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The Mayor’s house is a picture. A white house with yellow shutters, surrounded with acres of green grass, and all wrapped in a white-picket fence. One of those advertisements the Capitol goons must play to lure some unsuspecting moron to District 12. There’s even music from someone playing the piano to complete the idyllic scene. It's a soft, cheerful tune, completely out of touch with the rest of District 12. Then again, Bloody Mary and her groove don't really have to worry about Reaping Day like everyone else in the District.
Standing next to Nora, Alex snorts and shakes his head. "Unbelievable." Still shaking his head, he says the same words he says every week: "Let's get this over with."
The piano cuts off when Nora knocks and a moment later the Mayor's youngest grandson, Henry, opens the door. Of all the Mountchristen-Windsor's, Henry is Nora's favourite. Being originally from the Capitol and the Mayor's grandson, you would expect him to be as insufferable as his eldest brother, but he's not. He doesn't talk much — perhaps to draw less attention to his Capitol accent, Nora thinks — but when he does, he's soft-spoken, his words barely above a whisper. It hides his amazing, cutting sarcasm. That he directs that wit to the worst bullies is what endears him the most to Nora. Plus, he pays double or triple the price for berries, and he never haggles.
Today, his usual gray school outfit is replaced with a white shirt -- complete with silk embroidery and gold buttons -- and his mop of thick, tawny hair is combed neatly and gelled. Ready to attend a Reaping ceremony.
"Nora," he says, looking surprised. "Alex. I wasn't expecting you both today."
"Not all of us can afford a day off from work, your Majesty," Alex says, holding up his basket of berries. "Even if it's Reaping Day."
Henry looks at a loss for what to say. "Quite."
"Were you just playing the piano?" Nora asks, just to change the subject. She's only heard him play a handful of times, in New Year ceremonies and school plays. It always fascinated her how calm he looked when playing, his fingers dancing across the keys with ease. It's the same way she looks when she has a bow in her hand.
Henry nods. "It calms my mother. And Bea. They need it today."
Nora has to step on Alex's foot to silence whatever he is about to say.
It is no secret that ever since the family moved to District 12 that both Henry's mother and his sister have been bed-ridden and in constant need of morphling. His sister, a year older than them in school, has been homeschooled almost the whole time and the handful of times Nora has seen Beatrice Mountchristen-Windsor she's looked frail, barely able to stand straight, even with Henry standing next to her, propping her up.
Alex eyes Henry's crisp white shirt with its intricate silk embroidery and clicks his tongue. "Nice shirt." It's a concession to whatever it was he didn't say about Henry having to calm down two people who had no reason to be nervous at all about Reaping Day. Unlike the rest of them.
Henry looks briefly surprised before he gives Alex a tight smile and runs a hand down the front of his shirt. "Well,” he says, “I figured if I'm going to the Capitol, I should at least try to look presentable."
Alex rolls his eyes with a scoff. "You won't be going to the Capitol." His eyes fix on Henry's pinky finger where his signet ring rests. Gold. Intricate. Could probably feed half the Seam for months. "What do you have? Six entries? I had nine when I was just twelve years old."
The two boys glare at each other — or as much as Henry could glare at anyone — neither of them saying anything, until Nora cuts in: "That's not Henry's fault."
Alex finally looks away. "No," he says, "It's no one's fault. Just the way it is, I guess."
Henry shifts on his feet. “Right. Well." He sticks out his hand stiffly, dropping the money for the berries in Nora's hand. "Here you go. Good luck.” He looks at Alex meaningfully. "Both of you."
"Thanks, your Majesty," Alex says, turning away with a roll of his eyes. Henry, with a roll of his own eyes, shuts the door.
"You didn't have to talk to him like that," Nora says to Alex, later.
He scoffs. "That Capitol princess can wipe his tears with Bloody Mary's money."
*****
Shaan Shrivastava crosses the podium, throwing back his red cape with flourish. He unfurls the slip of paper with the first tribute's name and smooths it, then smooths it again, and a third time, either unaware or uncaring of the crowd vibrating in anticipation in favour of good television. Behind him on the podium, Zahra Bankston, the last tribute from District 12 to ever win the Hunger Games, sways drunkenly on her spot and yells: "Get on with it!"
Shaan stiffens. He turns and fixes her with a bright smile that looks almost maniac under the layers of Capitol makeup. "If you don't mind keeping it down." He turns back to the crowd, clears his throat and reads out the name.
In the end, Alex was right. It's not Henry.
"Beatrice Mountchristen-Windsor!"
*****
The crowd parts with a murmur. Beatrice Mountchristen-Windsor? They seem to all whisper. The Mayor's granddaughter? She only had seven slips.
From within the crowd, a small, pale figure emerges, walking limply towards the stage. She'd been supported by Henry on their way to the ceremony, but she has to make this walk on her own and even from where she is in the crowd, Nora can tell she is shaking, her steps small and uncertain.
"She's dead," Alex says.
The worst thing a tribute can do is show weakness when they are called. When they televise this tonight across Panem, everyone is going to know that she's easy pickings. She'll be lucky if she makes it through the first hour of the Games.
Everyone else must understand this as well, because there is an echo in the crowd of quiet murmurs like: "so young", and "she was actually really nice" and "my sister used to know her". As though she was already dead.
Then a voice rings out, clear and strong: "I volunteer! I volunteer!"
*****
In the frozen silence that follows, the heavy sound of footfalls ripples through the crowds and Henry Mountchristen-Windsor pushes past the guards, pulling his sister behind him. He glares up at Shaan. "I volunteer as tribute!"
Shaan stares down at him, looking for the first time, at a loss. There is no protocol for volunteers in District 12, because they never had any. "Right." He looks behind him at his unhelpful crew, who simply shrug back at him. "Right. Well, I—I think the correct protocol is —"
"Who gives a shit about protocol," Zahra snaps, her words less slurred. "Let the kid up here."
"Right," Shaan says again. A beat passes and he turns back to Henry and grins his insipid Capitol smile. "Well, I suppose you best come up here then, lovely."
There's a scrimmage though, because Beatrice latches onto Henry and refuses to let him go. "No, Henry, no!"
"Bea, let go," Henry says, "let go. Go to Phil, Bea."
"Henry, you can't do this," Bea says, pushing off the guards with a strength that makes Nora think they might have been wrong for doubting her. "You can't!"
But Henry remains steadfast, he keeps his voice cold and his spine straight. "Bea, go to, Phil."
It's only when Phil himself comes up to them and pulls his sister that she releases her grip on Henry. Phil tucks her into his side, and the two brothers exchange a nod over their sister's sobbing body before Phil guides her away and Henry turns back to the stage. He's pale, and his eyes are red-rimmed, but when he walks on stage, his shoulders are squared, his back straight. At over six-foot, with strong shoulders, he at least looks the part of someone who could stand a chance.
"That's good," Nora says, nodding. "He's doing good."
*****
The second tribute:
When Alex's name is called, it's almost anti-climactic.