Archive of Our Own

A scream tears from her throat, raw and loud. Maysilee shoots up in her bed, tears trickling down her cheeks, chest heaving for air that her lungs refuse. Her eyes dart around, the tears blurring her vision, the edges curling like old corners of pages. She's not in her bedroom at home. Another strangled gasp escapes her, her heart feels like it's going to explode in her chest.

Maybe this is how I die, she thinks. By a broken heart.

She can still see Panache's blade swishing in the air, arcing downward, can hear the thud of her first ally, who's become family to her, falling to the ground, can taste the saccharine perfume emanating from the riot of bright colorful flowers that surrounded the arena, can smell the metallic tang of blood flooding her nostrils, can feel his blood coating her hands as she tried to keep him alive. Still remembers the slight widening of his eyes and the way his hand twitched one last time before he stopped breathing.

Another sob escapes her as she curls up in the bed, pressing her palms against her ears. Maysilee tries to calm herself down— it doesn't work as well as she'd like. Her mind wrenches itself from the last remaining vestiges of the nightmare and slowly she drops her hands.

One more look around the room reminds her where she is. The bedroom on the train, taking her undoubtedly to the first stop on the Victory Tour. Her pulse still pounds against her skin like it's trying to escape. The room feels too small, too tacky, too Capitol. Maysilee pushes herself up and nearly falls out of bed, the sheets entangling her legs until she kicks herself free. It reminds her of kicking Silka off before running to the edge of the cliff and… Maysilee shakes her head, ridding herself of the thought. The last thing she needs is another nightmare creeping into her mind.

She stumbles to the door, opening it and entering the hallway. Sconces of golden light flood the area, but it doesn't provide any warmth. The light is still harsh, the area still cold. Maysilee pads down the hallway. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering in the thin cotton nightgown she put on. The vents hiss as the furnace kicks in, but Maysilee still feels numb.

Her eyes glance out the compartment's windows. Snow falls from the sky as she and her team— mentors Mags and Wiress, escort Drusilla, prep team, and stylist Magno Stift— head toward District 11. She can't even remember the interview she gave outside the Victor's Village house. Just repeated what Mags and Wiress had helped her with, ignoring Drusilla's occasional jabs about the contempt leaking into her words.

Now, here she is, lonely and miserable, hundreds of miles away from the only people she feels safe with: her Papa and her sister. She remembers the way their arms curled around her frame when she returned home with the coffins of her district mates. The way she still didn't fully relax even though she knew it was over. Because she still had to remember that while she survived, four others didn't. She repeated their names every night: Louella McCoy, Haymitch Abernathy, Lou Lou, Wyatt Callow. She'd repeat Wyatt's constantly, his face and name a constant that plagued her mind whenever she let her mind quiet.

The door hisses in front of her as she steps into another compartment. The dining one. Her eyes immediately look for a weapon, a butter knife or fork she could use. But none of it matters because there aren't any. They must take it and lock it away just as a precaution.

Maysilee snorts as she heads to the next compartment. This one is near the back of the train, a little balcony on the outside through a door. At first she sits on one of the plush sofas, but everything in the room reminds her of the Capitol— the massive television mounted on the wall, the gaudy armchairs and sofa, the distinct sickly scent of lemon cleaner. For a second, she hears a familiar sound. The sound his scrip coin would make when he'd pop it out of his necklace. But when she looks around, he's not there and she soon realizes it's just the train. She gets up and steps outside onto the balcony.

The wind nips at her skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh along the bare skin of her arms. Her hair whips around her face. Fat, thick snowflakes fall from the sky in blankets. It'd be a pretty sight, but all it reminds her of is the president. She tilts her head upwards, closes her eyes. Lets the snow melt against her skin and slowly numb everything. Maysilee opens her eyes and stares at the night sky.

Louella McCoy. Haymitch Abernathy. Lou Lou. Wyatt Callow. Louella McCoy. Haymitch Abernathy. Lou Lou. Wyatt Callow.

Wyatt Callow. Wyatt Callow. She mentally repeats over and over again, too afraid to say their names aloud. Too scared that it'll make it permanent. That they'll never come back again.

A lump forms in her throat. Heat burns against the backs of her eyes. She bats her eyes violently trying to hold them back, but the dam breaks when she repeats Wyatt's name in her head again. Tears race down her cheeks, carving paths into her frozen skin like rivers through a canyon. She wipes them away.

The door opens behind her. A familiar voice speaks.

"Maysilee, it's cold, why don't you come in?" Mags suggests, her voice soft. She doesn't approach.

"I'm fine," Maysilee replies. She doesn't turn to look at her mentor. "I'll be in, in a bit."

"Maysilee. You'll freeze," murmurs Mags. "I know you don't want to do this, but it'll keep your family safe."

Maysilee drops her head. A tremor runs through her body as she turns to face Mags.

"How do you live with yourself?" Maysilee asks quietly. "How do you find it in yourself to keep surviving after being in the Games?"

"It's hard," Mags answers, stepping closer. "But you have your family to support you, Wiress and I will be here every step of the way. And you have to live for the ones who didn't. I haven't known you for long, Maysilee, but I believe you're much tougher than you think you are."

A tear slips down Maysilee's cheek. Mags reaches out and brushes it away. The gesture reminds Maysilee of her late grandmother.

"Come on," Mags says. She wraps an arm around Maysilee and guides her back inside.

It's silent as they return to Maysilee's room. Mags helps Maysilee into the bed and sits at the edge.

"I'm here if you ever want to talk," she states. "Wiress as well."

Maysilee nods before turning onto her side. Mags sighs before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind her. Only then does Maysilee relax. She knows Mags has her best interests at heart, but she can't help but resent the fact that she has to do this at all.

She doesn't fall asleep at all. She's too afraid the silence will bring back the ghosts she's spent the past five months trying to hide from.

Her prep team gasps when they see her the next morning. Maysilee ignores the dramatic expressions on their faces. She sits on the edge of her bed and a glimpse at the mirror on the vanity makes her avert her eyes. Bloodshot eyes, tangled hair, pale skin, hollowed cheekbones.

"Ooh!" Magno says when he sweeps into the room. "You look awful."

"You would too if you had to watch people you care about die," Maysilee snaps. She glares at him. "Actually, maybe next year, they should send some Cap—"

"Maysilee," Mags interrupts softly, giving Maysilee a warning look. "Let's just get ready. District 11 is waiting for you."

Maysilee stares at her, venomous words rising in her throat but she holds back. She knows Mags is trying to protect her, but it still raises her hackles. Maysilee remains silent as the prep team ushers her into the bathroom.

"I can bathe myself," Maysilee snaps as soon as Cassia starts the shower. "I'm not helpless."

Cassia studies her for a second before nodding. "Let us know when you're done." Then she grabs her prep partner, Quintus, and shoves him out before closing the door behind them.

Maysilee waits for it to heat. She lets the steam rise, fogging up the entire room. She stares at the mirror, watching the mist creep across it slowly. Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes catch sight of a silhouette. She spins around, but no one's there. But she knows he was and does one last look around before stepping into the shower. The stream of water cascades over her body. It burns but she savors the feeling. She stays in the shower as long as possible until Cassia knocks on the door.

"Maysilee, are you almost done?" Her voice is barely audible over the sound of water splattering on the white tile.

She doesn't respond. Maysilee closes her head and rests her forehead against the walls, the familiar tingling in her mind creeping around the edges. Her heart starts to pound faster, her breathing increases. The sound of a blade slicing through the air ricochets around her and Maysilee winces. The water dripping on the floor reminds her of Wyatt's blood dripping off Panache's sword. A strangled gasp claws itself out from the depths of her throat. The memory starts to pull her in. But an annoying voice cuts through the memory.

"Shrew! Finish up! You're gonna make us late!" Drusilla shrieks, pounding on the door. "If you're not out of there in a minute, I'll send the Peacekeepers in!"

Maysilee's eyes fling open and she turns off the shower. She grabs a towel and wraps it around her body before yanking the door open.

"I'm right here, you hag," Maysilee hisses.

Cassia appears at Drusilla's side and gently leads Maysilee back inside for some maintenance. Maysilee stands there as Cassia tweezes her eyebrows and waxes her legs and armpits. She can't help but feel like an object, like a porcelain doll getting a makeover.

"Just one more," Cassia whispers as she plucks another hair from Maysilee's eyebrows. "There. What do you think?"

Maysilee stares at the mirror. She can't see much of a difference. So, she just shrugs. Cassia gives her a small smile.

"I'm sorry you've lost your friends," Cassia says.

Instinctively, Maysilee stiffens. She lifts her chin, clenching her jaw, her face hardening into a stone mask. Her nails dig into her palms so hard she knows they'll leave crescent shaped imprints. She won't talk about this with a Capitolite, regardless of the fact Cassia's been nothing but nice to her.

"Let's head out," mutters Cassia after Maysilee doesn't respond. "Magno will dress you and then Quintus and I will finish up your hair and makeup."

Cassia opens the door and leads Maysilee over to the closet area. Magno stands there, glancing between two outfits so insidious looking Maysilee blanches.

"I'm not wearing that," Maysilee protests immediately. She looks at Mags and Wiress. "I'll look ugly and stupid out there."

"If you hadn't—" Drusilla starts.

"No, me showering is not the problem," Maysilee interrupts, panic rising in her chest. "Your husband just can't dress people. How the hell are you a stylist?" — here she turns to Magno, voice cracking embarrassingly— "Are you blackmailing the president? Or the head Gamemaker? I want to see your credentials!"

Wiress steps in. "Maysilee, please calm down, okay? We can search for some new outfits."

Mags wraps an arm around Maysilee as Magno rolls his eyes before sorting through the clothing. Finally, they settle on a plain gray dress with cream flowers embroidered along the hem. It's simple, shapeless, and nothing like the garish Capitol monstrosities she's been subjected to seeing. Maysilee stares at it as Quintus zips the back, the fabric stiff against her ribs. It feels more like a shroud than an outfit.

Magno appears with a grin, holding something in his hands. He wraps a sapphire blue scarf around her throat.

"So we can hide those nasty scars," he says.

Maysilee stares at him and her hand twitches. She imagines throttling him to death. But before she can make do on her idea, Cassia gently moves her to the vanity where Quintus works on her hair and Cassia does her makeup.

She truly feels like a doll as Cassia paints her lips with muted red lipstick and Quintus brushes through her hair. It reminds her of the interviews and she closes her eyes. All she sees is Wyatt standing there looking dashing in his velvet suit and the dimples on his face when he smiled at her. Her pulse quickens and she flings her eyes open.

Quintus starts up the blow dryer and Maysilee bites her tongue as he tugs at her hair with the brush.

"Fuck," she complains. "Any harder and I won't have any hair left!"

He ignores her and she swears he yanks at the tangles even harder. The blow dryer roars in her ears and for a split second she hears Wyatt's voice under the noise— soft, sweet, telling her he'd bet on her to win. She jerks but when she looks up, it's only Quintus adjusting the angle of the blow dryer.

"Almost done," Cassia murmurs, unaware of the way Maysilee's pulse has begun to hammer again.

Cassia dusts glitter over her eyelids. Quintus turns off the dryer and starts sectioning her hair to curl it. A hollow feeling rests in her chest like a weight she can't push off no matter how hard she tries.

"There," Cassia says, proudly. "You look alive."

Maysilee's stomach twists. She doesn't feel alive. She feels like a Capitol doll, hollow and painted.

Mags clears her throat. "It's time."

The words hit harder than they should. Maysilee swallows, her mouth dry, her throat tight, and lets Mags guide her toward the exit. The train slows, the brakes screeching. Through the window, she can see District 11's station. A crowd already gathering, the cameras already pointed at the door she's about to walk through.

Her fingers curl into her palms again, crescent marks digging deep enough with her nails she can feel the sting of blood beading up.

"You've got this," Mags whispers.

She says nothing, but she knows— the tour won't let her forget, won't let her breathe, won't let her leave Wyatt behind.

As the doors hiss open, she thinks she sees him standing at the edge of the platform. Just for a heartbeat, just enough to make her chest ache, just enough for her to think he made it.

Then, he's gone, and she has to step forward anyway.

The air outside the train hits her like a wall— humid, heavy, smelling faintly of earth. District 11 is warmer than she expected, even in winter. The snow has melted into slush here, leaving the ground dark and wet. People crowd the platform, their faces somber, their eyes fixed on her like she's something fragile and dangerous all at once.

Her pulse stutters. Mags rests her hand on Maysilee's back, steadying her, but it brings Maysilee no sense of comfort. She's surrounded by people, but she feels like she's all alone.

The mayor steps forward, reciting some speech about honor and sacrifice. Maysilee resists the urge to snort. What the hell would he know about sacrifice? Her gaze drifts over the crowd, tuning out the mayor's voice, searching for a familiar face she knows won't be there. For a moment, just a flicker, she thinks she sees Wyatt's profile near the front row, head bowed, hands clasped. Her breath catches.

But when she blinks, it's only a field hand with the same slope to his shoulders. Her stomach twists.

They lead her up to the stage. The cameras flash, blinding her. Maysilee forces herself to stand up straight, to keep her chin up, to pretend she's not shaking. To not show a single crack in her armor. The scarf around her throat feels too tight, like a hand closing around her windpipe. Or a snake wrapping around her shoulders, slowly constricting her until all her breath is forced from her.

A little girl, who reminds Maysilee so much of Lou Lou and Louella, hands her a bouquet. Sunbursts and marigolds, bright and violent in her hands. Flowers. She can't ever escape them. The sickly sweet scent from the arena wafts in the air and Maysilee's fingers tighten around the stems until she feels one snap. She swallows hard and looks out.

This time, she's looking for a face. One that looks like Lou Lou, she wants to see if she can find a sibling or aunt or uncle. Someone to confirm that Lou Lou at least had someone in her family still alive before she passed. But she doesn't find anyone. At least Lou Lou had Wyatt looking out for her, she thinks.

A glance down at the flowers in her hands reminds her of a conversation. Where, when they snuck out of the room while Haymitch and Lou Lou slept, Wyatt had joked about wanting something pretty to grow from him when he died. She had laughed then, hadn't realized that he was serious about when. Now the memory makes her vision blur. She's picked apart the conversation thousands of times and still cries over the fact she didn't realize he never planned to make it out alive. Not with Lou Lou and her there, he'd rather die than have both of them die.

Tears sting the backs of her eyes. She forces them back as the mayor gestures for her to speak. Maysilee steps forward. The crowd is silent, waiting. She opens her mouth, but the words she practiced with Wiress and Mags evaporate. All she can think about is Lou Lou dying in the flowers and Wyatt lying in a bed of loud flowers, blood soaking into petals that smelled too sweet.

Her throat closes.

"I…" Her voice shakes. Maysilee clears her throat. "I'm honored to be here."

A lie. A Capitol line. She hates herself for saying it, but she knows her family is at home undoubtedly under surveillance from Snow.

"I want to thank District Eleven for your hospitality." Another lie. She just got in this morning. Her palms sweat around the bouquet of flowers. Her heartbeat thunders in her chest and she can't bring herself to look at District 11's tribute's families.

Her gaze drifts again, eyes wandering over the orchard workers, the children clutching their parents' hands, the Peacekeepers lining the perimeter. And then she sees it: a single white flower growing through a crack on the ground, small and stubborn, swaying in the breeze.

Her breath catches as her chest aches. Wyatt would've noticed it too. He noticed everything, one of the traits she loved about him.

She stumbles over the rest of her speech, barely aware of what she's saying. The crowd claps politely when she's done, but their eyes are heavy, knowing.

When she steps back, Mags squeezes her arm. "You did fine," she murmurs.

Maysilee doesn't answer. She can't— her eyes are fixed on the little white flower. She turns away from the stage, her pulse still hammering, her breath coming out in short bursts. Wiress pats her back as they enter the Justice Building, but doesn't say anything.

The doors close behind them with an echo. Drusilla immediately launches into complaints about the humidity and the dreariness of District 11. Maysilee drowns her out as Mags and Wiress pretend to placate her.

And she knows, District 11— with its flowers and its ghosts— feels like it's trying to remind her of everything she's lost.

The door closes behind her with a hiss. Immediately Drusilla disappears to the food compartment. Mags and Wiress share a look.

"Maysilee, are you hungry? You haven't eaten all day," Mags says softly.

"No. I'm not." Maysilee steps away from them. "Actually, I think I'm gonna lie down."

"Well, when you're ready, we'll be here," replies Wiress.

Maysilee nods, grateful that they're giving her space instead of crowding her. Maysilee heads straight to the room she's staying in. She shuts the door behind her. Her feet lead her to the bathroom and Maysilee shuts the door once she's inside.

It hits her suddenly and sharply. She's splashing water on her face, trying to wash off the humidity and glitter eyeshadow Cassia dusted on her eyelids, when the scent of the bouquet she left on the counter rises in the air. Cloying, aromatic, and fragrant.

Just like the arena.

Her breath stutters. The tiled floor blurs. The mirror ripples, the room tilting. And then she's back there.

The flowers are everywhere— bright, redolent, suffocating. The scent clings to her nostrils and clogs the back of her throat. The area around her covered in bright patches of flowers, a mountain in the distance, an artificial sun beaming down from an endlessly bright blue sky.

The memory shifts. The bloodbath. Panache's sword arcing downward, slicing through the air with a whistle that still rings in her ears. Wyatt throwing himself in front of Lou Lou, who just stands there terrified and confused, without hesitation. Wyatt's eyes widening— not in fear, but relief. Lou Lou's scream before she fled, disappearing into the trees like a bird.

She hears the thud of his body hitting the ground. She feels his blood seeping over her hands as she tried to staunch the wound. She tastes iron and flowers and panic.

Her knees shaking beside him again, hands trembling as she presses them harder against the slash, trying to keep him here, trying to tether him to the living. His blood coats her fingers, sticky and hot. His breath rattles. His hand twitches once before going still.

"Maysilee," he whispers. Or maybe she imagines it. She can never tell anymore.

The flowers around them sway gently, as if they're mocking her. Their petals brush against her arms, soft and warm, drinking in the blood that spills from him. She remembers thinking they looked hungry.

She remembers sobbing his name, her throat raw from screaming, her voice hoarse. She remembers realizing he was gone before she let herself believe it.

The flashback tightens around her like a fist. She can't breathe, can't move, can't think. The bathroom fades back into view only when Wiress knocks softly on the door.

"Maysilee? They're cleaning up the food now. If you're hungry, just let us know."

Maysilee wipes her face with trembling hands. The bouquet lies on the counter, the stems snapped clean in half.

She doesn't remember breaking it.

The next few days pass in a blur. Maysilee wakes every morning to Drusilla screeching and her prep team yanking the covers off her body. Sleep has escaped her every night. She always finds herself standing outside, fingers wrapped around the railing as the scenery blur past her. The freezing cold sinking underneath her skin and settling into her bones. It's the most alive she's felt since the Games.

In District 10, she feels like prized cattle as she's herded out of the train, toward the platform where the mayor gives a similar speech to the one from District 11. She's dressed to the nines— hair pulled back into a milkmaid style with her bangs pinned back, exposing her forehead, a charcoal colored pleated dress over a white blouse, an emerald green cardigan to go over it, several necklaces from a Capitol collection adorn her collarbone to hide her scars. Magno was no help; Maysilee once again had to fight to wear something that wasn't ghastly.

She hates it. Can feel tired and bored eyes on her. Maysilee refuses to look at the crowd, too scared that she'll see him in the crowd.

The smell of livestock hits her as she walks onto the platform after the mayor's finished. It's warm and earthy. The sharp scent of fresh blood permeates the air. It reminds her of the arena, of sanguine blood pooling under Wyatt's crumpled form, of the way it soaked into the flowers and soil.

She swallows hard, her stomach twisting until bile creeps up her throat. A cow bell rings somewhere in the distance and, for a moment, she hears Panache's blade instead.

She grips the podium until her knuckles ache.

She's grateful when she returns to the train. Maysilee sinks onto the bed, wrapping her arms around one of the pillows. Her stomach flips over and over as she remembers touring the district and seeing the livestock being led to the slaughterhouse, the tang of blood suffocating her senses until panic nearly overwhelmed her.

When she closes her eyes, smears and streaks of crimson paint cover the canvas of her lids. Maysilee squeezes the pillow tighter and breathes in deeply and exhales slowly. She repeats it over and over like Mags instructed until the knot in her chest loosens.

But she still sees blood when she opens her eyes.

District 9 is worse. She stares out the window as they pass massive grain fields. Cassia hums softly as she adjusts the cotton headband on Maysilee's hair then fixes Maysilee's bangs. Quintus brushes blush against the apples of her cheeks ("You need to look like you're alive and not a corpse," he had said.) Magno arrived with an array of dresses. They were ugly and garish, including a cow print one.

"That's not even this district," Maysilee snapped.

"Who cares?" Magno said breezily. "The district won't."

"I care, you pompous ass," she retorted. "You people leech life away from everyone in the districts to supply yourselves with the cream of the crop. The least you could do is know the difference between districts."

"Maysilee." Mags stepped in, voice gentle. "Let's finish getting ready. And then today will be done with."

"And I'll just have to do it again the day after and the day after."

Now, she stands on the platform, monotonously reading the speech Drusilla and her mentors had prepared. The air is thick with grain dust, floating like pollen in the breeze. It clings to her skin, her lashes, the back of her throat. The artificial sun in the arena had baked the flowers until they shed clouds of powdery, poisonous pollen that stuck to her hair. This feels the same. Maysilee keeps reaching up to touch her hair, shaking her head occasionally to rid herself of the pollen.

She coughs once, then twice, ends up curling her hands into fists to hide the tremors. As she steps back, so the mayor can do her ending spiel, Maysilee spots a figure with a paperboy cap on his head. Her heart beats faster, hope coursing through her veins like a raging river. But it dissipates when the figure looks up and his face isn't Wyatt's.

She looks away before the tears start to fall.

In District 8, she's calmer. But it's loud, too loud. The textile mills roar like beasts, the machinery clattering and thundering. The noise rattles her bones. Maysilee chose her outfit today— a pretty pale pink dress with cap sleeves and a long cream colored trench coat.

Magno had protested once but given up without much more fuss. She's grateful, now she doesn't feel as much of a Capitol plaything as she did before. She feels Wiress pat her back when it's time for her to give her speech. She'd expect a bit better state of dress for the residents of District 8, but their clothing hardly looks any better than the clothing in District 12.

As she speaks, the textile mills continue to blare loudly. It reminds her of the cannons— each one announcing another death of someone she cared about. Haymitch's cannon. Lou Lou's cannon. Wyatt's cannon. Each clamor feels like a dart to the heart. She flinches at every burst of sound.

But she finishes her speech and when she returns to Mags and Wiress, she gets a gentle squeeze on the arm by Wiress, who thankfully doesn't say anything as the mayor wraps up.

The noise is so much worse than she expected as they tour the facilities. Maysilee takes in the miserable faces of the mill workers and glances away. The constant clanging and booms cause her to glance at the sky as they exit the mill.

She's not sure what she expects to see. Maybe Haymitch's face appearing in the sky. Or little Lou Lou's. Or Wyatt's. She really wants to see Wyatt's, she realizes as they walk. She keeps her eyes on the sky the entire walk to the train, desperate that at least one clatter will stain the sky with his gorgeous face again.

His dark eyes flash across her mind and her heart plunges into her stomach. Because she's not seeing the ones filled with nerves and warmth after a night spent talking.

But, instead, his lifeless ones.

District 7 smells like pine and sap, even in the midst of winter. It makes her heart ache. Trees are everywhere, tall and dark and looming. It's a pretty sight, she'll admit that, snow coating the ground and bare tree branches high in the air.

As she stands at the window, dawn rises on the horizon. She wishes she could take a picture, a keepsake of a moment where the tour doesn't fill her with dread and emptiness. But all she can think about is Wyatt. How she found him on their first day of arriving, sitting on the burnt orange couch at night, his scrip coin moving between his knuckles with practiced ease, lost in thought.

"You're up late," she says.

He startles. Dark brown eyes widening when he spots her before he drops his gaze.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," he says quietly.

"You didn't," Maysilee answers, abandoning her quest to get a glass of water and instead joining him on the couch. "I was thirsty."

Wyatt nods. He glances at her. "I'm surprised your name was drawn."

"Really?" She tilts her head. "And why is that?"

"The odds of you being chosen, since you're a merchant and never needed tesserae, were extremely improbable," he says.

"But here I am," she murmurs. "I guess I have bad luck."

Wyatt doesn't respond. Instead, he asks her a question that she isn't prepared for.

"Which district would you like?"

"What?" Maysilee remembers her eyebrows furrowing at his question.

"If you could choose any other district, which one would you choose?" He looks at her curiously, dark eyes staring into her soul. "It says a lot about your personality."

Maysilee blinks owlishly at him before thinking of an answer. "District Seven." She settles deeper into the couch. "I think waking up to fresh air every day would be nice. Also the peace and quiet and no coal dust layering over everything. I like being in nature, it's calming."

His eyes crinkles at the corner as he listened to her musings. Maysilee glances at him from the corner of her eye.

"And what about you?"

"District Four." His answer is quick, like he's thought about it before.

Maysilee wrinkles her nose. "Fish?"

"I think waking up to see the ocean every morning would be nice," he murmurs.

A loud crash catches their attention, followed by Haymitch groaning and cursing. Maysilee pushes herself up, knowing their time was coming to an end. It's a shame, she finds Wyatt's company to be calming.

"I'm heading back to bed, Wyatt," she says. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Maysilee," he responds. And she thought it was the start of a beautiful friendship.

A sharp knock at the door rouses her from her memory.

"Shrew! Get up!" Drusilla yells.

Maysilee rolls her eyes as she turns away from the window, the warmth of Wyatt's voice still lingering over her.

She stares at the dead trees surrounding District 7's town square. The air is fresh, fresher than anything she's breathed in before. The mayor introduces Maysilee before stepping away and Maysilee takes her place.

She gazes at the crowd, reading off a similar but different speech provided by Mags and Wiress and Drusilla, but her eyes scan every face. Searching for the one person she knows won't be there. But she sees a man with a similar frame and a flame of hope flickers inside of her before he straightens and it extinguishes with the breeze.

Maysilee propels herself on, dropping her gaze to the note card. Her fingers tangle into her necklaces— her own, including the one she made Wyatt— and she clutches them like a lifeline as she forces the rest of the speech out. When she's done, they all clap politely but Maysilee doesn't even bother trying to smile as she returns to her mentors' sides.

All she can think about is Wyatt and how peaceful his presence made her feel.

She finds herself outside on the balcony again as they cross into District 6. Snow falls in blankets from the sky. Maysilee can hardly see, but the bite of the wind is calming. Flakes cling to her lashes and run down her cheeks and wet her hair. Her nightgown sticks to her lithe frame, the chill in the air raising the hair on her arms.

Maysilee can hardly hear anything over the howling of the wind. Her pulse thrums in her ears and she resists the urge to scream, to lose her voice in the echo.

A hand touches her shoulder, guides her back inside and to the room she sleeps in. Mags gently tucks her in before leaving, the door shutting softly behind her.

Maysilee stays awake long after she's gone.

District 6 is boring, if she's being honest. Trains, tracks, engines, metal. She has no use for any of it other than waiting for the train she's on to roll back into the station at District 12, where she can be done with this damned tour forever.

Every time something clangs or she catches a glimpse of pale sunlight catching metal, she remembers the blade arcing down, determination plastered on Panache's face. Wyatt's blood dyeing the iron blade with vermilion. It torments her mind until she can't breathe.

She forces herself through the speech. Every blink of her eyes seeing a bloody blade. Once she's done she excuses herself to the Justice Building's bathroom. Maysilee splashes water onto her face, not caring about the carefully crafted makeup look Cassia painted on her, and revels the way the freezing droplets sting her face. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, mascara running down her cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, but all she sees is Wyatt's eyes widening, his hand twitching, his breath rattling.

She leaves without saying goodbye to the mayor.

In District 5, everything hums. Electricity buzzes through the air, through the walls, through the floors. It vibrates under her feet as her and her team head to the Justice Building. She assumes it's loud enough, persistent enough to drown out all the thoughts and voices that echo in her head, but it's not.

She blows through the speech, at this point a simple memorization. While the mayor wraps up, thanking her for coming and congratulating her on her win, the electricity thrums in the air. It reminds her of force field surrounding the arena, the one she almost ran into when she fled from Silka chasing her with the axe.

The hum grows louder and louder and louder. Maysilee presses her palms to her ears, wishing to hear Wyatt's voice instead. To hear him comfort her again, like he did whenever they'd meet up at night. Tears heat the backs of her eyes, threatening to overflow.

Mags guides her back to the train without a word.

District 4 only digs up painful memories. As soon as she caught the first whiff of salt air, Wyatt's face flashed across her mind. As Cassia laces up the teal blue corset dress, Maysilee allows herself to remember.

"District 4," she says one night. They are sitting in the kitchen, bowls of strawberry and vanilla ice cream in front of them. "I guess the sun would be nice."

"Mmm," he agrees, mouth full of vanilla ice cream. "I think so too. Only problem would be the storms."

"Yeah," she says. "Wyatt, what do you miss the most? From home?"

"My Ma," he replies. His voice softens. "She's the one I'm closest too."

"I miss my Papa and Merrilee," Maysilee says. "Do you think she'll still be a twin when I'm gone?"

"Yeah," he says, "I do. And I'd bet on you."

Maysilee blinks. "You would?"

"Yep. I've seen you in training, you're not a bad bet."

"And what about you?" She asks, something stirring in her stomach. "I think you'd be good too."

"Nah." He shakes his head. "I wouldn't bet on me—"

"What are you two doing?" Haymitch interrupts.

"Eating. What else does it look like?" Maysilee answers, annoyed at the interruption for some inane reason.

Haymitch glances between the two of them, mirth dancing across his face and a knowing look settling in his eyes. "Sure. I'll join."

"You weren't invited," Maysilee states.

"Too bad."

Before they can fully devolve into an argument, Mags appears, tired eyes sunken.

"Back to bed," she tells them. "You will all need all the sleep you can get in the upcoming days before the Games start."

Haymitch complains as he disappeared and Mags leaves Maysilee and Wyatt to clean up their dishes. It feels strangely intimate, she remembers thinking. To wash dishes while Wyatt dries them.

They've only known each other for a few days, but she feels safest with him.

"Wyatt?" She asks.

"Yeah?"

"Was there anybody else back home that you miss?" Maysilee knows she was gleaning for information sneakily, but she wants to know if he had a gal at home.

"I guess the rest of my family," he says with a shrug.

Relief washes over her. Though, she isn't sure why. It's not like they'd both survive the arena. After they finish dishes, they walk to their rooms and Maysilee reaches out, grabbing his wrist.

"Goodnight, Wyatt," she says softly.

"Goodnight, Maysilee," he murmurs.

Then she stands on her tiptoes and presses a kiss against his cheek before slipping into her and Louella's room.

She doesn't even realize they've finished her makeup and hair until Mags gently touches her shoulder.

"Ready?"

"No." Maysilee shakes her head.

"Too bad," Drusilla snarks. "Get up, shrew! The Capitol can't wait to have its fun with you!"

A pit forms in Maysilee's stomach at Drusilla's words. She'd said it before, but something about how gleeful she sounds makes the hairs on the nape of her neck stand. Mags directs Maysilee out of the train.

The breeze blows through her hair, carrying the smell of fish and the sound of seagulls and water rushing and crashing. She remembers the poisonous river, remembers watching helpless wildlife fall in and disappear or drink and keel over. Remembers stopping Lou Lou from drinking the river water. Remembers promising to keep her safe like she promised herself she'd keep Wyatt safe.

Her throat tightens. She can't look at the ocean.

District 3 hurts too. Not just because it reminds her of Wyatt, but because Beetee's here. Without Ampert.

She sees him on the family platform, his pregnant wife beside him. He gives her a sad, knowing smile and Maysilee has to look away. A thick lump swells in her throat and she swallows harshly. Wiress squeezes her hand gently, a tiny reassurance.

It doesn't make Maysilee feel any better.

"Now the Fiftieth victor— Maysilee Donner!" The mayor announces, a portly looking man, with a balding head.

Maysilee walks to the podium, the feeling of hundreds of eyes on her. She forces herself to look out at the crowd. And immediately regrets it. She sees Ampert everywhere. A boy with his posture, a girl with his shy smile and glasses. A man with his gentle eyes.

Her breath stutters. She wraps her fingers around the edges of the podium so tightly her knuckles ache.

"I'm honored to be here," she grits out, voice thin. Her throat burns.

Her eyes keep drifting back to Beetee and his wife. The woman's hands are clasped, her eyes shining with grief. Maysilee's stomach twists violently. She tears her eyes away and stumbles through the rest of the pre-written speech, barely aware of what she's saying.

"I also wanted to say," Maysilee says, tears prickling, "that I allied with the District Three tributes. Dio, Lect, Coil, and Ampert. They were sweet kids, very smart and kind to myself and my district mates. I helped them with their tokens, so they would still have something from home. I still remember Ampert saying he wanted a sister like me." She takes a deep breath. "I told him that I'd be his sister. I'm so sorry," — this she turns to look at Beetee and his wife— "I should've protected him. I'm so so sorry."

Mags intervenes and leads her away from the podium as her shoulders shake. She hates it here, wishes she was back home where she could hide in her bedroom and never come out again.

"That was very moving," Wiress says softly.

"I should've been better," is all Maysilee says.

"You wouldn't have been able to do anything, Maysilee," Mags whispers as the mayor starts the wrap-up. "Beetee knows that. You know that."

Maysilee says nothing, instead she just stares at the ground. They enter the Justice Building where it takes exactly two seconds for Drusilla to spin on her heel and start complaining.

"You wretched little girl! I wrote your speech out and you go off on a tangent that nobody cares about!" Drusilla paces in front of Maysilee. "Did you not think how this will look? For you? For me?" Her voice gets higher. It's nauseating.

"Shut up!" Maysilee snaps, rising to her feet. "I don't care how it looks! You people are murderers! I can't help it if I have empathy for others. Something you will never know anything about."

It goes silent. Mags covers her mouth as Wiress shifts uncomfortably. Cassia and Quintus stand there, shell-shocked. Drusilla, however, narrows her eyes. The beady little things glare at Maysilee and she lifts her chin.

It doesn't take long for Drusilla to slap Maysilee again. The sting on her cheek is a familiar pain. Maysilee doesn't hesitate as she slaps her back, hard enough for Drusilla to topple over and onto the carpeted flooring.

"You're a murderer!" Maysilee says. "Don't ever touch me with your filthy, blood-coated hands again."

"Maysilee," Mags warns, reaching out and grabbing her arm.

"No!" Maysilee yanks her arm out of her grasp. "She is! She's an enabler. I don't understand why you all can't admit to it."

"Let's go," Wiress says. "Come on."

Maysilee's about to climb onto the train station platform when a voice calls out.

"Wait!" Beetee's familiar voice crashes over her ears. "Are you leaving already?"

"No," Wiress answers.

"Would you join us for dinner?" He asks, glancing at Maysilee, Wiress, and Mags, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. "My wife would like to meet you all."

Maysilee nods before she can even think about it. She doesn't trust her voice at all. Drusilla harrumphs behind them, still smarting from Maysilee's comments and a bright blooming handprint impressed onto her skin.

Wiress and Beetee walk ahead of Maysilee and Mags, their heads pressed together as they talk quietly.

"That was a pretty speech," Mags murmurs softly.

"It wasn't meant to be," replies Maysilee bitterly. "I just couldn't look Beetee in the eye, knowing how Ampert died after I promised to be his sister."

"One day, it'll get bearable," Mags says. "It won't disappear, not completely, but it will get better."

"I don't think so," Maysilee says. "No offense, but I had to watch 50 people die. I had to watch my friends, the people who became my family in that hell-hole, die. Haymitch, Louella, Lou Lou, Ampert, and Wyatt." She shakes her head, voice trembling on Wyatt's name. "I don't ever think it'll get better."

Mags doesn't reply, just pats Maysilee's back as they come up to a house. Beetee opens the door and ushers them inside.

"We're back," he calls out.

The pregnant woman appears. She gives them a weak smile. "Hi, I'm Perl."

"Hello," Maysilee greets.

Wiress gives Perl a hug as Mags greets her as well. Wiress leads them to the dining room while Beetee joins his wife in the kitchen.

"You've been here before?" Maysilee asks Wiress.

She nods. "Beetee was my mentor. I had nightmares for months and he and Perl always opened their door for me when it became too much. They're good people."

Dinner is quiet, too quiet. Perl smiles warmly, but Maysilee can't hold her gaze. Already knows what she'll see lurking in its depths— sadness and grief and pain. The table is simply set: bread, stew, fruit. Wiress sits beside her, occasionally brushing her hand against Maysilee's arm in silent support. Mags sits on her other side, keeping the conversation going, trying to steer clear of anything Games related.

Beetee talks about the baby, the district, the inventions he's working on. His voice is gentle and steady, but every time he pauses, Maysilee feels the weight of Ampert's absence pressing down on her. At one point, Perl mentions Ampert's name softly.

Maysilee's spoon slips from her fingers and clatters against the bowl. Tears stab her eyes and she curls her hands into fists, nails slicing into her skin, blood bubbling up under the flesh. No one comments. They don't need to.

When dinner ends, Beetee walks them back to the train. He gives Maysilee another sad smile, one that feels like an apology for something he couldn't prevent.

"Thank you for coming," he says. "It means a lot. And Maysilee—"

She looks at him, heart pounding in her throat.

"Thank you for being his sister in there," Beetee finishes. His eyes are glassy and he pulls off his glasses to clean them on his shirt. "Have a safe trip."

Maysilee nods, unable to say anything before hurrying onto the train. She glances out the window and spots him hugging Wiress and Mags as she heads straight to the bedroom. The memories of Ampert's little smile and soft voice slam against her skull.

She remembers how Ampert and the rest of District 3 were so kind to Wyatt. Finding his odds-outputting fascinating and not weird like Haymitch or Louella did. As she collapses onto the bed, she's pulled into another fragment of a memory.

She wakes in the bedroom. Her heart pounds in her throat, her fingers instinctively reaching for her necklaces to calm her frantic pulse. She counts them— one, two, three, four, five. She frowns. Five? But she came in with six, she knows that and then she remembers. The chariot crash, Louella and Haymitch soaring in the air like birds too close to the sun, her and Wyatt falling from theirs, his arms wrapped around her, caging her as they hit the pavement.

The metallic scent of blood fills her senses, invisible but unmistakable. She gave one of her necklaces to Louella as a token. Maysilee pushes herself up from her bed, steps shaky as she stumbles to the bedroom door. A sliver of moonlight pierces through the dark veil of curtains as Maysilee opens the door. She can't sleep in there, won't sleep in there.

Her knuckles lightly rap against the boys' room door. She can hear Wyatt sawing logs through the wall, which normally would irritate her for interrupting her rest, but for the moment she's grateful for it. When she receives no answer, she knocks again. The snoring ceases and a few moments later, Wyatt opens the door, his hair flopping into his face and dark eyes clouded with sleep.

"Maysilee?" He murmurs quietly, confusion crossing his face.

"I can't sleep in there," she says. "It's so eerie."

He blinks before nodding and stepping aside. "You can sleep in my bed, I'll take the floor."

"I don't want to kick you off your bed," Maysilee responds. "We can both share the bed. Unless that's a problem?" She raised an eyebrow.

"No," he gulps. "Not at all."

Maysilee crawls into the bed, glancing over at Haymitch's sleeping form, partially hanging off the bed. Wyatt climbs in beside her. She stares at the ceiling, willing sleep to wash over her, but it doesn't come. And she knows Wyatt isn't asleep, he hasn't started snoring yet.

"Wanna talk about it?" He asks softly.

"I keep seeing it," she murmurs. Maysilee rolls onto her side, eyes tracing Wyatt's side profile. "Her lifeless eyes."

He nods, turning his head to look at her. "I know."

"Wyatt?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever thought about running away? From District 12?" The question slips from her lips without a thought. It's something that has picked at the base of her skull after their previous conversations.

"Not really. I don't think I'd get too far. And I'd miss everyone too much— Ma, Pa, my brothers," he hesitates. It piques Maysilee's interest.

"And?" She prompts, her nosiness overriding her senses.

"You," he says quietly. "You were always nice to me when I'd come by the Sweet Shop. Even gave me extra candy on Reaping days."

Maysilee's heart thuds in her chest because she does remember. His shaky smile and worried demeanor whenever she gave him extra. She never figured out why she did that, something just drew her to him. Like the moon pulling the tide. Merrilee thought it was because she had a crush, but Maysilee didn't believe it. She hardly knew him, but when Asterid suggested the same thing Maysilee wondered if they had a point.

Wyatt turns his head, so he's staring at the ceiling again. Maysilee blinks and runs her tongue over her teeth.

"I'd miss you too," she whispers. "And Papa and Merrilee and Asterid."

He looked at her again, a half smile on his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She reaches out and brushes his hair out of his eyes. His skin warms under the pads of her fingers. The sudden urge to kiss him overcomes her, but she refrains. Doesn't want to ruin this fragile friendship.

Haymitch snorts in his sleep and Maysilee retracts her hand quickly. She gives Wyatt a sleepy smile.

"Goodnight."

"'Night," he replies.

And somehow, she falls asleep, curled next to him, her mind succumbing to a dreamless sleep.

The tears come unbidden. First, soft droplets like a sprinkling then as a waterfall. They splatter against the silk pillowcase, leaving gray splotches in their wake. Maysilee curls inward, clutching the fabric like it's the only thing tethering her to the present. But the present slips.

Her breath hitches, vision blurs. The pillowcase dissolves into a field of flowers— bright, loud, suffocating— and she's back there again.

Blood blooms along the jagged slash on his chest. She watches as he falls.

The recollection slams into her with the force of a train. The globules of blood dripping off Panache's blade as Wyatt crumples to the ground. His knees buckling under his sturdy frame. The way his hand had twitched before going still. The way the flowers drank his blood like they were waiting for it.

"No," she whispers. "No, no, no—"

Her fingers claw at the sheets, nails catching on the embroidery. She can't breathe. Her lungs seize, throat closing, her pulse thrumming violently against her ribs like it's trying to escape.

She sees his eyes, how they widened, then softened, then dimmed. She hears the thud of his body hitting the ground. She feels the warmth of his blood coating her palms. She tastes iron and flowers.

Her sobs intensify, ripping through her chest. She presses her hands against her ears, trying to drown out the phantom sound of Panache's blade slicing through the air. It whistles, again and again, like a missile, ricocheting inside her skull.

"Stop," she begs. "Please!"

But it doesn't.

The room tilts, her tears causing the walls to blur. The hum of the train becomes the hum of the arena— the force field, the artificial sun buzzing overhead, the cannons. She curls tighter, knees to her chest, shaking so hard the mattress trembles beneath her.

"I promised," she chokes out. "Promised I'd keep you all safe. But I failed." Her voice cracks on the last word.

She remembers Ampert's smile, Lou Lou's scream, Haymitch's laugh, Louella's weathervane braids. Wyatt's coin flicking between his fingers. All of them gone, dead. All of them watching her from the corners of her mind.

Her breath comes in sharp, shallow gasps. It feels like she's being stabbed the way her lungs painfully constrict. She digs her nails into her forearms, desperate for something real and present, something that isn't anguish and flowers and blood and dying children.

But all she sees is Wyatt falling, hears the blade slicing him open, feels his hand going limp in hers. Her sobs collapse into silence— the kind that comes from when you've run out of tears but the remnants of memories still cling to your brain and you're not ready to let them slip away. It's distressing and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

The scent of blood lingers in the air, a hallucination, but all she sees is Wyatt collapsing over and over again. She gags, bile racing up her esophagus. Maysilee flings herself off the bed, running into the bathroom and retching until she finally vomits.

Tears run down her cheeks as she clutches the sides of the porcelain toilet. She wishes Wyatt were here, remembers when she thought about dying and worrying herself sick over how her sister and Papa would mourn her once she goes.

"Maysilee?" His voice is soft.

Her shoulders shake. Sobs tumble out of her mouth, followed by another wave of nausea. Maysilee leans over the toilet bowl and gags again. She hates the feeling of being sick, prides herself for hardly getting sick since Merrilee regularly came down with something every few months.

Wyatt crouches beside her. As she retches, the noise echoing off the toilet bowl, he unfastens the clasps to her necklaces and once he was done he places them on the marble countertop before pulling her hair back, away from her face.

She is grateful but she can't say it. Wyatt rubs slow circles on her back, the warmth of his hand seeping through the thin fabric of her pajamas. It's comforting and Maysilee's shoulders stop shaking as much, though a sob would wrack through her body.

"Do you have something for your hair?" He asks.

Maysilee pulls off a hair tie from her wrist and passes it to him. He pulls her hair back and ties it off, it was messy and some hair escapes it but the gesture floods Maysilee's stomach with warmth. Slowly, the nausea ebbs away and she lets out a sigh of relief, flushing the toilet and falling backwards, leaning against the glass wall that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom.

"Wanna talk about it?" Wyatt asks, taking a seat across from her.

"Just thinking about my family," she murmurs. She really ought to brush her teeth, but the sudden sickness makes her feel weak, her feet prickling as the blood slowly returns to them. "How they'll mourn me and how long it'll take them to move on and heal."

Wyatt nods. "Ah." Like that makes perfect sense, but apparently to him it does.

They sit in silence for a few moments, the only sounds are their breaths and Haymitch's restless tossing and turning in the bedroom. Finally, Maysilee feels well enough to stand. She pushes herself off the floor, legs shaking underneath her and Wyatt reaches out. Maysilee grabs his hand— her hand slides into his easily and she lets herself savor it— and he leads her to the sink.

She brushes her teeth and rinses and brushes again and rinses again until she feels marginally better. Wyatt stays with her, a steady presence by her side. Maysilee picks up the necklaces and hands them to him, lifting her ponytail and turning her back to him expectantly.

"You want me to put them on?" He questions hesitantly.

"Yes, please," she replies. "It'll be easier for you to do it than me."

"Right." Wyatt slowly clasps each fastening. "Done." He clears his throat and steps back, though she can still feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"Thank you," she says, adjusting how the necklaces sit on her collarbones.

She turns toward him. Wyatt looks up and a shy smile crosses his face, his hair tousled from waking and checking on her. She really wants to kiss him, but she just threw up and even though she brushed her teeth, she still feels disgusting.

So, she does the next best thing. Maysilee leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering just for a moment before stepping back again. She delights in the way a flush creeps up his face and turns the tips of his ears pink.

"We should get some sleep," she says. She slips past him and pauses in the doorway as he remains where he was. "You coming?"

"Yeah," he says, though his voice sounds different— gruffer. Maysilee climbs into bed and only relaxes when Wyatt clambers on beside her.

She only falls asleep when he starts snoring.

Maysilee sobs as another wave of bile rises, her throat burning, her stomach churning like a stormy ocean so violently she thinks it might tear itself apart. She clutches the cold porcelain, forehead hovering over the rim, tears dripping into the water below.

Her breath shudders, her vision swimming. The bathroom tilts and she's back in the arena again.

Wyatt's face flickers behind her eyelids— soft, warm, alive— before the memory twists and she sees him saving Lou Lou, falling again, blood blooming across his chest, sees his hand twitch once before stilling. A broken sound claws itself from the depths of her lungs.

She squeezes her eyes shut, hopes that it'll block out the memory, but it doesn't help. The image is burned there, permanent, carved into her mind like a wound that will never close. Her fingers tremble against the toilet. Her breath comes in thin, fractured puffs.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."

Her words dissolve into the air, unanswered and unheard. And Maysilee folds in on herself, small and shaking on the cold tile floor, the memory of Wyatt's last breath echoing through her like a fault line splitting open.

She feels like a hollow shell by the time they arrive in District 2. Like all the life has been sucked dry out of her. The train pulls into the station under a sky of slate gray, and Maysilee's stomach twists before she even steps outside.

Her breakdown has worn her to the bone. Her body aches, her throat raw, her eyes swollen, her limbs heavy like she's wading through mud. She barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Wyatt falling. Now, she stares blankly at the wall as Cassia adjusts the burgundy dress over her frame. Maysilee notices the glance Mags and Wiress share, but they don't say anything. She knows they won't— at least, not in front of the Capitolites.

"Alright! Time for hair and makeup," Cassia announces, moving Maysilee to the seat in front of the vanity again.

Quintus and Cassia fuss over her appearance, trying to hide the evidence. Cassia paints concealer under her eyes.

"You look awful," Quintus says as he brushes Maysilee's hair. "It'd take a miracle to make you look good."

"You don't look much better," Maysilee retorts. The familiar hatred burning in her stomach whenever she has to interact with anyone from the Capitol. "What look were you going for today? Let me guess. Something between a taxidermied rodent and feline fun?"

His brush stills in his hand.

Cassia glances between the two. She remains silent as she dusts rouge onto Maysilee's cheeks. Maysilee meets Quintus's gaze in the mirror.

"You're dressed in something Drusilla would wear." A hint of satisfaction cuts through her at the way he gasps in horror.

"I dress nothing like her!" Quintus snaps.

"Aw, don't be mad," Maysilee says. "I doubt you Capitolites would know what fashion is if it hit you over the head. You always look so gaudy and ridiculous—"

She's interrupted by Magno arriving, stumbling with a crimson coat in hand. He drapes it over her shoulder. It's ugly and militaristic, makes her feel like she's being dressed for an execution rather than a speech.

Drusilla fumes silently in the corner, but doesn't speak to her. Maysilee has a thousand more insults ready to hurl like knives if necessary. Tension lingers in the air as Cassia and Quintus finish beautifying her.

And by the time they step off the train, Maysilee feels like she's been carved out of herself. District 2 rises around her in slabs of stone and steel, sharp edges catching the weak winter light. Peacekeepers line the platform in perfect formation, their boots clicking against the ground in a rhythm that makes her pulse stutter.

Everything here feels controlled, more disciplined that what she knows back home. And all the citizens look healthy, well-fed. A rise of bitterness creeps onto her. While District 12 struggles to survive, the Career districts get to eat happily. She knows that it's not truly their fault, that they don't eat like how the Capitol citizens gorge themselves on food, but the bitterness doesn't leave her as she follows Drusilla's form, her eyes on the peacock feather jutting out the side of Drusilla's fedora.

She looks stupid and ridiculous, but Maysilee's not looking to get beat with a riding crop on live television. Maysilee ignores the cameramen and Plutarch as she walks.

The mayor greets her with a stiff nod. His posture is rigid, his expression unreadable, but she spots a look of annoyance before it disappears. Even the crowd stands in neat rows, their faces blank, their eyes sharp.

Maysilee steps onto the podium, the crimson coat heavy on her shoulders. Her fingers tighten around the note cards. She doesn't bother looking for Wyatt in the crowd— she knows she won't see him here. District 2 doesn't have ghosts. It has soldiers.

"Welcome," the mayor says, stepping aside.

Maysilee clears her throat. Her voice feels thin, fragile, like it might crack if she pushes too hard.

"I'm honored to be here," she says, reading off the speech she has rehearsed enough times to have every line memorized. "I want to thank District Two for your hospitality." Her voice is bland, monotonous. She doesn't care anymore, wants this tour done and over with. "And I want to acknowledge your tributes. They were skilled and determined."

Her gaze drifts to the Peacekeepers. Their white armor gleams under the sunlight, snow glinting off the mountains in the distance. She hates this place, hates how close it is to the Capitol. Whenever a Peacekeeper shifts, their guns move. The noise reminds her of the bloodbath— weapons clanging against each other, the screams of tributes in their final seconds, the way she was terrified of footsteps that weren't hers. Her stomach twists.

"I hope their families find peace," she finishes, expression blank as she stares into the camera Plutarch gestures at.

The crowd remains silent as she steps back and rejoins her mentors. Mags places a steady hand on her back and Wiress gives her a soft smile. Drusilla beams for the cameras, pretending nothing is wrong.

They tour the district next. Stone quarries, training yards, weapons factories. They pass the school and Maysilee can see students inside learning. Her face twists and she looks away. The clang of metal echoes in the air, sharp and violent. Each strike reminds Maysilee of Panache's blade, of the way it carved into Wyatt's chest and left her palms stained red.

Her breath stutters, hands shake, vision blurs. Maysilee grips the railing on the viewing platform so tightly her knuckles turn white.

"You're alright," Mags murmurs beside her.

She isn't, but she forces herself to nod. She doubts she'll ever be alright. The rest of the tour passes by in a blur. By the time they start to return to the train, Maysilee feels like she's coming down with something.

A noise breaks past her thoughts. Her heart quickens and she turns, expecting to see Wyatt because that was his laugh. But instead she sees two massive guys lumbering toward a weapons factory, joking and laughing. Her heart deflates like a balloon as she's herded into the train.

She tosses the coat onto a chair before bee-lining it to the bedroom. Maysilee turns on the shower and scrubs herself raw, ridding herself of the feeling of Wyatt's blood on her hands. She scrubs until her skin burns under the scorching water and she stays in there until her thoughts finally leave her.

District 1 harbors a new feeling entirely for her. It's rather luxurious, almost Capitol-like but still somehow miles away from that. A sheet of snow glistens over the district as the train travels further into the district. Maysilee stares out the window, wrapping the blanket tighter around her. It feels too polished.

A tender knock raps against the door. Maysilee doesn't bother to turn or answer. She waits for the inevitable words. It's something she's heard constantly since the beginning of the Victory Tour.

"Maysilee," Mags says, "may I come in?"

"Okay," Maysilee agrees with a sigh. It's better to get this done and over with, she reasons with herself.

Mags enters and perches on the edge of Maysilee's bed. Maysilee continues to gaze at the snowcapped mountains in the distance. The Rockies, she distantly recalls, from what her late grandmother said.

It's silent as Mags waits patiently. Then she finally speaks, "You're scaring them."

"Good," Maysilee says bitterly.

"Maysilee, I know you're hurting," Mags murmurs. "But you need to remember you have family back home. Your father, your mother, your sister. If you continue to lash out, Snow will punish your behavior, oftentimes by hurting someone you love."

Maysilee swallows, an acidic taste filling her mouth. It's been a thought that's plagued her mind at night, after she went over every rebellious and out-of-line thing she's done before. She doesn't answer. Drusilla's snide voice rings in her mind: I hope you do win. You have no idea what's in store for you then. You know nothing.

It sends a chill down her spine. Maysilee clenches her jaw. She has a sneaking suspicion of what Drusilla's implying, but she survived the Games, she's certain she'll find a way to survive the Capitol.

"Maysilee?" Mags inquires gently.

"I'm fine. I won't say anything," Maysilee says dryly. "I'll be a good little Capitol puppet for the rest of the tour."

"I'm not saying that," answers Mags. "I'm just telling you to be careful."

"I will."

When they arrive at the platform, Maysilee's eyes land on District 1's tribute families. It's easy to distinguish who's related to which dead tribute. Her blue eyes lock onto Palladium Barker, Panache's relative. His dark eyes meet hers and he glares. His eyes are the exact same shade as Wyatt's and for a second, she imagines she's looking at Wyatt. But then Drusilla shoves her, her claws digging into Maysilee's back, and Maysilee's ripped out of her daydream.

Her knees shake as she climbs up the wooden steps to the platform, not because of grief, but rather nerves. She killed Panache and she technically killed Silka too. Their parents stare her down as she waits for the mayor to finish his speech. She doesn't even listen to the speech because she studies his posture and she can tell that he's not happy she won. It makes Maysilee straighten, tilting back her shoulders and lifting her chin. A memory hits her.

She steps out into the sunlight. Haymitch stumbles as he climbs out and Maysilee rolls her eyes. Wyatt climbs out behind him, shielding his eyes, his dark hair flopping into his eyes. Her eyes are drawn to him, something that seems to be happening more and more recently.

Maysilee looks him up and down. He's handsome and could be more intimidating with some help, she decides.

"You need more attitude, Wyatt," Maysilee says. He frowns and then tries to look tougher. Maysilee holds back a laugh and shakes her head. "No, that's worse," she states. "Push your jaw out. Stand up tall. Now stick out your chest."

He listens to her and she reaches out to run her fingers through his hair. He stiffens slightly at the sensation and she watches as rosy pink dusts the tips of his ears and he doesn't look her in the eye, focusing instead on her assortment of necklaces. Once she's satisfied with how his hair is styled, Maysilee pushes up his sleeves. She lets her fingers linger on the bare skin of his biceps before stepping back.

"You've got some muscle from the mines. Show it off." She delights in the way he flushes fully now at her compliment before Haymitch snorts.

"Yeah, that works," Haymitch agrees. "The black clothes don't hurt."

Maysilee ignores him, her gaze focused on Wyatt. She waits until his eyes meet hers before she gives him a soft smile and he returns it.

Her breath catches in her throat as she blinks, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings. She's in District 1, the mayor finally wrapping up his long-winded speech. In her peripheral, she can see the tip of Drusilla's oversized witch shoes (in neon orange) tapping impatiently. Maysilee rolls her eyes— like Drusilla has anything better to do.

She steps forward, striding to the podium, ready to get this speech and tour done so she can be one step closer to getting home. She feels the weight of hundreds of stares on her and she takes a quick glance at the note cards.

"I'm honored to be here," she says, repeating the same opening line from every speech the past two weeks. "The tributes from this district were incredibly powerful and like-minded. They trained for years to go into the Games and win. It's unfortunate,"— here, she gives a smile that comes out as a grimace— "that they didn't win." That's the end of her speech, but something bubbles up in her. So, she continues. "They were kids, like me and the other tributes. Kids who were scared to die, to be away from their families for the first and likely last time. I harbor no ill will towards them because I fought to live too. I fought to get back home to my family and my friends. It's not their fault."

It's on the tip of her tongue: It's the Capitol's. But she remembers the conversation with Mags and she says something else instead. "They were just kids wanting to make it home to their families."

Then she steps back and returns to Wiress and Mags, ignoring the glare from Drusilla. The feeling of being watched crashes over her and Maysilee looks and sees Panache's family and Silka's family staring at her as the mayor yaps.

She holds their gazes.

The tour of District 1 is similar to that of District 2's, although much more opulent. Still miles away from how the Capitol looks, but still much nicer than most of the other districts. Maysilee trails behind Mags and Wiress. Drusilla marches ahead, the buckle on her witch shoes jangling with every stomp of her feet. Her voice echoes over the plateau as they walk— Maysilee's surprised the mayor hasn't stolen a gun from a Peacekeeper and offed himself.

She's not paying attention, her eyes staring at the distant mountains. It brings a bit of comfort, reminds her of back home and her mountains in the distance. Of waking up in her bed, Merrilee snoring softly nearby, and seeing the sun rising over the mountain range, golden light peeking out between the gaps. It also reminds her of the volcano in the arena. Of the way the lava cascaded down the side, sending her and her allies running, slowly consuming them all one by one until she and a few others were the only ones left.

A lump rises in her throat and her ears start to ring. She can hear it now, the slow rushing of the lava. It's so close and then the breath is knocked out of her. Maysilee hits the ground with a thud, a pained cry escaping her as her head slams against the gravel pavement. She thinks she blacks out for a second.

Because when she sees light for a moment, her head swims, the scenery around her warping and fading in and out. Her fingers reach up, warmth soaking them. When she pulls them away, blood engulfs her fingers, trickling down them and pooling on the ground beneath her. She blinks, dazed.

"Maysilee!" A voice calls out. It sounds far, echoes from a distance, like she's slowly sinking to the bottom of a lake.

It comes again. "Maysilee!"

She blinks and tries to turn her head, but the wave of pain that hits her makes her vision turn black for a moment. White dots freckle her eyesight. When they gradually dim, she sees a furious face hovering above hers. Dark eyes holding nothing but rage and hate. Palladium Barker.

"You killed him," he hisses. His voice slices through the fog descending over her mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"He killed Wyatt," she says. Or thinks she says. She's not sure if the words actually came out.

"So? That idiot wasn't gonna win the Games. Anyone could've seen that," sneers Palladium.

Red seeps in from the corners of her vision. Maysilee launches herself forward and knocks him down, surprise written all over his face at her sudden attack.

"He could've!" She shouts. "Panache was a big meathead who wasn't gonna win anyway. Too selfish and egotistical to even think about any other strategy than hunting down the others and killing them. And Wyatt's not stupid. He's smart and kind and would've had a shot if he hadn't decided to protect Lou Lou!" Tears roll down her cheeks in violent waves.

She doesn't give herself another chance to think before she swings her fist down. It's cruel and low-down, but she refuses to let anyone slander Wyatt. Wyatt, who is kind and gentle and observant and… dead. He can't defend himself, so she will. She swings over and over again, sobs ripping out from deep in her chest. She feels like she's back in the arena.

Callused fingers grip her upper arms and yank her off. They drag her away as Palladium's forced to stand up, a split lip and bruise forming under his left eye. She shakes in a Peacekeeper's grip as Palladium's shoved away with the butt of a gun toward his family and Silka's family, all watching the scene.

"Maysilee," Mags's worried face appears. "You're bleeding."

She doesn't respond. Instead, she looks down at her hands, knuckles split and the skin raw, blood coating her palms. Maysilee looks up again and finds Plutarch talking to the mayor while Drusilla totters around shrieking about how they're gonna fix this situation.

"Will he kill my family?" Maysilee asks hollowly. She thinks about her father, sister, and mother— their lifeless bodies waiting for her when she returns home.

"No," Wiress whispers. "I don't think so. I think we should get you back on the train and have someone patch you up."

The Peacekeeper releases his grip and Mags pulls Maysilee's arm over her shoulder as they walk, Maysilee unsteadily, back to the train. She doesn't glance back once.

She finds herself back outside as the train hurtles toward the Capitol. Tonight, there's no snow, but the glacial temperature remains as does the strong wind. She stands at the railing, staring into the dark sky. The cold feels nice, a much needed pleasure after the medic said she had a concussion. She hasn't been able to sleep. The dark circles— purple and smudged, almost bruise-like— under her eyes are a testament to that.

If she moves her head too quickly, the pressure that lingers causes dizziness to crash over her like waves on jutting rocks. She's been more irritable as well, constantly snapping at the Capitol attendants and her prep team and especially Magno and Drusilla. It takes less than a minute for her to devolve into petulant arguments. It doesn't help that Drusilla rises to the bait every time.

The train zooms and Maysilee watches the stars smear across the sky. She blinks repeatedly, squinting until she can at least differentiate the outlines of them. The wind sounds like voices, distorted and fading in and out.

She swears she hears him. Maysilee. It's swift and gone before she can even process it. Maysilee looks around, her headache jackhammering against her temples, searching for any sign of Wyatt. But when she doesn't find anything, she closes her eyes. I imagined it, she thinks to herself. What a cruel prank for my mind to play on me.

She exhales shakily, opening her eyes and watching her breath fog the air. The wind whips her hair around her face, her cheeks stinging from the lashes of the strands, but she doesn't try to push it away. It keeps her from slipping into the memory of Palladium's snarl, his blood staining her knuckles, the way her head cracked against the pavement.

Her breath stutters just thinking about it as the train curves along the tracks, the landscape blurring into streaks of black and silver. Despite her attempts to not allow it, her mind drifts to Palladium's rage. How he looked at her with uncontrolled anger, how she felt like she was back in the arena fighting for her life after losing the people who were family to her. She thinks about Mags's face, a twist of horror and worry; Wiress's whisper of assurance.

But she doesn't believe it. Not at all. She knows the brutality that comes from President Snow's gloved hand, the bloodlust that lurks in the depths of his eyes. She saw it when he crowned her the victor of the Games, felt sick having to smell the blood on his breath and the rose scent wafting from his jacket pocket.

She imagines her father being dragged out of the Sweet Shop, Merrilee screaming, her mother collapsing on the floor. Peacekeepers stationed outside of the shop, just waiting for her to slip up again. She sees her family lying on the ground when she returns, their bodies lifeless. Even the thought of it makes her chest tighten.

And, not for the first time, she wishes she were back home. Sleeping in her bed with Merrilee snoring beside her, her father's snores echoing from her parents' bedroom, the moonlight a small sliver through the curtains illuminating a patch of wooden flooring. She wants to go back to before the Games, before the death that plagues her thoughts, before the smell of blood assaults her senses every night, before she knew what it felt like to hold somebody when they died.

A tear escapes, leaving behind a trail on her slightly frosted skin. She turns to head in, and as the train rounds another bend, the Capitol rises— bright, towering, sleek, and monstrous. It lights up the sky, the stars slowly disappearing the closer she gets. Maysilee's stomach drops. She doesn't move. She just stares at the glowing skyline, dread settling heavy in her bones and a growing chasm opening in her chest.

The Capitol looms ahead, hungry and gleaming, and she feels like she's walking straight into its jaws.

It's colder than it was the first time she was here. She's not sure if it's because of the season or the fact that she watched her friends die brutal deaths. She sits in the apartment the Capitol provided for her, a blanket wrapped around her frame but it offers no warmth or comfort.

Everything is bright, buildings lit up constantly. Maysilee simmers in rage— they can suck up the power grid to light the city all day every day while in Twelve people have to rely on candles for most of the day. The doors to the apartment swing open as Drusilla announces her entrance.

Maysilee doesn't bother turning to look. It'll do her more harm than good. She's in Drusilla's territory now and she'll be damned if she lets that wicked witch tempt her into doing something that'll get her family killed.

"Shrew! You don't have long until the party." Drusilla grins, an evil smile slipping onto her face.

She gets ignored and Maysilee pulls the blanket tighter as a shiver races down her spine. There's something sinister about the look on Drusilla's face and, if she weren't in the belly of the beast she'd interrogate the old bat, but she doesn't have a chance because her prep team bursts in. Cassia and Quintus are laden with various bags and items.

They're dressed to the nines as Wyatt would say. Her heart pangs in her chest at the thought. Cassia's hair is pulled back into an exquisite, albeit unnatural, hairstyle and she wears a deep purple gown embedded with diamonds that shine every time she moves. Quintus wears a neon colored suit with dark suede boots. Maysilee wrinkles her nose.

"You look ridiculous," she tells him bluntly. "Fuchsia and fluorescent cyan do not go together. Did you style yourself? Or did you let Drusilla do it for you?"

She bites back the smile that threatens to grace her face as Quintus's complexion reddens until he's as red as a tomato. Drusilla sneers at Maysilee in response. Mags and Wiress aren't here— they have to get ready for the Capitol party too.

Cassia and Quintus descend on her like vultures. Cassia yanks the blanket off of her shoulders and immediately starts fussing with her hair, muttering about "shininess" and "frizz". Quintus grabs her chin, squeezing hard, and tilts her face toward the light, clicking his tongue at the bruised circles under her eyes.

"Capitol lighting will wash you out," he says. "We'll have to go heavier."

"Don't put me in clown makeup," Maysilee warns. "If I end up looking like you or Drusilla, I'll kill myself."

Quintus opens his mouth to argue, but Cassia gives a slight shake of her head and he shuts it, though he still glares at her. Maysilee sits there, exhaustion clinging to her bones, while they paint her face and tug at her scalp and dress her, Cassia tailoring it to fit better.

"This is my mother's," Cassia tells her as she adjusts the skirt of the dress. "I figured Magno would be late so I decided to bring it along. You look beautiful in it."

Maysilee nods, but says nothing. She's just a doll for the Capitol to enjoy.

Maysilee steps into the Capitol party draped in a pale, champagne-colored gown. It clings softly to her frame before spilling into a long train behind her, a river of muted gold that glides across the floor. The dress is more understated than what she's seen of Capitol citizens, she's surprised something so pretty lived amongst the cretins inhabiting the Capitol. It's a deep V-neckline, a high slit slicing up the left side, and a back left almost entirely bare. It's elegant and expensive and unmistakably designed to display someone rather than protect them.

Her is styled in loose, glossy waves, cascading down her back. Cassia told her it was so her headache wouldn't return as quickly as it would've if she'd gone with an updo. It looks like something out of the Capitol style handbook, but hers are too natural, lacking the stiff lacquered perfection the citizens adore.

Surprisingly, Quintus toned down the makeup. A faint shimmer of glitter on her eyelids, a muted red painted on her lips, rosy blush dusting her cheeks, black kohl lining her eyes. She feels hollow, the lingering feeling of being a puppet creeping up on her every second she spends in the Capitol.

The black heels she's forced to wear make her feel unsteady. Her feet ache with every step she takes. She ignores the citizens crowding around her, looking for a reprieve and she finds one— an alcove in the corner. Maysilee hurries over there, dodging men with curly mustaches and colored eyebrows. She hides there, watching the party and wishing she were anywhere but there.

She spots Mags and Wiress talking to Beetee quietly. And she wants to go over, wants to join them, feel some semblance of safety, but she doesn't want to relive the memories of the arena. A dark figure creeps across her vision and for a moment she thinks it's Wyatt, dressed in a velvet suit for the interviews, but then she sees the hair and she's jolted back into reality.

Her feet move before she thinks about it. Maysilee hurries toward the stairs, not sure where they lead but hoping that it leads her further away from the sounds of people laughing and celebrating the worst moment of her life. She climbs the stairs, hand gliding along the banister as she moves up the carpeted steps. Slowly the din below her quiets more and more and she relaxes as she walks to the end of the hallway, where a tall window overlooks the back gardens.

"Miss Donner," a smooth voice says.

She startles, eyes widening as she turns around. Snow stands in front of her, a glass of crimson wine in hand. His smile is thin and sharp, his icy blue eyes staring into hers like he's trying to read her mind. The rose pinned to his lapel bleeds its scent into the air, cloying and suffocating and smelling too much like the flowers in the arena.

"Maysilee Donner," he says. His voice is smooth, even at his old age. "Our rebellious victor."

Her stomach twists. She bows her head for a moment before lifting her chin and setting her jaw.

"You've caused quite a stir on your tour," Snow continues. "Passionate speeches. Emotional outbursts. A physical altercation." His eyes gleam. "I trust you understand the importance of maintaining decorum tonight."

"Yes, sir," she says, pulse stuttering. She clenches her fists. Be the worst victor possible.

"Good." His smile widens. "It'd be a shame if your… enthusiasm led to unfortunate consequences."

"Are you threatening me?" She questions.

"Of course not, Miss Donner," he says, tilting his head. He leans in closer and she can smell the scent of blood when he opens his mouth. "I would suggest being on your best behavior until your tour is properly over."

She nods and he turns. She watches as he walks three steps before stopping and glancing over his shoulder.

"You must be excited to see your family soon," he says. "I'm sure Merrilee will be happy to see her twin again."

Maysilee's heart drops like a stone in water as he strolls away.

She needs to get out of here. Maysilee moves as fluidly as possible down the stairs, her fingers gripping the banister until her knuckles turn white. She can't see her mentors but she knows she won't last any longer in the ballroom. She needs air.

Maysilee swipes a drink on her way out, constantly bombarded by Capitolites, their jeweled hands grabbing, their voices shrill and hungry. She stumbles outside, drink sloshing in her hand as she inhales the nighttime air.

She starts walking, heading down the paved path toward the sidewalk. A tall, dapper man appears in the corner of her eye.

"You're even prettier up close," he purrs, fingers caressing her arm.

She jerks away, but he grabs her wrist squeezing hard. The pressure sends a shock of pain up her arm. His hand is nothing like Wyatt's comforting one. Maysilee stills.

"Let go," she says.

He doesn't, his other hand reaching out to grab her chin. She doesn't even think before she tosses the liquid contents in her glass in his face. He gasps, but doesn't release her.

"Let go!" She snaps, yanking her arm but only managing to drag him closer.

"You little bitch," he hisses. His eyes are dark and terrifying as he looks at her.

Maysilee doesn't hesitate before slamming her crystalline glass against his head. He lets go while releasing a howl of pain. Blood trickles down from his temple, droplets splattering on the ground.

She takes several steps back before fleeing, only stopping when she reaches the sidewalk. Maysilee tugs of her heels before running again, further and further away from the President's mansion as his shrieks ring in her ears. She pushes through throngs of people, her feet leading her back to the Capitol apartment. Her face is flushed, her chest heaves with the amount of exertion.

Terror clings to her limbs until she slams the apartment door shut behind her and locks it. Maysilee sinks to the floor, pressing her palms against her eyes. Her pulse thunders in her ears. Sobs overtake her body as she thinks about her father being dragged from the Sweet Shop, Merrilee's screams and her face pale and terrified, her mother collapsing.

She pictures Peacekeepers kicking in the door. Snow smiling.

"I ruined everything," she whispers. She slams her head against the door repeatedly, the pain that follows a welcome feeling.

She says nothing as the Capitolites around her lie to her face saying how sad they are to see her go, how excited they are to bring her back for special occasions in the Capitol. Maysilee just stares blankly out the window, eyes unseeing as scenery blurs past until they enter the train station in District 12.

She's happy to be back home. Snow's said nothing about the incident at the Capitol party. The train comes to a stop and Mags and Wiress lead her out of the train. Peacekeepers line the platform, guns at the ready, white armor glinting in the pale sunlight. She stiffens, wonders if this is because of her impudent behavior.

Mags and Wiress flank her as they walk toward the town square. The Harvest Festival is already underway— banners strung across the square, stalls set up with meager winter produce, children bundled in coats chasing each other. Maysilee spots her family standing outside of the Sweet Shop and she leaves her procession and runs straight into the arms of her father.

His arms tighten around her. She feels like a child again, in need of comfort after doing something bad. She sniffles and buries her face further into his chest.

"You're okay, sweetpea," he murmurs quietly. "You're safe."

Merrilee weeps beside her, tears of happiness rolling down her cheeks in big fat drops. Maysilee hugs her sister, they cling to each other tightly. A wave of relief crashes over her, she's grateful to be back home but the guilt of her deeds are a steady presence in the back of her mind.

"Maysilee," Mags murmurs, appearing out of nowhere. "We need to finish."

Reluctantly, Maysilee leaves her family and follows Mags to the platform where Mayor Allister stands, ready to introduce Maysilee.

"Don't embarrass me, girly," Drusilla hisses at Maysilee when she walks past.

"As if I have to do much to do that," Maysilee retorts before taking her place. She puts on a fake smile, ready to play for the cameras in the hope her family stays alive.

People dance and chat as the festival continues. Maysilee nurses a glass of white liquor— courtesy of Hattie Meeney ("You look like you need it, dear," she said). Her eyes roam over the festivities: Mags and Wiress talking to her parents, Merrilee and Asterid sitting together with Burdock Everdeen, Drusilla and Magno nowhere to be seen.

The feeling of being watched prickles her skin. Maysilee turns her head, still being careful after the concussion, and her eyes meet dark brown eyes. For a moment, her breath escapes her. Wyatt's eyes. But then she sees the rest of the face and the excitement drains out of her.

It's just his mother. She's met her before, at the funeral when she got home with three coffins. When she found out Wyatt's father hung himself out of shame. She watches as Wyatt's mother walks toward her. The distance between them grows smaller and smaller.

Finally, his mother comes to a stop in front of her. Maysilee waits. She knows his mother isn't going to yell at her or blame her, Wyatt said she was the sweetest woman in the world.

"Hello, Maysilee," his mother says.

"Hello, Mrs. Callow," Maysilee replies, eyes fixed on a distant point. She can't look her in the eye, guilt and the similarity to Wyatt too much for her to bear.

"How are you doin', dear?" Mrs. Callow asks. "I know it must be hard."

"It's been…" She trails off, eyes noticing a suspicious amount of Peacekeepers patrolling and Plutarch and his cameramen not far behind. "Difficult, but it was nice to see the other districts." The lie burns her tongue.

Mrs. Callow's eyes soften, an knowing gaze settling on her face. "Thank you for staying with him, Maysilee. I couldn't say it when you first came back because…" She trails off.

A lump forms in Maysilee's throat. She nods. "Yeah, no, I understand. He was my first ally. I couldn't leave him there." Didn't want to leave him there.

Plutarch appears, a cameraman following like a duckling. Mrs. Callow steps back enough to give her space. She squeezes Maysilee's arm gently and then disappears into the crowd.

Maysilee drains the rest of her liquor. It burns as it goes down. She wishes it hurt more.

"So, how are you enjoying the festivities?" Plutarch asks.

Maysilee eyes the cameraman. "It's fine."

"Are you happy to be home?"

"Yes."

"Who were you just talking to?"

"No one."

"Maysilee."

"I've gotta go," she says, turning and pushing through the crowd. She refuses to let the Capitol use her or Wyatt's mother as entertainment.

She weaves between people, a silent ghost. When she hits the edge of the square, she glances back. Sees her family, her mentors, her friends. Maysilee turns and walks. The path toward the edge is quiet.

Snow crunches under boots as flakes drift lazily from the sky. She inhales, the coldness stinging her eyes and lungs. She hasn't been to the graveyard since the burial— the thought too daunting, too painful.

Six months. Six months of avoiding this walk, of pretending that she wasn't afraid of seeing their gravestones, of feeling guilty for not being able to protect any of them.

But today, she can't pretend anymore.

The cemetery sits atop a hill, filled with family plots. Snow blankets the ground, soft and untouched. The trees sway gently in the wind, their branches creaking like old bones.

Her feet slow as she approaches the row of graves. Louella McCoy. Haymitch Abernathy. Wyatt Callow. Lou Lou. The mantra pops into her head. She wonders where they buried Lou Lou. Did they dispose of her in an unmarked grave? Did they burn her to ashes? She's not sure if she actually wants to know.

She knows exactly which one is which, sees it in her mind's eye whenever she drifts off to sleep. Maysilee kneels in the snow in front of the graves.

"Hi," she says softly. The wind carries her voice away. She clears her throat. "I'm sorry. I wanted to see you all, but I couldn't."

Even the thought of visiting their graves sent her running. She spent most of her time after her win working at the Sweet Shop, the place she hated most in the world until she arrived at the Capitol. Running from her demons is what she heard her Papa say to her mother.

"I miss you," she whispers, reaching out and brushing the snow off of Wyatt's gravestone. "I really liked you. You were the only person nice to me other than my family and Asterid." Her gaze lands on Haymitch's tombstone. "And you were my brother. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from Silka."

Her vision blurs as she swings her gaze to Louella's grave. Poor, spunky Louella. She didn't even make it to the arena.

"I'm so sorry, Louella," she murmurs. "You deserved so much better."

Her shoulders shake, a sob scraping out of her throat. She covers her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle anymore sobs.

"I should've saved you all," she sobs. "I should've—"

She can't finish the sentence. It hurts too much. The wind whistles through the trees as she tries to gather her broken thoughts. Snow continues to fall, landing in her hair and on her lashes and on the gravestones.

Around her, the sky slowly darkens, turning from afternoon into dusk and then evening. Maysilee sits there numbly. Her minds drift back to the last time they were all alive.

"Is this even safe?" Maysilee questions, staring at the chariot. The horses neigh and she steps closer to Wyatt.

"The probability of something bad happening is roughly twenty-four percent," Wyatt says, his dark eyes glancing at her before looking away. "Unless there's an unexpected variable."

"That's not too bad," she answers. She chews on the inside of her cheek.

Before she knows it, her and Louella are forced onto the chariot. Maysilee grips the railing tightly, Wyatt standing behind her and Haymitch behind Louella. They all share a look— a war of fear, apprehension, and reluctance marring their faces.

The horses start trotting along the barricaded parade route. Capitol citizens jeer and shout at them, drunk and disorderly. They're waving things in the air. Pamphlets? She's not sure. It all happens too fast. A firecracker hits the pavement in front of their chariot and spooks the horses.

Soon, they're flying down the street, Maysilee clutching the railing and Wyatt's arms caging her in. The chariot hits District 6's and the axle pops off. Louella and Haymitch go soaring into the air as Wyatt and Maysilee crash, falling out of the chariot and onto the hard pavement. Maysilee groans, her back aching but immediately checks on Wyatt. He's blinking, dazed, but alive.

A bruise is forming on his arm from where he hit the ground and she can feel throbbing pain on her side. She pushes herself up to check on Haymitch and Louella.

"You okay?" Wyatt asks softly.

"I've been better," she says. "You?"

He gives her a small smile. "Been better."

They make their way over to Haymitch. He kneels beside Louella's still form. Maysilee's stomach drops as she realizes.

She jerks herself out of the memory, heart beating rapidly in her chest. Tears stream down her face. The wind picks up, howling around her. Maysilee shivers as she clutches the jacket tighter around herself.

She doesn't want to leave, not yet. Not when she just gathered the courage to see them. But she knows her family will come looking soon, if they aren't already. Maysilee stands, but something captures her attention.

Something dark pokes through the frozen soil on Wyatt's grave. She leans closer, a frown on her face. A tiny sprout, barely more than a stem, pushes through the snow. She reaches out. Her fingers brush against it.

It's nothing. Just a small stubborn thing fighting its way through winter. It feels like a message. Of what? She's unsure, but for a moment she feels warmth surround her. Like she's being hugged by Wyatt and Haymitch and Lou Lou before entering the arena.

"I'll be back," she promises. "I swear on it. I'll visit every day."

The wind quiets, almost as if it's listening before picking back up. She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to heal, doesn't know if she'll ever sleep again without seeing his face, doesn't know if the nightmares will ever stop.

But she hopes that by visiting them, she'll keep them alive in her memory. Never have to worry about the people who she found comfort in disappearing from her mind: Haymitch, her brother; Louella, her annoying little sister; Lou Lou, her innocent little sister; and Wyatt, the boy she likes. The boy she wishes she had known for longer.

She'll keep them all close to her heart forever.

Maysilee crests the hill, cheeks red from the exertion, calves burning from the steep incline. Her eyes land on his resting place, the tombstone already weather-worn, gray and mildew beginning to cover up the epithet. She walks over, dodging overgrown weeds and mole holes. It's been a few weeks since she's last seen his grave, stuck in the Capitol for countless parties and soirees and galas. She hated every second of it, wondered if she'd be better off dead instead of playing the part of a perfect puppet for the Capitol.

But she knows better. If she says or does anything the president doesn't like, someone she cares about will die. Whether it be her Papa or her twin or her mother. And she's had enough death to last her a lifetime.

"I'm back again," she says sinking onto the ground, four bouquets in her arms. "I'm sorry I was gone for so long. Snow wanted me in the Capitol for parties." She scoffs. "I… I missed you guys. I'm not sure if Merrilee came and visited for me like I asked her to. But I keep you guys with me. I made sure to give some of my winnings to your families."

She sets the bouquets she brought along the gravestones. For Haymitch, forget-me-nots and bluebells and pine; for Louella, forget-me-nots and marigolds and snapdragons; for Lou Lou, forget-me-nots and lily of the valley and white daises; and for Wyatt, forget-me-nots and sweet peas and white camellias.

She places Lou Lou's gravestone between Louella's and Wyatt's since she was a replacement for Louella and Wyatt protected her. Tears bead at the corners of her eyes.

"I got these in the Capitol," she murmurs, touching the delicate petals of the camellias on Wyatt's bouquet. "I came straight here when I got back."

The spring breeze carries the faint scent of thawing earth. She closes her eyes and lets it wash over her. When she opens them again, something catches her attention.

A patch of soil at the base of Wyatt's grave looks disturbed. She leans forward, breath catching in her throat. Tiny stems push through the earth, pale green and trembling in the wind. Their buds are closed tight, but she knows that they're flowers.

She lets out a disbelieving laugh, remembers their conversation at night where they talked about their deaths and him saying he wants something pretty to grow from him. She remembers laughing, not realizing he would do anything to protect her and Lou Lou.

Her eyes spot more sprouts dotting Haymitch's and Louella's graves, trying to bloom. She smiles sadly. Even in death, they stick together.

"I'll be back," she promises. "I won't forget any of you. Not ever."

She leaves, warmth lingering in her chest with the hope that it'll get better.