The Reason //Charlie

Tonight, Edwin had more fun than me. In fact, I think almost everybody in Panem had more fun than me. Usually doing things simply because I'm not allowed ends in gleeful delights and tall stories I can tell to whoever will listen, but tonight I am beginning to think I should have listened to Jasper when he said, "Charlie Finch, you are absolutely and on no condition to leave this ship." Nightfall came rapidly, and once his soft murmurings began to float from the other side of the cabin, I was already clutching the invitation and holding it up to the candlelight. Sneaking out was far too easy - finding Edwin in the tangle of hands and feet and masks was an impossible feat.

Perhaps if I'd been invited, the Libertine party would have been less lonely of an affair. I stole a mask from the hand of a girl who was too wrapped up in her company to notice and delved into the people, and yet nobody stopped to ask me to dance. (Not that I would have accepted anyhow, because dancing is for girls.) I sulked for a long while, knowing that going back to the ship before the night had grown late and my ordinary curfew was well and truly broken, I waited in the shadows. When Edwin's familiar face didn't come to tempt me home, I kicked a shelf and left. Nobody chased me to demand payment.

I arrive in silence, glad to be hidden by the roar of the sea and the slurred sound of someone singing. The first I am accustomed to - in fact, the first night I tried to sleep on land again in was restless and filled with a sickening longing to be waterborne once more - but the second was irritating. It's childish, to wish misery on others in light of my less-than-thrilling night, but that's exactly what I do. "Edwin," I say, making sure to drop from the ropes right in front of his face. I don't think he's paying a whole lot of attention, so I don't pride myself on my stealth.

"First Mate Edwin Finch," I say, doing my best to keep the whine from my voice. "You look like you've had a wonderful night." This is meant as an accusation and a threat, but it comes out flat and defleated. I roll my eyes at myself, roll up my sleeves, and thank myself that he is in no state to take notes on my tone. There's something wrong with what he's been doing - the invitation, torn in half, the lop-sided smiles and apparent absent in the pawn shop. My brother is sneaking around, and I'm determined to make him think I know why. (This, I've found, is the best method for getting someone to tell you, or shout at you. Either one, I'll take.)