#and then I read about 30 fics with them and forcibly went back to listen to the episodes and this time I liked it

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Thirty

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death. 

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. 

Dear readers, we have only one chapter left and then a brief epilogue. 

Please enjoy the thirtieth chapter of this adventure. I apologize for the length of this one, but it could not be helped. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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~~ Chapter 30 ~~

I dream in vivid hues, of a blanket spread in a meadow, a feast laid out upon the faded red expanse. A girl with blue ribbons in her flaming hair laying on her back, a book held aloft over her face. The flowers bow in the wind, dancing and courting springtime airs. A girl with dark hair in a pink dress twirls amongst the tall green shoots of meadow grass. She hums to herself and then sings a few bars. A boy on chubby toddler legs attempts to join her and falls, his blonde curls shimmering in the warmth of sun. A blade of grass caresses my check and calls my name.

“Katniss, my pearl.”

I inhale and startle slightly, calming as I wrap my fingers around Peeta’s, and hold his touch against my cheek.

“Sorry, my love. I did not mean to wake you. You only looked so peaceful and happy that I…” he trails off and does not finish, withdrawing his hand and turning away from me.

“I meant to stay awake and wait for you,” I say and shift to sit up as Peeta sits on the edge of the bed. The lamp still burns as proof of my intention, the book I had been reading carelessly dropped on our sheets. I retrieve it and mark my page before setting it aside. His shoulders sag as he removes his boots. They land on the floor with dull, hollow noises. “Will you not call for Jeffries?”

“I can manage well enough without disturbing his sleep as well.” My heart warms at his consideration for others and I reach out to touch his back. There is no response to the caress.

“Is Mrs. Farrow well?”

“As well as can be expected, after more than thirty hours of child labor with a child who was breach.”

“Thirty hours?”

“They waited to summon me until her pains were undeniably regular. By then she had already been at labor for nearly eight hours.”

“She must be exhausted,” I say pathetically. Peeta only nods, his hands working the buttons on his waistcoat, his motions slow and laborious. I am almost afraid to ask, but I must. “And the child?”

“A son. Weighing perhaps seven pound. Remarkably healthy after such an arduous arrival.” He removes his waistcoat in a pained movement and tosses it across the room towards the sofa. I pluck at the coverlet, at a loss as to why he seems so distant.

“That is cause for celebration, is it not?”

“Indeed.” He stands then and removes the rest of his clothing without looking at me. He drags his night shirt on, sets aside his false leg, then sighs as he slides beneath the covers with me. I adjust my body to be close to him.

“Then why do you seem morose?” I ask and reach out to play with a lock of his hair.

“I am tired, Katniss. So very tired.”

“What would help?”

“Sleep.”

“Other than that?” I pry, determined that he will answer me.

“Nothing. Will you talk me to death or will you allow me sleep?” he bites out the words and my hand stops mid caress. He turns away from me, forcibly removing my touch from him. “Would you extinguish that light?”

I bite my lip and hold back tears. Why tears? I wage a mental battle, determining which would be more effective, braining him with a pillow or shouting at him that he is not the only one of us who has had a long and trying day. Either option would certainly be more effective than weeping.

Before I can decide what to do, he sighs. “Katniss…I am not myself. I am sorry. I should not be curt with you.”

He turns in the sheets again to face me, closing the distance between us and wrapping his arms about me. My anger still festers, although I am quickly losing my grasp on it.

“Peeta, you know—“

“I know. I am sorry. Tell me about your day and then perhaps I will be ready to speak of mine.” He takes my hand in his and lifts it to his lips. “I do not even wish to consider what dark places my mind would wander, had I not seen you this afternoon. Thank you for that.”

I hum in annoyance. “Most unfortunate. I do not wish to owe any sort of debt to Mr. Hawthorne.” With some prompting from Peeta, I explain that Mr. Hawthorne was the reason for our outing this afternoon. I wax perhaps overlong about his arrogance and disdain, for his obtuse views of Everdeen and how I intend to show him how wrong he is. 

“I do not know how that will help us in the end, but it seems the best I can do for the tenants. At least Father took the more traditional view of entertaining and took the gentlemen to the study after dinner… did you eat, husband?”

“I managed something in the kitchens before I came up here.” I frett for a moment and he waves me off. “I’ve not the strength for another trip. Sustenance can wait until morning. It is good, though. What your father did. Then you were allowed a respite, however brief.” 

I snort at this, but Peeta’s words do comfort me. He has a point. Since Mr. Hawthorne and his party brought no additional females to the house, I was not forced to play hostess the entire evening but allowed to relax in the company of Prim and Madge, at least for some time before the gentlemen interrupted our tranquil and intimate gathering.

“The strange thing is that as talkative as he was all afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne was equally as taciturn this evening. He hardly said a word unless asked a direct question.”

“It sounds as though I may have had the more enjoyable evening, in terms of the company we kept.”

“Madge saved the evening for me. What with Prim mooning over Mr. Rory Hawthorne and… Oh,” I groan and place a hand over my face. “I had no chance to speak with Madge.”

“Tomorrow,” Peeta says with a wide yawn. “For now… sleep.”

“What of you, husband? Will you not tell me of your troubles?” I needle him and kiss beneath his jaw. He releases a strained puff of air and squeezes his eyes shut tight.

“I am still unconvinced that I am suited to this. To being a doctor.”

“Why not? You are patient and skilled. You listen well and are keenly observant. Generous and kind–”

“And I am frightened.”

“Frightened?” I ask, incredulous. “Of what?” It is difficult to imagine Peeta, who so expertly wields his knife, has killed men in battle, who has mended others while under fire, who faced down a highwayman, as being afraid of a birthing.

“Mrs. Farrow is well but it was a near thing. Katniss…Katniss,” he moans and the sound is so tormented that it near breaks my heart. “I cannot lose you. Childbirth is such an ordeal, so often dangerous. I do not know what I would do if I lost you. I… I do not think I should be the surgeon delivering our child.”

“Your worries make sense,” I say, although my throat is choked with hot tears, even as I brush aside the ones he is so clearly trying and failing to keep inside his eyes. “You were the attending physician for the first time today, and it was not a smooth birth, but it came out all right.”

“With a great deal of luck,” he mutters.

I should soothe his doubts, but in this state, I am not certain that he would listen. “Hmmm. It appears that you suffer from unfounded doubts,” I say and he scoffs lightly. “As your devoted personal healer, I prescribe at least six hours spent abed with your wife. Perhaps half a dozen kisses, and tomorrow, a picnic.”

“And how do you propose I achieve these six hours of sleep when it is nearly dawn already?”

“By sleeping late,” I whisper and I bask in the brightness of his smile.

“We have guests.”

“Damn the guests. Madge can entertain them.”

Peeta yawns then and holds me tighter. I find his hair with my fingers again and begin to toy with the curls again, caressing his nape, kissing up and down his neck.

He rises up and a small squeak of surprise leaves me as he covers me with his body, my lips with his.

“I thought you were tired, husband.”

“I am. Not too tired to appreciate you, wife. I missed you today. You’ve a strength and courage I cannot match.”

“You flatter me shamelessly.”

“No. I love you shamelessly,” he whispers and I sigh into the kisses. “Let me drink of your courage, my pearl.”

I do not understand his need, only that I am somehow able to fill it, and so I kiss him. I kiss him until I am certain our lips shall be bruised in the morning and still I kiss him more. He holds his weight off of me with one arm, his leg holding me beneath his warmth and his other hand wandering the curves and valleys of my body. His fingers raise goose flesh and desire as they slowly slowly slide between my thighs. I relax beneath his touch, eager to feel his fingers on my intimate flesh.

“Papa,” a soft whisper reaches us as Peeta halts, his body rigid against mine and then he whirls around. I attempt to order my hair and halt the thundering of my heart, swallow back my frustration at the interruption of our passion to smile at Miranda.

She stands beside our bed in her night gown and slippers, her hair escaping the braid Sae attempted to give her tonight. She is twisting her fingers about and looking almost frightened. 

“Papa,” she says again, “Is the baby here now? The one you went to take care of today?”

“Y-yes,” Peeta stutters. 

“So you will be at home tomorrow?”

“Unless I am needed again. And I will have to go check on the mother and the new babe. Would you… would you like to go with me for that?”

“I would,” she nods and then turns to leave. Peeta’s entire body lurches towards her.

“Miranda,” he calls out and she spins back around, scrambling into the bed with us and straight into Peeta’s arms.

Somehow, the three of us end up in an embrace, a tangle of limbs and love, with Miranda’s hand on my belly. The babe pushes out against my womb then, hand or foot pressing back against Miranda’s hand. Her eyes widen and I smile at her.

Shortly after, I see Miranda back to her bed, insisting that Peeta remain in bed as he’s already removed his leg and I’ve already gotten some rest this night.

When I return to bed, Peeta grunts and I am convinced he has fallen asleep in my absence, even though he encompasses me in his embrace as I settle. I, however, am now wide awake. I lay there for a moment, touching him in the darkness, thinking on my dream, the one I was in the midst of when he woke me. I start singing, only a whisper of the melody. I grow drowsy and then finally follow Peeta into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even before we rise, Peeta is called away again, this time with a knock on the door. I drag myself to it to answer, ready to flay the intruder for disturbing our precious sleep, only to be met with worried eyes and frantic words.

An entire family that has fallen ill. Feverish and with rashes. Fear of measles makes Peeta hasty in leaving me. He pauses only to explain to Miranda that it is not wise for her to accompany him today, if it does indeed turn out to be measles. She is disappointed, but insists that she understands.

“Your husband is absent again today?” Mr. Hawthorne asks as we ride across Everdeen much later, in search of a place to picnic. Peeta returned after seeing to the ill family, only long enough to bathe and change his clothes, to prevent the spread of disease when he went to attend the new mother and her babe. He’s had no time for guests today.

“I think it noble of him. Admirable,” Rory states. “Rather than leaving the tenants to fester in squalor and disease as some would, the family has found a way to see to their needs quickly, providing a capable surgeon, no less!”

I send Rory a grateful glance and Prim is especially pleased. Mr. Hawthorne turns away from this comment and asks Madge a question about Diablo. I do not hear it, but I do hear her answer.

“He is not mine. I’ve only the use of him while I stay with Katniss and her family.”

“You’ve a question about one of my horses, Mr. Hawthorne?” I ask.

“He no doubt is inquiring after potential studs, are you not, Gale?” Mr. Fremont says, bringing his horse close to Gale’s.

“You know that I am,” Gale states rather curtly before turning to me. “One venture I have long wished to embark on is a horse farm. I only recently find myself in a position for it to be feasible.”

“And you’ve your eye on Diablo as a potential stud? He’s not for sale, nor up for inheritance,” I say simply.

“Everything is for sale, for the right price, Mrs. Mellark. But I must admit you have several prime stallions in your stable. Perhaps you might consider a stud fee for them. In that way, you and I could both achieve what we desire.”

“I doubt that our desires could ever be reconciled, Mr. Hawthorne,” I state and immediately regret it based on the scowl he sends me. Oh, I am failing so miserably at earning his good graces and yet I cannot seem to help myself. There is something about him that grates on me, or perhaps it is simply this power that he will hold over me one day. His position to inherit my home.

“Where would you set up such a venture?” Madge asks, and I am grateful for her diverting his attention.

“Oh I’ve a few prospects, although I am still in negotiations. So many landowners are loathe to part with their holdings for anything less than a ridiculous sum, even when they find themselves mired in debts.”

“Patience and perseverance,” Mr. Fremont states and I bite my tongue.

Thankfully, we approach the pond on the border between Everdeen and Undersee lands before more can be said. All agree that this is an excellent prospect for our picnic.

Madge assists me in lowering myself to the blanket and I squeeze her hand. “Are you certain this is acceptable?”

Her eyes flick towards the ruins of her old home, the manor overrun now with vines and foliage, reclaiming the stone for the earth.

“I will be alright. I suppose I must face it at some time, especially if I intend to do anything with it. What about you?”

“Madge,” I whisper, “There is something we need to speak about.”

“Is the lake stocked?” Mr. Fremont interrupts and Madge turns to him with a smile.

“It was last I was here, five years ago. The fish have been left quite alone since then.”

“Some of Everdeen’s tenants may have availed themselves of a few fish,” I admit and give an apologetic look to Madge. She places a hand on mine and then continues to set up the feast we’ve brought.

“Does that anger you, Mrs. Mellark? I am curious…what is the punishment for poaching on Everdeen?”

“A turned cheek and an adjustment to either taxes or payments, Mr. Hawthorne. We’re farmers, not tyrants here,” I say happily and smile at him. “I have no wish to begrudge a family a few fish or a hare caught in a time of need.”

Mr. Hawthorne tilts his head and says something to Mr. Fremont that I do not hear, but I do see that his scowl has shifted somehow. Perhaps Mr. Hawthorne can in fact be reasoned with after all.

“I’ve no idea what the occasional fishing would do to the population,” Madge says as she rises and approaches the gentlemen. “Perhaps we shall simply have to make an attempt at catching a fish to find out.”

It quickly becomes apparent that she will stay near them and converse while they attempt some fishing. I resign myself to not speaking to her yet and to reading my book, as Prim also seems to prefer Rory’s company close to the lakeshore.

Miranda and Maysilee wander over to the ruins and climb about them. Laughter is bright in the air. At one point, I catch Mr. Hawthorne smiling and the expression changes his face entirely.

It makes me think again on my tactic, of showing to him how Everdeen is not the squalor and hopeless destitution of so many other similar estates. I care about our tenants. Peeta cares about them. My father has always cared about them. We are not in the business of crushing anyone beneath our boots, nor of squeezing every penny possible out of them.

Eventually, the day fades and we return home for dinner, with a handful of fish the gentlemen have caught, which are promptly delivered to the kitchens. I am grateful to have Peeta with us for dinner as we dine on the fish. Even though the presence of guests necessitates that he not sit beside me, his mere presence helps calm me and I am able to entertain rather well, I believe.

Even later, as I wander past the study door and catch a few words of heated political discussion, I am not overly angry. I may be forbidden from the conversation because of our guests, but I know that my husband will represent us both well.

The discussion seems to continue over chess that evening, when Mr. Hawthorne seems to be taken with a desire to play. I smirk and hide my glee behind my book. Mr. Hawthorne has no idea what he is in for. My kind, patient husband is a master strategist and deliciously devious at times. The game drags into the evening, and although there are other entertainments, music and singing with Madge and Prim providing the bulk of the merriment, my attention is riveted to Peeta.

“Your husband is fond of chess?” Mr. Fremont asks as he settles beside me.

“Yes, he is,” I answer easily. “Are you Mr. Fremont? Or do you share your associate’s obsession with the horse?”

“Not nearly so, I am afraid. I’ve always been fond of a good riddle or a harmless jest. Gale is much more business minded. I am merely a friendly face who assists in helping place others at ease in his presence.”

“He does seem rather formidable,” I mutter and flip my page, leaving my finger behind because I truly did not read the entirety of the text.

“He can be, but…would you believe if I told you he is truly tender-hearted and exceptionally loyal? He cares a great deal for others, and those who are close to him receive the best of protections.” I make a disbelieving noise and Mr. Fremont lowers his head. “He is a rather sore loser, however.”

My eyes glance over the chess board and I smile slightly. “Then I think he is about to dislike my husband as much as he dislikes me.”

“He does not dislike you, Mrs. Mellark. He is simply…uncertain as to how to interact with you.”

“Hmmmm…suggesting that I have neglected my tenants is a grievous misstep, if that is the case.”

“Ah, well that may be faulted to his passionate nature. At times, he speaks without remembering to whom he speaks. He means no harm by it, only possesses the belief that his views are more common sense than opinion, which makes him overly vocal at times.”

“Such poor manners.”

“Well when you put it that way, I suppose he can be a bit of a boor,” Mr. Fremont says with a chuckle. “How badly is he about to lose? I do not know much about chess. Perhaps I should learn.”

“Are you certain Mr. Hawthorne is a fair player? He is about to lose shamefully fast.” Mr. Fremont hums.

“I’ve been led to believe he is quite skilled at it.”

“Perhaps he is distracted. I’m sure the prospect of seeing a fine horse can do that to him.” Mr. Fremont’s fingers clench rather tightly on the stem of his glass of brandy and he tosses the rest of it back with a high sort of flush on his cheeks.

“Yes. Easily distracted. Nothing more.”

“Checkmate,” Peeta murmurs, removing his fingers from his queen. Mr. Hawthorne glowers and then…miraculously laughs. He reaches out a hand and congratulates Peeta on the game.

“There are not many who can best me so quickly,” Mr. Hawthorne states. Mr. Fremont coughs rather loudly, drawing the gazes of the two men from across the room.

“I believe I shall turn in,” Mr. Fremont says.

“Yes,” Mr. Hawthorne agrees and waves carelessly. “Another game, Mr. Mellark?”

“I’m afraid I must decline. It has been two rather long days of work for me.”

“Your stallion…”

“I shall make my morning rounds swift and have time to show him to you in the afternoon,” Peeta states. “Will that suffice?”

“I look forward to it,” Mr. Hawthorne says.

Peeta stands from the table and I set my book aside, looping my arm with his as we leave together. As we turn the corner, I am certain that I feel eyes boring into the back of my head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is this the flower you spoke of? Before we were married?” Peeta asks as I sit waiting between the covers. He spins the bloom between his fingers and gazes with wonder at the orange petals.

“It is,” I answer. I placed it in a glass filled with water the day that I asked Rory to pick it from the meadow. Peeta and I have both been so occupied since then that I’d nearly forgotten, and he’d not noticed until tonight.

“So soft and delicate. Beautiful,” he murmurs and meets my gaze. The heat I see in his blue eyes captures my breath and gives it back to me in a racing heartbeat. “Thank you, my love.”

“I knew you would like it,” I tease him. “You’ve a weakness for beautiful things.”

“Having an eye for beauty is no weakness, my love,” he says and then climbs atop the bed, the flower still clenched in his fingers. “Except perhaps when it comes to you.”

He is so close, his eyes hooded as he sets the flower on my lips and traces them carefully. “Soft petals to soft petals… take off your gown.”

His last words are not soft and I shiver but remove the garment with haste. Then… then there is no haste but there is great beauty in the way he loves me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, I am feeling empowered and well rested. Facing Mr. Hawthorne across the breakfast table is not such a chore with the memories of Peeta’s lips on me, his arms surrounding me, his whispered promises and the petals of my gift for him caressing my ears and bringing us to climax so swiftly.

After, he had placed the flower back in its glass with a sweet smile on his face, and I knew that I would forever be searching for gifts such as this. An orange flower, a set of paintbrushes, a favored book, to bring a smile to his face and his kisses to my lips.

I catch Mr. Hawthorne staring at me in an unnerving manner, near enough to rude to warrant my returning his stare with a scowl until Mr. Fremont elbows him and Mr. Hawthorne finally looks away.

“Wedded bliss becomes you,” Madge whispers. “Or perhaps it is pending motherhood that becomes you. Either way, there is jealousy afoot this morning.”

“I cannot imagine why,” I mutter back and she glances at me then away with such speed.

“Can’t you?”

“Madge…we never spoke the other day–”

“What are the plans for today, Mrs. Mellark?” Mr. Hawthorne interrupts and I grind my teeth. To think that I was starting to find him tolerable or at least reasonable last night. “How shall we entertain ourselves until Mr. Mellark returns with that magnificent beast of his?”

“Perhaps a visit to Seam and the village.”

“Excellent.” The plans decided, we scatter to prepare. 

Primrose and Rory decide to remain at home, with Mother and Father. Dr. Aurelius is feeling well enough to have accompanied Peeta in attending to their patients this morning. Mr. Fremont begs off on riding with us, claiming a rough night of sleep.

With our diminished party, we set out for Seam, the three of us. I am not overly fond of sitting alone while Madge and Mr. Hawthorne ride ahead of me, conversing to one another. His presence has prevented me from speaking to her. Whenever the moment has felt opportune, he has either interrupted or she has escaped, making me wonder perhaps if she is avoiding me.

Could she know that I was outside the stables that night? All of my worries suddenly feel as though they are piling up on my head and so I am in a foul mood all through our shopping and tour of the village. The only good thing to come of it is how astonished Mr. Hawthorne is by the way Madge and I are both received.

“Did you find hints of uprising, Mr. Hawthorne? Unhappy villagers feeling the crushing weight of mistreatment and oppression?” I ask and Madge gives me an oddly quelling look. I shrug as he makes a noncommittal noise.

“No obvious hints, Mrs. Mellark. But it is spring.”

“Which immediately follows the leaner months of winter.”

“Perhaps,” he allows, and yet I fancy that there is something speculative, almost impressed in his eyes now. I dare not hope yet that my tactic is working however. As soon as we return to Everdeen, I am handed a note written in Peeta’s hand. I tear into it and reach for Madge.

“What is it?” she asks and I hand it to her as I hurry inside, ignoring her as she reads it aloud.

Harriet Nells lost this morning. ~P

No other words, only this brief sentence to tell me that the child he was tending, the one with the measles…is dead. 

“Sae! Mrs. Chilton!” I shout as I move through the hall. Servants spring into action. My mother bundles herbs and sets out immediately with others to see to the cleaning and airing of the hut, the funeral arrangements as the parents are both still ill.

A child has been lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is no mention of horses, nor of inheritance. Even Mr. Hawthorne pitches in to help. The day fades into evening and all who left to assist slowly return to Everdeen. The child has been bathed and dressed. The grave has been dug and Father Crane called upon. She will be buried in the morning.

I sit on the verandah, listening to the evening bugs and waiting for my husband, wondering that he stays away. Johanna stops to check on me and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“He’ll not take it well. Losing one so young. So needlessly.”

All I can do is nod and wonder at my husband’s mental state. Eventually, Johanna leaves me to my vigil and another arrives. A cleared throat causes me to turn my head and look askance at Mr. Hawthorne.

“I beg leave to intrude, Mrs. Mellark.”

“It will be your verandah one day,” I say simply and turn my gaze back to the lane.

“Yes. About that…it has occured to me that I may have erred in my initial assessment of Everdeen.”

I snort and bite at my thumb nail. Where is Peeta?

“You see, as much as I love my brother, he can be rather naive and kind hearted.”

“I fail to see how that is a flaw.”

“Perhaps the flaw was mine. I did not entirely believe him when he first described Everdeen. It made little sense. A welcoming farm of middling importance and small operation allowing so many to wander here in need. And you…rushing off to Capitol to seek a husband and a fortune to secure your future. Naturally, I assumed you must be hiding some sort of dire financial situation.”

“If this is an attempt at an apology, Mr. Hawthorne, you fail miserably,” I state and he laughs. Actually laughs.

“Perhaps so.” He carefully sweeps back the tails of his coat and sits beside me. “May I speak freely?”

“Make yourself at home, Mr. Hawthorne,” I state with an imperious look and he cannot hold my gaze. “As you’ve repeatedly noted the past few days, it will all be yours one day anyways.”

“It is precisely that which I wish to speak with you about.”

I sigh and wait for him to continue. He will continue unprompted if he has something to say, I have discovered.

“I feel as though you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“Whatever gave you that impression.”

“Mr. Fremont for one, and for another… Lady Charmaigne.” I hum and he again clears his throat. “There are other factors as well. You must understand, I’d reason to doubt Rory’s description of this place.”

“Then why trust him to the task?”

“I was unable to travel here. I was… needed elsewhere. And as I said, I was in disbelief that you, who seemed so sensible and practical, level headed and forthright in your letters, would rush off to secure a stranger as a husband. Why bring an unknown into the equation when a perfect option that would see everyone’s needs met was right in front of you, given how keen you seem to retain Everdeen.”

“You talk in riddles, Mr. Hawthorne. Of course I wish to retain my home. What human with a heart would not?”

“Apologies. That would be Darius’ influence, I am afraid,” Mr. Hawthorne states with that smile that transforms his face. “You see, Mrs. Mellark, it’s been made apparent to me that it is time I take a wife. My first and obvious choice would have been you, since I cannot be present at all of my properties at once and you would have made an excellent and knowledgeable steward.”

“Pray, do not flatter me so,” I say even though I know I should hold my tongue. Besides, I’ve gone utterly cold at his words.

“A marriage between us would have solved all your troubles. You however, chose to do otherwise and somehow, despite the haste of it all, managed to secure a marriage to the son of a marquis anyways. I congratulate you on your excellent catch, by the way.”

“You’ve no need to tell me how fortunate I am in marriage. I am well aware of it.”

“Yes, but the simple truth of it is, your needs in terms of Everdeen would have been met more swiftly had you been patient and instead married me. It was in fact my intention to do so and I think that now that we are acquainted, your own haste annoys you.”

I glare at him. How dare he!

“I am…accustomed to speaking plainly and am told that sometimes this makes me appear abrasive. I do however hope that we are able to put that aside in future and work together towards a solution that is acceptable to both of us. I’ve no desire to toss such a welcoming family out in the cold.”

“Well,” I state, the rancor dripping off my tongue. “As you pointed out, I managed to snare myself an exceptionally excellent catch. His wealth ensures that I will not be cold, even if you should toss me out of my home.”

I’ve more to say, but the sound of hooves on the gravel and the snort of Cicero reaches me then. I excuse myself and hurry past Mr. Hawthorne. Peeta sways precariously in his saddle and I gasp as he nearly falls. Jo and Charles are swift to respond and manage to halt his descent, but it is Mr. Hawthorne who manages to safely see him to the ground, albeit laying down.

“Peeta,” I say frantically and check him over for injuries. He appears merely dazed and exhausted. I scold myself for not realising sooner how close to despair he was getting. “Peeta look at me.”

“Katniss,” he murmurs. “I lost…”

“I know. There was nothing else you could have done.”

“Wasn’t there?” he asks bitterly.

“Do not torment yourself so, at least not on the front stairs.” Others have joined us now and I give directions to have him carried to the bathing room. Charles to take care of Cicero. I demand Jo accompany us. I’ve no need to say the words, though. She is there without question.

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne, we will see to him from here,” I state and push him out of the bathing room once Peeta has been deposited. He makes to protest and I shut the door in his face before turning back to my husband and guiding the procedure of seeing him undressed and into the steaming tub.

“Have you seen him like this before?” I whisper to Jo as I wash his hair.

“Only the once,” Johanna whispers. “When he could not save Daniel Merritt. The boy…he was seventeen and newly married. Shot through his throat. Then…while Peeta was trying to stop the bleeding… the enemy grabbed Daniel’s foot, dragged him away and shot him in the gut. Peeta… followed and got too close to their line…” she trails off and I do not ask for the rest. I merely point to his scarred ribs and she nods. 

We work together, and by the time we have him clean and the water drained, he is lucid again, although silent. He obeys my words as I order him out of the tub and dried. It is a bit of a trick, getting him upstairs with his leg already removed, but my father lends assistance.

Once we are left alone, I begin the longest vigil of my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Peeta is staring at me. “You think me weak.”

“I think you care far more than a human heart should be expected to bear,” I whisper.

“You do not understand.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps I never can. But I do know that however many you have lost, there are dozens more that you saved, and will save. The boy you brought into the world only days ago. Mrs. Farrow. There will be more. Do not deprive them before they’ve had a chance to survive under your care.”

He almost laughs at that and then shakes his head. “You’ve a way with words, wife.”

“I learned from you, husband, and only give to you what you have given to me.”

“And what have I given to you?”

“Hope.”

“There is no hope in the Nells household right now.”

“Of course not. Not yet. But there will be. It will take time, and great care, but life can be good again some day, even for them. Even for you.” I stretch across the bed and press a soft kiss to his lips. “And now, I mean to distract you from your worries.”

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I’ve little luck in distracting Peeta the next day. We are somber as we travel to the church, dressed in dark clothes and silent through the funeral. Peeta remains withdrawn the rest of the day after, no matter what I do to cajole him out of it. Eventually, I desist and settle for holding his hand in mine whenever possible. Holding him in my arms as we sleep that night. I wish for this awful day to end, and although I am granted my wish, I still wish that it had not been so long. I cannot imagine the pain Mr. and Mrs. Nells must be experiencing, especially now that Peeta says they are on the mend.

Two days after the funeral, we are to resume pleasantries and entertainments. The day dawns warm and sunny in cooperation. Peeta left our room before I even woke and I worry about him.

“Ah, Mrs. Mellark,” Mr. Fremont greets me when I leave the house after breakfast. “May I accompany you?”

“I am only headed to the stables,” I say and he falls into step beside me. I hate to snub him, he seems an amiable and kind enough sort, and yet I have decided that since I’ve not been able to pin Madge down to a discussion, that I shall confront Johanna.

“Your company will brighten the day,” he states and I can’t help the smile or the blush.

“You flatter a married woman, Mr. Fremont.”

“Tis no crime to acknowledge beauty. Your husband, I am sure, would agree with me.”

I am momentarily cheered by the flattery, although I know I should put a stop to it immediately. I do not feel as though Mr. Fremont means any harm by it, although now I will need to find a way to lose him if I am to speak with Johanna. I am still searching for excuses when we enter the stables, only to find ourselves intruding on a demonstration.

I am both annoyed and relieved at the sight that greets me.

“Magnificent. Such a powerful beast,” Mr. Hawthorne states with great awe as Peeta holds Cicero by the bridle for inspection. Madge and Johanna are nowhere to be found and I come to stand beside Mr. Hawthorne and listen to their discussion. He glances at me and then clears his throat. “Who is his sire?”

“Cicero has no famous sire,” Peeta says.

“I suppose his lineage is from ancient destriers, then.”

“His lineage is uncertain. He’s something of a mutt.” 

“And how is he at obeying commands? Obedient, I hope,” Gale says with admiration.

“In a way,” Peeta says with a smile and then touches Cicero on his neck, the way I know now that Cicero takes as a command to bow. He does so.

“Extraordinary. Verbal commands?” Peeta shakes his head.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Cicero cannot hear, Mr. Hawthorne. He responds purely to touch,” I interrupt.

“Does he now?” Mr. Hawthorne says. His gloved fingers flex in an odd way and he smiles as Peeta steps to fasten Cicero’s saddle. 

Nimble fingers pluck his gloves from his hands as Mr. Hawthorne motions towards Cicero. 

“Might I at least give a try? He is most extraordinary.” Peeta obliges, but Mr. Hawthorne cannot seem to gain a response from Cicero, even with Peeta’s guidance on how the commands work.

“Stubborn or…”

“Merely well trained,” Peeta contradicts. 

“You’ll have little luck, Mr. Hawthorne. Cicero and my husband are kindred spirits. His deafness necessitates that he respond to a very specific touch, and only that touch.”

“So how does he respond to other riders, Mrs. Mellark? Does he enjoy them or torment them?”

The question confuses me, as well as its direction at me. “I’ve never had problems with him, but he is familiar with me. If you’re looking to try a horse from our stables rather than your own mount, perhaps Guinivere. She is docile enough to adjust to any number of riders.”

“Not today, I think,” Mr. Hawthorne says dismissively, eyes still fixated on Cicero. “I find that a stallion provides a more…vigorous ride. Don’t you, Mr. Mellark?”

“I’ve not ridden many mares, so I’ve no comparison,” Peeta says.

“Indeed?” Mr. Hawthorne asks, and he sounds a little overly excited for the subject. Mr. Fremont must have underestimated Mr. Hawthorne’s interest in horses to me the other day. “Shall we then, Mr. Mellark? I am eager to see him in action.”

“We’ve plans already, Gale,” Mr. Fremont states. Mr. Hawthorne turns to him and scowls slightly.

“Can they not be rearranged?”

“We are guests,” Mr. Fremont reminds him. “We should not cause so much trouble.”

“It is no trouble,” Peeta says and I smile at him. He returns the expression. There’s a strange shyness in his gaze and I wink at him, making him blush.

Mr. Hawthorne ends our flirtations with another attempt at gaining obedience from Cicero. Blessed, loyal horse that he is, Cicero snorts and sidesteps, agitated with the unfamiliar touch and then immediately calmed at Peeta’s.

“Apparently he does not wish another rider,” Mr. Fremont states. 

“Here you are, Mr. Hawthorne,” Charles interrupts as he presents Mr. Hawthorne’s horse, already saddled. “All ready for you.”

“Excellent. A hard ride is exactly what I think we all need this morning. Darius, shall you join us?”

“Am I welcome to?” 

Mr. Hawthorne flicks his gaze at Mr. Fremont and then smoothly mounts his horse. Darius mutters under his breath and quickly moves to join them. It is only as I follow on foot, Peeta mounted on Cicero that I spot Madge in the courtyard. She too is mounted on Diablo and I scowl at how they’ve managed to exclude me. The cart has not been ordered.

I am festering in annoyance until Peeta circles back to me and, halting Cicero with a particular press of his knees, leans over in the saddle. Despite the audience, Peeta’s gloved hand threads through my hair and he kisses me.

I suck in a sharp breath at the blatant display, but I cannot stop my heart pounding faster and louder than galloping hooves. I cling to the sleeves of his coat and when he lifts his head again, I am breathing in a ridiculous fashion.

He smiles at me, and whispers against my lips before he turns Cicero. “You deserve a break from entertaining, my love. I haven’t forgotten, you know. I am still the luckiest bastard in the world.” 

I watch him riding away as long as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days fly by. Nearly the whole seven night has passed and soon the Mr.’s Hawthorne will depart. I cannot say that I am upset over it, and yet something foreboding hangs over my head. There are days when Mr. Hawthorne barely speaks, silently observing all he sees. There are others when he rants interminably, and I wonder if it would be rude to stuff goose down in his meats to silence him. He is slightly more tolerable since our talk on the verandah. Although he still has yet to broach the subject again of a solution that would suit us both, at least he refrains from disparaging myself or Everdeen.

Thankfully, it is not all dire news. Miranda blooms, speaking more freely and laughing with great joy. Primrose and Rory appear to have solidified their courtship. Father has given his approval for it to continue into the season Prim will attend come winter.

And yet…I still have not managed an audience with Madge. She is perpetually busy or absent and even Maysilee has expressed concern in her behaviour.

Two days before our guests are to depart, I hide myself away in the garden to read, delighted when Madge joins me, her footsteps steady on the gravel.

“Madge, finally,” I say as I set aside my book. “We’ve need to talk.”

“Yes, we have,” she says and swallows. It is then that I notice how pale she is.

“Oh Madge, you know how I love you. You can tell me anything, whatever it is that troubles you.” I smile at her, surprised at the strength of her grip as she takes both my hands in hers and lifts her chin.

“And I hope you can forgive me anything as well.”

“Of course I can, but there is nothing to forgive” I insist. I am not prepared for it when she stares into my eyes and speaks.

“I am to marry Mr. Hawthorne next month.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

The word you seek within this chapter may have more than one meaning in the world of The Hunger Games. A temptation of gift that draws Katniss forth seeking medicine, or a bounty of food. Here, it is laid upon a blanket for consumption.

#Springtime Edition 2019 #late submissions #m #prompt 88 #submission