handshakes [Death]

[WT]

However much of it she tries to funnel elsewhere, Aranica knows she has more money than many people in District Twelve will ever see. By rights, it's more than she ever should have expected to see herself; she remembers all too well how it feels to scrape a life together, alone and hungry and scared more often than not, and she didn't trip her way out of that world on her own. By comparison, she lives in boundless luxury now: food always waits for her at home, getting sick isn't a death sentence, she can support pets.

She's still pretty sure that the glass of brandy resting in her hand for the last forty minutes is technically out of her budget.

These parties always throw her off-kilter. At the Reaping, on the train, overseeing events in the Training Center, she feels impossibly ancient—were we ever that young, Ripred, they should have their whole lives ahead of them—but being with other people from the districts, especially the Twelve team and her family, helps keep her grounded. At soirees like this, surrounded by people who can think of nothing better to do with their money than help children kill other children, she feels like an imposter lost in time. People talk to her like they expect either a twelve-year-old or a Gamemaker—especially the latter, this year, as though she had anything at all to do with Stella's strength of will or sheer dumb luck. It leaves her reeling in the whiplash between incandescent fury and terrible, almost childlike confusion.

She bites all of that back for the same reason she holds her brandy like a shield instead of drinking it: the last thing she needs to do here is sob on strangers. Confidence and sympathy both draw sponsors, and she's known for tearing up in interviews as readily as she laughs, because she's too poor a liar to not build her Capitol persona on truth. But the Capitol's line between heartwrenching and pathetic sometimes feels thinner than her own between affectionately tipsy and miserably drunk, and Aranica prefers not to gamble on her tributes' lives any more than she has to.

So here she is: half a ghost in a sleeveless copper gown worth more than her house and indigo shoes she'd kick off if she had anywhere to leave them, forcing herself to smile pleasantly as she tries to convince three strangers that keeping two children alive for an extra hour won't be a waste of money.

"I know it's early, I'm just saying, Cassia looks like a fighter," Kiril says, gesturing so hard with his plate that Aranica is vaguely surprised he doesn't spray food on her. "I don't put money down until we see the training scores, but she stepped right up at the Reaping."

"She says she has a lot to live for, and I believe her," Aranica agrees.

"Gabriel's not exactly here to take things lying down, either, though." Valeska makes a show of examining the neon blue tip of her braid as she speaks, but her eyes are sharp when they dart toward Aranica, waiting for her reaction. "He didn't hesitate to volunteer. Keep your eyes on Twelve this year, not half of it."

Roko scoffs. "Lower district volunteers are suicides as often as they're contenders." Twenty-four years of practice keep Aranica's breathing from hitching with rage as he nods to her. "You've actually met the kids, who do you think is the safer bet?"

Who do you expect to die first? might be Aranica's least favorite question, but at least she hears it often enough to have a canned answer. "I was a scrawny twelve-year-old who'd never held a weapon and announced that she was ready to martyr herself. If I'm living proof of one thing, it's that we should all expect the unexpected."

She fakes a casual sip of her brandy and leaves "and anyone who bet on me early got filthy rich" unsaid.

"District Twelve does have that knack," Valeska says, eyes crinkling.

Kiril laughs, but Roko scowls. "I still can't believe that twerp outlived Exar."

Aranica sternly informs herself both that punching him would look bad, and that he's probably too tall for her to reach his face.

"Come off it, Ro," Valeska says, laughing as she elbows him. "Maybe your picks would do better if you actually sponsored them instead of blowing all your money on bets. Aranica, how is Stella doing, she seems like a dear."

With a fresh Games on the table, fewer people seem to be breathing down Stella's neck now than directly after her victory, but almost all of these conversations have wound around to her eventually. The truth is that every time Aranica sees her, Stella looks as haunted as any victor in their first year, so she resorts to some combination of evasion and lying through her teeth. "She's good, thanks. The first year mentoring is always tough, but I think she's talked to Cassia and Gabriel the most out of the four of us."

"Leave the boring stuff like this to the old Victors, huh?" Valeska clinks her glass against Aranica's. "It's good that they have someone young to bond with again. Maybe Twelve's luck is back on!"

Aranica curls her free hand loosely over her necklace. "We definitely hope so." A partial truth, the best she can offer, because tonight she'll sit awake feeling sick over the knowledge that campaigning for her tributes means directing resources away from others. But right now, she can't abandon Gabriel and Cassia. She can only do her best for the kids she came here with, and trust the other mentors to do the same. "And our whole team is fighting for it."

"You won't be alone," Kiril says, raising his glass to her.

That solidifies her impression that she's done what she can with this group. Roko is obviously committed to the upper districts, but Kiril has had nothing but praise for Cassia, and Valeska seems enthusiastic about the possibility of back-to-back victors. Better to find people who still have room to be swayed. "We all appreciate the support," she says, bowing her head a little to all three. "This has been lovely, but if you'll excuse me, I should find something to eat."

"Oh, absolutely, stock up on the good stuff before you're stuck back in Twelve for a year." Valeska pats her shoulder.

Hopefully her smile doesn't look as weak as it feels. Fuck off, that's my home. "You know how it is."

The others make their goodbyes, and Aranica makes her escape. She no more intends to eat anything than she intends to drink, but hunting for snacks gives her a convenient excuse for a break. She has precious little time to waste here, and she promises herself as she weaves through the crowd that she'll find a new conversation to cut into soon, but it's a relief to have a second to breath before she throws herself back into the fray.