The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes: Chapters 1–4

It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum.

For today’s ceremony, however, students were instructed to be dressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated.

Perhaps Tigris had gone to ask help from her employer, Fabricia Whatnot, a woman as ridiculous as her name but with a certain talent for derivative fashion. Whether the trend was feathers or leathers, plastics or plush, she could find a way to incorporate it at a reasonable rate.

Not much of a student, Tigris had forgone university when she’d graduated from the Academy to pursue her dream of becoming a designer.

“When Coriolanus is president...” everything from the rickety Capitol air force to the exorbitant price of pork chops would be magically corrected.

He flew out of the kitchen, almost knocking her over, but she was too excited to reproach him.

Tigris would spend the day waiting hand and foot on her employer and her motley crew of guests while they exchanged morose tales of the deprivation they’d experienced during the siege and drank themselves senseless.

People had short memories. They needed to navigate the rubble, peel off the grubby ration coupons, and witness the Hunger Games to keep the war fresh in their minds. Forgetting could lead to complacency, and then they’d all be back at square one.

But he only allowed himself one swallow. It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years he had seen upperclassmen make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply.

He traveled past the hundreds of cushioned chairs set up for the occasion and onto the dais, where Satyria was regaling a mix of Academy professors and Games officials with some wild story.

“The Snows have deep closets,” he said airily.

Sejanus attempted a bow, sending a wayward lock of hair into his eyes.

The cumbersome shield caught him in the chest.

Sejanus tensed at the implication that he was, what, a suck-up? A lackey?

He presented himself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and, as usual, doped up on morphling.

Coriolanus heard a bell ringing and saw his fellow students converging at the front of the dais.

Due to his fame as the Games’ inventor, he still had a tenuous hold on his position, but there were rumors that the Academy Board was losing patience.

Sejanus’s forehead creased in consternation.

Here in the Capitol, it would have been bold. In District 12, it felt immoderate.

And then she was off, sashaying around the stage, right past the Peacekeepers, some of whom were having trouble suppressing smiles.

He gave a bemused shake of his head, but inside he was glowing.

A smattering of applause and a lone whoop came from the District 12 crowd before the Peacekeepers closed in and the reaping broadcast cut to District 8.

Coriolanus acted engrossed in the show as 8, 6, and 11 called their tributes, but his brain spun with the repercussions of landing Lucy Gray Baird. She was a gift, he knew it, and he must treat her as such.

How was it best to stave off hunger? Eat all the food at one meal? Spread it through the day in dribs and drabs? Wolf it down or chew every morsel to liquid?

Dean Highbottom’s eyes were rheumy, but they had lost the glazed look of the morning.

Every teacher had at least one nickname, many far less flattering. And it wasn’t as if High-as-a-Kite-Bottom had made much effort to hide his habit. He seemed to invite derision.

After university he planned to embark on some lucrative profession.

Collecting taxes from Sejanus Plinth in his palatial apartment on the Corso while he lived in some rat hole fifty blocks out?

Coriolanus thought about his grandmother’s roses, which were still prized in the Capitol. The old woman nurtured them arduously in the roof garden that came with the penthouse, both out of doors and in a small solar greenhouse.

“I need to make a connection with her. As you always say, your roses open any doors.” It was a testament to how worried his grandmother was about their situation that she had allowed it.

Coriolanus felt conspicuous on the wide, deserted platform, but he couldn’t risk missing her train.

In fact, there was something intimidating about a girl who could pull off such a brazen performance on the heels of the mayor's assault.

A tall boy with dark brown skin and patched burlap clothing appeared in the doorway. Coriolanus recognized him as Clemensia’s tribute from District 11, rangy but muscular.

The girl ran a tentative finger over the ruffles.

One nodded tersely, and without a word he followed them from the enclosure to a respectable applause.

“What are you playing at?” a Peacekeeper demanded. “You’re not allowed in there.”
“So I thought, until your cohorts unceremoniously dumped me down a chute,” Coriolanus replied. He thought the combination of cohorts and unceremoniously had just the right note of superiority.

He could never have planned anything this audacious, but since it had happened, he might as well enjoy it.

Could there be a more stinging public reminder of his precarious position than to be dangling there at the end like an afterthought?

As Head Gamemaker, though, anything related to the Hunger Games fell under her purview.

“Yes, but punishment could take a myriad of forms,” said the dean. “Why the Hunger Games?”