Chapter Text
The ache never quiets.
It’s cold, creeping, a lingering sense of dread closing frigid fingers around my lungs. It seeps into the back of my brain as I get ready for the day, it climbs down my throat as I drag myself out hunting, it curls into my stomach as I sit down to eat.
I don’t cook. One look at the sprawling kitchen, so open and so empty, drives me away. Cooking a whole meal for one feels so wasteful. Instead I stoke a fire in the hearth, and skin and roast a rabbit. It tastes like ash, like the arena. But it’s so familiar, that I don’t eat much of anything else. It’s barely enough.
Feeding one mouth instead of three should be easier.
But the ache spreads.
It’s quiet in my house, now. Echoes of laughter that used to bounce through the halls. I crave that noise. Something to fill up my days.
Greasy Sae comes in the mornings and evenings to cook for me, despite my feeble rabbit meals. Somehow, she doesn’t think those are enough for me. Things are quiet between us. Sometimes she brings her little granddaughter with her, but since she doesn’t speak much either, the silence grows.
I don’t dare ask after Haymitch and Peeta. Not more than they already appear. The two of them have their own things, their own worries. They don’t need to spend all of their waking hours with me, who can’t make a noise without great strain, who can’t do more than hunt and eat.
Peeta appears for breakfast sometimes, but we’re both quiet. We eat rabbit, or whatever Sae has made us, he brings bread. I pick at the crust until he leaves, and that slice of bread becomes my meal for the rest of the day, until Sae comes back around.
I take my therapy calls with Dr. Aurelius every now and then, but I’m not good with the consistency of it all, and I can’t bring myself to give him much more than surly, despondent answers to all his questions. He’s frustratingly patient with me. I wish he would just scream, shout, tell me I’m unfixable and that he was going to stop calling me. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to sound annoyed with me when I’m silent for entire calls.
Except, one day, he mentions something that catches me.
He tells me, that maybe I need to keep myself busy with something. He tells me that hobbies can be helpful, for the mentally ill. Tells me how having something tangible to do might give me a reason to keep moving during the days. That it might help me, genuinely, to have something outside of my meals with Sae and occasionally Peeta, that brings me happiness.
So I drag myself, dead weight, down to the first floor.
In the study, we kept all of the talents the Capitol tried to give me. Nothing stuck, nothing felt right. But I need something, anything, under my fingers. He’s been so patient with me, I can’t afford to let Dr. Aurelius down now. And I really am sick of this feeling.
It’s freezing as I dig through the countless different supplies. There’s paper and pens, swaths of fabrics, paints, knitting needles and yarn, costume jewelry, twists of metal. There’s piles of blank notebooks, magazines, catalogs, cookbooks, and trivia cards. I push past it all. There’s one thing I remember, the last, true scraps of happiness I felt without something hollow pounding in my chest. Spins and swirls of music, laughter and dancing, bright smiles and warm hearts and everything mingling so sweetly.
I dig out the firm leather bag. It’s larger than I remember it being, almost the length of my arm. It’s clearly Capitol made, but toned down in an attempt to appeal to me. The leather is engraved with tongues of fire and bundles of feathers, before they knew what those meant. I run my fingers reverently across it, then my palm. I drag my hand across the carvings, as if I could leech warmth from the false flames.
I hook my arm through the strap, clutching the bag to my chest. It’s not heavy, not as much as I’d thought it would be. I breathe in the smell of the leather, the faint whips of cologne still clinging to it. I’m not sure whose it is. It certainly isn’t Cinna’s. He always smelled of wood tones.
Making my way to the door is hard enough. Each step I take sends that pounding ache back up through my chest. It feels like turning a page on what was my old life, to try and change how I operate, now.
But, if I want noise, if I want sound again, there’s someone I need to find.
With all the courage I can drudge up, I step outside.
I wander my way through the bombed out streets of Twelve, avoiding the eyes of people I pass. There’s no more baked in coal-dust in the cobbles. These are new, rough hewn and quick-laid with the effort to rebuild. It’s raw, empty. The sounds of the town are delicate and scared, a broken-winged bird re-learning to fly, scared to hit a branch and shatter all over again.
This is not the Twelve I left. It won’t be, ever again. With so many familiar faces dead, buried, burnt. Guilt swells up in my stomach.
I’m not sure where to find him, but I don’t have the courage to ask around. Instead, I inspect the temporary pop-up houses and tents, the places set up for the refugees of war moving back home. I take in the sounds and the sights and the little touches of personal life. There’s a pop-up house teeming with wildflowers, bursting from the windows, hanging dried from the door, forcing their way through the cracks in the damaged grounds. There’s another spattered in paint, beautiful shades of purples and blues, all child height, little hand prints on doorknobs and railings. But the one that catches my eye, the one I know deep in my gut will hold the man I’m looking for, is still dim.
The only thing of note, is the slightly propped open window, the patchwork curtains drawn open to reveal a simple house, and a simple room.
My hands shake horribly, as I walk up the steps. They creak beneath my feet, tattling on my approach. I don’t try to hide it. I clutch the leather bag to my chest, take a deep breath, and knock.
At first, I’m worried I got it wrong. That this isn’t the right pop-up house—that I’ve horribly misjudged, and I’m going to have to explain my intentions to this random, grieving person.
But then the door swings open, and the man that stands in front of me is exactly who I’m looking for.
He’s elderly, with wrinkled, Seam brown skin and age-white hair. There’s an exhaustion in his eyes, one that well-passes mine. He’s got on a shirt that looks to be made of stitched together scraps of fabric, all different colors and sizes, matching nice with his curtains. Age spots decorate his skin, but he carries himself upright. He takes me in, slowly, with my matted hair and ashen skin.
“Um,” I scuff my boot on the ground, unable to break my gaze from his. “Are you…the fiddler? From—from the wedding?”
A look of recognition, somewhere far away, crosses his face. He gives me a smile, all wrinkles and saggy cheeks.
“Clerk Carmine,” he says. His voice is clear, almost melodic in tone. He puts out a hand for me to shake. And I do, as best I can. My scarred palm feels unwelcome against his, but his grip is firm, and warm, and he doesn’t recoil at my tattered skin. “You’re Burdock’s girl, aren’t you? You’ve got his eyes.”
Something heavy catches in my chest, my breath snagging on an age-old wound. If this Clerk Carmine recognizes me as my father's kin, then surely, he recognizes me as the Mockingjay—but he doesn’t mention it.
“Yeah,” I breathe, “Um, Katniss. E-Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen.”
“That’s a wonderful name.” Clerk Carmine gives my hand another squeeze before letting me go. I cling to my bag, tucking my chin against the top. “And yes, I played the fiddle at your friends’ wedding.”
I swallow hard against the knot building in my throat.
“What brings you ‘round here?” Clerk Carmine asks. There’s a gentleness in his voice that I’m not familiar with. It’s the kind that comes from years of hardship. Worn soft from the exhaustion of anger, and grief. The kind that doesn’t let you hurt people anymore. Not the way you’ve been hurt.
“Can you teach me?” I ask. “To play the fiddle?”
Clerk Carmine blinks in surprise. A slow, creeping look of sadness eases into his expression. For a moment, I think he’s about to send me away, but then there’s a hand on my arm, and a new spark in his tired eyes.
“Of course I can.”
I sniff, quickly scrubbing the heel of my palm across my eyes. “Thank you, sir. I’ve got my own instrument, but um…I’ve never played before.”
“Alright, let’s take a look at it,” Clerk Carmine says, and then he’s ushering me inside, his hand still on my shoulder. “You get that thing out, get yourself situated, I’ll set the kettle on.”
The plain outside of his pop-up house completely undersold the interior. Everything looks so painfully Twelve, with a scrappy, well-worn rug, and bundles of dried plants hanging above the small fireplace. The patchwork curtains echo throughout the furniture, a couch sewn back together, a stitched up coat hanging off the mantle. It’s nothing shy of cozy.
I step foot to foot, unsure of how to hold myself. Nervously, I set my leather instrument case on the small dining table, cracking it open with trembling fingers. My hands find the neck of the fiddle, rubbing my thumb along the dark, polished wood. There’s another round of engravings on the base, along the body. More feathers and flying birds.
“That’s one handsome instrument,” Clerk Carmine says. He sets two mugs of tea on the table. It smells soft, some sort of flower tea I can’t quite place.
“The Capitol sent it to me,” I admit as I take one of the mugs in both hands. It feels like a horrible confession, in the face of someone so visibly everything the Capitol hated. Someone aged, someone wisened, someone hardened by their years and softened by love. “I don’t—I don’t know anything about it.”
“Nothin’?” Clerk Carmine looks up at me, and that spark in his eyes almost seems brighter. “Go on, go on. Have a seat, my dear.”
I sit, and Clerk Carmine runs me through everything about the instrument, until my brain feels so stuffed full with information I’ve almost forgotten the ache. He shows me everything, the scroll to the body, the fingerboard, the chin rest. The bridge, the tailpiece, the F-holes and pegs, the fine tuners and each string and how it’s all put together. I listen as best I can. His words are beautifully smooth, none of that elderly tremble I’d expected from him.
For a moment, I allow myself to think if this is what my father would have been like, had he reached this age. Would he speak with such a gorgeous, melodic tone? Bouncing from word to word, speaking with such assured, life-learned knowledge?
“So, you say you don’t know much about the fiddle?” He asks, once he’s run his list of pieces dry.
“I’ve never even held one of them before,” I chew my lip, picking the skin around my thumb.
“Alright, then lets get it in your hands.” Clerk Carmine moves to the living room, grabbing his own fiddle. He props it up on his shoulder, tucks his chin right into position. “Like this, you see?”
The fiddle feels awkward in my hand, and though it’s quite light—hardly even a pound—it aches on my wrist.
“Adjust your chin,” Clerk Carmine instructs, “keep your arm closer, yeah?”
He circles me like a vulture watching a wounded animal, waiting for it to take its final breath. He’s not afraid to move me about, straightening up my spine, adjusting my wrist, sliding my hand up and down the neck of the fiddle. Once he’s satisfied, he places the bow in my hand.
This, it turns out, is even harder to hold right than the fiddle. He wants my fingers on it feather light, poised in a way that makes my palm ache. The shiny, replacement skin on my knuckles twists awkwardly.
When he has me drag the bow across the strings, all I get is a dry, scratchy squeal. I wince, but Clerk Carmine doesn’t look anything but pleased. He instructs me to try again, and again, and again, making minor little adjustments until I’m finally able to peal out one rich, even note.
I can’t help but smile up at him. It pinches my cheeks a little.
“Good, good,” he says.
This is nothing like it was to learn singing. No immediate praise like my father doled out, no insistences that I was a natural. Clerk Carmine makes me work for it. Makes me work for his praise. It feels good.
He shows me how to make each note on the strings with my fingers, and then about halfway through realizes I don’t have a clue what the notes themselves mean, so he hands me a sheet of paper with all of them written out in scales. Then he has me set the fiddle aside while I figure out what the notes all look like on these sheets of paper. He explains them each, note by note, until my head starts to swim. Over and over, he has me make the shapes with my fingers on the strings, without even playing a sound. He has me run through them until I could do it in my sleep, before we even start to move on.
“Now, try to string them together with sound,” Clerk Carmine instructs. He shows me on his own fiddle, plays up and down with ease.
I try to mimic him, but I keep losing the flow about halfway up. It’s a lot harder to keep the finger placements all correct when I’m also focusing on holding the bow right, then also thinking about how I have to drag it across the strings properly. But even when I mess up, there’s no scolding, no harsh words, just firm encouragement as he tells me to try again from the beginning.
“That doesn’t hurt your hand now, does it?” Clerk Carmine asks me after a while.
“Hm?” I lower the fiddle and bow, looking up at him.
“Those are some awful lookin’ burns,” he’s got a crease in his brow, now, eyeing up my hands. He trails up to my arm, following the scars. “They ain’t giving you any trouble? What with the vibrations?”
“No,” I shake my head. “They’ve mostly healed up by now.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” he says. “Then give me those runs again, up to down this time.”
The sun crawls across the sky as he runs me through the scales. I’m not a patient person, but Clerk Carmine doesn’t seem keen on doing anything other than this, and I don’t know of any other fiddle players in town—I honestly doubt there’s any left. Clerk Carmine’s tapping his foot as I play, and when I manage to make my way up the scale and back down again without the bow squealing, he gives me a glowing smile.
“What’s got you all interested in fiddling, now?” Clerk Carmine asks me, once he’s run me through the scales again. It takes me several tries to string a proper one a second time, but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush.
I pull out a reedy E note, but my fingers aren’t on the strings quite firm enough, so it squeals on the end.
“I need something to do,” I admit. I can’t look up at him, can’t let him see the shame on my face, so I keep my eyes trained on the pages of notes laid across the table. “It’s real quiet in my house, these days. My doctor said it’d be good for me.”
I can hear the way Clerk Carmine saddens at my words.
“I heard you lost your sister,” he says softly.
I drag the bow across the strings harder than I should. It doesn’t even make a note, just a harsh, dry scratching sound. I can feel my hackles rising. “I did.”
“I lost someone close,” he continues. “Years ago. I’ve found keeping busy helps. That doctor of yours is right.”
“Right,” I agree, but I’m trying to keep my focus on the notes, starting at the beginning of the scale. It takes me a second to find the finger for a C again.
“Music and people,” Clerk Carmine’s voice turns fond. “That’s how I’ve kept myself sane. Ain’t easy all the time. But it keeps my head on straight.”
I don’t respond to that one, and I don’t think he expects me to, either. Instead, he goes right back to humming along with the scales, gently redirecting me when I get the placements wrong, or when a note comes out squeaky. Clerk Carmine doesn’t seem in any hurry to have me move past these scales.
But he’s got me thinking. About music, and noise, and keeping company. I haven’t seen Haymitch and Peeta in quite some time, not outside of breakfasts. It’s been my only few ounces of control, to be able to shut them out, once Peeta returned to Twelve. Haymitch had stopped trying to coax me out of hiding, and it hadn’t been hard to convince myself it was because he was getting sick of me. But now I wonder, if they’re both just exhausted as I am. If I’m being selfish all over again, thinking they’re only not coming to my door because they don’t like me. If maybe, maybe each of them wants someone to show up at their house, for once.
When we finish up, Clerk Carmine sends me home with a handful of sheet music, of nothing but scales up and down, and tells me to practice those the whole week, until my fingers callous over. Then he wants me to come back on Thursdays, and show him what I’ve got, so he can teach me something new. I pack up the fiddle, careful with it, like it’s something impossibly delicate. As ephemeral as morning dew.
“Thank you, sir,” I manage to get out. There’s something exhilarating building up in my chest, the thought of having to work for something. Having a goal. Dr. Aurelius was certainly right. At the very least, he’d pegged my stubborn streak.
“Oh, none of that sir nonsense,” Clerk Carmine says. “My name ain’t worn out quite yet.”
“Right, um,” I nod, “Thank you, Clerk Carmine. Can I—?” I fumble around in my pockets, pulling out a little coin purse my mother got for me. I try to give him a handful, but he refuses, curling my fingers back around them.
“I’ve got no need for money,” he tells me, “But I hear tell you’re a hunter?”
I nod again. “Yes, and a forager.”
“Just like your pa,” Clerk Carmine shakes his head, but his look is all soft. “Why don’t you go ahead and bring me something from the woods, next time you swing by? I ain’t got use for money, but I do have a use for food.”
“Oh, I can do that!” I tell him, maybe a bit more excited than I should be. But my over-enthusiasm doesn’t waver Clerk Carmine at all. In fact, it seems to make his smile brighter.
He sends me off with a pat on the back, and a warmth humming through me that I’d long since forgotten.
The sun’s setting by the time I’ve made it back to my house.
For the first time, I let myself appreciate the way the rays turn the sky a beautiful golden-orange. I lift my chin, let the sun warm my face.
The house still feels hollow, when I enter, but I can smell the wonderful aroma of whatever Greasy Sae cooked while I was out. If my nose is right—which it usually is—she’s made me something with wild bird and tomatoes. I eat a small portion, tuck the rest away into my fridge, then I sweep around the downstairs, looking for a good spot to practice my scales. I’m already giddy thinking about going back next week—though that means I’ll have to start keeping track of the days again. Maybe I should get a calendar.
Eventually, I settle on a nice spot near the window in the sitting area, so I can play in the dying sunlight, without having to turn any of the lights on or stoke a fire. I prop the sheet music on the arm chair, crack the window slightly because the breeze outside was so pleasant, and try to find the fingering for a low C. The first note squeals obnoxiously, and Buttercup noses his way out of the study, yowling his disapproval. I pull the note out again—properly this time—and Buttercup seems to decide that’s not nearly as offensive. He pads on over, tail swishing, and hops up on the arm chair. He doesn’t bother the sheet music any, so I decide he’s allowed to stay.
As I rise my way up the scale properly, only squealing a couple of times, I let my mind wander.
If I want a calendar, I could likely trade around in the new trading center that’s replaced the Hob. I’m not sure how far the extent of my arrest reaches, so I may not be able to order anything from the Capitol just yet. I could probably ask Haymitch or Peeta to get one for me, if I’m not able to find one around the trading center, but I don’t want to bother them with my small problems.
Although, it really has been a while since I’ve properly spoken to either of them. Peeta’s been really closed off since he got back from his time in inpatient, and Haymitch doesn’t seem to be coping well with the end of the war either. Of course, I see Peeta in the mornings at breakfast, but neither of us has managed any substantial conversation past rudimentary greetings.
I squeal on the F, and with a huff, I start the scale over again. Clerk Carmine hadn’t told me to keep up the restarting routine at home, but I figure I should copy what I was doing with him to a T, to make sure I did everything right. Buttercup gives me an unhappy meow, just to let me know he doesn’t approve.
Maybe I could bring a peace offering to Haymitch and Peeta, before I ask one of them a favor. Clerk Carmine’s words spin around endlessly in my head. Music and people. That’s how he kept himself together. Want them or not, I’ll always have people on hand.
The hands on the living room clock crawl slowly, and once half an hour is over, I scamper over to the kitchen. My hands are sore, my shoulder throbbing slightly, but I’m more excited at the idea I’ve given myself.
I pick the matts out of my hair as fast as humanly possible. I’m fumbling with everything I grab, it takes me two tugs to skin a rabbit. I toss together ingredients in whatever combinations sound like they’d taste good. I set a pot of grain to cook slowly, chop up wild onions and parsnips, and butcher and slice one of my freshest rabbits. There’s little divets in my fingers from where I was pressing on the fiddle strings, and they’re awful tender, but each time I press down it sends a spark of satisfaction through me. I remember when I was younger, when I’d first begun to develop callouses from hunting, I’d shown them off to Prim with the biggest smile I could muster. She hasn’t understood why I was so excited, but any joy was infectious with her.
I blink hard, shaking my head.
I set a timer on the oven, check to make sure the grain won’t boil over, then rush out of the house.
I’m not even sure who I want to go to first. For a moment I stall, but then I find myself darting over to Haymitch’s house. I let myself straight inside, too giddy to even knock. I’m certain Haymitch means to leave his door locked more often, but I think he’s too drunk to remember, most of the time.
I find him fast asleep in his own armchair, right by the window. It’s slightly cracked open, and he’s all slumped toward it, like he was appreciating the breeze before he nodded off. Clearly he didn’t mean to fall asleep, ‘cause he doesn’t have his knife on hand, and his flask is still open, hanging limply from his fingers.
“Haymitch,” I say from some distance, just in case he’s secretly stashed a knife somewhere that I’m just not seeing. When he doesn’t stir, I get a little louder. “Haymitch!”
I’m secretly hoping that won’t wake him up either, ‘cause it gives me an excuse to scoop something up off the ground—which turns out to be an empty tin can of some kind—and lob it at his head. The can bounces off his forehead with a satisfying tink! and Haymitch lurches up, dropping his flask.
He spits some choice curses at me before he’s fully awake, but eventually he has the good graces to pull himself back together.
“Good to see you again, sweetheart,” he grumbles, rubbing his forehead. “Why are you in my house?”
“I’m making dinner,” I tell him, rocking up on the balls of my feet. “You should come over.”
“Why?” He raises his eyebrows. For a second, it’s like I can see him thinking, trying to remember if he’d forgotten an important date of some kind.
“Just ‘cause,” I roll back onto my heels.
Haymitch glances over at the window, then down at his dropped flask. He sighs and nods assent, easing himself to his feet. I expect him to shut the window, but instead he just wanders off into his house. Giddiness bubbles up in my chest again, and I hurry off to go gather Peeta up as well.
It’s a little more nerve-wracking walking straight into his house. I haven’t been this thrilled to see him in a while, but I know he’s doing at least somewhat better, based on the look in his eyes whenever he shows up for breakfast. And something about that makes the idea of asking him over for a meal a little bit more exhilarating.
So I knock, and clasp my hands behind my back to wait.
I take rocking back up, rolling from my toes to my heels, my braid flopping against my back. It soothes the nervous energy in me, I’ve found. These little motions. It’s better than chewing on my nails, because with all of the stress of the war, I’d found myself biting down to the quick far too often.
It doesn’t take long at all for Peeta to answer the door. He peeks out tentatively, his eyes wide and curious. There’s none of that far-away fog in them. His hair is all over the place, curls lopsided. The smell of something delicious wafts out of the crack in the door, and it takes a lot out of me to stay composed.
“Hi,” I wave a little, then my hands go right back behind my back. I’m still rocking.
“Katniss,” he breathes out. There’s a moment where he just looks at me, but then he seems to remember where he is, and he straightens up, opening the door properly. “Um…hey. You’re looking well.”
“I’m making dinner,” I say in a bit of a rush, right on the heels of his words. “Haymitch is coming over. You should too.”
“Oh!” Peeta perks up. “Perfect timing, I was just making some bread, I could—I could bring that with?”
“Please do,” I say. I try not to sound too desperate, but the warm smell of baked goods is still seeping through his door, and I’m really regretting not eating more of his bread in the mornings. I make my way back up on my toes.
“You’re…in a good mood,” Peeta points out.
“I slept well,” I lie. It’s too embarrassing to admit I’ve missed them both this much, to the point that a simple dinner has me beyond giddy. “First time in a while.”
And the smile that spreads across Peeta’s face is painfully sweet. A reminder of times long, long past. “That’s good to hear.”
I glance over my shoulder, back towards my house. “Okay, I shouldn’t leave it cooking. I don’t want to burn my whole house down.”
“Well, hold on,” Peeta darts back inside.
He leaves the door ajar, and I can’t help but poke my head inside, breathing in the comfortable smell of bread. His house is rather dark, with only the light from the windows illuminating it. It’s arranged an awful lot like mine, but his couch is made up like a bed, with a thick blanket and a couple of fluffy looking pillows. There’s a lot more clutter than I thought there would be. More than I thought one boy could make himself. Different, half-done canvases are scattered around, some propped against the couch, others nestled on the armchair or on the mantle, and another sitting on an easel. That one is more finished than the others, full of warped, striking colors, all melting into each other into a frenzy of teeth and eyes and hands.
I duck back outside when Peeta starts to come around the corner. He’s holding a little basket with a loaf of bread wrapped in wax-paper, and it looks like he’s run wet fingers through his curls in an attempt to tame them, but they’re still a bit hectic. He follows me to my house, and wordlessly moves to help me finish up the meal. He tends to the rabbit, his brow all knit together, his bottom lip snagged between his teeth.
“Is this the kind of bread we can have with a spread?” I ask, carefully peeling open the wax paper. “Because I just got some lovely goat cheese, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to use it.”
“It’s sourdough,” Peeta says back absentmindedly, which really doesn’t tell me anything. He’s got his knuckles pressed to his lips, one arm crossed over his stomach as he watches the rabbit cook. There’s a look in his eyes, familiar and intense.
“And that means…?” I prompt.
“Oh!” He blinks a few times, giving me a sheepish smile. “It means yes, sorry.”
I slip behind him to get to the refrigerator, digging around for the little lump of cheese Greasy Sae had brought for me a few days ago. She thought it might cheer me up, to have a little piece of something so Prim, but I’d been too scared to even touch it. But with Peeta and Haymitch, it might be a little easier.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, because Peeta’s still zeroed in on the rabbit.
“You’ve made this before, real or not real?” he asks quietly. There’s a touch of intensity to his voice that sets me on edge.
I frown. I have to dig through my memory for a second before I remember. “Real, sort of. My mother made it after the Victory tour, before the Quell. But with katniss root instead of grain. We ate it a few weeks before my birthday, I think.”
He breathes in and out slowly, then shakes his head. “It smells good.”
“Lets hope it tastes good, too,” I try for a light tone.
We haven’t played Real or Not Real in a while, and a small, selfish part of me had hoped he had gotten past it. It hurts in a special way, to think Peeta’s still all tangled up inside his head, that he still can’t completely sort his real memories from hijacked ones.
I slice up the bread while Peeta takes the rabbit off the stove. He sets up three servings, plating the food all pretty-like, being careful to arrange the rabbit and vegetables on a bed of grain in a nice little even order. I try not to notice how shaky his hands are.
Buttercup gives a creaky meow, circling around Peeta’s ankles, butting his mashed flat head against his prosthetic. I pretend not to see how he drops a piece of rabbit for the cat to lap up.
“Sae’s not coming for dinner tonight?” Peeta asks. “I thought she made you your meals, now.”
“She made something earlier, while I was out,” I tell him as I wipe down the table with a damp cloth. There’s a little dust gathering, in the spots Sae, Peeta, and I don’t sit at. “I ate some, but you know me. I’m already hungry again.”
I can tell Peeta’s caught on the words while I was out, based on the way his face has scrunched up a little, but he doesn’t press.
We’re just setting the plates on the dining table when Haymitch stumbles in. He brings the reek of spirits with him, but doesn’t cause too much of a mess, so I don’t shout. He slumps at the head of the table, sets his flask down with a thump, and nods to me.
“Hello again, Haymitch,” I say, nudging a plate of food towards him.
He grunts in response.
Peeta and I sit across from each other, on either side of Haymitch. It takes everything in me to eat at a normal pace. After years upon years of starving for a meal, my metabolism runs as quick as a Capitol train, blasting through any nutrients as fast as I can get them.
“Don’t choke yourself now,” Haymitch grumbles around a mouthful of bread.
That gets a little laugh out of Peeta, unguarded and surprised. I roll my eyes, still hunched over my plate.
There isn’t too much to talk about. Peeta fills us in on some of the reconstruction efforts down in the Seam. He said he’d tried to stay longer to glean more information, but that he’d had to leave after a short while. He doesn’t say why, but Haymitch and I meet eyes over the table, and I can tell we both know the reason.
After that, we lapse into a gentle sort of silence, filled with the sounds of utensils on plates. I swing my legs back and forth, scuffing my heels across the floorboards. A nervous excitement bubbles up in my chest as I catch a glimpse of my fiddle case, sitting nice and pretty by the armchair.
“Do y’all know the fiddler in town?” I ask, pushing remnants of wild onion around my plate.
Haymitch chokes on something, leans forward against the table. Peeta pounds him on the back a few times, but when it becomes clear he’s not actually suffocating, he lays off. Haymitch keeps his shoulders hunched, staring at nothing across the table, gripping his fork like he’s going to take a stab at something. He gets this dangerous look to him from time to time. He won’t hurt either of us, even if it really looks like he wants to.
“Uh, no, why?” Peeta continues, nodding back at me.
“I’m taking lessons with him,” I say. “Well, I’ve only had one so far. But I’m gonna go back next Thursday for another.”
Haymitch pushes himself to his feet. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at either of us. Just takes a long drink from his flask, then leaves. I watch him out the window as he staggers back to his house. He barely makes it in the door before he seems to collapse.
I frown, but turn to Peeta. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Peeta shakes his head. “Who knows with him.”
He sounds all good natured about it, but there’s that undercurrent of worry in his voice that I’d grown so familiar with throughout the Victory tour. I pick at my thumb nail all the same. Haymitch has always been pretty hush-hush about his past. All I know is that the Capitol killed a bunch of people close to him, and that he’s never said anything about it since.
“What’s his name?” Peeta asks. “The fiddle player, I mean.”
“Clerk Carmine,” I tell him. “One name, I didn’t catch his last.”
“One name?” Peeta repeats.
“Yeah, Covey-style,” I explain, though I don’t know if people outside the Seam ever heard stories about Covey people. My father told us about them all the time. About their songs and their dance and their customs. “At least, I figure he’s Covey. Got that air about him.”
Peeta nods, but I can see it in his eyes he doesn’t quite get it. “So why are you learning the fiddle?”
“Dr. Aurelius says I need something to do,” I give him to the same answer I gave Clerk Carmine. “Besides, it’s awful boring, doing nothing all day.”
Peeta nods. If anyone would understand, it would be him. He’s got his baking, and he’s got his painting, but that can only take up so much time in a day before it gets monotonous. For a moment, I let myself feel guilty for leaving him to his own devices, scared and alone and disoriented—but it doesn’t last long. Peeta nudges my foot under the table with his, giving me a smile.
“That’ll pair nice with your singing, I’ll bet,” he says.
I straighten up a little, smiling back. “I hadn’t thought about that. It’ll be a while before I’m at that level, though. I can’t even play a scale without screwing up, right now.”
Peeta shrugs, “You’ve got time.”
“Yeah,” I nudge his foot back—but it’s his prosthetic, and I’m sure he doesn’t feel it. “I’ve got time.”
The next week passes in a blur of squeaky scales and reedy stray notes.
Buttercup seems to enjoy it a lot more than I thought he would. He curls up at my feet while I play, occasionally yowling in response. I tell Sae she doesn’t have to cook me dinners much anymore, so I can have Peeta and Haymitch over more often, but Haymitch is awfully quiet, and Peeta and I don’t have much to talk about. Still, it’s refreshing to have more people in my house again.
I manage to get a calendar from Peeta, who had one somewhere in his study, and excitedly mark every Thursday of the next month with a little star. After a few days of practicing, I try to hum the scale alongside the fiddle, but it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be. Yet, I press on.
The time that I’m not practicing the fiddle, I’m out in the woods, gathering my payment for Clerk Carmine. I’m not sure what sort of food he likes, so I make sure to grab a little bit of everything. I’ve got a bag full of wild leeks, pawpaws, black walnuts—which I’m not excited to have to shell—chicory leaves, and wood sorrel. I’ve gone and nestled a couple sprigs of blackberries and blueberries in a separate bag, to keep them from getting crushed, and I’m lucky to happen upon a small bush of huckleberries. I don’t take my chances with mushrooms, even though I know most of what’s what around here, ‘cause there’s too many lookalikes for me to feel comfortable giving them to someone else. Instead, I double up on meat, shooting two rabbits and snaring a couple squirrels.
After I skin the meat, salt it, cure it, and freeze it, I set right back into my fiddle practice. I keep playing right by the window, and Buttercup keeps laying by my feet or on the chair to listen.
The ache still spreads, pulsing in my temples and wrapping thorny barbs through my ribs, but having something to do keeps it at bay.
By the time Thursday rolls around, I’m able to play a consistent scale, up and down, without fraying a single note. I’m not sure when Clerk Carmine wanted me to come over, but I gather up all the things I got for him, and head on down to the pop-up housing units by 9:00 in the morning. I knock on Clerk Carmine’s door, practically boiling over with excitement, my game bag slung over my shoulder, my fiddle case clutched tightly in my arms. I rock back and forth on my feet, rolling up on my toes, then back down on my heels.
Clerk Carmine welcomes me inside, but he does balk a little at my overflowing bag of food.
“You know it’s just me here, girl,” he says, portioning things out. The pop-up houses don’t have full refrigerators and iceboxes like the Victor's village houses do, but Clerk Carmine is still able to fit everything neatly inside. He preps little plates of blackberries and pawpaws while he sets the kettle on.
“I know, but…” I trace my finger along the seam of the case. “I don’t know. You’re doing me a huge favor.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Clerk Carmine says. He cuts open the pawpaws with shaking hands, digging out the oblong seeds. I wonder if that tremor he’s got is from age, or something worse. Haymitch and Peeta both have the shakes, and the way Clerk Carmine’s hands stutter as he moves looks awful familiar. “I’ve missed havin’ an excuse to play.”
He pushes me one of the plates of fruit, and I pop a handful of blackberries in my mouth. They’re not really quite in season yet, but the tart, near sour flavor floods me with years and years of nostalgia. Something similar seems to pass over Clerk Carmine’s face, his white brows tilting upwards, his smile soft and faraway. We eat and drink tea for a while. I boast about my practice, though it really wasn’t much.
“My cat even likes it,” I say, “And he hates just about everything.”
“That old tomcat?” Clerk Carmine smiles, shaking his head. “Glad to see he’s still hanging on.”
“Oh, he ain’t as old as he looks,” I roll a blackberry around under my finger, watching as it stains my skin a purplish pink. “I think he’s only around seven. Maybe eight. Just ugly as homemade sin.”
That gets a laugh out of him, deep and warm, rough in a way it can only get with age. Again, I’m reminded how impressive it is, for someone in District Twelve to grow elderly like this.
“I’d have guessed he’s well into his teens,” Clerk Carmine says with another shake of his head. “He don’t wear it well.”
It’s my turn to laugh. Buttercup’s looked old since the day Prim brought him home as a mewling kitten, and it hasn’t gotten any better with time. As the days crawl by, I’ve noticed his whiskers getting more crinkled up, and his fur growing more tangled.
“Alright,” Clerk Carmine pats his thighs, pushing himself to his feet. He grabs his fiddle, propping it up on his shoulder. “Show me what you’ve practiced.”
I give him a wide smile, one of the ones that makes my cheek muscles ache. I mimic his pose, and slowly go up and down the scales. It’s slower than I’d been allowing myself to go, but I don’t want to mess up, so I take all the time I can. Besides, pulling out a long, consistent note is really satisfying. The second time I run the scales, I allow myself to go a little faster. After a few more runs, Clerk Carmine puts his hand up, smiling.
“You’re a fast learner, aren’t you?” He says, with what sounds like a note of pride in his voice. I puff up a bit at that.
“I guess so,” I say. “Do we do more of this?”
“Let’s try somethin’ new, why don’t we?” Clerk Carmine responds. I can barely contain my enthusiasm, bouncing back up on my toes. He laughs, but it doesn’t sound any mean.
He teaches me a couple different exercises, and loads me up with even more sheet music. The notes on the page are still way more confusing than they are in my head. Clerk Carmine goes in and marks each of them with a little diagram with how to play each of them, and that certainly makes it easier to remember, but it’s still complicated to look at.
He shows me how to play something called an arpeggio, which is an old-world word that he doesn’t quite know the translation of. That one’s a little more fun than just running up and down the scales, but it keeps tripping me up, and I keep playing the wrong note next—and once I mess up, I need to start all over again. Then he teaches me string crossing, which sounded easier in theory and on paper, but in practice was really, really difficult. I have to rotate my whole bow-arm around so it only lays on one string, and then it’s hard to keep my hand steady in one spot while peeling out a consistent note. I pride myself on my even hand—it takes a lot of focus and patience to hunt, keeping the arrow level, understanding where it’s going to fly, and when—but this requires a new level of stillness.
It takes me well over an hour to get through one round of string crossing without making a mistake. When I do, however, Clerk Carmine is right there to congratulate me.
“You’re patient,” he says, which might just be the first time I’ve ever heard that.
“Thank you.” I massage my bow hand, rubbing circles in the tender skin between my thumb and forefinger.
“I mean it,” he presses, taking a seat on the couch. He pats the spot next to him. “You ain’t the first kid I’ve tried to teach. But you are the first to not get frustrated from the jump. That takes will.”
“Guess two rounds in the Games taught me to appreciate the slow stuff,” I say as I settle down beside him. I don’t mean to sound so bitter, and I don’t mean to turn something nice into talk of the Games, but it’s hard not to.
“I’d imagine.” He leans back, folds his wrinkled hands across his stomach, and stares up at a woven tapestry hung on the wall. “It was awfully cruel of them, what they did to you.”
“Well, that was the point.” I curl my legs to my chest and tuck my chin on my knees. “To keep us in line.”
“I’m not talking about the Games,” Clerk Carmine says, his tone all soft.
I don’t respond.
I haven’t talked about being the Mockingjay with anyone outside of the rebellion efforts. It’s not something I like to think about. So many painful memories are linked directly to that role, that costume, that name.
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” I mutter, half muffled into my pants.
“And ain’t that just as bad as the Games?” Clerk Carmine doesn’t look over at me. He stays focused on his tapestry. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to be a kid.”
“None of us did.”
“You’ve got your chance, now,” he points out. “You’re still young.”
I frown, shaking my head. “I’ll only be a kid for another few months. And I haven’t been really one in a long time.”
“I reckon you can be young ’til you’re sick of it,” Clerk Carmine says with a shrug. “You’re just making up for lost time, now.”
Making up for lost time.
I glance down at my hands, still wrapped around my legs. At the divets in my fingers from the strings, at the long worn calluses and scars, burn-reddened knuckles and chipped nails.
“How did you learn how to fiddle?” I ask.
“My ma taught me,” he says with a smile. “That was ages ago, now. I was a stubborn learner, I’ll have you know. Couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But my ma had an angels voice, and real deft hands on her instruments. And I wanted to be just like her.”
“So did my father,” I respond. “I mean, I don’t know if he could play instruments any, but he had such a voice.”
“Don’t I know it,” Clerk Carmine tells me. “He used to come ‘round my place, singing to the birds. It was gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but often times I was just trying to get some sleep.”
I manage a small laugh. Sometimes, when he was in a real good mood, my father would wake me and Prim up the same way. It used to bother me—I was so used to music in my life, that it never felt like anything special—but once I lost it, I realized how sweet it was.
“What a man he was,” Clerk Carmine says, his voice a bit wistful.
“He was great,” I agree. My throat feels tight.
It’s strange, finding pieces of the people I lost in others. I’m never expecting it, and I’m never quite sure what to do with it.
“Why don’t I make some lunch,” Clerk Carmine says, getting to his feet. “Then we can get you into some more exercises.”
I try to pay close attention to what he cooks, so I can get a better understanding of what he likes. He cooks up the wild plants, along with some more proper vegetables and rice in his refrigerator. It’s warm, and light, and despite the chill outside, it tastes like late spring.
The rest of the day we spend learning different exercises. He shows me how to slur notes, how to pull my notes out longer and longer, how to do easier string crosses, and something called fourth finger practice. I wasn’t aware how weak my pinky finger was, until he had me really, really try to use it.
Then, he sends me home with a leaflet full of these things called etudes, and they look a whole lot more intimidating than anything else he’s given me. There’s about twenty different miniature songs, and Clerk Carmine instructs me to work on the first one in the list—a piece of sheet music that jumps up and down and up and down, a whole lot quicker than anything Ive worked on yet.
“I don’t expect you to get it right away,” Clerk Carmine explains. “I’d just like you to chip away at it for the week, and see where it lands you.”
That drags out that stubborn part of me, the one that rears its head from time to time. The one that doesn’t like being told what I can and can’t do.
When I head back home that evening, I’m determined to be able to play this first piece by the end of the week.
That night, my dreams are full of music.