Free Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

architectural design, you know,” she says.
    “Oh, yes, I've heard that,” says Portia before the pause gets too long.
    “So, I was just having a peek around because district ruins are going to be all the rage this year, when two Peacemakers showed up and ordered me back to our quarters. One of them actually poked me with her gun!” says Effie.
    I can't help thinking this is the direct result of Haymitch, Peeta, and me disappearing earlier in the day. It's a little reassuring, actually, to think that Haymitch might have been right. That no one would have been monitoring the dusty dome where we talked. Although I bet they are now.
    Effie looks so distressed that I spontaneously give her a hug. “That's awful, Effie. Maybe we shouldn't go to the dinner at all. At least until they've apologized.” I know she'll never agree to this, but she brightens considerably at the suggestion, at the validation of her complaint.
    “No, I'll manage. It's part of my job to weather the ups and downs. And we can't let you two miss your dinner,” she says. “But thank you for the offer, Katniss.”
    Effie arranges us in formation for our entrance. First the prep teams, then her, the stylists, Haymitch. Peeta and I, of course, bring up the rear.
    Somewhere below, musicians begin to play. As the first wave of our little procession begins down the steps, Peeta and I join hands.
    “Haymitch says I was wrong to yell at you. You were only operating under his instructions,” says Peeta. “And it isn't as if I haven't kept things from you in the past.”
    I remember the shock of hearing Peeta confess his love for me in front of all of Panem. Haymitch had known about that and not told me. “I think I broke a few things myself after that interview.”
    “Just an urn,” he says.
    “And your hands. There's no point to it anymore, though, is there? Not being straight with each other?” I say.
    “No point,” says Peeta. We stand at the top of the stairs, giving Haymitch a fifteen-step lead as Effie directed. “Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?”
    I'm so startled I answer. “Yes.” With all that has happened today, has that question actually been preying on him?
    “That's fifteen. Let's do it,” he says.
    A light hits us, and I put on the most dazzling smile I can.
    We descend the steps and are sucked into what becomes an indistinguishable round of dinners, ceremonies, and train rides. Each day it's the same. Wake up. Get dressed. Ride through cheering crowds. Listen to a speech in our honor. Give a thank-you speech in return, but only the one the Capitol gave us, never any personal additions now. Sometimes a brief tour: a glimpse of the sea in one district, towering forests in another, ugly factories, fields of wheat, stinking refineries. Dress in evening clothes. Attend dinner. Train.
    During ceremonies, we are solemn and respectful but always linked together, by our hands, our arms. At dinners, we are borderline delirious in our love for each other. We kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away to be alone. On the train, we are quietly miserable as we try to assess what effect we might be having.
    Even without our personal speeches to trigger dissent— needless to say the ones we gave in District 11 were edited out before the event was broadcast—you can feel something in the air, the rolling boil of a pot about to run over. Not everywhere. Some crowds have the weary-cattle feel that I know District 12 usually projects at the victors' ceremonies. But in others — particularly 8, 4, and 3 — there is genuine elation in the faces of the people at the sight of us, and under the elation, fury. When they chant my name, it is more of a cry for vengeance than a cheer. When the Peacekeepers move in to quiet an unruly crowd, it presses back instead of retreating. And I know that there's nothing I could ever do to change this. No show of love, however believable, will turn this tide. If my holding out those berries was