief. Due to his fame as the Games’ inventor, he still had a tenuous hold on his position, but there were rumors that the Academy Board was losing patience. “Ho there,” he slurred, waving a crumpled piece of paper over his head. “Reading the things off now.” The students hushed, trying hard to hear him above the din of the hall. “Read you a name, then you who gets that one. Right? So, fine. District One, boy, goes to . . .” Dean Highbottom squinted at the paper, trying hard to focus. “Glasses,” he mumbled. “Forgot them.” Everyone stared at his glasses, already perched on his nose, and waited while his fingers found them. “Ah, here we go. Livia Cardew.” Livia’s pointed little face broke into a grin and she punched the air in victory, shouting “Yes!” in her shrill voice. She had always been prone to gloating. As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol. Coriolanus felt increasing desperation as Dean Highbottom stumbled through the list, assigning each district’s boy and girl a mentor. After ten years, a pattern had emerged. The better-fed, more Capitol-friendly districts of 1 and 2 produced more victors, with the fishing and farming tributes from 4 and 11 also being contenders. Coriolanus had hoped for either a 1 or a 2, but neither was assigned to him, which was made more insulting when Sejanus scored the District 2 boy. District 4 passed without mention of his name, and his last real chance for a victor — the District 11 boy — was assigned to Clemensia Dovecote, daughter of the energies secretary. Unlike Livia, Clemensia received news of her good fortune with tact, pushing her sheet of raven hair over her shoulder as she studiously made note of her tribute in her binder. Something was amiss when a Snow, who also happened to be one of the Academy’s high-honor students, had gone unrecognized. Coriolanus was beginning to think they had forgotten him — perhaps they were giving him some special position? — when, to his horror, he heard Dean Highbottom mumble, “And last but least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.” The District 12 girl? Could there be a bigger slap in the face? District 12, the smallest district, the joke district, with its stunted, joint-swollen kids that always died in the first five minutes, and not only that . . . but the girl? Not that a girl couldn’t win, but in his mind the Hunger Games were largely about brute force, and the girls were naturally smaller than the boys and therefore at a disadvantage. Coriolanus had never been a particular favorite of Dean Highbottom, whom he jokingly called High-as-a-Kite-Bottom among his friends, but he had not expected such a public humiliation. Had the nickname gotten back to him? Or was this just an acknowledgment that, in the new world order, the Snows were fading into insignificance? He could feel the blood burning his cheeks as he tried to remain composed. Most of the other students had risen and were chatting among themselves. He must join them, pretend this was of no consequence, but he seemed incapable of movement. The most he could manage was to turn his head to the right, where Sejanus still sat beside him. Coriolanus opened his mouth to congratulate him but stopped at the barely concealed misery on the other boy’s face. “What is it?” he asked. “Aren’t you happy? District Two, the boy — that’s the pick of the litter.” “You forget. I’m part of that litter,” said Sejanus hoarsely. Coriolanus let that sink in. So ten years in the Capitol and the privileged life it provided had been wasted on Sejanus. He still thought of himself as a district citizen. Sentimental nonsense. Sejanus’s forehead creased in consternation. “I’m sure my father requested it. He’s always trying to get my mind right.” No doubt, thought Coriolanus. Old Strabo Plinth’s deep pockets and influence were respected if his lineage was not. And while the mentorships were supposedly based on merit, strings clearly had been pulled. The audience had settled into seats now. At the back of the dais, curtains parted to reveal a floor-to-ceiling screen. The reaping aired live from each district, moving from the east coast to the west, and was broadcast around the country. That meant District 12 would kick off the day. Everyone rose as the seal of Panem filled the screen, accompanied by the Capitol anthem. Gem of Panem, Mighty city, Through the ages, you shine anew. Some of the students fumbled for the words, but Coriolanus, who had heard his grandmother butcher it daily for years, sang all three verses in a forceful voice, garnering a few nods of approval. It was pathetic, but he needed every drop of approval he could get. The seal dissolved to show President Ravinstill, his hair streaked with silver, dressed in his prewar military uniform as a reminder that he’d been controlling the districts long before the Dark Days of the rebellion. He recited a brief passage from the Treaty of Treason, which laid out the Hunger Games as a war reparation, young district lives taken for the young Capitol lives that had been lost. The price of the rebels’ treachery. The Gamemakers cut to the bleak square of District 12, where a temporary stage, now lined with Peacekeepers, had been erected before the Justice Building. Mayor Lipp, a squat, freckled man in a hopelessly outdated suit, stood between two burlap sacks. He dug his hand deeply in the bag on his left, pulled out a slip of paper, and barely glanced at it. “The District Twelve girl tribute is Lucy Gray Baird,” he said into a mic. The camera swept over the crowd of gray, hungry faces in gray, shapeless clothing, seeking the tribute. It zoomed in toward a disturbance, girls drawing back from the unfortunate chosen one. The audience gave a surprised murmur at the sight of her. Lucy Gray Baird stood upright in a dress made of a rainbow of ruffles, now raggedy but once fancy. Her dark, curly hair was pulled up and woven with limp wildflowers. Her colorful ensemble drew the eye, as to a tattered butterfly in a field of moths. She did not make straight for the stage but began to weave through the girls off to her right. It happened quickly. The dip of her hand into the ruffles at her hip, the wriggle of bright green transported from her pocket and deposited down the collar of a smirking redhead’s blouse, the rustle of her skirt as she moved on. Focus stayed on the victim, her smirk changing to an expression of horror, her shrieks as she fell to the ground, pawing at her clothes, the shouts of the mayor. And in the background, her assailant was still weaving, still gliding her way to the stage, not looking back even once. Heavensbee Hall came to life as people elbowed their neighbors. “Did you see that?” “What did she drop down her dress?” “A lizard?” “I saw a snake!” “Did she kill her?” Coriolanus scanned the crowd and felt a spark of hope. His long shot of a tribute, his throwaway, his insult had captured the Capitol’s attention. That was good, right? With his help, perhaps she could keep it, and he could turn disgrace into a respectable showing. One way or another, their fates were irrevocably linked. Up on the screen, Mayor Lipp flew down the steps of the stage, pushing his way through the assembled girls to reach the fallen one on the ground. “Mayfair? Mayfair?” he cried. “My daughter needs help!” A circle had opened up around her, but the few halfhearted attempts to help her were blocked by her thrashing limbs. The mayor broke into the clearing just as a small, iridescent green snake shot out of the folds of her dress and into the crowd, bringing screams and scrambles to avoid it. The departure of the snake calmed Mayfair, but her distress was immediately replaced by embarrassment. She looked straight into the camera as she realized all the citizens of Panem were watching. One hand tried to straighten a bow that had gone askew in her hair, the other moved to right her garments, filthy with the coal dust that coated everything and torn from her clawing. As her father helped her to her feet, it was apparent she had wet herself. He removed his jacket to wrap around her and handed her over to a Peacekeeper to lead away. He turned back to the stage and trained a murderous look on District 12’s newest tribute. As Coriolanus watched Lucy Gray Baird take the stage, he felt a stab of uneasiness. Could she be mentally unstable? There was something vaguely familiar but disturbing about her. The rows of raspberry pink, royal blue, and daffodil yellow ruffles . . . “She’s like a circus performer,” one of the girls remarked. The other mentors made sounds of agreement. That was it. Coriolanus reached back into his memory to the circuses of his early childhood. Jugglers and acrobats, clowns and dancing girls in puffy dresses twirling around while his brain grew giddy with spun sugar. His tribute’s choosing such festive attire for the darkest event of the year showed a strangeness beyond a simple lapse of judgment. The allotted time for District 12’s reaping had no doubt come and gone, but they still lacked a male tribute. Even so, when Mayor Lipp retook the stage, he ignored the bags of names, made a beeline for the girl tribute, and struck her in the face so powerfully that she was knocked to her knees. He had raised his hand to hit her again, when a couple of the Peacekeepers intervened, grabbing his arms and attempting to redirect him to the business at hand. When he resisted, they hauled him back into the Justice Building, bringing the whole proceeding to a standstill. Attention shifted to the girl on the stage. As the camera zoomed in on her, Coriolanus was not reassured about Lucy Gray Baird’s sanity. Where she’d gotten the makeup he had no idea, for it was only just becoming accessible again in the Capitol, but her eyes were shadowed blue and lined with black, her cheeks rouged, and her lips stained a somewhat greasy red. Here in the Capitol, it would have been bold. In District 12, it felt immoderate. She was impossible to look away from as she sat there running her hand over her skirt, compulsively smoothing the ruffles. Only when they were neatly arranged did she raise her hand to touch the mark on her cheek. Her lower lip trembled slightly and her eyes shone with tears that threatened to spill over. “Don’t cry,” Coriolanus whispered. He caught himself and looked around nervously to find that the other students were riveted. Their faces showed concern. She had won their sympathy, despite her oddness. They had no idea who she was or why she had attacked Mayfair, but who couldn’t see that the smirking thing was spiteful, and her father a brute who would flatten a girl he’d just sentenced to death? “I bet they rigged it,” Sejanus said quietly. “Her name wasn’t on that slip.” Just as the girl was about to lose her battle with the tears, a strange thing happened. From somewhere in the crowd, a voice began to sing. A young voice, which might belong to either a boy or a girl, but of such a pitch that it carried across the silent square. You can’t take my past. You can’t take my history. A puff of wind blew across the stage, and the girl slowly lifted her head. Somewhere else in the crowd, a deeper, distinctly male voice sang out. You could take my pa, But his name’s a mystery. The shadow of a smile played on Lucy Gray Baird’s lips. She suddenly pushed herself to her feet, strode to the center of the stage, grabbed the mic, and let loose. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping. Her free hand dug into the ruffles of her skirt, swishing it side to side, and all of it began to make sense — the costume, the makeup, her hair. Whoever she was, she had been dressed for a performance all along. She had a fine voice, bright and clear on the high notes, husky and rich on the low, and she moved with assurance. You can’t take my charm. You can’t take my humor. You can’t take my wealth, ’Cause it’s just a rumor. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping. Singing transformed her, and Coriolanus no longer found her so disconcerting. There was something exciting, even attractive, about her. The camera drank her in as she crossed to the front of the stage and leaned out over the audience, sweet and insolent. Thinking you’re so fine. Thinking you can have mine. Thinking you’re in control. Thinking you’ll change me, maybe rearrange me. Think again, if that’s your goal, ’Cause . . . And then she was off, sashaying around the stage, right past the Peacekeepers, some of whom were having trouble suppressing smiles. None of them moved to stop her. You can’t take my sass. You can’t take my talking. You can kiss my ass And then keep on walking. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping. The doors to the Justice Building banged open and the Peacekeepers who had taken the mayor off burst back onto the stage. The girl was facing front, but you could see her register their arrival. She headed to the far end of the stage for her big finish. No, sir, Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt. Take it, ’cause I’d give it free. It won’t hurt. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping! She managed to blow a kiss before they were on her. “My friends call me Lucy Gray — I hope you will, too!” she called out. One of the Peacekeepers wrested the mic from her hand as another picked her up and carried her back to the middle of the stage. She waved as if to raucous applause, not dead silence. For a few moments, they were silent in Heavensbee Hall as well. Coriolanus wondered if, like him, they were hoping she’d keep singing. Then everybody broke out talking, first about the girl, then about who’d been lucky enough to get her. The other students were craning their heads around, some giving him a thumbs-up, some shooting resentful looks. He gave a bemused shake of his head, but inside he was glowing. Snow lands on top. Peacekeepers brought the mayor back out and planted themselves on either side of him to avoid further conflict. Lucy Gray ignored his return, having seemingly regained her poise by performing. The mayor glowered at the camera as he slapped his hand into the second bag and pulled several slips out. A few fluttered down to the stage and he read the remaining paper. “The District Twelve boy tribute is Jessup Diggs.” The kids in the square stirred and made way for Jessup, a boy with a fringe of black hair plastered down on his prominent forehead. As District 12 tributes went, he was a fine specimen, bigger than average and strong-looking. His griminess suggested he was already employed in the mines. A halfhearted attempt at washing had revealed a relatively clean oval in the middle of his face, but it was ringed with black, and coal dust caked his nails. Awkwardly, he ascended the stairs to take his place. As he neared the mayor, Lucy Gray stepped forward and extended her hand. The boy hesitated, then reached out and shook. Lucy Gray crossed in front of him, switched her right hand for her left, and they were standing side by side, holding hands, when she made a deep curtsy, pulling the boy into a bow. A smattering of applause and a lone whoop came from the District 12 crowd before the Peacekeepers closed in and the reaping broadcast cut to District 8. Coriolanus acted engrossed in the show as 8, 6, and 11 called their tributes, but his brain spun with the repercussions of landing Lucy Gray Baird. She was a gift, he knew it, and he must treat her as such. But how best to exploit her showstopping entrance? How to wrangle some success from a dress, a snake, a song? The tributes would be given precious little time with the audience before the Games began. How could he get the audience to invest in her and, by extension, him, in just an interview? He half registered the other tributes, mostly pitiful creatures, and took note of the stronger ones. Sejanus got a towering fellow from District 2, and Livia’s District 1 boy looked like he could be a contender as well. Coriolanus’s girl seemed fairly healthy, but her slight build was more suited to dancing than hand-to-hand combat. He bet she could run fast enough, though, and that was important. As the reaping drew to a close, the smell of food from the buffet wafted over the audience. Fresh-baked bread. Onions. Meat. Coriolanus could not keep his stomach from growling, and risked another couple swallows of posca to quiet it. He felt wired, light-headed, and ravenous. After the screen went dark, he had to use all the discipline he could muster not to rush for the buffet. The endless dance with hunger had defined his life. Not the very early years, before the war, but every day since had been a battle, a negotiation, a game. How was it best to stave off hunger? Eat all the food at one meal? Spread it through the day in dribs and drabs? Wolf it down or chew every morsel to liquid? It was all just a mind game to distract himself from the fact that it was never enough. No one would ever let him have enough. During the war, the rebels had held the food-producing districts. Taking a page out of the Capitol’s playbook, they’d tried to starve the Capitol into submission using food — or a lack thereof — as a weapon. Now the tables had turned again, with the Capitol controlling the supply and taking it one step further, twisting the knife into the districts’ hearts with the Hunger Games. Amid the violence of the Games, there was a silent agony that everyone in Panem had experienced, the desperation for enough sustenance to bring you to the following sunrise. That desperation had turned upstanding Capitol citizens into monsters. People who dropped dead from starvation in the streets became part of a gruesome food chain. One winter’s night, Coriolanus and Tigris had slipped out of the apartment to scavenge some wooden crates they’d spotted earlier in an alley. On the way, they passed three bodies, recognizing one as that of a young maid who served tea so nicely at the Cranes’ afternoon gatherings. A heavy, wet snow began falling and they thought the streets deserted, but on the way home, a bundled figure sent them scurrying behind a hedge. They watched as their neighbor Nero Price, a titan in the railroad industry, carved the leg from the maid, sawing back and forth with a terrifying knife until the limb came free. He wrapped it in the skirt he ripped from her waist and then bolted down the side street that led to the back of his town house. The cousins never spoke of it, even to each other, but it was burned into Coriolanus’s memory. The savagery distorting Price’s face, the white anklet and scuffed black shoe at the end of the severed limb, and the absolute horror of realizing that he, too, could now be viewed as edible. Coriolanus credited both his literal and moral survival to the Grandma’am’s foresight early in the war. His parents were dead, Tigris orphaned as well, and both children were living with their grandmother. The rebels had been making slow but steady progress to the Capitol, although arrogance kept that reality from being widely acknowledged in the city. Food shortages required even the richest to seek out certain supplies on the black market. That was how Coriolanus found himself at the back door of a once-trendy nightclub one late October afternoon, holding the handle of a small red wagon in one hand and the Grandma’am’s gloved hand in the other. There was a bitter chill in the air that warned ominously of winter, and a blanket of gloomy, gray clouds overhead. They had come to see Pluribus Bell, an aging man with lemon-tinted spectacles and a white powdered wig that fell to his waist. He and his partner, Cyrus, a musician, owned the shuttered club and now made do by trafficking goods from its back alley. The Snows had come for a case of canned milk, the fresh stuff having disappeared weeks ago, but Pluribus said he was sold out. What had just arrived were crates of dried lima beans, stacked high on the mirrored stage behind him. “They’ll keep for years,” Pluribus promised the Grandma’am. “I plan on setting aside twenty or so for personal use.” Coriolanus’s grandmother had laughed. “How ghastly.” “No, my dear. Ghastly is what happens without them,” Pluribus said. He didn’t elaborate, but the Grandma’am stopped laughing. She shot a look at Coriolanus, and her hand clenched his for a second. It seemed involuntary, almost a spasm. Then she looked at the crates and appeared to be figuring something in her head. “How many can you spare?” she asked the club owner. Coriolanus pulled one crate home in his wagon, and the other twenty-nine arrived in the dead of night, as hoarding was technically illegal. Cyrus and a friend hauled the crates up the stairs and piled them in the middle of the lavishly furnished living room. On the top of the pile, they placed a single can of milk, compliments of Pluribus, then bid them good night. Coriolanus and Tigris helped the Grandma’am hide them in closets, in fancy wardrobes, even in the old clock. “Who’s going to eat all these?” he asked. At this time, there was still bacon in his life, and chicken, and the occasional roast. Milk was spotty but cheese plentiful, and some sort of dessert could be counted on at dinner, even if it was just jam bread. “We’ll eat some. Perhaps some we can trade,” said the Grandma’am. “They’ll be our secret.” “I don’t like lima beans.” Coriolanus pouted. “At least, I don’t think I do.” “Well, we’ll have Cook find a good recipe,” said the Grandma’am. But the cook had been called to serve in the war, then died of the flu. The Grandma’am, it turned out, did not even know how to turn on the stove, let alone follow a recipe. It fell to eight-year-old Tigris to boil the beans to the thick stew, then the soup, then the watery broth, which was to sustain them throughout the war. Lima beans. Cabbage. The ration of bread. They lived on it, day in, day out, for years. Surely, it had impeded his growth. Surely, he would be taller, his shoulders broader, had he had more food. But his brain had developed properly; at least he hoped it had. Beans, cabbage, brown bread. Coriolanus grew to hate the stuff, but it kept them alive, without shame, and without cannibalizing the dead bodies in the streets. Coriolanus swallowed the saliva flooding his mouth as he reached for the gilt-edged plate embossed with the Academy’s seal. Even in the leanest days, the Capitol had not lacked fancy dishware, and he had eaten many a cabbage leaf from fine china at home. He collected a linen napkin, a fork, a knife. As he raised the lid on the first sterling silver chafing dish, the steam bathed his lips. Creamed onions. He took a modest spoonful and tried not to drool. Boiled potatoes. Summer squash. Baked ham. Hot rolls and a pat of butter. On second thought, two pats. A full plate, but not a greedy one. Not for a teenage boy. He set his plate on the table next to Clemensia and went to retrieve his dessert from a cart, because last year they had run out and he’d missed the tapioca entirely. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the rows of apple pie wedges, each decorated with a paper flag sporting the seal of Panem. Pie! When had he last tasted that? He was reaching for a medium-sized piece when someone thrust a plate with an enormous slice under his nose. “Oh, take a big one. Growing boy like you can handle it.” Dean Highbottom’s eyes were rheumy, but they had lost the glazed look of the morning. In fact, they were trained on Coriolanus with an unexpected sharpness. He took the plate of pie with a grin he hoped was boyishly good-natured. “Thank you, sir. I can always find room for pie.” “Yes, pleasures are never hard to accommodate,” said the dean. “No one would know better than I.” “I suppose not, sir.” But that sounded wrong. He had meant to agree with the part about pleasures, but it sounded like a snide remark about the dean’s character. “You suppose not.” Dean Highbottom’s eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at Coriolanus. “So, what are your plans, Coriolanus, after the Games?” “I hope to go on to university,” he replied. What a strange question. Surely, his academic record made that evident. “Yes, I saw your name among the prize contenders,” said Dean Highbottom. “But if you shouldn’t be awarded one?” Coriolanus stammered. “Well, then we’d . . . we’d pay the tuition, of course.” “Would you?” Dean Highbottom laughed. “Look at you, in your makeshift shirt and your too-tight shoes, trying to hold it together. Strutting around the Capitol, when I doubt the Snows have a pot to piss in. Even with a prize, it would be a stretch, and you don’t yet have one, do you? What then, I wonder, would happen to you? What then?” Coriolanus could not help but glance around to see who else had heard the terrible words, but most people were engaged in mealtime chatter. “Don’t worry — nobody knows. Well, hardly anyone. Enjoy that pie, boy.” Dean Highbottom walked away without bothering to take a piece himself. Coriolanus wanted nothing so much as to drop his pie and run for the exit, but instead he carefully set the oversized slice back on the cart. The nickname. It could only be that the nickname had found its way back to Dean Highbottom, with Coriolanus given the credit. It had been stupid on his part. The dean was too powerful a person, even now, to be ridiculing in public. But was it really such a horrible thing? Every teacher had at least one nickname, many far less flattering. And it wasn’t as if High-as-a-Kite-Bottom had made much effort to hide his habit. He seemed to invite derision. Could there be some other reason he hated Coriolanus so much? Whatever it was, Coriolanus needed to set it right. He could not risk losing his prize over such a thing. After university he planned to embark on some lucrative profession. Without an education, what doors would be open to him? He tried to imagine his future in some low-level city position . . . doing what? Managing the coal distribution to the districts? Cleaning cages of genetic freaks in the muttations lab? Collecting taxes from Sejanus Plinth in his palatial apartment on the Corso while he lived in some rat hole fifty blocks out? That’s if he were lucky! Capitol jobs were hard to come by, and he would be a penniless Academy graduate, no more. How was he to live? Borrow? Being in debt in the Capitol was historically a ticket to being a Peacekeeper, and that came with a twenty-year commitment to who knew where. They’d ship him off to some horrid backwater district where the people were hardly better than animals. The day, which had held such promise, came crashing down around him. First the threat of losing his apartment, then the lowliest tribute assignment — who, on further reflection, was definitely crazy — and now the revelation that Dean Highbottom detested him enough to kill his prize chances and condemn him to a life in the districts! Everyone knew what happened if you went to the districts. You were written off. Forgotten. In the eyes of the Capitol, you were basically dead. Coriolanus stood on the empty train platform, awaiting his tribute’s arrival, a long-stemmed white rose balanced carefully between his thumb and index finger. It had been Tigris’s idea to bring her a gift. She had arrived home very late on the night of the reaping, but he had waited up to consult with her, to tell her of his humiliations and fears. She refused to let the conversation spin into despair. He would get a prize; he would have to! And have a brilliant university career. As to the apartment, they must find out the specifics first. Perhaps the tax would not affect them, or even if it did, maybe not soon. Maybe they could scrape up enough for the taxes somehow. But he was to think of none of that. Only of the Hunger Games, and how he might make a success of it. At Fabricia’s reaping party, Tigris said, everyone was nuts about Lucy Gray Baird. His tribute had “star quality,” her friends had declared as they drunkenly slurped their posca. The cousins agreed that he needed to make a good first impression on the girl so that she would be willing to work with him. He should treat her not as a condemned prisoner, but as a guest. Coriolanus had decided to greet her early at the train station. It would give him a jump on the assignment, as well as an opportunity to win her trust. “Imagine how terrified she must be, Coryo,” Tigris had said. “How alone she must feel. If it was me, anything you could do to make me feel like you cared about me would go a long way. No, more than that. Like I was of value. Take her something, even a token, that lets her know you value her.” Coriolanus thought about his grandmother’s roses, which were still prized in the Capitol. The old woman nurtured them arduously in the roof garden that came with the penthouse, both out of doors and in a small solar greenhouse. She parceled out her flowers like diamonds, though, so it had taken a good bit of persuasion to get this beauty. “I need to make a connection with her. As you always say, your roses open any doors.” It was a testament to how worried his grandmother was about their situation that she had allowed it. Two days had passed since the reaping. The city had held on to the oppressive heat, and even though it was just past dawn, the train station was beginning to bake. Coriolanus felt conspicuous on the wide, deserted platform, but he couldn’t risk missing her train. The only information he could get out of his downstairs neighbor, Gamemaker-in-Training Remus Dolittle, was that it was supposed to arrive Wednesday. Remus had recently graduated from the University, and his family had pulled in every favor they had to get him the position, which paid just enough and provided a stepping-stone to the future. Coriolanus could have inquired through the Academy, but he didn’t know if greeting the train would be frowned upon. No rules had been laid out, per se, but he thought most of his classmates would wait to meet their tributes at a session overseen by the Academy the following day. An hour passed, then two, and still no train of any kind appeared. The sun beat down through the glass panes of the station ceiling. Perspiration trickled down his back, and the rose, so majestic that morning, began to bend in resignation. He wondered if the whole idea was ill-conceived and if he would get no thanks for greeting her in this way. Another girl, a typical girl, would be impressed, but there was nothing typical about Lucy Gray Baird. In fact, there was something intimidating about a girl who could pull off such a brazen performance on the heels of the mayor’s assault. And that, just after she had dropped a venomous snake down another girl’s dress. Of course, he didn’t know that it was venomous, but that was where the mind went, wasn’t it? She was terrifying, really. And here he was in his uniform, clutching a rose like some lovestruck schoolboy, hoping she would — what? Like him? Trust him? Not kill him on sight? Her cooperation was imperative. Yesterday, Satyria had led a mentor meeting in which their first assignment had been detailed. In the past, the tributes had gone directly into the arena the morning after they’d all arrived in the Capitol, but the time line had been extended now that the Academy students were involved. It had been decided that each mentor was to interview their tribute and would be given five minutes to present them to Panem on a live television program. If people had someone to root for, they might actually have an interest in watching the Hunger Games. If all went well, it would be prime-time viewing — the mentors might even be invited to comment on their tributes during the Games. Coriolanus promised himself that his five minutes would be the standout of the night. Another hour crawled by and he was just about ready to give up, when a train whistle sounded deep in the tunnel. Those first few months of the war, the whistle had signaled his father’s arrival from the battlefield. His father had felt that, as a munitions tycoon, military service enhanced his legitimacy in the family business. With an excellent head for strategy, nerves of steel, and a commanding presence, he’d quickly climbed the ranks. To publicly display their commitment to the Capitol cause, the Snow family would all travel to the station, Coriolanus in his velvet suit, to await the great man’s return. Until the day the train brought only the news that a rebel bullet had found its mark. It was hard, in the Capitol, to find a spot that wasn’t linked to a terrible memory, but this was particularly bad. He could not say he had felt great love for the remote, strict man, but he had certainly felt protected by him. His death was associated with a fear and a vulnerability that Coriolanus had never been able to shake off. The whistle blew as the train sped into the station and screeched to a halt. It was a short train, only an engine and two cars. Coriolanus looked for a glimpse of his tribute in the windows before he realized the cars had none. They were designed not for passengers but for cargo. Heavy metal chains attached by old-fashioned padlocks secured the goods. The wrong train, he thought. Might as well go home. But then a distinctly human cry came from one of the cargo cars and he remained in place. He expected a rush of Peacekeepers, but the train sat ignored for twenty minutes before a few made their way to the rails. One of them exchanged words with an unseen engineer, and a set of keys was tossed out the window. The Peacekeeper took his time meandering down to the first car, flipping through the keys before he selected one, stuck it in the padlock, and gave it a twist. The lock and chains fell away, and he rolled back the heavy door. The car appeared empty. The Peacekeeper pulled out his baton and banged it against the doorframe. “All right, you lot, let’s move!” A tall boy with dark brown skin and patched burlap clothing appeared in the doorway. Coriolanus recognized him as Clemensia’s tribute from District 11, rangy but muscular. A girl with similar coloring but a skeletal frame and a hacking cough joined him. Both of them were barefoot with their hands cuffed in front of their bodies. It was a five-foot drop to the ground, so they sat on the edge of the car before launching themselves awkwardly onto the platform. A small, pasty-faced girl in a striped dress and red scarf crawled to the door but seemed unable to figure out how to cover the distance to the ground. The Peacekeeper yanked her down and she landed hard, barely catching herself with her bound hands. Then he reached into the car and dragged out a boy who looked about ten years old but had to be at least twelve, and hauled him onto the platform as well. By now the smell of the car, musty and heavy with manure, had reached Coriolanus. They were transporting the tributes in livestock cars, and not very clean ones at that. He wondered if they had been fed and let out for fresh air, or just locked in after their reapings. Accustomed as he was to viewing the tributes on-screen, he had not prepared himself properly for this encounter in the flesh, and a wave of pity and revulsion swept through him. They really were creatures out of another world. A hopeless, brutish world. The Peacekeeper moved on to the second car and released the chains. The door slid open, revealing Jessup, the male District 12 tribute, squinting into the brightly lit station. Coriolanus felt a jolt run through him, and his body straightened in anticipation. Surely, she would be with him. Jessup hopped stiffly to the ground and turned back to the train. Lucy Gray Baird stepped into the light, her cuffed hands half covering her eyes as they adjusted. Jessup reached up his arms, his wrists spread as wide as the chain on his restraints would allow, and she fell forward, letting him catch her by the waist and swing her to the ground in a surprisingly graceful move. She patted the boy’s sleeve in thanks and tilted her head back to drink in the sunlight streaming into the station. Her fingers began combing through her curls, untangling the knots and picking out bits of straw. Coriolanus’s attention turned for a moment to the Peacekeepers, who were hollering threats into the train car. When he gazed back, Lucy Gray was staring directly at him. He started a bit but then remembered that he was the only one on the platform besides the Peacekeepers. The soldiers were cursing now as they hoisted one of their number into the train car to retrieve the reluctant tributes. It was now or never. He crossed to Lucy Gray, extended the rose, and gave a small nod. “Welcome to the Capitol,” he said. His voice was slightly gravelly, as he had not spoken for hours, but he thought it gave him a nice maturity. The girl sized him up, and for a minute he feared she was going to either walk away or, worse, laugh at him. Instead she reached out and delicately plucked a petal from the flower in his hand. “When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals,” she said in a manner that, despite the unlikeliness of her claim, seemed totally believable. She ran her thumb over the glossy, white surface and slipped the petal into her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the flavor. “Tastes like bedtime.” Coriolanus took the moment to examine her. She looked different than she had at the reaping. Except for flecks here and there, the makeup had been wiped away, and without it she appeared younger. Her lips were chapped, her hair loose, her rainbow dress dusty and rumpled. The mark from the mayor’s blow had turned to a deep purple bruise. But there was something else, too. He again had the impression that he was witnessing a performance, but a private one this time. When she opened her eyes, she trained all her attention on him. “You don’t look like you should be here.” “I probably shouldn’t be,” he admitted. “But I’m your mentor. And I wanted to meet you on my own terms. Not the Gamemakers’.” “Ah, a rebel,” she said. That word was poison in the mouths of Capitol citizens, but she had said it approvingly, as a compliment. Or, was she mocking him? He remembered she carried snakes in her pocket and the usual rules didn’t apply to her. “And what does my mentor do for me, besides bring me roses?” she asked. “I do my best to take care of you,” he said. She glanced over her shoulder, where the Peacekeepers were tossing two half-starved children onto the platform. The girl broke a front tooth on the platform, while the boy received several sharp kicks upon landing. Lucy Gray smiled up at Coriolanus. “Well, good luck, Gorgeous,” she said, and walked back to Jessup, leaving him and his rose behind. As the Peacekeepers herded the tributes across the station to the main entrance, Coriolanus felt his chance slipping away. He had not secured her trust. He had not done anything except perhaps amuse her for a moment. Clearly, she thought he was useless, and maybe she was right, but with all that was at stake, he had to try. He ran across the station, catching up to the pack of tributes as they reached the door. “Excuse me,” he said to the Peacekeeper in charge. “I’m Coriolanus Snow from the Academy.” He inclined his head toward Lucy Gray. “This tribute has been assigned to me for the Hunger Games. I wonder if I might accompany her to her quarters.” “That’s why you been hanging around here all morning? To catch a ride to the show?” asked the Peacekeeper. He reeked of liquor and his eyes were rimmed with red. “Well, by all means, Mr. Snow. Join the party.” It was then that Coriolanus saw the truck that awaited the tributes. Less a truck than a cage on wheels. The bed was enclosed by metal bars and topped with a steel roof. He again flashed back to the circus of his childhood, where he had seen wild animals — big cats and bears — confined to such transport. Following orders, the tributes presented their cuffs for removal and climbed into the cage. Coriolanus hung back but then saw Lucy Gray watching him and knew this was the moment of judgment. If he backed down now, it would all be over. She would think he was a coward and dismiss him entirely. He took a deep breath and hoisted himself up into the cage. The door slammed shut behind him, and the truck lurched forward, knocking him off balance. He reflexively grabbed for the bars on his right and wound up with his forehead crammed between them as a couple of the tributes fell into him. He pushed back forcefully and twisted his body around to face his fellow passengers. Everyone had hold of at least one bar now except the girl with the broken tooth, who was clinging to the leg of the boy from her district. As the truck rumbled down a wide avenue, they began to settle in. Coriolanus knew he had made a mistake. Even in the open air, the stench was overwhelming. The tributes had absorbed the odor of the cattle car and it mixed with an unwashed human smell that made him feel slightly nauseous. Up close, he could see how grubby they were, how bloodshot their eyes, how bruised their limbs. Lucy Gray was crammed into a corner at the front, dabbing a fresh scrape on her forehead with her ruffled hem. She seemed indifferent to his presence, but the rest of them stared at him like a pack of feral animals eyeing a pampered poodle. At least I’m in better condition than they are, he thought, and he made a fist around the stem of the rose. If they attack, I’ll stand a chance. But would he? Against so many? The truck slowed to let one of the colorful street trolleys, packed with people, cross in front of it. Although he was in the back, Coriolanus hunched down to avoid being noticed. The trolley passed, the truck began to roll, and he dared to straighten up. They were laughing at him, the tributes, or at least some of them were grinning at his obvious discomfort. “What’s the matter, pretty boy? You in the wrong cage?” said the boy from District 11, who was not laughing at all. The undisguised hatred rattled Coriolanus, but he tried to look unimpressed. “No, this is exactly the cage I was waiting for.” The boy’s hands came up fast, encircling Coriolanus’s throat with his long, scarred fingers and slamming him back. His forearms pinned Coriolanus’s body against the bars. Overpowered, Coriolanus resorted to the one move that had yet to fail him in schoolyard scuffles, driving his knee up hard into his opponent’s crotch. The district boy gasped and doubled over, releasing him. “He might kill you now.” The girl from District 11 coughed in Coriolanus’s face. “He killed a Peacekeeper back in Eleven. They never found out who did it.” “Shut it, Dill,” the boy growled. “Who cares now?” said Dill. “Let’s all kill him,” the tiny boy said viciously. “Can’t do nothing worse to us.” Several other tributes murmured in agreement and took a step in. Coriolanus went rigid with fear. Kill him? Did they really mean to beat him to death, right here in broad daylight, in the middle of the Capitol? Suddenly, he knew they did. What, after all, did they have to lose? His heart pounded in his chest, and he crouched slightly, fists extended, in anticipation of the imminent attack. From the corner, Lucy Gray’s melodic voice broke the tension. “Not to us, maybe. You got family back home? Someone they could punish there?” This seemed to take the wind out of the other tributes’ sails. She wriggled through and placed herself between them and Coriolanus. “Besides,” she said, “he’s my mentor. Supposed to help me. I might need him.” “How come you get a mender?” asked Dill. “Mentor. You each get one,” explained Coriolanus, trying to sound on top of the situation. “Where are they, then?” Dill challenged. “Why didn’t they come?” “Just not inspired, I guess,” said Lucy Gray. Turning from Dill, she gave Coriolanus a wink. The truck veered onto a narrow side street and bumped down to what appeared to be a dead end. Coriolanus could not quite get his bearings. He tried to remember where the tributes had been held in previous years. Hadn’t it been in the stables that housed the Peacekeepers’ horses? Yes, he thought he had heard some mention of that. As soon as they arrived, he would find a Peacekeeper and explain things, perhaps ask for a bit of protection given the hostility. After Lucy Gray’s wink, it might be worthwhile to stay. They were backing in now to a dimly lit building, maybe a warehouse. Coriolanus inhaled a musky mix of rotten fish and old hay. Confused, he tried to get a better fix on his surroundings, and his eyes strained to make out two metal doors swinging open. A Peacekeeper opened the back door to the truck, and before anyone could climb out, the cage tipped and dumped them onto a slab of cold, damp cement. Not a slab, actually more like a chute, for it was tilted at such an extreme angle that Coriolanus began to slide immediately, along with the rest. He dropped the rose as his hands and feet scrabbled for purchase but found none. They all traveled a good twenty feet before they landed in a jumbled heap on a gritty floor. Sunlight glared down on Coriolanus as he scrambled to untangle his body from the pack. He staggered out a few yards, righted himself, and froze in horror. This was not the stables. While he had not visited in many years, he remembered it clearly now. The stretch of sand. The artificial rock formations twisting high in the air. The row of metal bars engraved to look like vines curved in a wide arc to protect the audience. Between the sets of bars, the faces of Capitol children gawked at him. He was in the monkey house at the zoo. He could not have felt more exposed had he been standing naked in the middle of the Corso. At least then he would’ve had the option to escape. Now he was trapped and on display, for the first time appreciating the animals’ inability to hide. Children had begun to chatter excitedly and point at his school uniform, drawing the attention of the adults. Faces were filling all the available space between the bars. But the real horror was a pair of cameras positioned at either end of the visitors. Capitol News. With their omnipresent coverage and their saucy slogan, “If you didn’t see it here, it didn’t happen.” Oh, it was happening. To him. Now. He could feel his image going live all over the Capitol. Fortunately, shock rooted him to the spot, because the only thing worse than him standing among the district riffraff in the zoo would be him running around like a fool trying to escape. There was no easy way out. It was built for wild animals. Attempting to hide would be even more pathetic. Imagine how delicious that footage would be for Capitol News. They would play it ad nauseam. Add silly music and captions. Snow’s meltdown! Make it part of the weather report. Too hot for Snow! They would rerun it as long as he lived. His disgrace would be complete. What option did that leave him? Only to stand his ground, looking the cameras dead in the eye, until he was rescued. He straightened up to his full height, subtly shifted back his shoulders, and attempted to look bored. The audience began to call out to him — first the high-pitched children’s voices, then the adults joining in, asking what he was doing, why was he in the cage, did he need help? Someone recognized him, and his name spread like wildfire through the crowd, which was becoming deeper by the minute. “It’s the Snow boy!” “Who’s that again?” “You know, the ones with the roses on their roof!” Who were all these people hanging around on a weekday at the zoo? Didn’t they have jobs? Shouldn’t the children be in school? No wonder the country was such a mess. The district tributes began to circle, taunting him. There was the pair from District 11, and the vicious little boy who had called for his death, and several new ones, too. He remembered the hatred in the truck and wondered what would happen if they attacked him as a pack. Perhaps the audience would only cheer them on. Coriolanus tried not to panic, but he could feel sweat running down his sides. All the faces — of the nearby tributes, of the crowd at the bars — began to blur. Their features became indistinct, leaving only dark and light patches of skin broken by the pinkish red of their open mouths. His limbs felt numb, his lungs starved for air. He was beginning to consider making a break for the chute and attempting to climb it when a voice behind him softly said, “Own it.” Without turning he knew it was the girl, his girl, and he felt immense relief that he was not entirely alone. He thought of how cleverly she had played the audience after the mayor’s assault, how she had won them all with her song. She was right, of course. He had to make this moment look intentional or it was all over. He took a deep breath and turned to where she sat, casually fixing the white rose behind her ear. She always seemed to be improving her appearance. Arranging her ruffles in District 12, grooming her hair at the train station, and now adorning herself with the rose. He extended his hand to her as if she was the grandest lady in the Capitol. The edges of Lucy Gray’s mouth curled up. As she took his hand, her touch sent a tiny electrical spark up his arm, and he felt as if a bit of her onstage charisma had been transferred to him. He made a small bow as she stood with exaggerated elegance. She’s onstage. You’re onstage. This is the show, he thought. He lifted his head and asked, “Would you care to meet a few of my neighbors?” “I would be delighted,” she said as if they were at an afternoon tea. “My left side is better,” she murmured, lightly brushing her cheek. He wasn’t sure what to do with the information, so he started to guide her to the left. Lucy Gray gave the spectators a big smile, seemingly pleased to be there, but as he led her to the bars he could feel her fingers clenching his like a vise. A shallow moat that ran between the rocky structures and the bars of the monkey house had once formed a watery barrier between the animals and the visitors, but it was bone-dry now. They descended three steps, crossed the moat, and climbed back up to a shelf that ran around the enclosure, putting them eye-to-eye with the patrons. Coriolanus chose a spot several yards from one of the cameras — let it come to him — where a gaggle of small children stood in a cluster. The bars were spaced about four inches apart — not enough room to slide a whole body between, but ample if you wanted to reach your hand through. The children fell silent as they approached, pressing back into their parents’ legs. Coriolanus thought the afternoon tea image was as good as any, so he continued to treat the situation with the same lightness. “How do you do?” he said, leaning over to the children. “I brought along a friend of mine today. Would you like to meet her?” The children shifted around, and there were a few giggles. Then one little boy shouted, “Yes!” He slapped the bars with his hands a few times, then shoved them in his pockets uncertainly. “We saw her on the television.” Coriolanus led Lucy Gray right up to the bars. “May I present Miss Lucy Gray Baird?” The audience had fallen silent now, nervous at her proximity to the children but eager to hear what the strange tribute was going to say. Lucy Gray went down on one knee about a foot from the bars. “Hi there. I’m Lucy Gray. What’s your name?” “Pontius,” the boy said, glancing up to his mother for reassurance. She looked warily at Lucy Gray, but the girl ignored her. “How do you do, Pontius?” she said. Like any well-bred Capitol lad, the boy thrust his hand out to shake. Lucy Gray raised her hand to meet his but refrained from sticking it through the bars, which might have appeared threatening. As a result, it was the boy who reached into the cage to make contact. She squeezed his little hand warmly. “So nice to meet you. Is this your sister?” Lucy Gray nodded to the little girl next to him. She stood saucer-eyed as she sucked on a finger. “That’s Venus,” he said. “She’s only four.” “Well, I think four is a very smart age to be,” said Lucy Gray. “Nice to meet you, Venus.” “I liked your song,” whispered Venus. “You did?” said Lucy Gray. “That’s so sweet. Well, you keep watching, Precious, and I’ll try to sing you another. Okay?” Venus nodded and then buried her face in her mother’s skirt, bringing laughter and a few aws from the crowd. Lucy Gray began to sidestep her way along the fence, engaging the children as she went. Coriolanus hung back a bit to give her space. “Did you bring your snake?” a girl clutching a dripping strawberry ice pop asked hopefully. “I sure wish I could have. That snake was a particular friend of mine,” Lucy Gray told her. “Do you have a pet?” “I have a fish,” said the girl. She leaned into the bars. “His name is Bub.” She transferred her treat to her other hand and reached through the bars for Lucy Gray. “Can I touch your dress?” Streaks of ruby syrup ran from her fist to her elbow, but Lucy Gray just laughed and offered up a bit of her skirt. The girl ran a tentative finger over the ruffles. “It’s pretty.” “I like yours, too.” The girl’s dress was a faded, printed thing, nothing to remark on. But Lucy Gray said, “Polka dots always make me feel happy,” and the girl beamed. Coriolanus could sense the audience beginning to warm up to his tribute, no longer bothering to keep their distance. People were easy to manipulate when it came to their children. So pleased to see them pleased. Instinctively, Lucy Gray seemed to know this, ignoring the adults as she moved along. She had almost reached one of the cameras and its accompanying reporter. She must have sensed it, but when she rose and found it directly in her face, she gave a slight start, then laughed. “Oh, hi there. Are we on television?” The Capitol reporter, a young man eager for a story, leaned in hungrily. “We certainly are.” “And who might you be?” she asked. “I’m Lepidus Malmsey with Capitol News,” he said, flashing a grin. “So, Lucy, you’re the tribute from District Twelve?” “It’s Lucy Gray and I’m not really from Twelve,” she said. “My people are Covey. Musicians by trade. We just took a wrong turn one day and were obliged to stay.” “Oh. So . . . what district are you from, then?” asked Lepidus. “No district in particular. We move from place to place as the fancy takes us.” Lucy Gray caught herself. “Well, we used to anyway. Before the Peacekeepers rounded us up a few years back.” “But now you’re District Twelve citizens,” he insisted. “If you say so.” Lucy Gray’s eyes drifted back to the crowd as if she was in danger of being bored. The reporter could feel her slipping away. “Your dress has been a big hit in the Capitol!” “Has it? Well, the Covey love color, and me more than most. But this was my mama’s, so it’s extra special to me,” she said. “She in District Twelve?” Lepidus asked. “Just her bones, darling. Just her pearly white bones.” Lucy Gray stared directly at the reporter, who seemed to have trouble forming his next question. She watched him struggle for a moment, then gestured to Coriolanus. “So, do you know my mentor? Says his name is Coriolanus Snow. He’s a Capitol boy and clearly I got the cake with the cream, ’cause nobody else’s mentor even bothered to show up to welcome them.” “Well, he gave us all a surprise. Did your teachers tell you to be here, Coriolanus?” asked Lepidus. Coriolanus stepped toward the camera and tried for likable with a hint of roguishness. “They didn’t tell me not to.” Laughter rippled through the crowd. “But I do remember them saying that I was to introduce Lucy Gray to the Capitol, and I take that job seriously.” “So you didn’t have a second thought about diving into a cage of tributes?” prompted the reporter. “A second, a third, and I imagine the fourth and fifth will be hitting me sometime soon,” admitted Coriolanus. “But if she’s brave enough to be here, shouldn’t I be?” “Oh, for the record, I didn’t have a choice,” said Lucy Gray. “For the record, neither did I,” said Coriolanus. “After I heard you sing, I couldn’t keep away. I confess, I’m a fan.” Lucy Gray gave her skirt a swish as a smattering of applause came from the crowd. “Well, I hope for your sake the Academy agrees with you, Coriolanus,” said Lepidus. “I think you’re about to find out.” Coriolanus turned to see metal doors, their windows reinforced with grates, swinging open in the back of the monkey house. A quartet of Peacekeepers marched in and headed straight for him. He turned to the camera, intent on making a good exit. “Thank you for joining us,” he said. “Remember, it’s Lucy Gray Baird, representing District Twelve. Drop by the zoo if you have a minute and say hello. I promise she’s well worth the effort.” Lucy Gray extended her hand to him with the delicate droop of the wrist that invited a kiss. He obliged, and when his lips brushed her skin, he felt a pleasant tingle. After giving the audience one last wave, he stepped up calmly to meet the Peacekeepers. One nodded tersely, and without a word he followed them from the enclosure to a respectable applause. When the doors closed behind him, his breath came out in a huff and he realized how afraid he’d been. He silently congratulated himself for maintaining grace under pressure, but the scowls of the Peacekeepers suggested they did not share his opinion. “What are you playing at?” a Peacekeeper demanded. “You’re not allowed in there.” “So I thought, until your cohorts unceremoniously dumped me down a chute,” Coriolanus replied. He thought the combination of cohorts and unceremoniously had just the right note of superiority. “I only signed up for the ride to the zoo. I’d be happy to explain the whole thing to your presiding officer and identify the Peacekeepers who did this. But to you, I offer my thanks.” “Uh-huh,” she said flatly. “We have orders to escort you to the Academy.” “Even better,” said Coriolanus, sounding more confident than he felt. The quick reaction from the school unsettled him. Although the television in the backseat of the Peacekeeper van was broken, he was able to catch glimpses of the story along the way on the huge public screens that dotted the Capitol. Nervous energy began to bubble up as he saw images of first Lucy Gray, then himself, beaming out over the city. He could never have planned anything this audacious, but since it had happened, he might as well enjoy it. And really, he thought, he had given a fine performance. Kept his head. Stood his ground. Featured the girl, and she was a natural. Handled it all with dignity and a little ironic humor. By the time he reached the Academy, he had recovered his composure and ascended the steps with assurance. It helped that every head was turning his way, and had there been no Peacekeepers to hold them at bay, he felt sure his schoolmates would have swarmed him. He thought he’d be taken to the office, but the guard deposited him on the bench outside the door to, of all places, the high biology lab, which was restricted to the senior students most gifted in the science. Although it was not his favorite subject — the smell of formaldehyde triggered his gag reflex, and he loathed working with a partner — he did sufficiently well in genetic manipulation to have landed a spot in the class. Nothing like that whiz Io Jasper, who seemed to have been born with a microscope attached to her eye. He was always gracious to Io, though, and as a result, she adored him. With unpopular people, such a minor effort went such a long way. But who was he to feel superior? Across from the bench, on the bulletin board for student notices, a memo had been posted. It read: 10th HUNGER GAMES MENTOR ASSIGNMENTS DISTRICT 1 Boy Liviaw Cardew Girl Palmyra Monty DISTRICT 2 Boy Sejanus Plinth Girl Florus Friend DISTRICT 3 Boy Io Jasper Girl Urban Canville DISTRICT 4 Boy Persephone Price Girl Festus Creed DISTRICT 5 Boy Dennis Fling Girl Iphigenia Moss DISTRICT 6 Boy Apollo Ring Girl Diana Ring DISTRICT 7 Boy Vipsania Sickle Girl Pliny Harrington DISTRICT 8 Boy Juno Phipps Girl Hilarius Heavensbee DISTRICT 9 Boy Gaius Breen Girl Androcles Anderson DISTRICT 10 Boy Domitia Whimsiwick Girl Arachne Crane DISTRICT 11 Boy Clemensia Dovecote Girl Felix Ravinstill DISTRICT 12 Boy Lysistrata Vickers Girl Coriolanus Snow Could there be a more stinging public reminder of his precarious position than to be dangling there at the end like an afterthought? After Coriolanus spent a few minutes puzzling over why he’d been brought to the lab, the guard told him he could go in. At his tentative knock, a voice he recognized as Dean Highbottom’s bid him enter. He had expected Satyria to be present but found only one other person in the lab — a small, stooped old woman with frizzy gray hair who was teasing a caged rabbit with a metal rod. She poked at it through the mesh until the creature, which had been modified to have the jaw strength of a pit bull, yanked the thing from her hand and snapped it in two. Then she straightened as well as she could, turned her attention to Coriolanus, and exclaimed, “Hippity, hoppity!” Dr. Volumnia Gaul, the Head Gamemaker and mastermind behind the Capitol’s experimental weapons division, had unnerved Coriolanus since childhood. On a school field trip, his class of nine-year-olds had watched as she’d melted the flesh off a lab rat with some sort of laser and then asked if anyone had any pets they were tired of. Coriolanus had no pets — how could they afford to feed one? But Pluribus Bell had a fluffy white cat named Boa Bell that would lie in her owner’s lap and bat around the ends of his powdered wig. She had taken a fancy to Coriolanus and would start up a raspy, mechanical purr the moment he petted her head. On those dreary days when he’d slogged through the wintry slush to trade back a bag of lima beans for more cabbage, it was her silly, silky warmth that had consoled him. It upset him to think of Boa Bell ending up in the lab. Coriolanus knew Dr. Gaul taught a class at the University, but he’d seldom seen her at the Academy. As Head Gamemaker, though, anything related to the Hunger Games fell under her purview. Could his trip to the zoo have brought her here? Was he about to lose his mentorship? “Hippity, hoppity.” Dr. Gaul grinned. “How was the zoo?” Then she was laughing. “It’s like a children’s rhyme. Hippity, hoppity, how was the zoo? You fell in a cage and your tribute did, too!” Coriolanus’s lips stretched into a weak smile as his eyes darted over to Dean Highbottom for some clue as to how to react. The man sat slumped at a lab table, rubbing his temple in a way that suggested he had a pounding headache. No help there. “I did,” Coriolanus said. “We did. We fell in a cage.” Dr. Gaul raised her eyebrows at him, as if expecting more. “And?” “And . . . we . . . landed onstage?” he added. “Ha! Exactly! That’s exactly what you did!” Dr. Gaul gave him an approving look. “You’re good at games. Maybe one day you’ll be a Gamemaker.” The thought had never crossed his mind. No disrespect to Remus, but it didn’t seem like much of a job. Or like it required any particular skill, tossing kids and weapons in an arena and letting them fight it out. He supposed they had to organize the reapings and film the Games, but he hoped for a more challenging career. “I’ve got a great deal to learn before I can even think of that,” he said modestly. “The instinct is there. That’s what matters,” said Dr. Gaul. “So, tell me, what made you go into the cage?” It had been an accident. He was about to say so when he thought of Lucy Gray whispering the words Own it. “Well . . . my tribute, she’s on the small side. The kind who’s gone in the first five minutes of the Hunger Games. But she’s appealing in a scruffy sort of way, with the singing and all.” Coriolanus paused for a moment, as if reviewing his plan. “I don’t think she stands a chance of winning, but that isn’t the point, is it? I was told we were trying to engage the audience. That’s my assignment. To get people to watch. So I asked myself, how do I even reach the audience? I go where the cameras are.” Dr. Gaul nodded. “Yes. Yes, there’s no Hunger Games without the audience.” She turned to the dean. “You see, Casca, this one took the initiative. He understands the importance of keeping the Games alive.” Dean Highbottom squinted at him skeptically. “Does he? Or is he just showboating for a better grade? What do you think the purpose of the Hunger Games is, Coriolanus?” “To punish the districts for the rebellion,” Coriolanus said without hesitation. “Yes, but punishment could take a myriad of forms,” said the dean. “Why the Hunger Games?” Coriolanus opened his mouth and then hesitated. Why the Hunger Games? Why not just drop bombs, or cancel food shipments, or stage executions on the steps of the district Justice Buildings? His mind jumped to Lucy Gray kneeling at the bars of the cage, engaging the children, the thawing of the crowd. They were connected in some way that he couldn’t quite articulate. “Because . . . It’s because of the children. How they matter to people.” “How do they matter?” Dean Highbottom pressed. “People love children,” said Coriolanus. But even as the words came out of his mouth, he questioned them. During the war, he had been bombed and starved and abused in multiple ways, and not just by the rebels. A cabbage ripped from his hands. A Peacekeeper bruising his jaw when he mistakenly wandered too close to the president’s mansion. He thought of the time he had collapsed and lain in the street with the swan flu and no one, no one would stop to help. Racked with chills, burning with fever, limbs spiked with pain. Even though she was sick herself, Tigris had found him that night and somehow gotten him home. He faltered. “Sometimes they do,” he added, but it lacked conviction. When he thought about it, people’s love of children seemed a very fickle thing. “I don’t know why,” he admitted. Dean Highbottom shot Dr. Gaul a look. “You see? It’s a failed experiment.” “It is if no one watches!” she snapped back. She gave Coriolanus an indulgent smile. “He’s a child himself. Give him time. I’ve got a good feeling about this one. Well, I’m off to visit my mutts.” She patted Coriolanus on the arm as she shuffled toward the door. “Very hush-hush, but there’s something wonderful going on with the reptiles.” Coriolanus made as if to follow, but Dean Highbottom’s voice stopped him. “So your whole performance was planned. That’s odd. Because when you stood up in the cage, I thought you were thinking about running.” “It was a rather more physical entrance than I had envisioned. It took some time to get my bearings. Again, I have a great many things to learn,” said Coriolanus. “Boundaries being among them. You’ll be receiving a demerit for engaging in reckless behavior that could have injured a student. You, namely. It will go on your permanent record,” said the dean. A demerit? What did that even mean? Coriolanus would have to review the Academy student guide so he could object to the punishment. He was distracted by the dean, who pulled a small bottle from his pocket, twisted it open, and applied three drops of clear liquid to his tongue. Whatever was in the bottle, most likely morphling, worked quickly, because Dean Highbottom’s whole body relaxed and a dreaminess settled in his eyes. He smiled unpleasantly. “Three such demerits, and you’ll be expelled.” Coriolanus had never received an official reprimand of any kind, nothing that would stain his spotless record. “But —” he started to protest. “Go, before you receive a second for insubordination,” said Dean Highbottom. There was no give in the statement, no invitation to negotiate. Coriolanus did as he’d been directed. Had Dean Highbottom actually used the word expelled? Coriolanus left the Academy in a state of agitation, but once again the rush of attention quieted his distress. From his fellow students in the hallway, from Tigris and the Grandma’am as they ate a quick supper of fried eggs and cabbage soup, from complete strangers as he made his way back to the zoo that evening, eager to keep his hand in the Games. The soft orange glow of the sunset suffused the city, and a cool breeze swept away the suffocating heat of the day. Officials had extended the zoo’s hours until nine o’clock, allowing the citizens to see the tributes, but there had been no more live coverage since his earlier visit. Coriolanus had decided to make another appearance to check on Lucy Gray and suggest she sing another song. The audience would love that, and perhaps it would draw the cameras back again. As he wound through the paths of the zoo, he was filled with nostalgia for the pleasant days he’d spent there as a child, but he felt saddened by the emptiness of the cages. They had once been full of fascinating creatures from the Capitol’s genetic ark. Now, in one, a lone tortoise lay in the mud, wheezing. A bedraggled toucan squawked high in the branches, fluttering freely from one enclosure to the next. They were rare survivors of the war, as most animals had starved or been eaten. A pair of scrawny raccoons that had likely wandered in from the adjacent city park dug in an overturned trash can. The only beasts thriving were the rats that chased one another around the edges of fountains and scurried across the path mere feet away. As Coriolanus neared the monkey house, the paths became more populated, and a crowd of about a hundred people curved from one side of the bars to the other. Someone jostled his arm as they sped by, and he recognized Lepidus Malmsey pushing ahead through the visitors with the cameraman. A sort of commotion was occurring down front, and he climbed up on a boulder to get a better view. To his chagrin, he saw Sejanus standing at the edge of the cage with a large backpack beside him. He held what appeared to be a sandwich through the bars, offering it to the tributes within. For the moment, they were all hanging back. Coriolanus could not hear his words, but he seemed to be trying to coax Dill, the girl from District 11, to take it. What was Sejanus up to? Was he trying to outdo him and steal the day’s thunder? To take his idea of coming to the zoo and then dress it up in a way Coriolanus could never compete with, because he could never afford to? Was that whole pack filled with sandwiches? That girl wasn’t even his tribute. When Sejanus caught sight of Coriolanus, his face brightened and he waved him over. Casually, Coriolanus made his way through the crowd, soaking up their attention. “Trouble?” he said as he surveyed the backpack. It was overflowing with not only sandwiches, but fresh plums as well. “None of them trust me. And why should they?” asked Sejanus. A self-important little girl marched up beside them and pointed to a sign on the pillar at the edge of the enclosure. “It says, ‘Please don’t feed the animals.’” “They’re not animals, though,” said Sejanus. “They’re kids, like you and me.” “They’re not like me!” the little girl protested. “They’re district. That’s why they belong in a cage!” “Once again, like me,” said Sejanus drily. “Coriolanus, do you think you could get your tribute to come over? If she does, the others might. They have to be starving.” Coriolanus’s mind worked quickly. He had already received one demerit today and did not wish to push his luck with Dean Highbottom. On the other hand, the demerit had been for endangerment of a student, and he was perfectly safe on this side of the bars. Dr. Gaul, who was arguably more influential than Dean Highbottom, had complimented his initiative. And in truth, he had no interest in ceding the stage to Sejanus. The zoo was his show, and he and Lucy Gray were the stars. Even now, he could hear Lepidus whispering his name to the cameraman, feel the viewers in the Capitol watching him. He spotted Lucy Gray at the back of the enclosure, washing her hands and face at a faucet that jutted from the wall at knee height. She dried herself on the ruffled skirt, arranged her curls, and adjusted the rose behind her ear. “I can’t treat her like it’s feeding time at the zoo,” Coriolanus told Sejanus. It was not consistent with his treatment of her as a lady to be shoving food to her through the bars. “Not mine. But I could offer her dinner.” Sejanus nodded immediately. “Take whatever. Ma made extra. Please.” Coriolanus chose two sandwiches and two plums from the pack and crossed to the edge of the monkey house, where a flat rock provided a likely seat. Never in his life, not even in the worst years, had he left home without a clean handkerchief in his pocket. The Grandma’am insisted on certain civilities that held chaos at bay. There were great drawers of them going back generations, plain to lacy to embroidered with flowers. He spread out the worn, slightly rumpled square of white linen and laid out the food. As he seated himself, Lucy Gray drifted up to the bars unbidden. “Are those sandwiches for anybody?” she asked. “Just for you,” he answered. She tucked her feet under her and accepted a sandwich. After examining its contents, she took a nibble from the corner. “Aren’t you eating?” He wasn’t sure. The optics so far were good, singling her out again, presenting her as someone of value. But to eat with her? That might cross a line. “I’d rather you have it,” he said. “Keep up your strength.” “Why? So I can break Jessup’s neck in the arena? We both know that’s not my forte,” she said. His stomach growled at the smell of the sandwich. A thick slice of meat loaf on white bread. He’d missed his lunch at the Academy today, and breakfast and supper had been meager at home. A dollop of ketchup oozing out of Lucy Gray’s sandwich tipped the scale. He lifted the second sandwich and sank his teeth in. A little shock of delight ran through his body, and he resisted the impulse to devour the sandwich in a couple of bites. “Now it’s like a picnic.” Lucy Gray looked back at the other tributes, who had moved in closer but still seemed uncertain. “You all should get one. They’re real good!” she called. “Go on, Jessup!” Emboldened, her hulking district partner slowly approached Sejanus and took the sandwich from his hand. He waited until a plum followed and then walked off without a word. Suddenly, the other tributes rushed the fence, hands thrusting through the bars. Sejanus filled them as fast as he could, and within a minute the backpack was almost depleted. The tributes spread out around the cage, crouched protectively over their food, wolfing it down. The only tribute who had not approached Sejanus was his own, the boy from District 2. He stood at the back of the cage, arms folded across his colossal frame, staring down his mentor. Sejanus pulled one final sandwich from the backpack and held it out to him. “Marcus, this is for you. Take it. Please.” But Marcus remained stone-faced and immobile. “Please, Marcus,” Sejanus, pleaded. “You must be starving.” Marcus looked Sejanus up and down, then pointedly turned his back on him. Lucy Gray watched the standoff with interest. “What’s going on there?” “What do you mean?” Coriolanus asked. “I don’t know exactly,” she said. “But it feels personal.” The tiny boy who’d wanted to murder Coriolanus in the truck sprinted up and snatched the unclaimed sandwich. Sejanus made no move to stop him. The news team tried to engage Sejanus, but he brushed them off and disappeared into the crowd, the limp pack over his shoulder. They shot a bit more of the tributes, then headed toward Lucy Gray and Coriolanus, who sat up straighter and ran his tongue over his teeth to clean off the meat loaf. “We’re here at the zoo with Coriolanus Snow and his tribute, Lucy Gray Baird. Another student just passed out sandwiches. Is he a mentor?” Lepidus thrust the mic at them for an answer. Coriolanus didn’t like sharing the spotlight, but Sejanus’s presence could protect him. Would Dean Highbottom give a demerit to the son of the man who had rebuilt the Academy? A few days ago he would’ve thought the name Snow carried more weight than Plinth, but the reaping assignments had proven him wrong. If Dean Highbottom wanted to call him on the carpet, he’d prefer to have Sejanus by his side. “He’s my classmate, Sejanus Plinth,” he informed Lepidus. “What’s he up to, bringing fancy sandwiches to the tributes? Surely, the Capitol feeds them,” said the reporter. “Oh, for the record, I last ate the night before the reaping,” Lucy Gray announced. “So I guess it’s been three days.” “Oh. Okay, well, you enjoy that sandwich!” said Lepidus. He signaled the camera to turn back to the other tributes. Lucy Gray was on her feet in a flash, leaning into the bars and pulling back the focus. “You know, Mr. Reporter, what might be nice? If anybody has any food to spare, they might bring it on down to the zoo. No fun watching the Games if we’re all too weak to fight, don’t you think?” “There’s some truth to that,” said the reporter, unsure. “Me, I like sweet things, but I’m not picky.” She smiled and bit into her plum. “Okay. Okay, then,” he said, easing away. Coriolanus could tell the reporter was on shaky ground. Should he really be helping her solicit the citizens for food? Did it seem a condemnation of the Capitol? As the news team moved to the other tributes, Lucy Gray settled back down across from him. “Too much?” “Not for me. I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring you food,” he said. “Well, I’ve been working my way through these rose petals when nobody’s looking.” She shrugged. “You didn’t know.” They finished their food in silence, watching the reporter’s failed attempts at getting the other tributes to talk. The sun had set now, and a rising moon had taken over the lighting. The zoo would be closing soon. “I was thinking that it might be a good idea for you to sing again,” said Coriolanus. Lucy Gray sucked the last bit of flesh off the plum pit. “Mm-hmm, it might be, at that.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a ruffle and then straightened her skirt. Her usual playful tone shifted to a sober one. “So, as my mentor, what do you get out of this? You’re at school, right? So you get what? A better grade the more I shine?” “Maybe.” He felt embarrassed. Here, in the relative privacy of the corner, he realized for the first time that she would be dead in a few days. Well, of course, he’d always known that. But he had thought about her more as his contender. His filly in a race, his dog in a fight. The more he had treated her as something special, the more she’d become human. As Sejanus had told the little girl, Lucy Gray was not really an animal, even if she was not Capitol. And he was here doing what? Showboating, like Dean Highbottom had said? “I don’t even know what I get, really,” he told her. “They’ve never had mentors before. You don’t have to. Sing, I mean.” “I know,” she said. He still wanted her to, though. “But if people like you, they might bring you more food. We don’t have much extra at home.” His cheeks burned in the dark. Why on earth had he admitted that to her? “No? I always thought you had plenty to spare in the Capitol,” she said. Idiot, he said to himself. But then he met her gaze and realized that, for the first time, she looked genuinely interested in him. “Oh, no. Especially not during the war. One time I ate half a jar of paste just to stop the pains in my stomach.” “Yeah? How was it?” she asked. That threw him, and he surprised himself by laughing. “Really sticky.” Lucy Gray grinned. “I’ll bet. Still, sounds better than some of the stuff I made do with. Not to make this a competition.” “Of course not.” He grinned back. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll find you some food. You shouldn’t have to perform for it.” “Well, this wouldn’t be the first time I sang for my supper. Not by a long shot,” she said. “And I do so love to sing.” A voice came over the speaker to announce the zoo was closing in fifteen minutes. “I ought to be going. But I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked. “You know where to find me,” she said. Coriolanus rose and brushed off his pants. He shook out the handkerchief, folded it, and passed it through the bars to her. “It’s clean,” he assured her. At least she’d have something to dry her face with. “Thanks. I left mine at home,” she replied. Lucy Gray’s mention of home hung in the air between them. A reminder of a door she’d never reopen, loved ones she’d never see again. He couldn’t stand the thought of being torn from his own home. The apartment was the one place he unquestioningly belonged, his safe harbor, his family’s stronghold. Since he didn’t know how else to respond, he simply nodded good night. Coriolanus had not gone twenty paces when he was stopped by the sound of his tribute’s voice, singing sweet and clear through the night air. Down in the valley, valley so low, Late in the evening, hear the train blow. The train, love, hear the train blow. Late in the evening, hear the train blow. The audience, which had been trailing out, turned to listen to her. Go build me a mansion, build it so high, So I can see my true love go by. See him go by, love, see him go by. So I can see my true love go by. Everyone had hushed now — the audience, the tributes. There was just Lucy Gray and the whir of the camera closing in on her. She still sat in their corner, her head leaning against the bars. Go write me a letter, send it by mail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail. Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail. She sounded so sad, so lost. . . . Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. Know I love you, oh, know I love you, Birds in the heavens know I love you. Coriolanus stood transfixed by the music and the rush of memories that accompanied it. His mother used to sing him a song at bedtime. Not this one, exactly, but it had used those same words, roses are red and violets are blue. It had mentioned loving him. He thought of the photo in the silver frame he kept on the nightstand by his bed. His beautiful mother, holding him when he was about two. They were looking at each other, laughing. Try as he might, he could never remember the moment the picture was taken, but this song caressed his brain, calling her from the depths. He could sense her presence, almost smell the delicate scent of the rose powder she wore, and feel the warm blanket of security that had enveloped him each night. Before she died. Before that awful stretch of days a few months into the war, when the first major rebel air raid had immobilized the city. When she went into labor, and they were unable to get her to the hospital, and something had gone wrong. Hemorrhage, maybe? A great deal of blood soaking the sheets and Cook and the Grandma’am trying to stop it and Tigris dragging him from the room. Then she was gone, and the baby — who would’ve been his sister — she was gone, too. The death of his father came right on the heels of his mother’s, but that loss had not hollowed out the world in the same way. Coriolanus still kept his mother’s compact in a drawer in his nightstand. In difficult times, when he had trouble falling asleep, he would click it open and inhale the rose scent of the silken cake of powder within. It never failed to calm him with the memory of how it had felt to be loved like that. Bombs and blood. That was how the rebels had killed his mother. He wondered if they had killed Lucy Gray’s, too. “Just her pearly white bones.” She seemed to have no love for District 12, always separating herself from it, saying she was, what was it . . . Covey? “Thanks for stepping up.” Sejanus’s voice startled him. He had been sitting a few feet back, concealed by one of the boulders, listening to the song. Coriolanus cleared his throat. “It was nothing.” “I doubt any of our other classmates would’ve helped me,” Sejanus pointed out. “None of our other classmates have even made an appearance,” Coriolanus replied. “That already sets us apart. What made you think of feeding the tributes?” Sejanus looked down at the empty backpack by his feet. “Ever since the reaping, I keep imagining I’m one of them.” Coriolanus almost laughed before he realized Sejanus was serious. “That seems like an odd pastime.” “Can’t help it.” Sejanus’s voice dropped so low, Coriolanus had to strain to hear it. “They read my name. I walk to the stage. Now they’ve cuffed me. Now they’re hitting me for no reason. Now I’m on the train, in the dark, starving, alone except for kids I’m supposed to kill. Now I’m on display, with all these strangers bringing their children to stare at me through the bars. . . .” The sound of rusty wheels turning drew their attention to the monkey house. A dozen or so bales of hay came bursting out of the chute and rolled into a heap on the cage floor. “Look, that must be my bed,” said Sejanus. “It isn’t going to happen to you, Sejanus,” Coriolanus told him. “It could’ve, though. Easily. If we weren’t so rich now,” he said. “I would be back in District Two, maybe still in school or maybe in the mines, but definitely in the reaping. You saw my tribute?” “He’s hard to miss,” admitted Coriolanus. “I think there’s a good chance he’ll win.” “He was my classmate. You know, before I came here. Back home. His name’s Marcus,” Sejanus continued. “Not a friend exactly. But certainly not an enemy. One day I caught my finger in the door, smashed it good, and he scooped a cup of snow off the windowsill to bring down the swelling. Didn’t even ask the teacher, just did it.” “Do you think he even remembers you?” said Coriolanus. “You were little. And a lot has happened since then.” “Oh, he remembers me. The Plinths are notorious back home.” Sejanus looked pained. “Notorious and deeply despised.” “And now you’re his mentor,” said Coriolanus. “And now I’m his mentor,” Sejanus echoed. The lights in the monkey house dimmed. A few of the tributes moved about, making nests of hay for the night. Coriolanus spotted Marcus drinking from the spigot, splashing water over his head. When he rose and crossed to the bales of hay, he dwarfed the others. Sejanus gave the backpack a little kick. “He wouldn’t take a sandwich from me. He’d rather go into the Games starving than take food from my hand.” “That’s not your fault,” said Coriolanus. “I know. I know. I’m so blameless I’m choking on it,” said Sejanus. Coriolanus was trying to unravel that thought when a fight broke out in the cage. Two boys had claimed the same bale of hay and had come to blows over it. Marcus intervened and, grabbing each by the collar, tossed them apart like a pair of rag dolls. They flew in the air, traveling several yards before landing in awkward heaps. As they slunk into the shadows, Marcus took the bale for his own bed, unimpressed by the scuffle. “He’ll still win,” said Coriolanus. If he’d had any doubts, Marcus’s display of superior power had silenced them. He again felt the bitterness of a Plinth being granted the mightiest tribute. And he was tired of Sejanus’s whining over his father’s buying him the victor. “Any one of us would’ve been happy to get him.” Sejanus brightened a bit. “Really? Then take him. He’s yours.” “You’re not serious,” said Coriolanus. “A hundred percent.” Sejanus sprang to his feet. “I want you to have him! And I’ll take Lucy Gray. It will still be horrible, but at least I don’t know her. I know the crowd likes her, but what good will that do her in the arena? There’s no way she’ll beat him. Trade tributes with me. Win the Games. Take the glory. Please, Coriolanus, I would never forget the favor.” For a moment, Coriolanus could taste it — the sweetness of the victory, the cheers of the crowd. If he could make Lucy Gray a favorite, imagine what he could do with a powerhouse like Marcus! And really, what chance did she have? His eyes traveled to Lucy Gray leaning against the bars like a trapped animal. In the shadowy light, her color, her specialness, had faded, making her just another drab, bruised creature. Not much of a match for the other girls, even less so for the boys. The idea of her defeating Marcus was laughable. Like pitting a songbird against a grizzly bear. His mouth was forming the word done, when he stopped. To win with Marcus was no win at all. It took no brains, or skill, or even particular luck. To win with Lucy Gray would be an incredible long shot but historic if he pulled it off. Besides, was winning even the point? Or was it to engage the audience? Thanks to him, Lucy Gray was the current star of the Games, the most memorable tribute no matter who won. He thought of their hands locked together in the zoo as they took on the world. They were a team. She trusted him. He couldn’t imagine telling her he’d dumped her for Marcus. Or, even worse, telling the audience. In addition, what guarantee did he have that Marcus would respond to him any more than he did to Sejanus? He seemed like just the kind to stonewall the lot of them. And then Coriolanus would look like a fool, begging for a crumb of attention from Marcus while Lucy Gray did pirouettes around Sejanus. There was one more consideration. He had something Sejanus Plinth wanted, and wanted badly. Sejanus had already usurped his position, his inheritance, his clothes, his candy, his sandwiches, and the privilege due a Snow. Now he was coming for his apartment, his spot at the University, his very future, and had the gall to be resentful of his good fortune. To reject it. To consider it a punishment, even. If having Marcus as a tribute made Sejanus squirm, then good. Let him squirm. Lucy Gray was one thing belonging to Coriolanus that he would never, ever get. “Sorry, my friend,” he said mildly. “But I think I’ll keep her.” Coriolanus relished the disappointment on Sejanus’s face, but not for long, because that would’ve been petty. “Look, Sejanus, you may not think so, but this is me doing you a favor. Think about it. What would your father say if he found out you’d traded the tribute he’d lobbied for?” “I don’t care,” said Sejanus, but it didn’t sound convincing. “All right, forget about your father. What about the Academy?” he asked. “I doubt trading tributes is allowed. I’ve already been slapped with one demerit just for meeting Lucy Gray early. What if I tried to trade her? Besides, the poor thing is already attached to me. Dumping her would be like kicking a kitten. I don’t think I’d have the heart.” “I shouldn’t have asked. I never even considered I might be making things difficult for you. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” Sejanus’s words began to spill out. “It’s just this whole Hunger Games thing is making me crazy! I mean, what are we doing? Putting kids in an arena to kill each other? It feels wrong on so many levels. Animals protect their young, right? And so do we. We try to protect children! It’s built into us as human beings. Who really wants to do this? It’s unnatural!” “It’s not pretty,” Coriolanus agreed, glancing around. “It’s evil. It goes against everything I think is right in the world. I can’t be a part of it. Especially not with Marcus. I have to get out of it somehow,” Sejanus said, his eyes filling with tears. His distress made Coriolanus uncomfortable, especially when he valued his own chance to participate so highly. “You could always ask another mentor. I don’t think you’d have a problem finding a taker.” “No. I’m not handing Marcus over to anyone else. You’re the only one I’d trust with him.” Sejanus turned to the cage, where the tributes had settled down for the night. “Oh, what does it matter anyway? If it’s not Marcus, it will be someone else. It might be easier, but it still won’t be right.” He collected his backpack. “I better get home. That’s sure to be pleasant.” “I don’t think you’ve broken any rules,” said Coriolanus. “I’ve publicly aligned myself with the districts. In my father’s eyes, I’ve broken the only rule that matters.” Sejanus gave him a small smile. “Thanks again, though, for helping me out.” “Thank you for the sandwich,” said Coriolanus. “It was delicious.” “I’ll tell Ma you said so,” said Sejanus. “It’ll make her night.” Coriolanus’s own return home was somewhat marred by the Grandma’am’s disapproval of his picnic with Lucy Gray. “To feed her is one thing,” she said. “To dine with her suggests that you consider her your equal. But she isn’t. There’s always been something barbaric about the districts. Your own father used to say those people only drank water because it didn’t rain blood. You ignore that at your own peril, Coriolanus.” “She’s just a girl, Grandma’am,” Tigris said. “She’s district. And trust me, that one hasn’t been a girl in a long time,” the Grandma’am replied. Coriolanus thought uneasily of the tributes on the truck debating whether or not to kill him. They’d certainly demonstrated a taste for his blood. Only Lucy Gray had objected. “Lucy Gray is different,” he argued. “She took my side in the truck when the others wanted to attack me. And she had my back in the monkey house, too.” The Grandma’am held her ground. “Would she have bothered if you weren’t her mentor? Of course not. She’s a wily little thing who began to manipulate you the minute you met. Tread carefully, my boy — that’s all I’m saying.” Coriolanus didn’t bother arguing, as the Grandma’am always took the worst view of anything she deemed district. He went straight to bed, dropping with fatigue, but couldn’t quiet his mind. He took his mother’s powder compact from the drawer of his nightstand and ran his fingers over the rose engraved on the heavy silver case. Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. . . . When he clicked the latch, the lid opened and the floral scent wafted out. In the shadowy light from the Corso, his pale blue eyes reflected back from the round, slightly distorted mirror. “Just like your father’s,” the Grandma’am frequently reminded him. He wished he had his mother’s eyes instead, but never said so. Maybe it was best to take after his father. His mother had not really been tough enough for this world. He finally drifted off, thinking of her, but it was Lucy Gray, spinning in her rainbow dress, who sang in his dreams. In the morning, Coriolanus awoke to a delicious smell. He went to the kitchen and found that Tigris had been baking since before dawn. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Tigris, you need to get more sleep.” “I couldn’t sleep, thinking about what’s going on at the zoo,” she said. “Some of the kids look so young this year. Or maybe I’m just getting older.” “It’s disturbing to see them locked up in that cage,” Coriolanus admitted. “It was disturbing to see you there as well!” she said, pulling on an oven mitt and taking a pan of bread pudding from the oven. “Fabricia told me to throw out the stale bread from the party, but I thought, why waste it?” Hot from the oven, drizzled in corn syrup, bread pudding was one of his favorites. “It looks amazing,” he told Tigris. “And there’s plenty, so you can take a piece to Lucy Gray. She said she liked sweet things — and I doubt there are many left in her future!” Tigris set the pan on the oven with a bang. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m wound up tight as a spring.” Coriolanus touched her arm. “It’s the Games. You know I have to do the mentorship, right? If I’m to stand a chance at getting a prize. I need to win that for all of us.” “Of course, Coryo. Of course. And we’re so proud of you and how well you’re doing.” She cut a large slice of the bread pudding and slid it onto a plate. “Now eat up. You don’t want to be late.” At the Academy, Coriolanus felt his apprehension melt away as he basked in the response to his recklessness the previous day. With the exception of Livia Cardew, who made it clear she thought he had cheated and should be dismissed as a mentor immediately, his classmates congratulated him. If his professors were not so openly supportive, he still received several smiles and subtle pats on the back. Satyria took him aside after homeroom. “Well done. You’ve pleased Dr. Gaul, and that’s won you some points with the faculty. She’ll give a good report to President Ravinstill, and that will reflect well on all of us. Only, you need to be careful. You were lucky how it played out. What if those brats had attacked you in the cage? The Peacekeepers would have been bound to rescue you, and there could’ve been casualties on both sides. Things might’ve been quite different if you hadn’t landed your little rainbow girl.” “Which is why I turned down Sejanus’s offer to trade tributes,” he said. Satyria’s mouth dropped open. “No! Imagine what Strabo Plinth would say if that went public.” “Imagine what he owes me if it doesn’t!” The thought of blackmailing old Strabo Plinth had definite appeal. She laughed. “Spoken like a Snow. Now get to class. We need the rest of your record spotless if you’re going to go racking up demerits.” The twenty-four mentors spent the morning in a seminar led by Professor Crispus Demigloss, their excitable old history professor. The class brainstormed ideas — beyond the addition of mentors — to get people to watch the Hunger Games. “Show me I haven’t been wasting my time with you for four years,” he said with a titter. “If history teaches you anything, it’s how to make the unwilling comply.” Sejanus’s hand went up directly. “Ah, Sejanus?” “Before we talk about making people watch, shouldn’t we begin with the question of whether or not watching is the right thing to do?” he said. “Let’s stay on topic, please.” Professor Demigloss scanned the room for a more productive answer. “How do we get people to watch?” Festus Creed raised his hand. Bigger and burlier than most his age, he’d been one of Coriolanus’s inner circle since birth. His family was old Capitol money. Their fortune, largely in District 7 timber, had taken a hit during the war but had rebounded nicely during the reconstruction. His scoring the District 4 girl reflected his status quite accurately. High, but not stellar. “Enlighten us, Festus,” said Professor Demigloss. “Simple. We go straight to the punitive,” Festus answered. “Instead of suggesting people watch, make it the law.” “What happens if you don’t watch?” asked Clemensia, not bothering to raise her hand or even look up from her notes. She was popular with both students and faculty, and her niceness excused a lot. “In the districts, we execute you. In the Capitol, we make you move to the districts, and if you mess up again next year, then we execute you,” Festus said cheerfully. The class laughed, then began to give it serious thought. How could you enforce it? You couldn’t send the Peacekeepers door-to-door. Perhaps some random sampling where you needed to be prepared to answer questions that proved you’d watched the Games. And if you hadn’t, what would an appropriate punishment be? Not execution or banishment — those were too extreme. Maybe some loss of privilege in the Capitol, and a public whipping in the districts? That would make the punishment personal to all. “The real problem is, it’s sickening to watch,” said Clemensia. “So people avoid it.” Sejanus jumped in. “Of course they do! Who wants to watch a group of children kill each other? Only a vicious, twisted person. Human beings may not be perfect, but we’re better than that.” “How do you know?” said Livia snippishly. “And how does someone from the districts have any idea what we want to watch in the Capitol? You weren’t even here during the war.” Sejanus fell silent, unable to deny it. “Because most of us are basically decent people,” said Lysistrata Vickers, folding her hands neatly on her notebook. Everything about her was neat. From her carefully braided hair to her evenly filed nails to the crisp, white cuffs of her uniform blouse setting off her smooth, brown skin. “Most of us don’t want to watch other people suffer.” “We watched worse things during the war. And after,” Coriolanus reminded her. There had been some bloody stuff broadcast over the airwaves during the Dark Days, and many a brutal execution after the Treaty of Treason had been signed. “But we had a real stake in that, Coryo!” said Arachne Crane, giving him a sock on the arm from the seat to his right. Always so loud. Always socking people. The Cranes’ apartment faced the Snows’, and sometimes even from across the Corso, he could hear her bellowing at night. “We were watching our enemies die! I mean, rebel scum and whatnot. Who cares about these kids one way or another?” “Possibly their families,” said Sejanus. “You mean a handful of nobodies in the districts. So what?” Arachne boomed. “Why should the rest of us care which one of them wins?” Livia looked pointedly at Sejanus. “I know I don’t.” “I get more excited over a dogfight,” admitted Festus. “Especially if I’m betting on it.” “So you’d like it if we gave odds on the tributes?” Coriolanus joked. “That would make you tune in?” “Well, it would certainly liven things up!” Festus exclaimed. A few people chuckled, but then the class went quiet as they mulled over the idea. “It’s gruesome,” said Clemensia, twisting her hair around her finger thoughtfully. “Did you mean it for real? You think we should have betting on who wins?” “Not really,” Coriolanus said, then cocked his head. “On the other hand, if it’s a success, then absolutely, Clemmie. I want to go down in history as the one who brought gambling to the Games!” Clemensia shook her head in exasperation. But as he walked to lunch, Coriolanus couldn’t help thinking that the idea had some merit. The dining hall cooks were still working with the reaping buffet leftovers, and the creamed ham on toast had to be the high point of the school lunch year. Coriolanus savored every bite, unlike at the original buffet, when he’d been so distraught over Dean Highbottom’s threatening manner that he’d barely tasted a thing. The mentors had been instructed to gather on the balcony of Heavensbee Hall after lunch, ahead of their first official meetings with their tributes. Each mentor had been given a brief questionnaire to complete with their assignee, partly as an icebreaker, and partly as a matter of record. Very little information had been archived on previous tributes, and this was an effort to correct that. Many of his classmates had difficulty hiding their nerves as they headed over, talking and joking a little too loudly, but Coriolanus had gotten a leg up by meeting Lucy Gray twice already. He felt completely at ease, even eager to see her again. To thank her for the song. To give her Tigris’s bread pudding. To strategize over their interview. The chatter died away as the mentors pushed through the swinging balcony doors and caught sight of what awaited them below. All signs of the reaping festivities had been stripped away, leaving the vast hall cold and imposing. Twenty-four small tables flanked with two folding chairs each were spread out in orderly rows. Each table bore a sign with a district number followed by a B or a G and next to it sat a concrete block with a metal ring on the top. Before the students could discuss the layout, two Peacekeepers entered and stood guard by the main entrance and the tributes were brought in single file. The Peacekeepers outnumbered them two to one, but it was unlikely that any of the tributes could make a break for it, given the heavy shackles attached to their wrists and ankles. The tributes were led to the tables corresponding to their district and sex, directed to sit, and then chained to the concrete weights. Some of the tributes drooped in their seats, chins almost on their chests, but the more defiant ones tilted their heads back and surveyed the hall. It was one of the most impressive chambers in the Capitol, and several mouths gaped open, awed by the grandeur of the marble columns, the arched windows, the vaulted ceiling. Coriolanus thought it must be a marvel to them, compared to the flat, ugly structures that were the signature style in many of the districts. As the tributes’ eyes traveled around the room, they eventually made their way to the mentors’ balcony, and the two groups found themselves locked in one another’s gazes for a long, raw moment. When Professor Sickle banged the door behind them, the mentors gave a collective jump. “Stop eyeballing your tributes and get down there,” she ordered. “You only have fifteen minutes, so use them wisely. And remember, complete the paperwork for our records as best you can.” Coriolanus led the way down the steps that spiraled into the hall. When his eyes met Lucy Gray’s, he could tell she’d been looking for him. Seeing her in chains disquieted him, but he gave her a reassuring smile, and some of the worry left her face. Sliding into the seat across from her, he frowned at her shackled hands and gestured to the nearest Peacekeeper. “Excuse me, would it be possible to have these removed?” The Peacekeeper did him the favor of checking with the officer at the door but then gave him a sharp shake of the head. “Thanks for trying, just the same,” said Lucy Gray. She’d braided back her hair in a pretty fashion, but her face looked sad and tired, and the bruise still marred her cheek. She noticed him looking and touched it. “Is it hideous?” “It’s just healing,” he said. “We don’t have a mirror, so I can only imagine.” She didn’t bother to put on her sparkly camera personality for him, and in a way he was glad. Maybe she was beginning to trust him. “How are you?” he asked. “Sleepy. Scared. Hungry,” said Lucy Gray. “Only a couple people came by the zoo this morning to feed us. I got an apple, which was more than most but not exactly filling.” “Well, I can help a bit with that.” He pulled Tigris’s packet from his book bag. Lucy Gray brightened some and carefully unwrapped the waxed paper to reveal the big square of bread pudding. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no. You don’t like it?” he exclaimed. “I can try and bring something else. I can —” Lucy Gray shook her head. “It’s my favorite.” She swallowed hard, broke off a bit, and slipped it between her lips. “Mine, too. My cousin Tigris made it this morning, so it should be fresh,” he said. “It’s perfect. It tastes just like my mama’s did. Please tell Tigris I said thank you.” She took another bite, but she was still fighting tears. Coriolanus felt a twinge inside him. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, to tell her that things were going to be all right. But, of course, they weren’t. Not for her. He fumbled in his back pocket for a handkerchief and offered it to her. “I still have the one from last night.” She reached for her pocket. “We’ve got drawers full,” he said. “Take it.” Lucy Gray did, dabbing her eyes and wiping her nose. Then she took a deep breath and straightened up. “So, what’s our plan today?” “I’m supposed to fill out this questionnaire about your background. Do you mind?” He pulled out the single sheet of paper. “Not a bit. I love talking about myself,” she said. The page began with basic stuff. Name, district address, date of birth, hair and eye colors, height and weight, and any disability. Things got more difficult with family makeup. Both Lucy Gray’s parents and her two older siblings were dead. “Is your whole family gone?” asked Coriolanus. “I have a couple of cousins. And the rest of the Covey.” She leaned in to check the paper. “Is there a space for them?” There wasn’t. But there should be, he thought, given how fractured families were by the war. There should be a place for anyone who cared for you at all. In fact, maybe that should be the question to start with: Who cares about you? Or even better, Who can you count on? “Married?” He laughed, then remembered they married young in some of the districts. How did he know? Maybe she had a husband back in 12. “Why? Are you asking?” said Lucy Gray seriously. He looked up in surprise. “Because I think this could work.” Coriolanus felt himself blush a little at her teasing. “I’m pretty sure you could do better.” “Haven’t yet.” A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she hid it with a smile. “I bet you’ve got sweethearts lined up around the block.” Her flirtation left Coriolanus tongue-tied. Where were they? He checked the paper. Oh, yes. Her family. “Who raised you? After you lost your parents, I mean.” “An old man took us in for a fee — the six Covey kids who were left. He didn’t much raise us, but he didn’t mess with us either, so it could’ve been worse,” she said. “Really, I’m grateful. People weren’t excited about taking in six of us. He died last year of the black lung, but some of us are old enough to manage things now.” They moved on to occupation. At sixteen, Lucy Gray wasn’t old enough for the mines, but she didn’t attend school either. “I make my living entertaining people.” “People pay you to . . . sing and dance?” asked Coriolanus. “I wouldn’t think district people could afford that.” “Most can’t,” she said. “Sometimes they pool their money, and two or three couples get married the same day, and they hire us. Me and the rest of the Covey, that is. What’s left of us. The Peacekeepers let us keep our instruments when they rounded us up. They’re some of our best customers.” Coriolanus remembered how they’d tried not to smile at the reaping, how no one had interfered with her singing and dancing. He made a note of her employment, finishing the form, but he had plenty of questions of his own. “Tell me about the Covey. What side did you take in the war?” “Neither. My people didn’t take a side. We’re just us.” Something behind him captured her attention. “What’s your friend’s name again? The one with the sandwiches? I think he’s having trouble.” “Sejanus?” He looked over his shoulder and back through the rows to where Sejanus sat across from Marcus. An untouched meal of roast beef sandwiches and cake languished between them. Sejanus was speaking entreatingly, but Marcus just stared fixedly ahead, his arms crossed, his whole being unresponsive. Around the room the other tributes were in various stages of engagement. Several had covered their faces and were refusing to communicate. A few were crying. Some warily answered questions, but even they looked hostile. “Five minutes,” Professor Sickle announced. That reminded Coriolanus of another five minutes they needed to address. “So, the night before the Games begin, we’re going to get a five-minute interview on television in which we can do whatever we want. I thought you might sing again.” Lucy Gray considered it. “I’m not sure there’s a point to it. I mean, when I sang that song at the reaping, that didn’t have anything to do with you all here. I didn’t plan it. It’s just part of a long, sad tale that nobody but me gives a hoot about.” “It hit a nerve with people,” Coriolanus observed. “And the valley song was, like you told me, maybe a way to get food,” she said. “It was beautiful,” he said. “It made me feel like when my mother . . . She died when I was five. It made me remember a song she used to sing to me.” “What about your daddy?” she asked. “Lost him, too, actually. The same year,” Coriolanus told her. She nodded sympathetically. “So, you’re an orphan, like me.” Coriolanus didn’t like being called that. Livia had taunted him about his parentless state when he was small, making him feel alone and unwanted when he was neither. Still, there was that emptiness that most other kids didn’t really understand. But Lucy Gray did, being an orphan herself. “It could be worse. I have the Grandma’am. That’s my grandmother. And Tigris.” “Do you miss your parents?” Lucy Gray asked. “Oh, I wasn’t that close with my father. My mother . . . sure.” It was still hard to talk about her. “Do you?” “A lot. Both of them. Wearing my mama’s dress is the only thing keeping me together right now.” She ran her fingers down the ruffles. “It’s like she’s wrapping her arms around me.” Coriolanus thought of his mother’s compact. The scented powder. “My mother always smelled like roses,” he said, and then felt awkward. He rarely mentioned his mother, even at home. How had the conversation gotten here? “Anyway, I think your song moved a lot of people.” “That’s nice of you to say. Thank you. But it’s not really a reason to sing in the interview,” she said. “If it’s the night before, we can rule food out. I’ve got no reason to win over anybody at that point.” Coriolanus tried hard to think of a reason, but this time her singing would only benefit him. “It’s a shame, though. With your voice.” “I’ll sing you a few bars backstage,” she promised. He would have to work to persuade her, but for the moment, he let it drop. Instead he let her interview him for a few minutes, answering more questions about his family and how they’d survived the war. He found her easy to tell things to, somehow. Was it because he knew that all he recounted would vanish in the arena in a few days? Lucy Gray seemed in better spirits; there had been no more tears. As they’d shared their stories, a sense of familiarity had begun to grow between them. When the whistle blew to signal the end of the session, she tucked his handkerchief neatly back into the pocket of his book bag and gave his forearm a squeeze of thanks. The mentors headed obediently to the main exit, where Professor Sickle instructed them, “You’re to go to the high biology lab for a debriefing.” No one questioned her, but in the halls they wondered aloud about the reason. Coriolanus was hoping it meant Dr. Gaul would be there. His neatly completed questionnaire was in stark contrast to the spotty efforts of his classmates, and this could be another moment for him to stand out. “Mine wouldn’t speak. Not a word!” said Clemensia. “All I’ve got is what I had after the reaping. His name. Reaper Ash. Can you imagine naming your child Reaper and them ending up in the reaping?” “There was no reaping when he was born,” Lysistrata pointed out. “That’s just a farming name.” “I guess that’s true,” said Clemensia. “Mine spoke. I almost wish she hadn’t!” Arachne practically yelled. “Why? What did she say?” asked Clemensia. “Oh, it seems she spends most of her time in District Ten butchering hogs.” Arachne made a gagging motion. “Yech. What am I supposed to do with that? I wish I could make up something better.” Suddenly, she stopped, causing Coriolanus and Festus to run into her. “Wait! That’s it!” “Watch it!” said Festus, pushing her forward. She ignored him and chattered on, demanding everyone’s attention. “I could make up something brilliant! I’ve visited District Ten, you know. It’s practically my second home!” Before the war, her family had developed luxury hotels in vacation destinations, and Arachne had traveled extensively in Panem. She still bragged about it, even though she’d been as Capitol-bound as anyone else since the war. “Anyway, I could come up with something better than the ups and downs of a slaughterhouse!” “You’re lucky,” said Pliny Harrington. Everybody called him Pup to differentiate him from his naval commander father, who watched over the waters off District 4. The commander had tried to mold him into his image, insisting Pup have a crew cut and shined shoes, but his son was a natural slob. He dug a piece of ham out of his braces with his thumbnail and flicked it to the floor. “At least she isn’t afraid of blood.” “Why? Is yours?” asked Arachne. “No idea. She cried for fifteen minutes straight.” Pup grimaced. “I don’t think District Seven prepared her for a hangnail, let alone the Games.” “You’d better button your jacket before class,” Lysistrata reminded him. “Oh, right,” Pup sighed. He worked the top button, and it came off in his hand. “Stupid uniform.” As they filed into the lab, Coriolanus’s pleasure at seeing Dr. Gaul again was dampened by the sight of Dean Highbottom stationed behind the professor’s table, collecting the questionnaires. He ignored Coriolanus, but then, he wasn’t particularly friendly to anyone else either. He left the talking to the Head Gamemaker. Dr. Gaul poked at the muttation rabbit until the class had settled in, then greeted them with “Hippity, hoppity, how did you fare? Did they greet you like friends or just sit there and stare?” The students shot confused glances at one another as she retrieved the questionnaires. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Dr. Gaul, the Head Gamemaker, and I will be mentoring your mentorships. Let’s see what I have to work with, shall we?” She flipped through the papers, frowned, then pulled one out and held it up before the class. “This is what you were asked to do. Thank you, Mr. Snow. Now, what happened to the rest of you?” Inside he glowed, but he maintained a neutral expression. The best move now was to support his classmates. After a long pause, he spoke up. “I had good luck with my tribute. She’s a talker. But most of the kids wouldn’t communicate. And even my girl can’t see the point of making an effort at the interview.” Sejanus turned to Coriolanus. “Why should they? What does it get them? No matter what they do, they’ll be thrown into the arena and left to fend for themselves.” A murmur of assent came from the room. Dr. Gaul peered at Sejanus. “You’re the boy with the sandwiches. Why did you do it?” Sejanus stiffened and avoided her gaze. “They were starving. We’re going to kill them; do we have to torture them ahead of time as well?” “Huh. A rebel sympathizer,” said Dr. Gaul. Keeping his eyes on his notebook, Sejanus persisted. “Hardly rebels. Some of them were two years old when the war ended. The oldest were eight. And now that the war’s over, they’re just citizens of Panem, aren’t they? Same as us? Isn’t that what the anthem says the Capitol does? ‘You give us light. You reunite’? It’s supposed to be everyone’s government, right?” “That’s the general idea. Go on,” Dr. Gaul encouraged him. “Well, then it should protect everyone,” said Sejanus. “That’s its number-one job! And I don’t see how making them fight to the death achieves that.” “Obviously, you don’t approve of the Hunger Games,” said Dr. Gaul. “That must be hard for a mentor. That must interfere with your assignment.” Sejanus paused for a moment. Then he sat up straight, seeming to steel himself, and looked her in the eye. “Perhaps you should replace me and assign someone more worthy.” There was an audible gasp from the classroom. “Not on your life, boy,” Dr. Gaul chuckled. “Compassion is the key to the Games. Empathy, the thing we lack. Right, Casca?” She glanced at Dean Highbottom, but he only fiddled with a pen. Sejanus’s face fell, but he didn’t argue back. Coriolanus felt he’d ceded the battle but could not believe he’d given up on the war. He was tougher than he looked, Sejanus Plinth. Imagine throwing a mentorship back in Dr. Gaul’s face. But the exchange only seemed to invigorate her. “Now, wouldn’t it be wonderful if everyone in the audience felt as passionately about the tributes as this young man here? That should be our goal.” “No,” said Dean Highbottom. “Yes! For them to really get involved!” continued Dr. Gaul. She struck her forehead. “You’ve given me a marvelous idea. A way to let people personally affect the outcome of the Games. Suppose we let the audience send the tributes food in the arena? Feed them, like your friend here did in the zoo. Would they feel more involved?” Festus perked up. “I would if I could bet on the one I was feeding! Just this morning, Coriolanus said maybe we should give odds on the tributes.” Dr. Gaul beamed at Coriolanus. “Of course, he did. All right, then, you all put your heads together and figure it out. Write me a proposal on how this could work, and my team will consider it.” “Consider it?” asked Livia. “You mean you might actually use our ideas?” “Why not? If they have merit.” Dr. Gaul tossed the stack of questionnaires onto the table. “What young brains lack in experience they sometimes make up for in idealism. Nothing seems impossible to them. Old Casca over there came up with the concept for the Hunger Games when he was my student at the University, just a few years older than you are now.” All eyes turned to Dean Highbottom, who addressed Dr. Gaul. “It was just theoretical.” “And so is this, unless it proves useful,” said Dr. Gaul. “I’ll expect it on my desk tomorrow morning.” Coriolanus sighed inwardly. Another group project. Another opportunity to compromise his ideas in the name of collaboration. Either have them cut entirely or, worse, watered down until they had lost their bite. The class voted on a committee of three mentors to draw the thing up. Of course, he was elected, and he could hardly decline. Dr. Gaul had to leave for a meeting and directed the class to discuss the proposal among themselves. He and Clemensia and Arachne were to convene that evening, but since they all wanted to visit their tributes first, they agreed to meet at eight o’clock at the zoo. Later, they’d go to the library to write up the proposal. Since lunch had been substantial, he didn’t feel deprived by a dinner of yesterday’s cabbage soup and a plate of red beans. At least they weren’t lima. And when Tigris had scooped the last cupful into an elegant china bowl and garnished it with a few fresh herbs from the roof garden, it didn’t look too humble to offer to Lucy Gray. Presentation mattered to her. As for the beans, well, she was starving. Optimism flowed through him as he walked to the zoo. Morning attendance may have been scanty, but now visitors were pouring in so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d get a spot up front at the monkey house. His newfound status helped. As people recognized him, they allowed him to pass and even told others to clear a path. He was no common citizen — he was a mentor! He made straight for his corner, only to find the twins, Pollo and Didi Ring, camped out on his rock. The pair embraced their twinship wholeheartedly, sporting identical outfits, hair buns, and sunny personalities. They cleared out without Coriolanus having to ask. “You can take it, Coryo,” Didi said as she pulled her brother up from the rock. “Sure, we’ve already fed our tributes,” added Pollo. “Hey, sorry you got stuck with the proposal.” “Yeah, we voted for Pup, but no one backed us up!” They laughed and ran off into the crowd. Lucy Gray joined him immediately. Even though he wasn’t dining with her, she devoured the beans after admiring how fancy they looked. “Have you gotten any more food from the crowd?” he asked her. “I got an old cheese rind from a lady, and a couple other kids fought over some bread a man threw in. I can see all kinds of people holding food, but I think they’re afraid to get too close, even though they’ve got these Peacekeepers in here with us now.” She pointed to the back wall of the cage, where a quartet of Peacekeepers stood guard. “Maybe they’ll feel safer now that you’re here.” Coriolanus noticed a boy of about ten hovering in the crowd, holding a boiled potato. He gave him a wink and a wave of the hand. The boy looked up at his father, who nodded approval. He moved up behind Coriolanus, still keeping his distance. “Did you bring that potato for Lucy Gray?” Coriolanus asked. “Yes. I saved it from dinner. I wanted to eat it, but I wanted to feed her more,” he said. “Go on, then,” Coriolanus encouraged him. “She doesn’t bite. Mind you, use your manners.” The boy took a shy step in her direction. “Well, hey there,” said Lucy Gray. “What’s your name?” “Horace,” said the boy. “I saved you my potato.” “Aren’t you sweet? Should I eat it now or save it?” she asked. “Now.” The boy gingerly held it out to her. Lucy Gray took the potato as though it were a diamond. “My. That’s about the nicest potato I’ve ever seen.” The boy blushed with pride. “Okay, here I go.” She took a bite, closed her eyes, and almost seemed to swoon. “Nicest tasting, too. Thank you, Horace.” The cameras closed in on them as Lucy Gray received a withered carrot from a little girl and a boiled soupbone from the girl’s grandmother. Someone tapped on Coriolanus’s shoulder, and he turned to see Pluribus Bell standing there with a small can of milk. “For old times’ sake,” he said with a smile as he punched a couple of holes in the lid and passed it to Lucy Gray. “I enjoyed your act at the reaping. Did you write that song yourself?” Some of the more accommodating — or possibly the hungriest — tributes began to station themselves up by the bars. They sat on the ground, held out their hands, ducked their heads, and waited. Here and there someone, usually a child, would run up and place something in their hands and then jump back. The tributes began to compete for attention, drawing the cameras to the center of the cage. A limber little girl from District 9 did a back handspring after she received a bread roll. The boy from District 7 made a good show of juggling three walnuts. The audience rewarded those who would perform with applause and more food. Lucy Gray and Coriolanus resumed their picnic seats and watched the show. “We’re a regular circus troupe, we are,” she said as she picked bits of meat off her bone. “None of them can hold a candle to you,” said Coriolanus. Mentors who had been avoided before were now approached by their tributes if they offered food. When Sejanus arrived with bags of hard-boiled eggs and wedges of bread, all the tributes ran up to him except Marcus, who made a point of ignoring him entirely. Coriolanus nodded at them. “You were right about Sejanus and Marcus. They used to be classmates in District Two.” “Well, that’s complicated. At least we don’t have to deal with that,” she said. “Yes, this is complicated enough.” He meant it as a joke, but it fell flat. It was complicated enough, and it got more so by the minute. She gave him a wistful smile. “Sure would’ve been nice to meet you under different circumstances.” “Like how?” It was a dangerous line of questioning, but he couldn’t help himself. “Oh, like you came to one of my shows and heard me sing,” she said. “And afterward you came up to chat, and maybe we had a drink and a dance or two.” He could imagine it, her singing somewhere like Pluribus’s nightclub, him catching her eye, connecting before they’d ever even met. “And I’d come back the next night.” “Like we had all the time in the world,” she said. Their musing was interrupted by a loud “Woo-hoo!” The tributes from District 6 began a funny dance, and the Ring twins got some of the audience to clap along in rhythm. After that, things became almost festive. The crowd ventured closer, and a few people began to converse with the captives. On the whole, Coriolanus thought it a good development — it would take more than Lucy Gray to justify the prime-time slot for the interviews. He decided to let the other tributes have their moment and to ask her to sing at closing time. In the meantime, he filled her in on the mentors’ discussions that day and stressed what her popularity could mean in the arena, now that there was a possibility that people could send gifts. Secretly, he worried about his resources again. He’d need more affluent viewers, who could afford to buy her things. It would look bad if a Snow’s tribute received nothing in the arena. Maybe he should make it a provision of the proposal that you couldn’t send your own tribute gifts. Otherwise, how could he compete? Certainly not with Sejanus. And there, by the bars, Arachne had laid out a little picnic for her tribute. A fresh loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and were those grapes? How could she afford those? Maybe the travel industry was picking up. He watched as Arachne sliced the cheese with a mother-of-pearl-handled knife. Her tribute, the talkative girl from District 10, squatted right in front of her, eagerly leaning into the bars. Arachne made a thick sandwich but didn’t hand it right over. She seemed to be lecturing the girl about something. It was quite a speech. At one point, the girl reached through the bars, and Arachne withdrew the sandwich, drawing a laugh from the audience. She turned and flashed them a grin, shook her finger at her tribute, held out the sandwich again, and then pulled it away a second time, much to the crowd’s amusement. “She’s playing with fire there,” Lucy Gray observed. Arachne waved to the crowd and then took a bite of the sandwich herself. Coriolanus could see the tribute’s face darkening, the muscles tightening in her neck. He could see something else, too. Her fingers sliding down the bar, darting out, circling the handle of the knife. He started to rise, opening his mouth to shout out a warning, but it was too late. In one movement, the tribute yanked Arachne forward and slit her throat. Shrieks came from the audience members nearest to the attack. Arachne’s face drained of color as she dropped the sandwich and clawed at her neck. The blood poured down her fingers as the District 10 girl released her and gave her a small shove. Arachne stepped back, turning and reaching out a dripping hand, imploring the audience for help. People were either too stunned or too scared to respond. Many drew away as she fell to her knees and began to bleed out. Coriolanus’s initial reaction was to recoil like the others, to grab hold of the monkey house bars for support, but Lucy Gray hissed, “Help her!” He remembered the cameras streaming live to the Capitol audience. He had no idea what to do for Arachne, but he did not want to be seen cringing and clinging. His terror was a private thing, not meant for public display. He forced his legs into motion and was the first to reach Arachne. She clutched his shirt as the life seeped out of her. “Medic!” he cried as he eased her to the ground. “Is there a doctor? Please, someone help!” He pressed his hand over the wound to stem the blood but removed it when she made a choking sound. “Come on!” he screamed at the crowd. A couple of Peacekeepers were shouldering their way toward him, but much, much too slowly. Coriolanus glanced over in time to see the District 10 girl retrieve the cheese sandwich and take a furious bite before the bullets pierced her body, slamming her into the bars. She slipped into a heap as her blood commingled with Arachne’s. Bits of half-chewed food fell from her mouth and floated in the red pool. The crowd surged back as panicked people tried to flee the area. The fading light added a level of desperation. Coriolanus saw one small boy fall and watched his leg being trampled before a woman yanked him from the ground. Others weren’t so lucky. Arachne’s lips made soundless words that he could not decipher. When her breathing stopped abruptly, he guessed it was pointless to try to resuscitate her. If he forced air into her mouth, wouldn’t it only spill out the gaping wound in her neck? Festus was next to him now, and the two friends exchanged helpless looks. Stepping back from Arachne, Coriolanus flinched at the red, shiny stuff coating his hands. He turned and found Lucy Gray huddled against the bars of the cage, her face hidden in her ruffled skirt, her body shaking, and realized he was shaking as well. That’s how it was with him: The wash of blood, the whiz of bullets, the screams in the crowd all caused flashbacks to the worst moments of his childhood. Rebel boots pounding through the streets, he and the Grandma’am pinned down by gunfire, dying bodies twitching around them . . . his mother on the bloodstained bed . . . the stampedes during the food riots, the smashed faces, the moaning people . . . He took immediate steps to mask his terror. Cramming his hands into fists at his sides. Trying to take slow, deep breaths. Lucy Gray began to vomit, and he turned away to keep his own stomach in check. Medics appeared, lifting Arachne onto a stretcher. Others assessed those who had been wounded by stray bullets or tromped by the feet of the audience. A woman was in his face, asking was he hurt, was this his blood? Once they’d confirmed it wasn’t, they gave him a towel to wipe himself with and moved on. As he scrubbed at the blood, he spotted Sejanus kneeling near the dead tribute. He had reached through the bars, and he seemed to be sprinkling a handful of something white over her body while he mumbled some words. Coriolanus only caught a glimpse before a Peacekeeper came and pulled Sejanus back. The soldiers were swarming the place now, clearing out the last remnants of the audience and lining up the tributes along the back of the cage with their hands on top of their heads. Calmer, Coriolanus tried to catch Lucy Gray’s attention, but her eyes were locked on the ground. A Peacekeeper took him by the shoulders and gave him a respectful but firm push toward the exit. He found himself following Festus up to the main path. They stopped at a water fountain and worked a bit more on removing the blood. Neither knew what to say. Arachne hadn’t been his favorite person, but she’d always been in his life. They’d played as babies, been at birthday parties, stood on ration lines, attended classes together. She’d been dressed head to toe in black lace at his mother’s funeral, and he’d cheered her brother’s graduation only last year. As part of the wealthy old guard of the Capitol, she was family. And you didn’t have to like your family. The bond was a given. “I couldn’t save her,” he said. “I couldn’t stop the blood.” “I don’t think anyone could have. At least you tried. That’s what matters,” Festus consoled him. Clemensia found them, her whole body trembling in distress, and they made their way out of the zoo together. “Come to my place,” Festus said, but when they reached his apartment, he suddenly broke into tears. They saw him onto the elevator and said good night. It was not until Coriolanus had walked Clemensia home that they remembered the assignment Dr. Gaul had given them. The proposal about sending tributes food in the arena and the option to bet on them. “Surely, she won’t still expect it,” said Clemensia. “I couldn’t do it tonight. I couldn’t possibly think about it. You know, without Arachne.” Coriolanus agreed, but on the way home he thought about Dr. Gaul. She would be just the type to penalize them for missing such a deadline, regardless of the circumstances. Maybe he should write something up to be on the safe side. When he’d climbed the twelve flights to the apartment, he found the Grandma’am in a state, railing at the districts and airing out her best black dress for Arachne’s funeral. She flew at him, patting his chest and arms, making sure he was uninjured. Tigris simply wept. “I can’t believe Arachne is dead. I just saw her this afternoon at the market, buying those grapes.” He comforted them and did his best to reassure them of his safety. “It won’t happen again. It was like a freak accident. And now the security’s bound to be even tighter.” When things had calmed down, Coriolanus went to his bedroom, stripped off his bloodstained uniform, and headed to his bathroom. In the near-scalding water of the shower, he scoured the remainder of Arachne’s blood from his body. For about a minute, a painful sobbing made his chest ache, but then it passed, and he wasn’t sure if it had to do with sorrow over her death or unhappiness over his own difficulties. Probably some of both. He pulled on a worn silk robe that had been his father’s and decided to take a shot at the proposal. It wasn’t as if he would be able to sleep, not with the burbling sound of Arachne’s throat still fresh in his ears. No amount of rose-scented powder could temper that. Losing himself in the assignment helped to calm him, and he preferred working in solitude, not having to parry the thoughts of his classmates diplomatically. Without interference, he created a simple but solid proposal. Reflecting on the classroom discussion with Dr. Gaul and the electricity in the audience when they’d fed the starving tributes at the zoo, he focused on the food. For the first time, sponsors would be able to buy items — a piece of bread, a chunk of cheese — to be delivered by drone to a specific tribute. A panel would be established to review the nature and value of each item. A sponsor would have to be a Capitol citizen in good standing who was not directly related to the Games. This ruled out Gamemakers, mentors, Peacekeepers assigned to guard the tributes, and any of the aforementioned parties’ immediate family members. When it came to his idea of betting, he suggested a second panel to create a venue that would allow Capitol citizens to officially wager on the victor, establish the odds, and oversee the payments to the winners. Proceeds from either program would be funneled toward the costs of the Games, making them essentially free for the government of Panem. Coriolanus worked steadily until Friday morning dawned. As the first rays came through his window, he dressed in a clean uniform, tucked his proposal under his arm, and left the apartment as quietly as possible. Dr. Gaul wore several hats between her research, military, and academic duties, so he had to venture a guess as to where her desk might be located. Since it was Hunger Games business, he walked to the imposing structure known as the Citadel, which housed the War Department. The Peacekeepers on duty had no intention of letting him into the high-security zone, but they assured him the pages of the proposal would be placed on her desk. It was the best he could do. As he walked back to the Corso, the screen that had shown only the seal of Panem in the early hours came alive with the events of the previous night. Again and again they aired the tribute slitting Arachne’s throat, him arriving to help her, and the gunning down of the murderer. He felt strangely detached from the action, as if all his emotional reserve had been depleted by his brief outburst in the shower. Since his initial reaction to Arachne’s death had been somewhat lacking, he was relieved to see that the cameras had only recorded his attempt to save her, the moments when he appeared brave and responsible. You would only notice his shaking if you looked closely for it. He was particularly pleased to catch a quick shot of Livia Cardew flailing her way through the crowd at the sound of the gunfire. In rhetoric class, she’d once attributed his inability to decipher the deeper meaning of a poem to the fact that he was too self-absorbed. The irony, coming from Livia, of all people! But actions spoke louder than words. Coriolanus to the rescue, Livia to the nearest exit. By the time he reached home, Tigris and the Grandma’am had recovered somewhat from the shock of Arachne’s death and were declaring him a national hero, which he waved off but secretly relished. He should have been exhausted, but he felt a nervous energy running through him, and the announcement that the Academy would still be holding classes gave him a boost. Being a hero at home had its limitations; he needed a larger audience. After a breakfast of fried potatoes and cold buttermilk, he made his way to the Academy with the somberness the occasion demanded. Since he was known to be Arachne’s friend, and had proven it by trying to save her, he seemed to have been designated chief mourner. In the hallways, condolences came in from every side, along with praise for his actions. Someone suggested that he cared for her like a sister, and although he’d done nothing of the sort, he allowed it. No need to disrespect the dead. As dean of the Academy, it should’ve been Highbottom who led the schoolwide assembly, but he did not make an appearance. Instead it was Satyria who spoke of Arachne in glowing terms: her audacity, her outspokenness, her sense of humor. All the things, Coriolanus thought as he dabbed his eyes, that were so annoying about her and had ultimately brought on her death. Professor Sickle took the mic and commended him, and to a lesser extent Festus, for their response to a fallen comrade in arms. Hippocrata Lunt, the school counselor, invited anyone with grief issues to visit her office, especially if they were having violent impulses toward themselves or others. Satyria came back and announced that Arachne’s official funeral would be the following day, and the entire student body would attend to honor her memory. It would be aired live to all of Panem, so they were encouraged to look and behave as befitted the youth of the Capitol. Then they were allowed to mingle, to remember their friend, and to console one another for her loss. Classes would resume after lunch. After a gloppy fish salad on toast, the mentors were scheduled to meet with Professor Demigloss again, although no one really felt like going. It didn’t help that the first thing he did was pass out a mentor sheet, updated with the tributes’ names, saying, “This should facilitate keeping track of your progress in the Games.” 10th HUNGER GAMES MENTOR ASSIGNMENTS DISTRICT 1 Boy (Facet) Livia Cardew Girl (Velvereen) Palmyra Monty DISTRICT 2 Boy (Marcus) Sejanus Plinth Girl (Sabyn) Florus Friend DISTRICT 3 Boy (Circ) Io Jasper Girl (Teslee) Urban Canville DISTRICT 4 Boy (Mizzen) Persephone Price Girl (Coral) Festus Creed DISTRICT 5 Boy (Hy) Dennis Fling Girl (Sol) Iphigenia Moss DISTRICT 6 Boy (Otto) Apollo Ring Girl (Ginnee) Diana Ring DISTRICT 7 Boy (Treech) Vipsania Sickle Girl (Lamina) Pliny Harrington DISTRICT 8 Boy (Bobbin) Juno Phipps Girl (Wovey) Hilarius Heavensbee DISTRICT 9 Boy (Panlo) Gaius Breen Girl (Sheaf) Androcles Anderson DISTRICT 10 Boy (Tanner) Domitia Whimsiwick Girl (Brandy) Arachne Crane DISTRICT 11 Boy (Reaper) Clemensia Dovecote Girl (Dill) Felix Ravinstill DISTRICT 12 Boy (Jessup) Lysistrata Vickers Girl (Lucy Gray) Coriolanus Snow Coriolanus, along with several people around him, automatically crossed off the name of the girl from District 10. But then what? It would make sense to cross off Arachne’s name as well, but that felt different. His pen hovered over her name and then left it alone for the moment. It seemed pretty cold to scratch her off the list like that. About ten minutes into class, a note arrived from the office instructing him and Clemensia to leave class and report immediately to the Citadel. This could only be in response to his proposal, and Coriolanus felt a combination of excitement and nervousness. Did Dr. Gaul like it? Hate it? What did it mean? Since he hadn’t bothered to tell her about his proposal, Clemensia was put out. “I can’t believe you wrote up some proposal while Arachne’s body was still warm! I cried all night long.” Her puffy eyes backed up the claim. “Well, it’s not like I could sleep either,” Coriolanus objected. “After holding her while she died. Working kept me from freaking out.” “I know, I know. Everyone handles grief differently. I didn’t mean that like it sounded.” She sighed. “So, what’s in this thing I supposedly cowrote?” Coriolanus gave her a quick overview, but she still seemed annoyed. “I’m sorry, I meant to tell you. It’s pretty basic stuff, and some of it we already discussed as a group. Look, I already got one demerit this week — I can’t afford to let my grades take a hit, too.” “Did you at least put my name on it? I don’t want it to seem like I was too feeble to pull my weight,” she said. “I didn’t put anyone’s name on it. It’s more of a class project.” Coriolanus threw up his hands in exasperation. “Honestly, Clemmie, I thought I was doing you a favor!” “Okay, okay,” she said, relenting. “I guess I owe you. But I wish I’d at least had a chance to read it. Just cover for me if she starts grilling us about it.” “You know I will. She’ll probably hate it anyway,” he said. “I mean, I think it’s pretty solid, but she’s operating with a whole different rule book.” “That’s true,” Clemensia agreed. “Do you think there will even be a Hunger Games now?” He hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. What with Arachne, and then the funeral . . . If they happen, they’ll be delayed, I suppose. I know you don’t like them anyway.” “Do you? Does anyone, really?” Clemensia asked. “Maybe they’ll just send the tributes home.” The idea was not entirely unappealing when he thought of Lucy Gray. He wondered how the fallout from Arachne’s death was affecting her. Were all the tributes being punished? Would they allow him to see her? “Yes, or make them Avoxes, or something,” said Clemensia. “It’s awful, but not as bad as the arena. I mean, I’d rather be alive without a tongue than dead, wouldn’t you?” “I would, but I’m not sure my tribute would,” said Coriolanus. “Can you still sing without a tongue?” “I don’t know. Hum, maybe.” They had reached the gates of the Citadel. “This place scared me when I was little.” “It scares me still,” said Coriolanus, which made her laugh. At the Peacekeeper station, their retinas were scanned and checked against the Capitol files. Their book bags were taken and a guard escorted them down a long, gray corridor and onto an elevator that plunged down at least twenty-five floors. Coriolanus had never been so far underground and, surprisingly, found he liked it. Much as he loved the Snows’ penthouse apartment, he’d felt so vulnerable when the bombs had fallen during the war. Here, it seemed nothing could reach him. The elevator doors parted, and they stepped into a gigantic open laboratory. Rows of research tables, unfamiliar machines, and glass cases spread out into the distance. Coriolanus turned to the guard, but she closed the doors and left them without giving further instructions. “Shall we?” he asked Clemensia. They began to make their way cautiously into the lab. “I have a terrible feeling I’m going to break something,” she whispered. They walked along a wall of glass cases fifteen feet high. Inside, a menagerie of creatures, some familiar, some altered to the point that no label could easily be attached, roamed and panted and flopped around in apparent unhappiness. Oversized fangs, claws, and flippers swiped the glass as they passed. A young man in a lab coat intercepted them and led them to a section of reptile cases. Here they found Dr. Gaul, peering into a large terrarium filled with hundreds of snakes. They were artificially bright, their skins almost glowing in shades of neon pink, yellow, and blue. No longer than a ruler and not much thicker than a pencil, they twisted into a psychedelic carpet that covered the bottom of the case. “Ah, here you are,” Dr. Gaul said with a grin. “Say hello to my new babies.” “Hello there,” said Coriolanus, putting his face close to the glass to see the writhing mess. They reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what. “Is there a point to the color?” asked Clemensia. “There is a point to everything or nothing at all, depending on your worldview,” said Dr. Gaul. “Which brings me to your proposal. I liked it. Who wrote it? Just you two? Or did your brassy friend weigh in before her throat was cut?” Clemensia pressed her lips together, upset, but then Coriolanus saw her face tighten. She was not going to be intimidated. “The whole class discussed it as a group.” “And Arachne was planning to help write it up last night, but then . . . as you said,” he added. “But you two forged ahead, is that it?” asked Dr. Gaul. “That’s right,” said Clemensia. “We wrote it up at the library, and I printed it out at my apartment last night. Then I gave it to Coriolanus so he could drop it off this morning. As assigned.” Dr. Gaul addressed Coriolanus. “Is that how it happened?” Coriolanus felt put on the spot. “I did drop it off this morning, yes. Well, just to the Peacekeepers on guard; I wasn’t allowed in,” he said evasively. Something was strange about this line of questioning. “Was that a problem?” “I just wanted to make sure you’d both had your hands on it,” said Dr. Gaul. “I can show you the parts the group discussed and how they were developed in the proposal,” he offered. “Yes. Do that. Did you bring a copy?” she asked. Clemensia looked at Coriolanus expectantly. “No, I didn’t,” he said. He wasn’t thrilled with Clemensia laying it at his door, when she’d been too shaky to even help write the thing. Especially since she was one of his most formidable competitors for the Academy prizes. “Did you?” “They took our book bags.” Clemensia turned to Dr. Gaul. “Perhaps we could use the copy we gave you?” “Well, we could. But my assistant lined this very case with it while I was having my lunch,” she said with a laugh. Coriolanus stared down into the mass of wriggling snakes, with their flicking tongues. Sure enough, he could catch phrases of his proposal between the coils. “Suppose you two retrieve it?” Dr. Gaul suggested. It felt like a test. A weird Dr. Gaul test, but still. And somehow planned, but he couldn’t begin to guess to what end. He glanced at Clemensia and tried to remember if she was afraid of snakes, but he scarcely knew if he was himself. They didn’t have snakes in the lab at school. She gave Dr. Gaul a clenched smile. “Of course. Do we just reach in through the trapdoor on the top?” Dr. Gaul removed the entire cover. “Oh, no, let’s give you some room. Mr. Snow? Why don’t you start?” Coriolanus reached in slowly, feeling the warmth of the heated air. “That’s right. Move gently. Don’t disrupt them,” Dr. Gaul instructed. He scooped his fingers under the edge of a sheet of his proposal and slowly slid it out from under the snakes. They slumped down into a heap but didn’t seem to mind much. “I don’t think they even noticed me,” he said to Clemensia, who looked a little green. “Here I go, then.” She reached into the tank. “They can’t see too well, and they hear even less,” said Dr. Gaul. “But they know you’re there. Snakes can smell you using their tongues, these mutts here more than others.” Clemensia hooked a sheet with her fingernail and lifted it up. The snakes stirred. “If you’re familiar, if they have pleasant associations with your scent — a warm tank, for instance — they’ll ignore you. A new scent, something foreign, that would be a threat,” said Dr. Gaul. “You’d be on your own, little girl.” Coriolanus had just begun to put two and two together when he saw the look of alarm on Clemensia’s face. She yanked her hand from the tank, but not before a half dozen neon snakes sank their fangs into her flesh. Clemensia gave a bloodcurdling scream, shaking her hand madly to rid it of the vipers. The tiny puncture wounds left by their fangs oozed the neon colors of their skins. Pus dyed bright pink, yellow, and blue dripped down her fingers. Lab assistants in white jackets materialized. Two pinned Clemensia to the floor while a third injected her with a scary-looking hypodermic needle filled with black fluid. Her lips turned purple and then bloodless before she passed out. The assistants dropped her onto a stretcher and whisked her away. Coriolanus began to follow them, but Dr. Gaul stopped him with her voice. “Not you, Mr. Snow. You stay here.” “But I — She —” he stammered. “Will she die?” “Anyone’s guess,” said Dr. Gaul. She had dipped a hand back into the tank and was lightly trailing her gnarled fingers over her pets. “Clearly, her scent was not on the paper. So, you wrote the proposal alone?” “I did.” There was no point in lying. Lying had probably killed Clemensia. Obviously, he was dealing with a lunatic who should be handled with extreme care. “Good. The truth, finally. I’ve no use for liars. What are lies but attempts to conceal some sort of weakness? If I see that side of you again, I’ll cut you off. If Dean Highbottom punishes you for it, I won’t stand in his way. Are we clear?” She wrapped one of the pink snakes around her wrist like a bracelet and seemed to be admiring it. “Very clear,” said Coriolanus. “It’s good, your proposal,” she said. “Well thought out and simple to execute. I’m going to recommend my team review it and implement a version of the first stage.” “All right,” said Coriolanus, afraid to make more than the blandest of responses, surrounded as he was by lethal creatures that did her bidding. Dr. Gaul laughed. “Oh, go home. Or go see your friend if she’s still there to see. It’s time for my crackers and milk.” Coriolanus hurried off, bumping into a lizard tank and sending its inhabitants into a frenzy. He made a wrong turn, then another, and found himself in a ghoulish section of the lab where the glass cases housed humans with animal parts grafted to their bodies. Tiny feathered ruffs around their necks; talons, or even tentacles, in place of fingers; and something — perhaps gills? — embedded in their chests. His appearance startled them, and when a few opened their mouths to plead with him, he realized they were Avoxes. Their cries reverberated and he caught a glimpse of small black birds perched above them. The name jabberjay popped into his mind. A brief chapter in his genetics class. The failed experiment, the bird that could repeat human speech, that had been a tool for espionage until the rebels had figured out its abilities and sent it back carrying false information. Now the useless creatures were creating an echo chamber filled with the Avoxes’ pitiful wails. Finally, a woman in a lab coat and oversized pink bifocals intercepted him, scolded him for disturbing the birds, and escorted him back to the elevator. As he waited, a security camera blinked down at him and he compulsively tried to smooth out the lone, crumpled page of his proposal he’d crushed in his hand. Peacekeepers met him above, returned both his and Clemensia’s book bags, and marched him out of the Citadel. Coriolanus made it down the street and around the corner before his legs gave way and he dropped onto the curb. The sun hurt his eyes, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He was exhausted, having not slept the night before, but hyper with adrenaline. What had just happened? Was Clemensia dead? He had not begun to come to terms with Arachne’s violent end, and now this. It was like the Hunger Games. Only they weren’t district kids. The Capitol was supposed to protect them. He thought of Sejanus telling Dr. Gaul it was the government’s job to protect everybody, even the people in the districts, but he still wasn’t sure how to square that with the fact that they’d been such recent enemies. But certainly the child of a Snow should be a top priority. He could be dead if Clemensia had written the proposal instead of him. He buried his head in his hands, confused, angry, and most of all afraid. Afraid of Dr. Gaul. Afraid of the Capitol. Afraid of everything. If the people who were supposed to protect you played so fast and loose with your life . . . then how did you survive? Not by trusting them, that was for sure. And if you couldn’t trust them, who could you trust? All bets were off. Coriolanus knotted up at the memory of the snake fangs sinking into flesh. Poor Clemmie, could she really be dead? And in that nightmarish way. If she was, was it his fault? For not calling her out for lying? It seemed such a minor infraction, but would Dr. Gaul place blame on him for covering for her? If she died, he could be in all kinds of trouble. He guessed that in an emergency, a person would be taken to the nearby Capitol Hospital, so he found himself running in its direction. Once inside the cool entrance hall, he followed the signs to the emergency room. As soon as the automated door slid open, he could hear Clemensia screaming, just as she had when the snakes bit her. At least she was still alive. He babbled something to the nurse at the counter, and she made enough sense of it to have him take a seat just as a wave of dizziness hit him. He must have looked terrible, because she brought him two packets of nutritional crackers and a glass of sweet, fizzy lemon drink, which he tried to sip and ended up gulping down, longing for a refill. The sugar made him feel a bit better, although not enough to try the crackers, which he pocketed. By the time the attending doctor emerged from the back, he was almost in control of himself. The doctor reassured him. They’d treated the victims of mishaps at the lab before. Since the antidote had been swiftly administered, there was every reason to believe Clemensia would survive, although there might be some neurological damage. She’d be hospitalized until they were sure she was stable. If he checked back in a few days, she might be ready for visitors. Coriolanus thanked the doctor, handed over her book bag, and agreed when he suggested that the best thing would be to return home. As he retraced his steps to the entrance, he spotted Clemensia’s parents rushing in his direction and managed to conceal himself in a doorway. He didn’t know what the Dovecotes had been told, but he had no interest in talking to them, especially before he’d worked out his story. The lack of a plausible story, preferably one that absolved him of being an accessory to her condition, made his return to school or even home impossible. Tigris would not be home until supper at the earliest, and the Grandma’am would be horrified by his situation. Strangely, he found the only person he wanted to talk to was Lucy Gray, who was both clever and unlikely to repeat his words. His feet carried him to the zoo before he had really considered the difficulties he would encounter there. A pair of impressively armed Peacekeepers were on guard at the main entrance, with several more milling around behind them. At first they waved him away; instructions were to allow no visitors to the zoo. But Coriolanus played the mentor card, and at this point some of them recognized him as the boy who’d tried to save Arachne. His celebrity was enough to convince them to call in a request for an exception. The Peacekeeper spoke to Dr. Gaul directly, and Coriolanus could hear her distinctive cackle shooting out of the phone, even though he stood several yards away. He was allowed in with a Peacekeeper, but only for a short time. Trash from the fleeing crowd was still strewn along the path to the monkey house. Dozens of rats darted about, gnawing on leftovers, from bits of rotting food to shoes lost in the panic. Although the sun was high, several raccoons foraged, scooping up tidbits in their clever little hands. One chewed on a dead rat, warning the others to give it a wide berth. “Not the zoo I remember,” said the Peacekeeper. “Nothing but kids in cages and vermin running loose.” At points along the path, Coriolanus could see small containers of white powder tucked under boulders or against walls. He remembered the poison used by the Capitol during the siege — a time with little food but plenty of rats. Humans, particularly dead ones, had become their daily fare. During the worst of it, of course, humans had eaten humans as well. There was no point in feeling superior to the rats. “Is that rat poison?” he asked the Peacekeeper. “Yeah, some new stuff they’re trying out today. But the rats are so smart, they won’t go near it.” He shrugged. “It’s what they gave us to work with.” Inside the cage, the tributes, shackled again, pressed against the back wall or positioned themselves behind the rock formations, as if trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. “You have to keep your distance,” said the Peacekeeper. “Your girl isn’t likely a threat, but who knows? Another might attack you. You have to stay back where they can’t touch you.” Coriolanus nodded and went to his usual rock but remained standing behind it. He didn’t feel threatened by the tributes — they were the least of his problems — but he didn’t want to give Dean Highbottom any other excuse to punish him. At first he couldn’t locate Lucy Gray. Then he made eye contact with Jessup, who sat propped against the back wall, holding what appeared to be the Snows’ handkerchief to his neck. Jessup gave something beside him a shake, and Lucy Gray sat straight up with a start. For a moment she seemed disoriented. When she spotted Coriolanus, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and combed her loose hair back with her fingers. She lost her balance as she rose, and reached out to catch herself on Jessup’s arm. Still unsteady, she began to make her way across the cage to him, dragging the chains with her. Was it the heat? The trauma of the killing? Hunger? Since the Capitol wasn’t feeding the tributes, she’d had nothing since Arachne’s murder, when she’d vomited up the precious food from the crowd, and probably his bread pudding and the apple from the morning as well. So she’d gone almost five days on a meat loaf sandwich and a plum. He was going to have to find a way to get her more to eat, even if it was cabbage soup. When she’d crossed the waterless moat, he held up a cautionary hand. “I’m sorry, we can’t get close.” Lucy Gray stopped a few feet from the bars. “Surprised you got in at all.” Her throat, her skin, her hair — everything seemed parched in the hot afternoon sun. A bad bruise on her arm had not been there the previous night. Who had hit her? Another tribute, or a guard? “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. She shrugged. “It’s nothing. Jessup and I take turns sleeping. Capitol rats have a taste for people.” “The rats are trying to eat you?” Coriolanus asked, revolted at the thought. “Well, something bit Jessup’s neck the first night we were here. Too dark to see what, but he mentioned fur. And last night, something crawled over my leg.” She indicated a container of white powder by the bars. “That stuff doesn’t do a lick of good.” Coriolanus had a terrible image of her lying dead under a swarm of rats. It wiped away the last few shreds of resistance he had, and despair engulfed him. For her. For himself. For the both of them. “Oh, Lucy Gray, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry about all of this.” “It’s not your fault,” she said. “You must hate me. You should. I would hate me,” he said. “I don’t hate you. The Hunger Games weren’t your idea,” she replied. “But I’m participating in them. I’m helping them happen!” His head dropped in shame. “I should be like Sejanus and at least try to quit.” “No, don’t! Please don’t. Don’t leave me to go through this alone!” She took a step toward him and almost fainted. Her hands caught the bars, and she slid down to the ground. Ignoring the guard’s warning, he impulsively stepped over the rock and crouched down across the bars from her. “Are you all right?” She nodded, but she didn’t look all right. He’d wanted to tell her about the scare with the snakes and Clemensia’s brush with death. He’d hoped to ask her advice, but it all paled in comparison to her situation. He remembered the crackers the nurse had given him and fumbled for the crumpled packets in his pocket. “I brought you these. They’re not big, but they’re very nutritious.” That sounded stupid. How could their nutritional value matter to her? He realized he was just parroting what his teachers had said during the war, when one of the incentives for going to school had been the free snack provided by the government. The scratchy, tasteless things washed down with water were all some of the kids had to eat for the day. He remembered their little clawlike hands tearing into the wrapping and the desperate crunching that followed. Lucy Gray immediately ripped open a packet and stuffed one of the two crackers into her mouth, chewing and swallowing the dry thing with difficulty. She pressed a hand against her stomach, sighed, and ate the second more slowly. The food seemed to focus her, and her voice sounded calmer. “Thanks,” she said. “That’s better.” “Eat the others,” he urged, nodding to the second packet. She shook her head. “No. I’ll save these for Jessup. He’s my ally now.” “Your ally?” Coriolanus was perplexed. How could one have an ally in the Games? “Uh-huh. The tributes from District Twelve are going down together,” said Lucy Gray. “He’s not the brightest star in the Dipper, but he’s strong as an ox.” Two crackers seemed a small price to pay for Jessup’s protection. “I’ll get you more to eat as soon as I can. And it looks like people are going to be allowed to send food into the arena. It’s official now.” “That’d be good. More food would be good.” She leaned her head forward and rested it on the bars. “Then, like you said, it might make sense to sing. Make people want to help me.” “At the interview,” he suggested. “You could sing the valley song again.” “Maybe.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “They showing this in all Panem, or just the Capitol?” “All Panem, I think,” he answered. “But you won’t get anything from the districts.” “Not expecting to. Not the point,” she said. “Maybe I will sing, though. Be better with a guitar or something.” “I can try to find you one.” Not that the Snows had any instruments. Except for the Grandma’am’s daily anthem and his mother’s long-ago bedtime songs, there’d been little music in his life until Lucy Gray appeared. He rarely listened to the Capitol radio broadcast, which mostly played marches and propaganda songs. Those all sounded the same to him. “Hey!” The Peacekeeper waved at him from the path. “That’s too close! Time’s up anyway.” Coriolanus rose. “I better go if I want them to let me in again.” “Sure. Sure. And thanks. For the crackers and all,” said Lucy Gray, grasping the bars to struggle to her feet. He reached through the bars to help her up. “It’s nothing.” “Not to you maybe,” she said. “But it’s meant the world having someone show up like I mattered.” “You do matter,” he said. “Well, there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary.” She rattled her chains and gave them a tug. And then, as if remembering something, she looked up at the sky. “You matter to me,” he insisted. The Capitol may not value her, but he did. Hadn’t he just poured his heart out to her? “Time to go, Mr. Snow!” the Peacekeeper called. “You matter to me, Lucy Gray,” he repeated. His words drew her eyes back to him, but she still seemed distant. “Look, kid, don’t make me report you,” said the Peacekeeper. “I’ve got to go.” Coriolanus started to leave. “Hey!” she said with a certain urgency. He turned back. “Hey, I want you to know I don’t really believe you’re here for grades or glory. You’re a rare bird, Coriolanus.” “You, too,” he said. She dipped her head in agreement and headed back to Jessup, her chains leaving a trail in the dirty straw and rat droppings. When she reached her partner, she lay down and curled up in a ball, as if exhausted by the brief encounter. Twice he tripped on his way out of the zoo, and he recognized that he was too tired to come up with any good solutions to anything. It was late enough now that his arrival at home wouldn’t seem suspicious, so he headed back to the apartment. He had the misfortune to bump into his classmate Persephone Price, the daughter of the infamous Nero Price, who’d once cannibalized the maid. They ended up walking together, since they were neighbors. She’d been assigned to mentor Mizzen, a sturdy thirteen-year-old boy from District 4, and so had been present when he and Clemensia had been called from class. He dreaded any discussion of the proposal, but she was still too distraught over Arachne’s death to talk about anything else. Usually, he avoided Persephone altogether, because he could never help wondering if she had known the ingredients of her wartime stew. For some time, he’d felt afraid of her, but now she only inspired disgust, no matter how many times he reminded himself of her innocence. With her dimples and hazel green eyes, she was prettier than any girl in his year, with the possible exception of Clemensia . . . well, pre-snakebite Clemensia. But the idea of kissing her repulsed him. Even now, as she gave him a tearful hug good-bye, all he could think of was that severed leg. Coriolanus dragged himself up the stairs, his thoughts darker than ever at the memory of the poor maid collapsed from hunger in the street. How long could he expect Lucy Gray to last? She was fading fast. Weak and distracted. Injured and broken. But most of all, slowly starving to death. By tomorrow, she might not be able to stand. If he didn’t find a way to feed her, she’d be dead before the Hunger Games even began. When he reached the apartment, the Grandma’am took one look at him and suggested a nap before supper. He fell on his bed, feeling too stressed to ever sleep again. The next thing he knew, Tigris was gently shaking his shoulder. A tray on his night table gave off the comforting smell of noodle soup. Sometimes the butcher would give her chicken carcasses for free, and she’d boil them into something wonderful. “Coryo,” she said. “Satyria has called three times, and I can’t think of any more excuses. Come on, eat some supper and call her back.” “Did she ask about Clemensia? Does everyone know?” he blurted out. “Clemensia Dovecote? No. Why would she?” Tigris asked. “It was so awful.” He told her the story in all its gory detail. As he spoke, the color left her face. “Dr. Gaul made the snakes bite her? Over a little white lie like that?” “She did. And she didn’t care at all whether Clemmie survived,” he said. “Just shooed me out so she could get her afternoon snack.” “That’s sadistic. Or completely demented,” said Tigris. “Should you report her?” “To who? She’s the Head Gamemaker,” he said. “She works directly with the president. She’ll say it was our fault for lying.” Tigris thought it over. “All right. Don’t report her. Or confront her. Just avoid her as much as possible.” “That’s hard as a mentor. She keeps showing up at the Academy to play with this rabbit mutt and ask a lot of crazy questions. One word from her could make or break my prize.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “And Arachne’s dead, and Clemensia’s all full of venom, and Lucy Gray . . . well, that’s another really awful story. I doubt she’ll make it to the Games, and maybe that’s for the best.” Tigris tucked a spoon into his hand. “Eat your soup. We’ve gotten through worse than this. Snow lands on top?” “Snow lands on top,” he said with so little conviction they had to laugh. It made him feel a bit more normal. He took a few bites of soup to please her, then realized he was starving and made short work of it. When Satyria called again, he almost launched into his confession, but it turned out that all she wanted to do was ask him to sing the anthem at Arachne’s funeral in the morning. “Your heroics at the zoo, combined with the fact that you’re the only one who knows all the words, made you the faculty’s first choice.” “I’d be honored, of course,” he replied. “Good.” Satyria slurped something, causing the ice to clink in her glass, then came up for air. “How are things with your tribute?” Coriolanus hesitated. To complain might seem childish, like he couldn’t handle his own problems. He almost never asked Satyria for help. But then he thought of Lucy Gray buckling under the weight of her chains and threw caution to the wind. “Not well. I saw Lucy Gray today. Just for a minute. She’s very weak. The Capitol hasn’t fed her at all.” “Since she left District Twelve? Why, that’s been, what? Four days?” Satyria asked, surprised. “Five. I don’t think she’s going to make it to the Hunger Games. I’m not even going to have a tribute to mentor,” he said. “A lot of us won’t.” “Well, that’s not fair. It’s like telling you to do an experiment with broken equipment,” she responded. “And now the Games will be delayed at least another day or two.” She paused, then added, “Let me see what I can do.” He hung up and turned to Tigris. “They want me to sing at the funeral. She didn’t mention Clemensia. They must be keeping it a secret.” “Then that’s what you do, too,” said Tigris. “Maybe they’ll pretend the whole thing didn’t happen.” “Maybe they won’t even tell Dean Highbottom,” he said, brightening. Then another thought hit him. “Tigris? I just remembered, I can’t really sing.” And somehow, this was the funniest thing either of them had ever heard. The Grandma’am, however, thought it was no laughing matter, and the following morning she had him up at dawn so she could coach him. At the end of every line she’d poke him in his ribs with a ruler and shout, “Breathe!” until he couldn’t imagine making any other choice. For the third time that week, she sacrificed one of her darlings to his future, pinning a light blue rosebud to his carefully pressed uniform jacket and saying, “There. It matches your eyes.” Looking sharp, with a belly full of oatmeal and a rib cage dotted with bruises reminding him to inhale, he set off for the Academy. Although it was Saturday, the entire student body reported to homeroom before they assembled on the front steps of the Academy, divided neatly and alphabetically by class. By virtue of his assignment, Coriolanus found himself in the front row with faculty and distinguished guests, first and foremost President Ravinstill. Satyria gave him a quick overview of the program, but the only thing that stuck in his head was that his rendition of the anthem opened the ceremonies. He didn’t mind public speaking but had never sung publicly — there was little occasion to in Panem. It was one reason that Lucy Gray’s song had caught people’s attention. He calmed his nerves by reminding himself that even if he howled like a dog, there wasn’t much to compare him to. Across the avenue, the temporary stands set up for the funeral procession quickly filled with mourners dressed in black, the one color everyone could be counted on to have, given the loss of loved ones during the war. He looked for the Cranes but couldn’t spot them in the crowd. The Academy and the surrounding buildings were festooned with funereal banners and sported Capitol flags in every window. Numerous cameras were positioned to record the event, and multiple Capitol TV reporters streamed live commentary. Coriolanus thought it was quite a display for Arachne, disproportionate to both her life and death, the latter of which could have been avoided if she’d refrained from being such an exhibitionist. So many people had died heroically in the war, with so little recognition, that it grated on him. He was relieved that he was singing instead of having to praise her talents, which, if memory served, were limited to being loud enough to fill the school auditorium without a mic and the ability to balance a spoon on her nose. And Dean Highbottom had accused him of showboating? Still, he reminded himself, she was practically family. The Academy clock struck nine, and the crowd fell silent. On cue, Coriolanus rose and walked to the podium. Satyria had promised accompaniment, but the silence stretched so long he actually drew breath to begin the anthem before a tinny version began to play over the sound system, giving him sixteen measures of introduction. Gem of Panem, Mighty city, Through the ages, you shine anew. His singing was more like sustained talking than a melodic tour de force, but the song was not particularly challenging. The high note the Grandma’am consistently missed was optional; most people sang it an octave lower. With the memory of her ruler prodding him, he sailed through it, never missing a note or running out of breath. He sat to generous applause and an approving nod from the president, who now took the podium. “Two days ago, Arachne Crane’s young and precious life was ended, and so we mourn another victim of the criminal rebellion that yet besieges us,” the president intoned. “Her death was as valiant as any on the battlefield, her loss more profound as we claim to be at peace. But no peace will exist while this disease eats away at all that is good and noble in our country. Today we honor her sacrifice with a reminder that while evil exists, it does not prevail. And once again, we bear witness as our great Capitol brings justice to Panem.” The drums began a slow, deep boom, and the crowd turned as the funeral procession rounded a corner onto the street. Although not as wide as the Corso, Scholars Road easily held the honor guard of Peacekeepers, standing shoulder to shoulder, twenty wide and forty deep, that stepped in flawless uniformity to the rhythm of the drums. Coriolanus had wondered about the strategy of telling the districts about a tribute killing a Capitol girl, but now he saw the point. Behind the Peacekeepers came a long flatbed truck with a crane affixed to it. High in the air, the bullet-ridden body of the District 10 girl, Brandy, dangled from its hook. Shackled to the truck bed, looking utterly filthy and defeated, were the remaining twenty-three tributes. The length of their restraints made it impossible to stand, so they either crouched or sat on the bare metal floor. This was just another chance to remind the districts that they were inferior and that there would be repercussions for their resistance. He could see Lucy Gray trying to hold on to a shred of dignity, sitting as upright as the chains would allow and gazing straight ahead, ignoring the corpse swinging gently over her head. But it was no use. The dirt, the shackles, the public display — it was too much to overcome. He tried to imagine conducting himself under those circumstances, until he realized this was undoubtedly what Sejanus was doing, and snapped out of it. Another battalion of Peacekeepers followed the tributes, paving the way for a quartet of horses. They were decked in garlands and pulled an ornate wagon with a pure white coffin draped in flowers. Behind the coffin came the Cranes, riding in a horse-drawn chariot. At least her family had the decency to look uncomfortable. The procession halted when the coffin drew up in front of the podium. Dr. Gaul, who’d been sitting next to the president, approached the mic. Coriolanus thought it was a mistake to let her speak at such a moment, but she must have left the crazy lady and her pink snake bracelets at home, because she spoke with a stern and intelligent clarity. “Arachne Crane, we, your fellow citizens of Panem, vow that your death will not be in vain. When one of ours is hit, we hit back twice as hard. The Hunger Games will go forward, with more energy and commitment than ever before, as we add your name to the long list of the innocent who died defending a righteous and just land. Your friends, family, and fellow citizens salute you and dedicate the Tenth Hunger Games to your memory.” So now that loudmouth Arachne was a defender of a righteous and just land. Yes, she laid down her life taunting her tribute with a sandwich, thought Coriolanus. Maybe her gravestone could read, “Casualty of cheap laughs.” A row of Peacekeepers in red sashes lifted their guns and sent several volleys over the procession, which then rolled down a few blocks and disappeared around a corner. As the crowd thinned, several people took the pained look on Coriolanus’s face as sorrow at Arachne’s death, when ironically he felt like killing her all over again. Still, he felt he’d handled himself well, until he turned to find Dean Highbottom looking down at him. “My condolences on the loss of your friend,” the dean said. “And on your student. It’s a difficult day for all of us. But the procession was very moving,” Coriolanus replied. “Did you think so? I found it excessive and in poor taste,” said Dean Highbottom. Taken by surprise, Coriolanus let out a short laugh before he recovered and tried to look shocked. The dean dropped his gaze to Coriolanus’s blue rosebud. “It’s amazing, how little things change. After all the killing. After all the agonized promises to remember the cost. After all of that, I can’t distinguish the bud from the blossom.” He gave the rose a tap with his forefinger, adjusting the angle, and smiled. “Don’t be late to lunch. I hear we’re having pie.” The only good thing about the encounter was that it turned out there really was pie, peach this time, at the special buffet in the school dining hall. Unlike on the day of the reaping, Coriolanus loaded his plate with fried chicken and took the largest wedge of pie he could find. He slathered his biscuits with butter and had three refills of grape punch, filling the last glass so much it spilled over and he stained his linen napkin sopping it up. Let people talk. The chief mourner needed sustenance. But even as he ate, he recognized it as a sign that his usual gift for self-control was eroding. He blamed it on Dean Highbottom and his continual harassment. What was he babbling on about today anyway? Buds? Blossoms? He should be locked up somewhere or, even better, deported to a far-off outpost to leave decent Capitol people in peace. Just the thought of him sent Coriolanus back for more pie. Sejanus, however, poked at his chicken and biscuits without taking even one bite. If Coriolanus had disliked the funeral parade, it had to have been misery for Sejanus. “They’ll report you if you throw out all that food,” Coriolanus reminded him. He wasn’t crazy about the guy, but he didn’t particularly want to see him punished. “Right,” said Sejanus. But he still seemed unable to down more than a sip of punch. As the luncheon was finishing up, Satyria gathered the twenty-two active mentors to inform them that not only were the Hunger Games still on, they were supposed to be the most visible yet. With this in mind, they were to escort their tributes on a tour of the arena that very afternoon. It was to be aired live to the entire country, somehow driving home the resolution Dr. Gaul had made at the funeral. The Head Gamemaker felt that separating the Capitol kids from the district ones suggested weakness, as if they were too afraid of their enemies to be in their presence. The tributes would be handcuffed but not fully shackled. The Peacekeepers’ top sharpshooters would be among their guards, but the mentors were to be seen side by side with their charges. Coriolanus could sense some reluctance among his classmates — several of their parents had lodged complaints about shoddy security after Arachne’s death — but no one spoke up, none of them wanting to seem cowardly. The whole thing seemed dangerous and ill-advised to him — what would prevent other tributes from turning on their mentors? — but he’d never say so. A part of him wondered if Dr. Gaul wasn’t hoping for another act of violence so she could punish another tribute, maybe a live one this time, in front of the cameras. This further display of Dr. Gaul’s callousness made him feel mutinous. He glanced over at Sejanus’s plate. “All done?” “I can’t eat today,” said Sejanus. “I don’t know what to do with this.” Their section had emptied. Under the table, Coriolanus spread his stained linen napkin on his lap. He felt even more delinquent when he realized it was emblazoned with the Capitol seal. “Put it here,” he said with a furtive glance. Sejanus gave a look around and quickly transported the chicken and biscuits to the napkin. Coriolanus gathered it up and stuffed the whole thing in his book bag. They were not allowed to take food from the dining hall, and certainly not for a tribute, but where else would he get some before the tour? Lucy Gray couldn’t eat the stuff in front of the cameras, but her dress had deep pockets. He resented that half of his takings would go to Jessup now, but maybe that investment would pay off when the Games began. “Thanks. You’re quite the rebel,” said Sejanus as they carried their trays to the conveyor belt that ran to the kitchen. “I’m bad news, all right,” said Coriolanus. The mentors piled into a few Academy vans and headed for the Capitol Arena, which had been built across the river to prevent crowds from swamping the downtown. In its day, the huge, state-of-the-art amphitheater had been the site of many an exciting sporting, entertainment, or military event. High-profile executions of the enemy were staged there during the war, making it a target for the rebel bombers. While the original structure stood, it was battered and unstable now, useful only as a venue for the Hunger Games. The lush field of meticulously tended grass had died from neglect. It was riddled with bomb craters, with weeds providing the only greenery on the expanse of dirt. Rubble from the explosions — chunks of metal and stone — lay everywhere, and the fifteen-foot wall that encircled the field was fissured and pockmarked from the shrapnel. Each year, the tributes would be locked in with nothing but an arsenal of knives, swords, maces, and the like to facilitate the bloodshed while the audience watched from home. At the end of the Games, the one who had managed to survive would be shipped back to their district, the bodies removed, the weapons collected, and the doors locked until the following year. No maintenance. No cleanup. Wind and rain might wash away the bloodstains, but Capitol hands would not. Professor Sickle, their chaperone for the outing, ordered the mentors to leave their belongings in the vans when they arrived. Coriolanus stuffed the food-filled napkin in one of his front pants pockets and kept it covered with the hem of his jacket. As they stepped from the air-conditioning into the blazing sun, he saw the tributes standing in a line in handcuffs, heavily guarded by Peacekeepers. The mentors were directed to take their places beside their respective tributes, who’d been lined up numerically, so he was near the end with Lucy Gray. Only Jessup and his mentor, Lysistrata, who couldn’t tip the scales at a hundred pounds, were behind him. In front of him, Clemensia’s tribute, Reaper — the one who’d strangled him in the truck — stood glowering at the ground. If it came to a mentor-tribute showdown, the odds were not in Coriolanus’s favor. Despite her delicate appearance, Lysistrata had some grit. The daughter of the physicians who treated President Ravinstill, she’d been lucky to get a mentorship, and she’d apparently been working hard to connect with Jessup. “I brought you some cream for your neck,” Coriolanus heard her whisper. “But you must keep it hidden.” Jessup made a grunt of assent. “I’ll put it in your pocket when I can.” The Peacekeepers removed the heavy bars from the entrance. The massive doors swung open, revealing a huge lobby lined with boarded-up booths and fly-specked posters advertising events from before the war. Holding their formation, the kids followed the soldiers deep within to the far side of the lobby. A bank of full-height turnstiles, each with three curved metal arms, stood covered in a thick layer of dust. They required a Capitol token for admittance, the same one still used for the price of a trolley fare. This entrance was for the poor people, Coriolanus thought. Or perhaps not poor. The word plebeian came to mind. The Snow family had entered the arena at another entrance, demarcated by a velvet rope. Certainly, their box could not be accessed with a trolley token. Unlike much of the arena, it had a roof, a retractable glass window, and air-conditioning that had made the hottest day comfortable. An Avox had been assigned to them, bringing food and drink and toys for him and Tigris. If he grew bored, he’d nap on the plush, cushioned seats. Peacekeepers posted at two turnstiles pumped tokens into the slots so each tribute and mentor could pass through simultaneously. At each rotation, a cheerful voice piped, “Enjoy the show!” “Can’t you override the ticket barrier?” asked Professor Sickle. “We could if we had the key, but no one seems to know where it is,” said a Peacekeeper. “Enjoy the show!” the turnstile told Coriolanus as he passed through. He gave the arm at his waist a backward push and realized that no exit was possible. His eyes traveled to the tops of the turnstiles, where iron bars filled the space to the arched doorway. He guessed the patrons of the cheap seats left the building through passages elsewhere. While that was probably seen as a plus for crowd dispersal, it did nothing to calm a jittery mentor on a questionable field trip. On the far side of the turnstiles, a squad of Peacekeepers marched into a passageway, guided only by the red glow of emergency lights on the floor. On either side, smaller arches leading to different seating levels were marked. The line of tributes and mentors fell into step, flanked by tight columns of Peacekeepers. As they moved into the gloom, Coriolanus took a page from Lysistrata’s book and used the opportunity to slip the napkin of food into Lucy Gray’s cuffed hands. It swiftly disappeared into her ruffled pocket. There. She was not going to starve to death on his watch. Her hand found his, intertwining their fingers and sending a buzz through his body at their closeness. At this small intimacy in the dark. He gave her hand a final squeeze and released it as they headed into the sunlight at the end of the passageway, where such a display would have been inexplicable. He’d been to the arena several times as a small boy, to see the circus, mostly, but also to cheer military displays under his father’s command. For the past nine years he’d watched at least part of the Games on television. But nothing prepared him for the sensation of walking out through the main gate, beneath the enormous scoreboard, and onto the field. Some of the mentors and tributes gasped at the sheer size of the place and the grandeur that defied even the decay. Staring up at the towering rows of seats made him feel diminished to the point of insignificance. A raindrop in a flood, a pebble in an avalanche. The sight of the camera crews brought him back to himself, and he adjusted his face to say that nothing much really impressed a Snow. Lucy Gray, who seemed more alert and moved better without the weight of the chains, gave a wave to Lepidus Malmsey, but like all the reporters, he remained stony-faced and didn’t engage. Their directive had been clear; gravity and retribution were the hallmarks of the day. Satyria’s use of the term tour had suggested a sightseeing excursion, and while he had not anticipated pleasure, he had not expected the palpable sadness of the place either. The Peacekeepers who’d been flanking them spread out as the kids dutifully followed the lead squad around the inside perimeter of the oval, forming a dusty, joyless parade. Coriolanus remembered the circus performers taking the same route, riding elephants and horses, bespangled and brimming with mirth. With the exception of Sejanus, probably all of his classmates would have been in the audience, too. Ironically, Arachne would have been in the box adjacent to his, dressed in a sequined costume and cheering at the top of her lungs. Coriolanus surveyed the arena, looking for anything that might be an advantage for Lucy Gray. The high wall that enclosed the field, keeping the audience above the action, had some promise. The damaged surface provided hand- and footholds, offering access to the seats for a nimble climber. Several of the gates spaced symmetrically around the wall looked compromised as well, but as he was unsure what lay beyond in the tunnels, he thought those should be approached with caution. Too easy to get trapped. The stands would definitely be her best bet, if she could climb up. He made mental notes for later. As the line began to stretch out, he initiated a whispered conversation with Lucy Gray. “It was awful this morning. Seeing you like that.” “Well, at least they fed us first,” she said. “Really?” Had his conversation with Satyria triggered that? “A couple of kids blacked out when they tried to round us up last night. I think they decided that if they want to have anyone left for their show, they’re going to have to feed us. Mostly bread and cheese. We got dinner, and breakfast, too. But don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of room left for whatever’s in my pocket.” She sounded more like her old self. “Was that you I heard singing?” “Oh. Yes,” he admitted. “They asked me to sing because they thought Arachne and I were such great friends. We weren’t. And I’m embarrassed you heard me.” “I like your voice. My daddy would’ve said it had real authority. Just didn’t much care for the song,” Lucy Gray replied. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you,” he said. She nudged him with her elbow. “I wouldn’t broadcast that. Most people here think I’m lower than a snake’s belly.” Coriolanus shook his head and grinned. “What?” she said. “You just have funny expressions. Not funny, per se, more colorful,” he told her. “Well, I don’t say ‘per se’ much, if that’s what you mean,” she quipped. “No, I like it. It makes the way I talk seem so stiff. What was it you called me that day in the zoo? Something about cake?” he remembered. “Oh, the cake with the cream? You don’t say that?” she asked. “Well, it’s a compliment. Where I come from, cake can be pretty dry. And cream’s as scarce as hen’s teeth.” For a moment he laughed, forgetting where they were, how depressing the backdrop. For a moment there was just her smile, the musical cadence of her voice, and the hint of flirtation. Then the world exploded. Coriolanus knew bombs, and they terrified him. Even as the impact threw him off his feet and tossed him farther into the arena, his arms lifted to cover his head. When he hit the ground, he automatically flattened onto his belly, cheek pressed into the dust, one arm bent up to guard his exposed eye and ear. The first explosion, which seemed to have come from the main gate, initiated a chain of eruptions around the arena. Running was out of the question. It was all he could do to cling to the rumbling ground, hope for it to stop, and try to keep his panic in check. He entered what he and Tigris had nicknamed “bomb time,” that surreal period when moments stretched and contracted in ways that seemed to defy science. During the war, the Capitol had assigned every citizen a shelter near their residence. The Snows’ magnificent building had a basement level so sturdy and spacious it accommodated not only its residents but half the block. Unfortunately, the Capitol’s surveillance system depended heavily on electricity. With the power sketchy and the grid flickering on and off like a firefly due to rebel interference in District 5, the sirens were unreliable, and they were often caught unawares with no time to retreat to the basement. At these times, he, Tigris, and the Grandma’am — unless she was singing the anthem — would hide under the dining table, an impressive thing carved from a single block of marble, which sat in an interior room. Even with the absence of windows and the solid rock over his head, Coriolanus’s muscles always went rigid with terror when he heard the whistling of the bombs, and it would be hours before he felt he could walk right. The streets weren’t safe either, nor the Academy. You could be bombed anywhere, but usually he had a better place to shelter than this. Now, naked to the attack, lying in the open air, he waited for the interminable “bomb time” to end and wondered how much damage his internal organs were incurring. No hovercraft. The realization bubbled up in his brain. There had been no hovercraft. These bombs had been planted, then? He could smell smoke, so some of them were probably incendiary. He pressed his daily handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Squinting through the black haze thickened with dirt from the arena, he could see Lucy Gray about fifteen feet away, curled up in a ball, forehead on the ground and fingertips lodged in her ears, which was the best she could do with the cuffs on. She coughed helplessly. “Cover your face! Use the napkin!” he called out. She didn’t look over but must have heard, because she rolled to her side and retrieved it from her pocket. The biscuits and chicken fell to the ground as she pressed the cloth to her face. He had a vague thought that this would not be conducive to her singing. A lull fooled him into thinking the episode had ended, but just as he lifted his head, a final explosion in the stands above him demolished what had once been a snack stand — that pink spun sugar, those caramel-coated apples — and burning debris rained down on him. Something struck his head hard, and the heavy weight of a beam landed diagonally across his back, pinning him to the ground. Stunned, Coriolanus lay almost senseless for a bit. The acrid smell of burning stung his nose, and he realized the beam was on fire. He tried to pull himself together and wriggle free, but the world swam and the peach pie turned sour in his stomach. “Help!” he cried. Similar pleas came from around him, but he couldn’t see the injured through the cloud. “Help!” The fire singed his hair, and with renewed effort he tried to struggle from under the beam, to no avail. A searing pain began to eat into his neck and shoulder as the horrifying realization that he was burning to death overtook him. He screamed, again and again, but seemed alone in a bubble of dark smoke and flaming rubble. Then he could make out a figure rising from the inferno. Lucy Gray said his name, then snapped her head around, something out of his view catching her attention. Her feet took a few steps away from him, then she hesitated, apparently torn. “Lucy Gray!” he pleaded in a ragged voice. “Please!” She gave a last look at whatever had tempted her and ran to his side. The beam shifted off his back but then slammed down again. It rose a second time, leaving him just enough room to drag himself from beneath it. She helped him to his feet, and with his arm slung across her shoulders, they limped away from the flames until they collapsed somewhere in the middle of the arena. At first, coughing and gagging required all his attention, but he slowly registered the pain in his head, the burns along his neck, back, and shoulders. Somehow his fingers were knotted in Lucy Gray’s scorched skirt, as if it were his lifeline. Her cuffed hands, visibly burned, curled nearby. The smoke settled enough that he could see the pattern the bombs had been planted in at intervals around the arena, with the mother lode of explosives placed at the entrance. So great was the damage there that he caught a glimpse of the street beyond and two forms fleeing the arena. Was that what had given Lucy Gray pause before she came to his aid? The possibility of escape? Other tributes had surely availed themselves of the opportunity. Yes, he heard the sirens now, the shouts from the street. Medics picked their way over the rubble and ran for the wounded. “It’s okay,” he told Lucy Gray. “Help is here.” Hands reached for him, settled him onto a stretcher. He released her ruffles, thinking there would be another stretcher for her, but as they carried him off, he could see a Peacekeeper force her to her stomach and jam the barrel of a gun into her neck, yelling a string of profanities at her. “Lucy Gray!” Coriolanus cried out. No one paid any attention to him. The blow to his head made concentration hard, but he was aware of the ambulance ride, banging through the doors to the same waiting area where he’d drunk his fizzy lemon soda just a day before, and then being moved onto a table under a bright light while a team of doctors tried to assess the damage. He wanted to sleep, but they kept pushing their faces into his and demanding answers, their stale lunch breath making him queasy again. Into machines, out of machines, needles jabbing him, and finally, blissfully, being allowed to drift off. Periodically throughout the night, someone would wake him and shine lights in his eyes. As long as he could answer a few basic questions, they let him fall back into oblivion. When he finally woke, really woke, on Sunday, the light through the window said afternoon, and the Grandma’am and Tigris were leaning over him with worried looks. He felt a warm reassurance. I’m not alone, he thought. I’m not in the arena. I’m safe. “Hi, Coryo,” said Tigris. “It’s us.” “Hello.” He attempted a smile. “You missed bomb time.” “Turns out it’s worse than being there,” said Tigris, “knowing you were going through it all alone.” “I wasn’t alone,” he said. The morphling and the concussion made it hard to recall things clearly. “Lucy Gray was there. She saved my life, I think.” He couldn’t quite get his mind around the idea. Sweet, but unsettling, too. Tigris gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m not surprised. She’s obviously a good person. Right from the beginning, she tried to protect you from the other tributes.” The Grandma’am needed more convincing. After he’d patched together a time line of the bombing for her, she came to this conclusion: “Well, like as not she decided the Peacekeepers would gun her down if she ran, but still, it shows some character. Perhaps, as she claims, she is not really district.” High praise indeed, or as high as the Grandma’am was likely to muster. As Tigris filled him in on the details he had missed, he realized how on edge this event had made the Capitol. What had happened — at least what the Capitol News claimed had happened — frightened citizens with both its immediate fallout and its ramifications for the future. They didn’t know who had set the bombs — rebels, yes, but from where? They could’ve been from any of the twelve districts, or a ragtag bunch that had escaped from District 13, or even, fate forbid, some long-dormant cell in the Capitol itself. The time line for the crime was baffling. Since the arena stood empty, locked, and ignored between Hunger Games, the bombs could’ve been placed six days or six months before. Security cameras covered the entrances around the oval, but the crumbling exterior made scaling the structure possible. They didn’t even know if the bombs had been triggered remotely or by a false step, but the unexpected losses shook the Capitol to its core. That the two tributes from District 6 had been killed by shrapnel caused little concern, but the same explosion had taken the lives of the Ring twins. Three mentors had been hospitalized — Coriolanus, and Androcles Anderson and Gaius Breen, who’d been assigned the District 9 tributes. His two classmates were in critical condition, Gaius having lost both his legs, and almost everyone else, whether mentor, tribute, or Peacekeeper, had needed medical care of some sort. Coriolanus felt bewildered. He’d genuinely liked Pollo and Didi, how they’d doted on each other, how upbeat they’d been. Somewhere nearby, Androcles, who aspired to be a reporter at Capitol News like his mother, and Gaius, a Citadel brat with an endless supply of terrible jokes, were barely hanging on to life. “What about Lysistrata? Is she all right?” She’d been behind him. The Grandma’am looked uncomfortable. “Oh, her. She’s fine. She’s going around saying that big, ugly boy from District Twelve protected her by throwing his body over her, but who knows? The Vickers family loves the spotlight.” “Do they?” asked Coriolanus skeptically. He could not recall, not once, ever seeing a Vickers in the spotlight, except for a brief annual news conference in which they gave President Ravinstill a clean bill of health. Lysistrata was a self-contained, efficient person who never drew attention to herself. To even suggest she could be put in the same class as Arachne rubbed him the wrong way. “She only made one quick statement to a reporter right after the bombing. I expect it was the truth, Grandma’am,” said Tigris. “Perhaps the people of District Twelve are not quite so bad as you paint them. Both Jessup and Lucy Gray have behaved bravely.” “Have you seen Lucy Gray? On the television, I mean. Does she look all right?” he asked. “I don’t know, Coryo. They haven’t shown any footage of the zoo. But she’s not on the list of the dead tributes,” said Tigris. “Are there more? Than the ones from District Six?” Coriolanus didn’t want to sound morbid, but they were Lucy Gray’s competition. “Yes, some others died after the bombing,” Tigris told him. Both pairs from Districts 1 and 2 had made for the hole blown open near the entrance. The District 1 kids had been shot dead, the girl from 2 had made it to the river and leaped over the wall only to die in the fall, and Marcus had disappeared completely, leaving a desperate, dangerous, powerful boy loose somewhere in the city. A displaced manhole cover suggested that he might have climbed underground to the Transfer, the network of tracks and roadways built under the Capitol, but no one knew for sure. “I suppose they see the arena as a symbol,” said the Grandma’am. “Just as they did during the war. The worst part is that it took almost twenty seconds before they cut the transmission to the districts, so no doubt it was a cause for celebration. Beasts that they are.” “But they say hardly anyone in the districts saw it, Grandma’am,” Tigris countered. “The people there don’t like to watch the Hunger Games coverage.” “It will only take a handful to get the word out,” said the Grandma’am. “It’s just the kind of story that catches fire.” The doctor who’d talked to Coriolanus after the snake attack entered, introducing himself as Dr. Wane. He sent Tigris and the Grandma’am home and gave Coriolanus a quick checkup, explaining the nature of the concussion (fairly mild) and the burns, which were responding well to treatment. It would take some time to heal completely, but if he behaved himself and continued to improve, he’d be released in a couple of days. “Do you know how my tribute is doing? Her hands were burned rather badly,” said Coriolanus. Each time he thought of her he felt a stab of uneasiness, but then the morphling would wrap around it like cotton wool. “I wouldn’t know,” said the doctor. “But they’ve got a top-notch veterinarian over there. I expect she’ll be fine by the time they’ve got the Games up and running. But that’s not your concern, young man. Your concern is to get well, and for that, you need some sleep.” Coriolanus was happy to oblige. He slipped back into sleep and didn’t fully come to until Monday morning. With his aching head and battered body, he felt in no rush to leave the hospital. The air-conditioning eased the burns on his skin, and generous portions of bland food appeared regularly. He caught up on the news on the large-screen television while he sipped as much fizzy lemon drink as he could hold. A double funeral was to be held for the Ring twins the following day. The manhunt for Marcus continued. Both the Capitol and the districts were under heightened security. Three mentors dead, three hospitalized — really, four if you counted Clemensia. Six tributes dead, one escaped, several wounded. If Dr. Gaul wanted a makeover for the Hunger Games, she’d gotten it. In the afternoon, the parade of visitors began with Festus, sporting a sling on his arm and a few stitches where a shard of metal had sliced his cheek. He said that the Academy had canceled classes, but the students were supposed to show up the next morning for the Rings’ funeral. He choked up at the mention of the twins, and Coriolanus wondered if he would have a more emotional response himself once they removed the morphling drip, which muted both pain and joy. Satyria popped in with some bakery cookies, relayed the well-wishes of the faculty, and told him that while the incident was unfortunate, it could only improve his chances for a prize. After a bit, an uninjured Sejanus appeared with Coriolanus’s book bag from the van and a stack of his mother’s delicious meat loaf sandwiches. He had little to say on the subject of his runaway tribute. Finally, Tigris came without the Grandma’am, who’d remained home to rest but had sent a clean uniform for him to wear on discharge. If there were cameras, she wanted him to look his best. They split the sandwiches and then Tigris stroked his aching head until he dozed off, just as she had when headaches plagued him as a child. When someone awakened him in the wee hours of Tuesday, he supposed a nurse had come to check his vital signs, then started at the sight of Clemensia’s ravaged face above his. The snake venom, or the antidote perhaps, had left her golden brown skin peeling and the whites of her eyes the color of egg yolks. But much worse was the twitching that affected her entire body, causing her face to grimace, her tongue to jut periodically from her mouth, and her hands to jerk away even as they reached for his. “Shh!” she hissed. “I shouldn’t be here. Don’t tell them I came. But what are they saying? Why has no one come to see me? Do my parents know what happened? Do they think I’m dead?” Groggy from sleep and medication, Coriolanus couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what she was saying. “Your parents? But they’ve been here. I saw them.” “No. No one has seen me!” she cried. “I have to get out of here, Coryo. I’m afraid she’s going to kill me. It’s not safe. We’re not safe!” “What? Who’s going to kill you? You’re not talking sense,” he said. “Dr. Gaul, of course!” She clutched his arm, awakening his burns. “You know, you were there!” Coriolanus tried to free her fingers. “You need to go back to your room. You’re sick, Clemmie. It’s the snakebites. They’re making you imagine things.” “Did I imagine this?” She ripped back the opening of her hospital gown to reveal a patch of skin that extended over her chest and down one shoulder. Mottled with bright blue, pink, and yellow scales, it had the reptilian quality of the snakes in the tank. When he gasped, she shrieked, “And it’s spreading! It’s spreading!” Two of the hospital staff had her then, lifting her up and carrying her from the room. He lay awake the rest of the night, thinking of the snakes, and her skin, and the glass cases of Avoxes with their gruesome animal modifications in Dr. Gaul’s lab. Is that where Clemensia was headed? If not, why hadn’t her parents seen her? Why did no one except him seem to know what had happened? If Clemensia died, would he disappear as well, the only witness? Had he put Tigris at risk by telling her the story? The pleasant cocoon of the hospital now seemed an insidious trap shrinking to suffocate him. No one checked on him as the hours crept by, which added to his distress. Finally, just as dawn was breaking, Dr. Wane appeared by his bedside. “I hear Clemensia visited you last night,” he said cheerfully. “Did she give you a scare?” “A bit.” Coriolanus tried to appear nonchalant. “She’ll be all right. The venom causes a lot of unusual side effects as it works itself out of the system. That’s why we haven’t let her parents see her. They think she’s quarantined with a highly contagious flu. She’ll be presentable in a day or two,” the doctor told him. “You can go visit her if you’re up to it. Might cheer her up.” “All right,” said Coriolanus, slightly reassured. But he could not unsee what he’d seen, not at the hospital, and not at the lab. The removal of the morphling drip brought all the fuzzy edges into sharp relief. His suspicions tainted every comfort, from the large breakfast of hotcakes and bacon, to the basket of fresh fruit and sweets from the Academy, to the news that his performance of the anthem would be replayed for the Rings’ funeral, as both a mark of its quality and a nod to his own sacrifices. The pre-funeral coverage started at seven, and by nine the student body again filled the stairs in front of the Academy. Just over a week ago, he’d felt he was falling into insignificance with his District 12 girl assignment, and now he was being honored for his courage in front of the entire nation. He’d expected them to show a tape of him singing, but instead his holographic self appeared behind the podium, and while it was a little watery at first, it settled into a clean, crisp image. People were always saying he resembled his handsome father more every day, but for the first time he could really see it. Not just the eyes but the jawline, the hair, the proud carriage. And Lucy Gray was right; his voice did have real authority. Overall, the performance was quite impressive. The Capitol doubled the efforts made for Arachne’s funeral, which Coriolanus felt appropriate for the twins. More speeches, more Peacekeepers, more banners. He didn’t mind seeing the twins praised, even extravagantly, and wished they somehow could’ve known his hologram had opened the event. The dead tribute count had escalated, with the two tributes from District 9 having died from their injuries. Apparently, the veterinarian had done her best, but her repeated requests to admit them to the hospital had been refused. Their scarred bodies, along with what remained of the District 6 tributes, were draped over the backs of horses and paraded down Scholars Road. The two tributes from District 1 and the girl from District 2, as befitting their cowardly escape attempt, were dragged behind them. Then came a pair of those caged trucks Coriolanus had ridden in on his way to the zoo, one for the boys and one for the girls. He strained to see Lucy Gray but couldn’t locate her, which added to his worries. Was she lying inert on the floor, overcome by injuries and hunger? As the twins’ matching silver coffins came into focus, all he could think of was this silly game they’d made up on the playground during the war called Ring-around-the-Rings. The rest of the kids would chase down Didi and Pollo and then grab hands, forming a circle around them and trapping them. It always ended with the whole lot of them, Rings included, laughing their heads off in a heap on the ground. Oh, to be seven again, in a happy pile with his friends, with nutritional crackers waiting at his desk. After lunch, Dr. Wane said he could be released if he promised to stay calm and get bed rest, and as the charms of the hospital had diminished, he changed into his clean uniform at once. Tigris collected him and accompanied him home on the trolley, but then had to return to work. Both he and the Grandma’am spent the afternoon napping, and he awoke to a nice casserole Sejanus’s ma had sent over. At Tigris’s urging he went to bed with the sun, but sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d see the flames all around, feel the trembling of the earth, smell the choking black smoke. Lucy Gray had been nibbling around the edges of his thoughts, but now he could think of no one else. How was she? Healing and fed, or suffering and starving in that awful monkey house? While he had been lying in the air-conditioned hospital with his morphling drip, had the veterinarian attended to her hands? Had the smoke damaged that remarkable voice? In helping him, had she ruined her chances for sponsors in the arena? He felt some embarrassment when he thought of his terror under the beam, but even more so when he remembered what had followed. On Capitol TV, the coverage they’d shown of the bombing had been obscured by the smoke. But did it exist? Footage of her rescuing him and, much worse, of him clinging to her ruffled skirt as they waited for help to come? His hand fumbled in the drawer of his nightstand and found his mother’s compact. As he inhaled the rose-scented powder, his thoughts quieted a bit, but restlessness drove him from his bed. For the next few hours, he wandered the apartment, looking out at the night sky, down at the Corso, into the neighbors’ windows across the way. At some point he found himself up on the roof amid the Grandma’am’s roses and didn’t remember having climbed the stairs to the garden. The fresh night air perfumed by the flowers helped, but soon brought on a bout of shivering that made everything hurt again. Tigris found him sitting in the kitchen a few hours before dawn. She made tea and they ate the remainder of the casserole straight from the pan. The savory layers of meat, potato, and cheese consoled him, as did Tigris’s gentle reminder that the situation with Lucy Gray was not of his making. They were both, after all, still children whose lives were dictated by powers above them. Somewhat comforted, he managed to doze for a few hours before a phone call from Satyria woke him. She encouraged him to attend school that morning if he could manage. Another mentor-tribute meeting had been scheduled with the idea of working toward the interviews, which would now be on a completely voluntary basis. Later at the Academy, as he looked down from the balcony into Heavensbee Hall, the empty chairs rattled him. He knew, in his head, that eight tributes had died, that one was missing, but he’d not envisioned how that would ripple through the pattern of the twenty-four little tables, leaving a jagged, disconcerting mess. No tributes at all from Districts 1, 2, 6, or 9, and only one from 10. Most of the kids who remained were injured, and all looked unwell. As the mentors joined their assignees, the losses became even more pronounced. Six mentors were either dead or hospitalized, and those partnered with the escapees of Districts 1 and 2 had no tributes at their tables and therefore no reason to show up. Livia Cardew had been vocal about this turn of events, demanding new tributes be brought from the districts, or at least that she be given Reaper, the boy assigned to Clemensia, who everyone thought had been hospitalized with the flu. Her wishes had not been accommodated, and Reaper sat alone at his table, a bandage stained with rusty dried blood wrapped around his head. As Coriolanus took the seat opposite her, Lucy Gray didn’t even attempt a smile. A ragged cough racked her chest, and soot from the fire still clung to her clothing. The veterinarian had exceeded Coriolanus’s expectations, though, as the skin on her hands was healing nicely. “Hi,” he said, scooting a nut butter sandwich and two of Satyria’s cookies across the table. “Hey,” she said hoarsely. Any attempt at flirtation or even camaraderie had been abandoned. She patted the sandwich but seemed too tired to eat it. “Thanks.” “No, thank you for saving my life.” He said it lightly, but as he gazed into her eyes, the levity leached away. “Is that what you’re telling people?” she asked. “That I saved your life?” He had said as much to Tigris and the Grandma’am and then, perhaps unsure what to do with the information, let it drift from his thoughts like a dream. Now, with the empty seats of the fallen around them, the memory of how she’d rescued him in the arena demanded his attention, and he could not ignore its significance. If Lucy Gray had not helped him, he would be utterly, irrevocably dead. Another shiny coffin dripping flowers. Another empty chair. When he spoke again, the words caught in his throat before he forced them out. “I told my family. Really. Thank you, Lucy Gray.” “Well, I had some time on my hands,” she said, tracing the frosted flower on a cookie with a shaky forefinger. “Pretty cookies.” Then came confusion. If she had saved his life, he owed her, what? A sandwich and two cookies? That was how he was repaying her. For his life. Which apparently he held quite cheaply. The truth was, he owed her everything. He felt the blush burn over his cheeks. “You could have run. And if you had, I would have gone up in flames before they reached me.” “Run, huh? Seemed like a lot of effort to get shot,” she said. Coriolanus shook his head. “You can joke, but it won’t change what you did for me. I hope I can repay you in some way.” “I hope so, too,” she said. In those few words he sensed a shift in their dynamic. As her mentor, he’d been the gracious giver of gifts, always to be met with gratitude. Now she’d upended things by giving him a gift beyond compare. On the surface, everything looked the same. Chained girl, boy offering food, Peacekeepers guarding that status quo. But deep down, things could never be the same between them. He would always be in her debt. She had the right to demand things. “I don’t know how,” he admitted. Lucy Gray glanced around the room, taking in her wounded competitors. Then she looked him in the eye, and impatience tinged her voice. “You could start by thinking I can actually win.” Lucy Gray’s words stung but, on reflection, were well deserved. Coriolanus had never really considered her a victor in the Games. It had never been part of his strategy to make her one. He had only wished that her charm and appeal would rub off on him and make him a success. Even his encouragement to sing for sponsors was an attempt to prolong the attention she brought him. Only a moment ago, her healed hands were good news because she could use them to play the guitar on interview night, not to defend herself from an attack in the arena. The fact that she mattered to him, as he’d claimed in the zoo, only made things worse. He should’ve been trying to preserve her life, to help her become the victor, no matter the odds. “I meant what I said about you being the cake with the cream,” Lucy Gray said. “You’re the only one who even bothered to show up. You and your friend Sejanus. You two acted like we were human beings. But the only way you can really repay me now is if you help me survive this thing.” “I agree.” Stepping up made him feel a bit better. “From now on, we’re in it to win.” Lucy Gray reached out. “Shake on that?” Coriolanus gave her hand a careful shake. “You have my word.” The challenge energized him. “Step one: I think of a strategy.” “We think of a strategy,” she corrected. But she smiled and bit into the sandwich. “We think of a strategy.” He did the math again. “You’ve only got fourteen competitors left, unless they find Marcus.” “If you can keep me alive a few more days, I might just win by default,” she said. Coriolanus looked around the hall at her broken, sickly competitors, draped in chains, which encouraged him until he admitted that Lucy Gray’s condition wasn’t much better. Still, with Districts 1 and 2 out of play, Jessup watching over her, and the new sponsorship program, her odds were vastly improved from what they’d been when she’d arrived in the Capitol. Perhaps, if he could keep her fed, she could run and hide somewhere in the arena while the others fought it out or starved to death. “I have to ask one thing,” he said. “If it came to it, would you kill someone?” Lucy Gray chewed, weighing the question. “Maybe in self-defense.” “It’s the Hunger Games. It’s all self-defense,” he said. “But maybe it’s best if you run away from the other tributes, and we get you sponsors for food. Wait it out a bit.” “Yeah, that’s a better strategy for me,” she agreed. “Enduring horrible things is one of my talents.” A dry bit of bread set her to coughing. Coriolanus passed her a water bottle from his book bag. “They’re still doing the interviews, but on a voluntary basis. Are you up for it?” “Are you kidding? I’ve got a song that was made for this whiskey voice,” she said. “You find me a guitar?” “No. But I will today,” he promised. “Someone must have one I can borrow. If we can get you some sponsors, it will go a long way toward you getting that victory.” She began to talk with a bit of animation about what she might sing. They’d only been allotted ten minutes, though, and the brief meeting ended with Professor Sickle ordering the mentors back to the high biology lab. Following what had to be heightened security measures, Peacekeepers escorted them, and Dean Highbottom checked off their names as they filed to their places. The able-bodied mentors of the dead and missing tributes, including Livia and Sejanus, already sat at the lab tables, watching Dr. Gaul drop carrots into the rabbit’s cage. Coriolanus’s skin broke into a sweat at the sight of her, so close, and so crazy. “Hippity, hoppity, carrot or stick? Everyone’s dying and you’re . . .” She turned to them expectantly, and everyone but Sejanus averted their gaze. “Feeling sick,” said Sejanus. Dr. Gaul laughed. “It’s the compassionate one. Where’s your tribute, boy? Any clue?” Capitol News had continued coverage of the manhunt for Marcus, but it was less frequent now. The official word was that he was trapped down in a remote level of the Transfer, where he’d be apprehended soon. The city had relaxed, the general consensus being that he’d either died or would be captured any moment. At any rate, he seemed more bent on escaping than rising out of the Transfer to murder innocents in the Capitol. “Possibly on his way to freedom,” said Sejanus in a strained voice. “Possibly captured and under wraps. Possibly injured and hiding. Possibly dead. I’ve no idea. Do you?” Coriolanus couldn’t help admiring his pluck. Of course, Sejanus didn’t know how dangerous Dr. Gaul could be. He might end up in a cage with a pair of parakeet wings and an elephant’s trunk if he wasn’t careful. “No, don’t answer,” Sejanus spat out. “He’s either dead or about to be, when you catch him and drag him through the streets in chains.” “That’s our right,” Dr. Gaul countered. “No, it isn’t! I don’t care what you say. You’ve no right to starve people, to punish them for no reason. No right to take away their life and freedom. Those are things everyone is born with, and they’re not yours for the taking. Winning a war doesn’t give you that right. Having more weapons doesn’t give you that right. Being from the Capitol doesn’t give you that right. Nothing does. Oh, I don’t even know why I came here today.” With that, Sejanus sprang up and bolted for the door. When he tried the handle, it wouldn’t turn. He jiggled it and then confronted Dr. Gaul. “Locking us in now? It’s like our own little monkey house.” “You have not been dismissed,” said Dr. Gaul. “Sit down, boy.” “No.” Sejanus said it quietly, but it still caused several people to jump. After a pause, Dean Highbottom intervened. “It’s locked from the outside. The Peacekeepers have orders to leave us undisturbed until notified. Sit down, please.” “Or should we have them chaperone you somewhere else?” suggested Dr. Gaul. “I think your father’s offices are nearby.” Clearly, despite her insistence on calling him boy, she’d known exactly who Sejanus was all along. Sejanus burned with anger and humiliation, unwilling or unable to move. He just stood there, staring down Dr. Gaul, until the tension became unbearable. “There’s an empty seat by me.” The words came unbidden from Coriolanus’s mouth. The offer distracted Sejanus, and then he seemed to deflate. He took a deep breath, walked back down the aisle, and slid onto the stool. One hand clenched the strap on his book bag, while the other formed a fist on the table. Coriolanus wished he’d kept quiet. He noticed Dean Highbottom giving him a quizzical look and busied himself by opening his notebook and uncapping his pen. “Your emotions are running high,” Dr. Gaul told the class. “I understand. I do. But you must learn to harness and contain them. Wars are won with heads, not hearts.” “I thought the war was over,” said Livia. She seemed angry, too, but not in the same way as Sejanus. Coriolanus guessed she was just peeved about losing her strapping tribute. “Did you? Even after your experience in the arena?” asked Dr. Gaul. “I did,” interjected Lysistrata. “And if the war is over, then technically the killing should be over, shouldn’t it?” “I’m beginning to think it will never be over,” conceded Festus. “The districts will always hate us, and we’ll always hate them.” “I think you might be onto something there,” said Dr. Gaul. “Let’s consider for a moment that the war is a constant. The conflict may ebb and flow, but it will never really cease. Then what should be our goal?” “You’re saying it can’t be won?” asked Lysistrata. “Let’s say it can’t,” said Dr. Gaul. “What’s our strategy then?” Coriolanus pressed his lips together to keep from blurting out the answer. So obvious. Too obvious. But he knew Tigris was right about avoiding Dr. Gaul, even if it might bring praise. As the class chewed over the question, she paced up and down the aisle, finally coming to a stop at his table. “Mr. Snow? Any thoughts on what we should do with our endless war?” He comforted himself with the thought that she was old and no one lived forever. “Mr. Snow?” she persisted. He felt like he was the rabbit being prodded by her metal rod. “Want to take a wild guess?” “We control it,” he said quietly. “If the war’s impossible to end, then we have to control it indefinitely. Just as we do now. With the Peacekeepers occupying the districts, with strict laws, and with reminders of who’s in charge, like the Hunger Games. In any scenario, it’s preferable to have the upper hand, to be the victor rather than the defeated.” “Though, in our case, decidedly less moral,” Sejanus muttered. “It’s not immoral to defend ourselves,” Livia shot back. “And who wouldn’t rather be the victor than the defeated?” “I don’t know that I have much interest in being either,” said Lysistrata. “But that wasn’t an option,” Coriolanus reminded her, “given the question. Not if you think about it.” “Not if you think about it, eh, Casca?” said Dr. Gaul as she headed back up the aisle. “A little thought can save a lot of lives.” Dean Highbottom doodled on the list. Maybe Highbottom’s just as much a rabbit as I am, Coriolanus thought, and wondered if he was wasting his time worrying about him. “But take heart,” Dr. Gaul continued cheerfully. “Like most of life’s circumstances, war has its ups and downs. And that’s your next assignment. Write me an essay on everything attractive about war. Everything you loved about it.” Many of his classmates looked up in surprise, but not Coriolanus. The woman had set snakes on Clemensia for fun. Clearly, she relished witnessing pain and probably assumed they all did. Lysistrata frowned. “Loved about it?” “That shouldn’t take long,” said Festus. “Is it a group project?” asked Livia. “No, individual. The problem with group assignments is that one person usually does all the work,” said Dr. Gaul, giving Coriolanus a wink that made his skin crawl. “But feel free to pick your families’ brains. You might be surprised. Be as honest as you dare. Bring them to Sunday’s mentor meeting.” She pulled some more carrots out of her pocket, turned back to the rabbit, and seemed to forget about them. When they were released, Sejanus followed Coriolanus down the hall. “You have to stop rescuing me.” Coriolanus shook his head. “I can’t seem to control it. It’s like a tic.” “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.” Sejanus’s voice dropped. “That woman is evil. She should be stopped.” Coriolanus felt any attempt to dethrone Dr. Gaul would be futile, but he adopted a sympathetic manner. “You tried.” “I failed. I wish my family could just go home. Back to District Two, where we belong. Not that they’d want us,” said Sejanus. “Being Capitol is going to kill me.” “It’s a bad time, Sejanus. With the Games and the bombing. No one is at their best. Don’t do anything rash like running off.” As Coriolanus clapped him on the shoulder, he thought, I might need a favor. “Running off where? How? With what?” said Sejanus. “But I really do appreciate your support. I wish I could think of some way to thank you.” There was actually something Coriolanus needed. “You don’t happen to have a guitar I could borrow, do you?” The Plinths did not, so he devoted the rest of Wednesday afternoon to fulfilling his promise to Lucy Gray. He asked around in school, but the closest thing he got was a maybe from Vipsania Sickle, mentor of the District 7 boy, Treech, who’d juggled the walnuts in the zoo. “Oh, I think we used to have one during the war,” she told him. “Let me check and get back to you. I’d love to hear your girl sing again!” He didn’t know whether or not to believe her; the Sickles did not impress him as a musical crowd. Vipsania had inherited her aunt Agrippina’s love of competition, and for all he knew, she was trying to spoil Lucy Gray’s performance. But two could play at that game, so he told her she was a lifesaver and then continued his search. After coming up empty-handed at the Academy, he thought of Pluribus Bell. Possibly, he still had instruments lying around from his nightclub days. The minute the door in the back alley opened, Boa Bell wove between Coriolanus’s legs, purring like an engine. At seventeen, she was getting long in the tooth, and he used care as he lifted her into his arms. “Ah, she’s always happy to see an old friend,” Pluribus said, and invited Coriolanus in. The defeat of the districts had made little difference to Pluribus’s trade, as he still secured a living dealing in black market goods, even if they now had a more luxurious bent. Decent liquor, makeup, and tobacco were still hard to get hold of. District 1 had slowly turned its attention to supplying the Capitol with pleasures, but not everyone had access to them, and they came at a high price. The Snows were no longer regular customers, but Tigris made occasional visits to sell him the ration coupons that would allow them to buy meat or coffee, which they usually couldn’t afford. People were happy to pay for the privilege of buying an extra leg of lamb. Known for his discretion, Pluribus remained one of the few people Coriolanus didn’t need to pretend to be wealthy around. He knew the Snows’ situation but never blabbed about it or made the family feel inferior. Today he poured Coriolanus a glass of cold tea, filled a plate with cakes, and offered him a chair. They chatted about the bombing and how it brought up bad memories of the war, but soon their talk turned to Lucy Gray, who’d made a very favorable impression on Pluribus. “If I had a few like her, I might think of opening the club back up,” Pluribus mused. “Oh, I’d still sell my pretties, but I could stage shows on the weekends. The truth is, we were all so busy killing each other that we forgot how to have fun. She knows, though. Your girl.” Coriolanus told him the plan for the interview and asked if there might be a guitar they could borrow. “We’d take good care of it, I promise. I’d keep it at home except when she’s playing, and return it right after the show.” Pluribus needed no coaxing. “You know, I packed everything away after the bombs got Cyrus. Silly, really. As if I could forget the love of my life so easily.” He got to his feet and moved a stack of perfume crates, revealing an old closet door. Inside, lovingly arranged on shelves, was a variety of musical instruments. Pluribus pulled out a surprisingly dust-free leather case and lifted the lid. A pleasant smell of old wood and polish hit Coriolanus’s nose as he looked at the gleaming, golden thing inside. The body shaped like a woman’s, the six strings running up the long neck to the tuning pegs. He strummed it lightly with his finger. Even though it was badly out of tune, the richness of the sound went right through him. Coriolanus shook his head. “This one’s too nice. I wouldn’t want to risk damaging it.” “I trust you. And I trust your girl. Kind of like to hear what she does with it.” Pluribus closed the case and held it out. “You take it and tell her I’ve got my fingers crossed for her. It’s good to have a friend in the audience.” Coriolanus took the guitar gratefully. “Thank you, Pluribus. I hope you do reopen the club. I’ll be a steady customer.” “Just like your father,” said Pluribus with a chuckle. “When he was about your age, he used to close down this place every night with that rascal Casca Highbottom.” Every part of that sounded nonsensical. His stern father, so humorless and strict, living it up at a nightclub? And with, of all people, Dean Highbottom? He’d never heard them mentioned together, although they were about the same age. “You’re kidding, right?” “Oh, no. They were a pair of wild things,” said Pluribus. But before he could elaborate, he was interrupted by a customer. With great care, Coriolanus carried his prize home and laid it on his dresser. Tigris and the Grandma’am oohed and aahed over it, but he couldn’t wait to see Lucy Gray’s reaction. Whatever instrument she’d had back in District 12 could never compare with Pluribus’s. His head ached enough to go to bed at sundown, but it took a while to fall asleep, so preoccupied was he with the relationship between his father and “that rascal Casca Highbottom.” If they had been friends, as Pluribus had suggested, none of the goodwill remained. He couldn’t help thinking that, however close they’d been during their clubbing days, things hadn’t ended well. As soon as he could, he’d press Pluribus for more details. The next few days gave him no such opportunity, though, as they were devoted to readying Lucy Gray for the interview, which had been set for Saturday night. Each mentor-tribute pair had been assigned a classroom to work in. Two Peacekeepers were on guard, but Lucy Gray had been freed of both chains and cuffs. Tigris had provided an old dress of hers, saying that if Lucy Gray was willing to trust her, she could wash and iron her rainbow ruffles for the broadcast. Lucy Gray hesitated, but when he gave her Tigris’s other gift, a small cake of soap shaped like a flower and smelling of lavender, she had him turn his back while she changed. The loving way she handled the guitar, as if it were a sentient being, gave him a hint of a past so unlike his own he had trouble imagining it. She took her time tuning the instrument and then played song after song, seemingly as starved for the music as for the meals he brought. He pumped her with all the food they could spare, along with bottles of tea sweetened with corn syrup to soothe her throat. Her vocal cords were much improved by the time the big night arrived. The Hunger Games: A Night of Interviews kicked off in front of a live audience in the Academy auditorium while broadcasting throughout Panem. Hosted by the clownish Capitol TV weatherman, Lucretius “Lucky” Flickerman, it seemed both glaringly inappropriate and surprisingly welcome on the heels of all the killing. Lucky was dressed in a high-collared blue suit with rhinestone accents, his gelled hair was dusted in coppery powder, and his mood could only be described as merry. The back curtain of the stage, resurrected from some prewar production, depicted a starry sky and twinkled accordingly. After a jaunty rendition of the anthem played, Lucky welcomed the audience to a brand-new Hunger Games for a brand-new decade, one in which every Capitol citizen could participate by sponsoring the tribute of their choice. In the chaos of the past few days, the best Dr. Gaul’s team had been able to do was offer a half dozen basic food items the sponsors could send to the tributes. “You’re wondering, what’s in it for you?” chirped Lucky. Then he explained the gambling, a simple system with win, place, and show options familiar to those who’d played the ponies before the war. Anyone who wanted to either send a monetary gift to feed a tribute, or place a bet on one, needed only to visit their local post office, where the staff would be happy to help. Starting tomorrow, they would be open from eight in the morning until eight at night, giving people time to place their bets before the Hunger Games kicked off on Monday. After he’d introduced the new wrinkle in the Games, Lucky had little to do but read the cue cards with the material that wrapped around the interviews, but he managed to work in a few magic tricks, like pouring different-colored wine from the same bottle to toast the Capitol and having a pigeon fly out of his bell-sleeved jacket. Of the mentor-tribute pairs who were capable of participating, only half had something to present. Coriolanus asked to go last, knowing nothing could compete with Lucy Gray but wanting to be the closer for effect. The other mentors offered up background information about their tributes while trying to throw in something memorable and urging the public to sponsor them. To demonstrate his strength, Lysistrata sat primly in her chair while Jessup lifted her over his head easily. Io Jasper’s District 3 boy, Circ, said he could start a fire with his glasses, and she, with her scientific know-how, suggested various angles and times of day that would facilitate the task. Snooty Juno Phipps admitted she’d been disappointed to get tiny Bobbin. Didn’t a Phipps, a member of a founding family of the Capitol, deserve better than District 8? But he’d won her over when he told her five different ways he could kill someone with a sewing needle. Coral, Festus’s District 4 girl, made a case for her ability to handle a trident, a weapon that was typically available in the arena. She demonstrated with an old broomstick, wielding it in a sinuous fashion that left little doubt of her expertise. The dairy heiress Domitia Whimsiwick’s familiarity with cows turned out to be an asset. Bubbly by nature, she got her muscular District 10 tribute, Tanner, so engaged in talking about slaughterhouse techniques that Lucky had to cut them off when they ran over. Arachne had been wrong about the appeal of that topic, because Tanner garnered the most applause of the evening so far. Coriolanus listened with one ear as he prepared to take the stage with Lucy Gray. Felix Ravinstill, the president’s grandnephew, was trying to make an impression with the District 11 girl, Dill, but Coriolanus couldn’t figure out his angle, because she’d become so sickly even her coughs were barely audible. Tigris had worked another one of her miracles on Lucy Gray’s dress. The filth and soot had vanished, leaving fresh, starchy rows of rainbow ruffles. She’d also sent a pot of blush Fabricia had discarded with just a smidgeon left in the bottom. Scrubbed clean, with rouged cheeks and lips, her hair piled up on her head as it had been for the reaping, Lucy Gray looked, as Pluribus had said, like someone who still knew how to have fun. “I think your odds get better by the minute,” said Coriolanus, adjusting a hot pink rosebud in her hair. It matched the one on his lapel, just in case anyone needed a reminder of who Lucy Gray belonged to. “Well, you know what they say. The show’s not over until the mockingjay sings,” she said. “The mockingjay?” He laughed. “Really, I think you’re just making these things up.” “Not that one. A mockingjay’s a bona fide bird,” she assured him. “And it sings in your show?” he asked. “Not my show, sweetheart. Yours. The Capitol’s anyway,” said Lucy Gray. “I think we’re up.” With her clean dress and his neatly pressed uniform, their very appearance brought a spontaneous round of applause from the audience. He didn’t waste time asking her a lot of questions no one cared about. Instead he introduced himself and stepped back, leaving her alone in the spotlight. “Good evening,” she said. “I’m Lucy Gray Baird, of the Covey Bairds. I started writing this song back in District Twelve, before I knew what the ending would be. It’s my words set to an old tune. Where I’m from, we call it a ballad. That’s a song that tells a story. And I guess this is mine. ‘The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird.’ I hope you like it.” Coriolanus had heard her sing dozens of songs over the past few days, full of everything from the beauty of springtime to the heart-wrenching despair of losing her mama. Lullabies and toe tappers, laments and ditties. She’d solicited his opinion, weighing his responses to each song. He’d thought they’d settled on a charming thing about the wonder of falling in love, but a few bars into this ballad, he knew this was nothing she’d rehearsed. The haunting melody set the tone, and her words did the rest as she began to sing in a voice husky from smoke and sadness. When I was a babe I fell down in the holler. When I was a girl I fell into your arms. We fell on hard times and we lost our bright color. You went to the dogs and I lived by my charms. I danced for my dinner, spread kisses like honey. You stole and you gambled and I said you should. We sang for our suppers, we drank up our money. Then one day you left, saying I was no good. Well, all right, I’m bad, but then, you’re no prize either. All right, I’m bad, but then, that’s nothing new. You say you won’t love me, I won’t love you neither. Just let me remind you who I am to you. ’Cause I am the one who looks out when you’re leaping. I am the one who knows how you were brave. And I am the one who heard what you said sleeping. I’ll take that and more when I go to my grave. It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under. It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone. So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder? For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own. And I am the one who you let see you weeping. I know the soul that you struggle to save. Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping. Now what will you do when I go to my grave? You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium when she finished. Then there were a few sniffles, some coughing, and finally Pluribus’s voice shouting out “Bravo” from the back of the auditorium and the thunderous applause that followed. Coriolanus knew it had hit home, this dark, moving, far too personal account of her life. He knew the gifts would pour into the arena for her. That her success, even now, reflected back on him, making it his success. Snow lands on top and all that. He knew he should be elated at this turn of events and jumping up and down inside while presenting a modest, pleased front. But what he really felt was jealous.