Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
“I love you like all-fire, too. You and no one else. Just like my geese, I mate for life. And then some. Forever.”
I need to say, no, don’t spend your life grieving me, love whoever you want. Only I just can’t bear the thought of it at the moment. Her kissing someone else. But I’m trying to be noble, to pull myself up to say those words, when the line goes dead without warning.
“Lenore Dove? Lenore Dove?”
She’s gone. Truly for good, this time. But she is safe. I set the swan head back in the cradle like I am laying down a sleeping child, slow and gentle-like. Good-bye, my love.
Only now do I wonder how this call has occurred. I’ve never even heard of a tribute getting to talk to someone back home from the Capitol. I meet Plutarch’s eyes. “You set that call up?”
He shrugs. “I have an old friend in Twelve.”
“Why would you do that for me?” I say, genuinely perplexed. “I bet it could get you in real trouble.”
“Yes, you’re right. If it gets discovered, my next meal will probably be a large platter of poisoned oysters. But I risked it because I need you to trust me, Haymitch. More importantly, I need you to trust the information I’m about to give you.”
I’m completely lost. “What information?”
“About how to break the arena.”
This pulls me up short. Plutarch? Plutarch knows about the arena plot? He’s right. I don’t trust him, or the whole forsaken plan now. Were Beetee and I being recorded somehow during the blackout, even if the cameras were out? It would be easy enough to bug the place. Were there microphones in the vegetable bouquet tonight? If that’s the case, Plutarch could be working for the Capitol, trying to get more info out of me and kill anyone involved. He set up the call with Lenore Dove so I would trust him, so I would confide in him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Fine. That’s smart. Don’t trust me. Only hear what I have to say and, when you’re in the arena, see if it comes in handy.”
I lift my hands in bewilderment. “You sure you got the right guy?”
“Okay, just listen. I don’t have any real security clearance, but my cousin knows a Gamemakers’ apprentice, barely out of the University, who wants to quit the program and work in television. I spent a fortune the other night getting him drunk. The most useful piece of info I got was that the arena’s sun is in sync with our own.”
I look at him, baffled. “Isn’t it always?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the arena. You could have multiple suns or none at all. The reason this will be of importance to you is that since the sun rises in the east, you will be able to tell direction.”
Beetee said the tank was in the north. If it’s true, this is essential information, but I act blasé. “Guess I would’ve assumed that anyway.”
“Another thing: About a year or two ago, a committee of Gamemakers asked to tour our conservatory and gardens. The Heavensbees are known for their collection of rare flowering plants. I gave them the tour and then stepped out of the room to order tea. I overheard them discussing opening the berms.”
“Berms?”
“It’s what our gardener calls those mounds of earth.” He points out through the window where hanging globes illuminate a little knoll covered in flowers. “She plants shrubs and flowers on them. And if the Gamemakers are planning to open them in the arena, then something’s either going in, coming out, or both.”
Mutts. He’s trying to tell me the mutt portals are going to be concealed by berms of flowers. But I just say, “You have completely lost me, sir.”
“Of course I have. One last thing. From the Capitol’sperspective, the Games are the best propaganda we have. You tributes, you’re our stars. You carry it out. But only if we control the narrative. Don’t let us.” Plutarch grasps my shoulders and gives me a little shake. “No more implicit submission for you, Haymitch Abernathy. Blow that water tank sky high. The entire country needs you to.”
I can’t help but think of Pa’s directive to Sarshee Whitcomb. Seems like a lot to lay on my doorstep. Fix this mess for us, or else.
Effie hurries in the door. “Mr. Heavensbee? Oh, there you are. Drusilla wants you to help with Louella’s photos. The snake’s stealing focus.”
Plutarch chuckles. “Never work with children or animals, Miss Trinket. Come along, Haymitch.”
“And maybe it isn’t my place to say,” continues Effie, “but she’s being awfully hard on Maysilee.”
“Well, Maysilee’s sixteen years old with great cheekbones – two things Drusilla can never achieve.”
“I know, it’s sad. But I give her points for trying.” Effie’s hands go to her face. “I guess it’s time for me to start trying myself.”
“Oh, I think you’ve got a few years.”
“All my friends have begun maintenance. It’s just, I hate needles.”
While Plutarch reassures Effie, I follow them back to the library, trying to make sense of his position. If he’s working for the Capitol, I don’t think I’ve given him anything to use against us or copped to any involvement. But if he’s not Snow’s lackey, and he knows about the plot, and he’s trying to help us . . . what is he after?
His words from a few minutes ago echo back.
“You should know that, despite appearances, a desire for freedom is not limited to the districts.”
Was he suggesting that he, with all his wealth and privilege and power, lacks freedom? Freedom to do what? Maybe to not have to live in terror of Snow poisoning his oysters, for one thing.
I think about Vitus’s shame over his rebel-sympathizing grandfather. That seems to be the norm here, but who was his grandfather? A Capitol citizen who sided with the districts. And somebody here must have helped Beetee switch out the tokens. It’s possible that Plutarch could be on the level. I won’t really know until I’m in the arena and get a good look at those berms, if they even exist.
Back in the library, Lou Lou’s blowing out the candles and greedily inhaling the smoke curling off the burned wicks. The smell takes me home for a moment, dark winter nights, your last impression as you snuggle safe beneath the quilts. Does smoke conjure up the same memory for Lou Lou? Like the roll with the seeds did? Something deep and long ago, a home in District 11 where she was cherished and cared for? Wyatt talks her into sitting for the camera and then I pose for a couple of shots. They show us the results, and the photos are miles better than the ones of us in the coal miner costumes, chained up in the back of the van. Again, like the reaping presentation, we have Plutarch to thank for that.
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