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Stepping into the shade of the alley, I crouch against the brick wall, trying to glean some coolness on my heated skin. The rear workroom of the bakery is oppressively hot in the summer, especially later in the day. I’d been showing Rory and Vick Hawthorn the various recipes of breads they prep to bake each morning. I’m pulling my shirt up to mop the sweat from my face, deciding the wall is about as warm as the air, then a pair of feminine feet appear in front of my own. My eyes sweep up the legs and torso to note the mayor’s daughter looking at me, her finger tapping against her school skirt.
“Hullo Madgy, everything fine?” I say, standing. She purses her lips, probably at the use of my old nickname for her.
“Hullo Rye,” she says. “Yes, thank you. May I ask you for a favor? I’d like to ask you a question or two, and get your opinion on something.”
“Sure, walk with me back to the pig pen, I want to check to see that they have water,” I say. After determining the pigs had plenty to drink, I lead us around the shed to the spigot behind the shed. The area’s shaded by a large tree, the fence heavily lined with honeysuckle.
Removing my shirt and tossing it to the bench, I dunk my head beneath the stream pouring from the spout, the chill water countering the heat trapped beneath my skin. I splash my torso and arms not caring that my soaked hair drips water right down my back into my trousers. I drink deeply before splashing my face a second time. I glance at Madge who’s staring at me, her eyes slightly wide.
“Thirsty?” I say, indicating the spigot. She nods so I squat beside the pipe and cup my palms under the stream, fashioning Madge a sort of vessel to sip from. She lowers her head giving me a grateful glance. It’s an oddly intimate gesture I realize, but well, I’ve always had a soft spot for the younger girl, so what does it matter? She lifts her eyes, her lips wet, her cheeks deeply flushed. I procure a handkerchief from my pocket and proffers it.
“Wet it, so you can cool off your face and neck,” I say. I sprawl on the bench, stretching out my legs, letting my head fall back with eyes closed to expose more of my wet skin to the barely existent breeze. Madge sits beside me carefully. I open an eye to look at her.
“You said something about a question?” I say, ignoring the water droplets slipping beneath her collar. She’s too sweet a girl to have lewd thoughts about. She nods again.
“Well I overheard you speaking with Willy Marsh about Delly Cartwright,” she says, slowly.
“Which part?” I say.
“Well I heard the whole thing,” she says.
“Which part do you have a question about?” I say. Most people I'd just tell to mind their business, but I don't mind Madge.
“Did you mean what you said? After Willy said those things about her looks and you said looks aren’t everything and you want to marry someone for who they are and not what they look like?” she says in one breath.
“Well sure, I meant it,” I say. Marriage was something I really ever looked forward to doing and I’d be satisfied to wed someone I could at least get along with as friends. She takes a deep breath.
“Will you kiss me?” she says, completely serious. “That’s the favor.”
“Now Madgy, why would you want me to go and do something like that?” I say, trying to bury my shock. Not wanting to embarrass the girl with a flat out rejection, I hedge, but maybe I could talk her out of it.
“I’ve only ever had one kiss, and the boy didn’t seem all that eager for a second, so I wondered if I was bad at it, or if maybe he was bad at it? I couldn’t tell, so I need a second opinion,” she says, folding her hands in her lap primly.
“And why me?” I say.
“You’re a decent person, you wouldn’t try to take advantage,” she says. Ah. Well that got me. Plenty might, despite who her father is.
“And just who is this fellow that you’d be comparing me to, if I let you have your way with me?” I say. Well now she’s done it, gone and piqued my interest. She freezes at my words, though I'm not sure if she didn’t expect the question or the gentle flirting. She bites her lip, her face flushing.
“Gale Hawthorn,” she says. Oh hell. This whole conversation was a bad idea.
“Alright, I’ll kiss you Madgy, but nothing else, nothing untoward,” I say, with every intention of meaning it. She stands in front of me and leans close, her eyes sliding shut. I put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her from moving closer.
“Not next to the pig shed, Sugar,” I say. Her eyes pop open, surprised. I’m a bit startled, myself. Not once have I ever called a gal anything but her own name. Huh. Well except her, but those were pet names for a baby.
“Where then?” she says, straightening up.
“You’re here for your mother’s order?” I say, and she nods. “I’ll carry it for you, walk you home. Just give me five minutes to change.”
Beelining for the shower, I give myself two minutes to soap up, and manage to brush my teeth as I rinse off. The cold water feels terrific, cooling me better than the poor wash up out back. I sniff at my skin as I towel off. The soap is new, from the apothecary, scented with lavender and rosemary. Dressing swiftly in an old tee shirt and worn sturdy trousers leaves me with a minute to lace up my boots and haul ass back down to the garden. There’s no point in slowing down to keep the sweating to a minimum, I don’t think it ever stopped, even in the shower. It's just one of those days.
Turning the corner of the shed I stop short, flustered. I stare, panting. Madge, pretty as a picture, is perched on the swing hanging from the old tree shading the bench, swaying gently with her eyes closed, her mouth curled in a slight smile. She’s humming softly, too quiet for me to catch the tune. Damn. When did she go and grow up? Maybe a while back, and I just didn’t notice. Well now I do, and I don’t think there’s any going back.
I sigh. Why am I going along with this? I’m not easily rattled, I don’t get embarrassed, and I don’t generally do things I don’t want to do. Certainly something very male sat up to attention when she’d said Gale kissed her. However it wasn’t jealousy, or even competitiveness.
It’s almost like… stew. When dad is preparing it I could give a shit, it’s just a mess of raw meat and vegetables, it’s not a meal. But when it’s almost ready it’s suddenly all I can think about. The whole apartment thick with the scent of all the separate components melding together. And when I get that first too hot spoonful it’s the best thing I’ve ever had, and I feel like I’d be happy eating it every day for the rest of my life.
I blink. Madge is not stew. She’s Madgy. Short for Madgepie, something I called her when she was real small. She’d pretend she hated it, but gave me a death glare if I ever used her proper name. She’s just a girl, granted the best girl in the district, but only fifteen.
Once more, why am I going along with this?
“Alright, ready?” I say, after taking a quiet breath.
As we walk she inquires after the family and I tell her about all the new adjustments, leaving out my new hunting duties. What it’s like abruptly having two sisters, learning about herbs, instructing the new help in the bakery. I add in funny stories, like the time Vick poured the flour into the industrial mixer too quickly and coated us all in the stuff, how Katniss of all people laughed the loudest. Or when I broke a bottle of some kind of smelly oil and couldn’t get the smell off my hands for a week. Madge was smiling, even grinning, but nothing I said got her laughing.
At the garden door of the mayor’s mansion we pause, and I realize what I want most in the wide world is to hear her laugh. Specifically, I want her to laugh for me, at something clever I’ve told her. If I kiss her here at the threshold now, I might not get that chance. No, I can’t kiss her yet.
“Come in for some lemonade?” she says, and I’ve never felt thirstier.
“Can’t, I have to get back and check that the boys are cleaning up the workroom properly,” I say, handing over the basket with their goods and stepping back. She frowns suspiciously at me, then shoots a look over her shoulder into the kitchen.
“My kiss?” says Madge, like she’s demanding payment for something she’s sold me.
“Now Madgy, do you really expect me to do such a thing without us even stepping out together once?” I say. “I’ll be at the square tomorrow evening, if you’d like to ask me to dance.” Despite her cheeks flushing prettily, Madge gives me a cool stare. I ignore the urge to squirm and paste on my most innocent expression.
“I’ll go,” she says imperiously, and even though she’s quite a bit shorter it feels as if she’s looking down her nose at me. Most girls sway their hips and flirt and aflutter their lashes, so this queenly act is awfully appealing. Some might take it as stuck up, but she’s above all that, she doesn’t treat anyone as lowly just because her father is who he is. She's as sweet and wholesome as an apple, and any good apple is just a touch tart.
“You really should escort me from the bakery, seeing as you’re asking me to court, but I’m a gentleman, so I’ll come fetch you at seven,” I say. Her mouth opens to say something, but I jog away with a wave before she has a chance to argue. Sure, asking for a kiss isn’t the same as asking to court, but she certainly should expect some teasing from me. Can’t disappoint her.
Gale’s with the boys helping them when I get back. He greets me tersely without even glancing my way, not even a glare. He doesn’t leave when the boys scamper back to their apartment, he just stands there scowling, his arms crossed over his chest.
I hop up on the work table we just cleaned. I’d have to clean it again in the morning anyways, you never know what creeps around at night.
“What’s eating you?” I say, my legs swinging like a kid.
“You think there’s something going on between Katniss and Peeta?” he says. Oh. That. Guess he finally noticed.
“No,” I say, not even a little guilty for lying. “You jealous she’s hunting with someone else?” He frowns at me, his neck going ruddy.
“She’s my hunting partner, and my best-friend, ‘course I’m pissed,” he says, growling.
“Is that all she is to you?” I say. The protective feeling that swelled in me that evening she disappeared hasn’t left. I don’t care how long they’ve been friends, I won’t stand for any possessive shit, even Peeta, if it ever occurred to him that she could somehow be his.
“No!” he says, too quickly. Then his shoulders sag. “I don’t know, I never thought of her more than a kid sister, never gave a thought till I saw how she was acting with Peeta last week.”
“It’s been just the two of you for years,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll just take some time. And feeling resentful that someone that used to give you most of their time is now sharing it amongst others doesn’t mean you like her in a new way.” Just means you’re greedy.
“Maybe…” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Anyway, if you’re looking for a gal, come to the square tomorrow night after supper,” I say. “Any girl wearing a skirt is open to courting.” He looks at me, confused.
“It’s an easy way to tell if a girl is off the marriage market,” I say. “If she’s wearing slacks that implies that she isn’t allowed to court. She's bonded or her parents are negotiating a contract, or she’s not open to it. Wearing a skirt tells you that you can at least ask her to dance.”
“But I’ve asked girls in trousers to dance before, no one’s said anything,” he says, bewildered. “Delly even danced with me the last time I went.”
“Delly’s a sweet kid, she probably didn’t want to make you feel bad,” I say. “And now that you’re living in town don’t be surprised if some mothers and fathers start looking your way for a match, so might want to be cautious which girl you approach.”
“No merchy paw is going to want me for their daughter,” he says, scoffing, though that doesn’t hide the mildly alarmed expression.
“You’re good looking, and a hard worker,” I say.
“You’re not even bonded,” he says, skeptical.
“Yeah, because I’m known as a fuck up and a jack ass,” I say, my mood souring.
“I mean yeah you’re a jack ass, but you work plenty hard,” he says. I cross my arms over my chest.
“Look, I used to skip out on work a lot, before my mom died,” I say, staring at the floor. “Go drinking at the slag heap every night. Peacekeepers dragging me home.”
“So you didn’t get along with your ma?” He says carefully. My mother’s temper was probably one of the worst kept secrets in town.
“Naw, I was always goofing off, to keep her focus off Peet,” I say. “Got to the point that it just kinda became who I am, I guess. Anyway, no one really wants that for their daughter, and surely not for their business.”
“What about Delly’s parents?” he says. I shrug.
“Old family friends, they probably know me better than most folks,” I say. “Plus, they need the help, Delly’s younger brother is only five.”
“Have you started talking to her yet?” says Gale.
“No, there’s another gal that’s sparked my interest,” I say. “Probably nothing will come of it.”
He gives me a knowing look, and I roll my eyes. “I don’t take girls to the slag heap, I only mess with the ones there, looking for that kind of fun.”
“What if she wants you to take her there?” he says. Oh hell, I hope not.
“Well I guess I’d have to take her somewhere else,” I say, frowning. “Cause I’d never take her there.” She’d told me she wants to kiss me because I’m a decent fellow, but maybe what she’s really gunning for is the rascal everyone thinks I am. No, no. She might know my reputation, but she only asked me for a kiss after deciding I was decent.
Never in my life have I cared about what I wore, yet here I stand, an hour before I need to retrieve Madge, in front of my closet looking at everything hanging there with distaste. I only have one nice set of clothes. Mom bought them to wear to Reapings, so I won’t wear those. I normally wear ratty old tee shirts to the square, but I find I want to look nice. It’s a strange sensation, caring.
Feeling foolish I resign myself to a short sleeved button up, but it’s blue so it’ll at least look nice with my eyes. I’m just belting my trousers and looking myself over in the mirror as Peeta passes by the open door. Then he walks right in, looking me up and down like he does.
“Stop it,” I say, knowing the wheels are turning in his perceptive head. He smirks but doesn’t say a word. He scoots out, probably to go blab to Katniss whatever he thinks he saw.
There’s a bundle of flowers from the garden on my desk I’d picked for Madge, but they somehow seem wrong. Any fellow can bring a girl flowers. Beside the bouquet is a novel I finished last week. It was quite good, so I grab that instead, along with a wee strawberry tart in a small box tied with string. Whenever the bakery has anything with strawberries she goes wild.
After cleaning my teeth I head out, the book under my arm and the box dangling by its string from my fingers, whistling a merry tune. Now why was I nervous before? We’re just going to the square to dance.
Before I have to debate whether I go to the front door or the rear, one of the maids appears, seemingly out of thin air. She hustles me through the gate used for deliveries to the garden door and right into the kitchen. The air is artificially chilled in their house and my skin prickles as soon as I’m over the threshold. She shoos me to the kitchen table and brings me a tall glass of lemonade with ice. I’ve only had it one other time, years ago at someone’s birthday party. Lemons are too expensive to waste on drinking for most people.
Madge comes in a moment later, and I nearly drop the glass, slick with condensation. She’s wearing makeup, but not much as far as I can tell. Something darkens her lashes, and there's a little color on her cheeks and lips, enhancing her natural beauty. Her honey gold hair is swept up in a tail on her head, tied with a blue ribbon. She’s wearing a crisp white sleeveless blouse, the scalloped hem just covering her middle. To my relief, selfishly, she’s wearing slim pale blue slacks that display her ankles with matching blue slippers.
“Hullo Madgepie,” I say, trying not to wince when the pet name slips out. “I’ve brought you a book. You’d be doing me a favor if you read it, I’d like to know what you think after.” The book was the right move, her mouth curls with excitment as she picks it up to look it over.
“What’s it about?” says Madge, hugging it to her chest.
“It’s an adventure tale, with fantastical creatures,” I say.
“And what’s in the box?” she says, reaching for it. I slide it away.
“It’s a snack for later, when you’re reading my book,” I say, standing and emptying my glass while she sets the book beside the box.
The walk to the merchant quarter of the district seems to drag on, me chattering away and her silently walking beside me. I’m pretty sure she’s not listening to me anyways, since she nods every few minutes, like I’m somehow making sense, when I’m not even following along.
I peer sidelong at her; she’s fidgeting with the hem of her blouse.
“Madgy?” I say.
“Mmm?” she says.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re just as pretty as a peach?” I say. Her eyes flick to me and then forward again.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, her lips tightening. A light flush colors her cheeks.
“Well, that’s a dirty shame,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets for want of doing something with them. “‘Cause you’re about the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you kindly,” she says, her blush deepening.
In the sea of young people I spy Peeta with Katniss standing at the front of the circle that surrounds the dancing area, and push through the press of bodies, Madge right behind me. When we reach them Katniss looks me up and down like she’s going to gut me without offering me the mercy of killing me first. She grabs Madge’s hand and pulls her away somewhere. Peeta smirks at me.
“Having fun with our sister?” I say, and the smirk drops.
“I don’t know how you got Madge to come out with you, but you’d better not lead her on just for some fun,” he says. Well that’s not fair, I’ve never led anyone on. It’s sure not my fault girls at the slag heap had, on occasion, got the wrong idea and approached me at school like we were something more than a bit necking and groping in the dark. You just don’t go to the slag heap to meet someone to court.
Before I can respond Gale appears on my other side smiling, assessing all the girls clustered around in packs.
“Make sure you only ask the girls in skirts or dresses to dance,” Peeta says, leaning around me. Gale rolls his eyes.
“Merchants are so odd,” Gale says, rubbing the back of his neck. The band starts to warm up, tuning their instruments. Kids start to flow inside the ring to take their places for the reel before it starts. Madge, with Katniss following, heads our way after a few songs, skirting around the dance floor.
“Well, look who we have here,” says Gale, rubbing his hands together, eyeing Madge up and down with a smirk I don’t care for. “Looks like someone-“ I elbow him hard in the ribs, halting whatever boastful words I was about to hear.
“Don’t be rude,” I say. Gale lowers his eyebrows but doesn’t continue. Madge’s eyes glide right past him as she stops in front of me.
“Dance with me,” she says, tugging me towards the other couples, and my world… narrows.
I can’t tell which dances she likes best. She smiles, delighted, spinning and clapping through the swift picking melodies played by the full band. We catch our breaths during the sweet slow songs, when I get to tuck her against my chest and sway us around the square to the wistful warble of the fiddlers. I can’t say how many dances we share, but eventually I have to beg off to fetch us a drink. When our cups are empty she goes to her tip toes to tell me in my ear that her feet hurt and let’s leave.
“Want me to carry you back?” I say.
“Can you lift me?” says Madge, hesitating. I laugh.
“Baby Peet can lift a little gal like you, and I’m probably twice as strong as him,” I say. She steps out of her shoes and picks them up.
“Alright, you may carry me home,” she says in a way that makes it sound like she’s doing me the favor. In training during wrestling season we run for miles with teammates of our own weight pig-a-back. I could probably sprint her home, talking the whole time, and not lose breath.
I scoop her up too quickly; she lets out a girlish squeal and throws her arms about my neck.
“You’re awfully cute,” I say, grinning at her fondly. She smiles back, a dimple appearing on her cheek.
As I walk I whistle a jaunty tune that has some very rude lyrics. Madge must recognize the song because she abruptly throws her head back and cackles. I feel like the cat that got the cream and have a rough time forcing my mouth to stop smiling so I can keep the song going. I wonder how many more times I can get a reaction like that before I kiss her and she sends me on my way. Well, not if I can help it. I’ll stretch this out for the rest of our lives, if she’ll let me. I blink. Well that’s quite a thought, where did that come from?
There’s tea and a chessboard laid out on the kitchen table when Madge opens the garden door.
“Do you play?” she says, gesturing at the game.
“I do,” I say. “But I can’t tonight, I’m working early tomorrow morning. Sunday’s my day off, if you’d like me to come back and play with you.”
“Alright, come at one,” she says, coolly. “I suppose you’re too tired for any more socializing this evening.” A slow smile spreads across my face as I lean against the door jam with my shoulder.
“That’s one of the things I like about you, quick on the mark,” I say. And she is, she is so damn smart. She’s quiet, so she maybe comes off as shy, but really her mind is working all the time. Some might say she’s stuck up, but she just doesn’t waste words.
“Don’t you have a book to read and a snack to eat?” I say. She brightens.
“What did you bring me?” she says, glancing around the kitchen for the box.
“A strawberry tart,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and taking a step backward into the garden.
“I haven’t seen those at the bakery,” she says, now looking with more enthusiasm.
“You wouldn’t have, I made this one just for you,” I say. She turns from the top of a ladder where she’d been peering into a high cabinet.
“For me?” she says, her expression unreadable.
“Of course,” I say, retreating further. I “See you Sunday!” I step away into the dark before she can call me back, again whistling that bawdy tune.
My feet stop at the gate. I have no idea what I’m doing, no experience with this kind of thing, but I do know that demanding a kiss, in a businesslike way, does not typically lead to romance. Besides satiating my most base needs, I don’t know how to figure out what I want. Going by raw instinct, though, I sense that I can’t just kiss her and then wipe my hands of this. But I also can’t lead her along with the promise of something I’ll do in the future. Just seems dishonest. Cowardly, really. And she deserves better.
The door’s still open when I poke my head into the kitchen, some vague idea that I’d offer to help look for the pastry box. Madge is at the table, feet propped up on the chair beside her, crossed at the ankle, her hair now loose and spilling over her shoulders. The book’s open, she’s already absorbed. I’m about to withdraw, when she looks up from the book to nibble at the partially eaten tart, holding it delicately between her forefinger and thumb.
The sound she makes when it passes her lips is something more than a sigh and less than a moan. Heat floods my face. I didn’t even know I still possessed the capability to blush. Her eyes dart to mine. She places the treat back in the box gently and then looks at me expectantly. I grasp at something, anything, to say, my excuses for returning having evaporated.
“Is- do you- is it good?” I say, tripping over my words, then swallowing. Madge closes the book, lays it down, and stands, her own cheeks turning a pretty pink. She steps around the table, walking towards me slowly, pausing a few paces from the threshold.
“It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted,” she says with a shy smile. “Thank you.” She wraps her fingers around my wrist and tugs me through the door. “I’ll walk you out.”
We meander along the garden path, our hands grazing periodically and I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of another person’s movements. Once we reach the gate we turn towards each other and stare at the other for a moment.
Her face, illuminated by moonlight, tilts up, her eyes locked on mine. I can’t help but admire her long graceful neck, her delicate collarbone, the creamy hollow of her throat, the sweet dent of her cupid's bow. My heart gallops as I tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear, my fingertips skimming over the shell. I clasp one of her hands, my thumb stroking across her knuckles. She shivers, and sucks in the swell of her lower lip.
“You promised me a kiss, Rye Mellark," she says quietly, her eyes darting away. Well who am I to make a girl ask twice? That’s plain rude.
Her breath hitches when I dip lower to brush my lips against hers. My fingers slip into her silky hair, angling her head slightly. Her hands move to my chest, one gripping my shirt, the other sliding up to the nape of my neck to pull us even closer.
I pull back a little and Madge blinks dazedly up at me. That was probably the most chaste kiss I’ve ever had, and I’m blushing like a maiden with the sudden sure knowledge of what I want to do with her.
“Well?” I say, twisting inside while she passes judgement on me, and the kiss. She considers, biting her lip, brows drawn. Finally she sighs.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t had enough kisses to compare properly,” she says, disappointed. My stomach drops, and I scramble for words that will let me flee before I do something that might embarrass her, like beg on my knees for another chance.
“So you’ll come back on Sunday?” she says, finally smiling. Oh. Ohh! She’s too good at teasing.
“At one,” I say grinning, reaching for the gate latch.
I whistle while I walk home, my hands in my pockets, still shocked that I have such surety about something I actively did not want before.
If I’m going to marry anyone, I want it to be Madge.