Haymitch shows up just as dinner is being served. It looks

as if he’s had his own stylist because he’s clean and groomed

and about as sober as I’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t refuse the

offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it’s

the first time I’ve ever seen him eat. Maybe he really will pull

himself together long enough to help us.

Cinna and Portia seem to have a civilizing effect on Haymitch

and Effie. At least they’re addressing each other decently.

And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists’

opening act. While they make small talk, I concentrate on the

meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of

peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green

sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet

blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white

tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and

from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.

About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts

feeling foggy, so I change to water instead. I don’t like the feeling

and hope it wears off soon. How Haymitch can stand walking

around like this full-time is a mystery.

I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview

costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table

and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker

around the edges awhile until it finally goes out. I have a moment

of doubt. “What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?” I say, looking

up at the girl. “That’s the last thing I wa — oh! I know

you!”

I can’t place a name or time to the girl’s face. But I’m certain

of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain

white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides 

contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I

can’t pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with

her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds

to my confusion and unease. She shakes her head in denial

quickly and hurries away from the table.

When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know

an Avox?” snaps Effie. “The very thought.”

“What’s an Avox?” I ask stupidly.

“Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so

she can’t speak,” says Haymitch. “She’s probably a traitor of

some sort. Not likely you’d know her.”

“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them unless

it’s to give an order,” says Effie. “Of course, you don’t really

know her.”

But I do know her. And now that Haymitch has mentioned

the word traitor I remember from where. The disapproval is

so high I could never admit it. “No, I guess not, I just —” I

stammer, and the wine is not helping.

Peeta snaps his fingers. “Delly Cartwright. That’s who it is. I

kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she’s

a dead ringer for Delly.”

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish

hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does

a butterfly. She may also be the friendliest person on the planet

— she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me. I

have never seen the girl with the red hair smile. But I jump on

Peeta’s suggestion gratefully. “Of course, that’s who I was

thinking of. It must be the hair,” I say.

“Something about the eyes, too,” says Peeta.

The energy at the table relaxes. “Oh, well. If that’s all it is,”

says Cinna. “And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol

has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut.”

We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the

replay of the opening ceremonies that’s being broadcast. A

few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of

them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an

“Ahh!” as they show us coming out of the Remake Center.

“Whose idea was the hand holding?” asks Haymitch.

“Cinna’s,” says Portia.

“Just the perfect touch of rebellion,” says Haymitch. “Very

nice.”

Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But

when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart,

never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow

tribute did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I

know what Haymitch means. Presenting ourselves not as 

adversaries but as friends has distinguished us as much as the

fiery costumes.

“Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me

for breakfast and I’ll tell you exactly how I want you to play

it,” says Haymitch to Peeta and I. “Now go get some sleep

while the grown-ups talk.”

Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms.

When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not

blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to

him.