Cinna plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls 

into the streets.

“It’s not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia

and I came up with. You’ll be perfectly safe,” he says. But

I’m not convinced I won’t be perfectly barbecued by the time

we reach the city’s center.

My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting

here and there. My hair has been brushed out and then

braided down my back in my usual style. “I want the audience

to recognize you when you’re in the arena,” says Cinna dreamily.

“Katniss, the girl who was on fire.”

It crosses my mind that Cinna’s calm and normal demeanor

masks a complete madman.

Despite this morning’s revelation about Peeta’s character,

I’m actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical

costume. He should know about fire, being a baker’s son

and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team accompany him in,

and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a

splash we’ll make. Except Cinna. He just seems a bit weary as

he accepts congratulations.

We’re whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake

Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening 

ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being 

loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are 

coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs 

to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot

and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our

capes, before moving off to consult with each other.

“What do you think?” I whisper to Peeta. “About the fire?”

“I’ll rip off your cape if you’ll rip off mine,” he says through

gritted teeth.

“Deal,” I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough,

we’ll avoid the worst burns. It’s bad though. They’ll throw us

into the arena no matter what condition we’re in. “I know we

promised Haymitch we’d do exactly what they said, but I don’t

think he considered this angle.”

“Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to protect

us from this sort of thing?” says Peeta.

“With all that alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable to

have him around an open flame,” I say.

And suddenly we’re both laughing. I guess we’re both so

nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being

turned into human torches, we’re not acting sensibly.

The opening music begins. It’s easy to hear, blasted around

the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowdlined

streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up

at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem,

and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our

home/prison until the Games begin.

The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by

snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver,

in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes

luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the

crowd. They are always favorites.

District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all,

we are approaching the door and I can see that between the

overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The

tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Cinna appears

with a lighted torch. “Here we go then,” he says, and before

we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for

the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna

climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a

sign of relief. “It works.” Then he gently tucks a hand under

my chin. “Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love

you!”

Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts

something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts

again and gestures.

“What’s he saying?” I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at

him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling.

And I must be, too.

“I think he said for us to hold hands,” says Peeta. He grabs

my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation.

He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that’s the last thing I

see before we enter the city.

The crowd’s initial alarm at our appearance quickly

changes to cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!” Every head

is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots

ahead of us. At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on

a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking

we look.