Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
Here’s to you, Louella. I tip open the eagle lid, down the milk, and wipe the moustache from my lip. Then I close the door, holding out the pitcher helplessly. “It’s empty.”
Plutarch’s eyes widen in disbelief; he knows full well what I’ve done. I wait for him to rat me out. Instead, he murmurs in exasperation, “Those servants!” and disappears out the door, shouting for more milk to be brought. Like I said, unpredictable as lightning.
I’m left alone with a retching Snow. It’s scary watching him possibly die. It’s even scarier that I can resist helping him. Before the reaping, I bet I would have been right in there. Louella’s death changed me. Maybe I’ll end up being victor material after all.
Snow gags, empties a crystal bowl of waxed pears onto the table, and vomits a new wave, more blackish than bloody, into it. I wonder what old Trajan Heavensbee thinks of that. Keep smiling, Trajan – he’s the president, after all. Snow’s breathing calms. Ridding his body of that last batch seems to have improved his condition. He takes in the room, the portrait, me. Swabs his mouth out with the handkerchief and stuffs it in his pocket.
“Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease,” he muses.
“What disease?”
“Incompetence. You can’t ignore it, or it spreads.”
Plutarch comes back carrying a second pitcher of milk. “There was some in the billiard room.”
Snow chugs the milk and holds out the empty pitcher. “Another. And some bread.”
Plutarch looks at the reeking bowl. “Are you sure, Mr. President? Sometimes with stomach illnesses, it’s best to -“
“Not an illness. Food poisoning. A batch of bad oysters. But I’ve fared far better than Incitatus Loomy.”
“The parade master?” asks Plutarch, a funny look crossing his face.
“Was he?” Snow hands him the bowl. “Bring what I’ve asked.”
When Plutarch goes, Snow peruses the wall of books before him. “Look at them all. Survivors. During the Dark Days, people burned books to stay alive. We certainly did. But not the Heavensbees. They remained stinking rich, even when the best families were reduced to squalor.” He removes a small bottle from his pocket, uncorks it, and swallows the contents, shuddering as it settles. “Classmate of mine, Hilarius, was one of them. Useless whiner.” He blots his puffy lips on his cuff. “At least Plutarch comes in handy occasionally, don’t you think?”
Plutarch handy to me? What does Snow know?
“I think he believes you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” I respond.
Snow snorts. “Ah, the homey aphorisms of District Twelve are alive and well.”
I don’t know what an aphorism is – some sort of saying? Lenore Dove would know. But I can tell my way of talking is being sneered at, even if I don’t know exactly what he means.
“I’d be surprised if anything much has changed there,” he continues. “Nothing but coal dust and miners soaked in rotgut liquor from the Hob. Everybody just waiting to be subsumed by that ghastly wilderness.”
His insult disturbs me less than his familiarity with District 12. Miners soaked in rotgut liquor from the Hob – that’s us, all right. The worst of us, anyway.
“Come sit down, where I can see you.”
Again, not an invitation, an order. I set the milk pitcher next to the nepenthe on the bar and circle around to sit on a sofa across from the president. The embroidered pillow at his elbow features the same image of the golden staircase as the pitcher. Matchy-matchy, as Maysilee would say.
Snow’s eyes zoom in on the flint striker, as they did last night. “That’s a striking necklace.”
Striking . . . flint striker . . . perhaps he’s recognized its true purpose and will have it banned from the arena.
He holds out his hand. “May I have a look?”
I could brush Maysilee off, but not the president. I untie the knot in the leather shoelace, give the flint striker a good squeeze in case this is good-bye, and pass it over.
Snow rubs his thumbs over the bird and snake heads. “There’s a pretty pair.” He flips it. “And an inscription.”
An inscription? I must’ve missed it in the whirlwind of reaping day. Without asking for permission, he pulls a pair of specs from his breast pocket and tilts the striker to catch the light. “Ah, very sweet. From L.D. Who might that be?”
Lying to conceal her won’t help. Even though they didn’t air it to the country, I bet they showed Snow what happened during the reaping. Me trying to save a girl from the Peacekeepers. Her reaction to my reaping. Twelve’s a small district. If he has a mind to, he will track down my girlfriend.
“Lenore,” I say.
“But Lenore what? No, no, don’t tell me. Let me guess. D . . . D . . . That’s a tough one. None of the usual suspects, but they so rarely are. I can think of plenty prefaced by deep or dark. Deep blue. Dark green. But that’s not how they work. Perhaps something in nature? Like amber or ivory. Daffodil . . . dandelion . . . diamond? No, that’s no color at all, really. All right, I’m stumped. Lenore what?”
The milk has soured in my stomach at his musings and what they reveal. He knows Lenore Dove is Covey; only they name their children this way. First name from a ballad, second a color. Amber and Ivory are actual family names. How has he unearthed this obscure fact about a pocket of musicians in the throwaway district of 12? Capitol informers?
“Dove,” I tell him.
“Dove!” He smacks his forehead. “Dove. I have always heard ‘dove color,’ though. It’s a bit of a cheat. But who could resist when you get both the color and the bird? And we know how they feel about their birds.”
He returns the striker. On the back, in minuscule script, are the words I’d missed.
For H. I love you like all-fire. L.D.
“Do you know much about doves, Haymitch?”
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