Hazel's heart leaped in her chest as a chill ran through her bloodstream, like icy fingers tracing the contours of her body. Her breath caught in her throat as she slowly turned to find herself making eye contact with Senator Snow.
For a moment, Hazel could not tear her gaze away from him. His striking presence, tall frame, perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, and piercing blue eyes cast a looming shadow over her.
At some point, she realized that he had asked a question, and the longer she went without answering, the more peculiar it must have seemed.
"They are beautiful," she finally managed to say, her voice betrayed a hint of a tremble. "We don't have many roses in seven." Her gaze shifted to the vast expanse of roses that stretched across a significant portion of the garden. It was a breathtaking sight. "Only wild roses, and they are not nearly as beautiful as these."
His touch was oddly out of place amidst the delicate petals as he ran his gloved fingers over a bright magenta-colored rose. He bent to smell it. "Wild roses can be some of the most beautiful if cultivated properly," Snow commented.
"Well, they don't come in all these colors," Hazel replied, her eyes drifting to a particularly odd patch of roses nearby. They were tinged with orange and adorned with black stripes, far from natural. "I've never seen a wild rose with tiger stripes before."
A small chuckle escaped Snow's lips, taking in the roses she was referring to with familiarity, "Those are a particular favorite of my cousin; they are called tiger lily roses."
"How creative," Hazel countered, gazing at the unusual flowers. "It appears that the Castellans were quite fond of them, just like your cousin."
He paused for a moment, his gaze shifting from the roses to Hazel. "Yes, the Castellans did have a particular fondness for these roses."
Curious, Hazel pressed further. Then, looking around the grand manor, she added, "This manor is incredible. But where are they while we're all here occupying their home?" Her eyes flicked to the ever-watchful cameras, a hint of caution in her tone.
Snow's response came after a brief pause, his expression unreadable. "The Castellans are currently on an extended leave. They generously offered their home for the use of the tributes," he said, his voice delicate and neutral.
Hazel recalled the zoo where tributes were previously housed. It's certainly a step up from that. “And when they return? What then for the tributes?”
Snow paused, his gaze lingering on a distant point in the garden. "I wouldn't expect them back anytime soon. Why the interest in the Castellans?" Snow queried.
Hazel shrugged, "Just curious, Senator."
Snow resumed his stroll through the garden, his long coat flowing behind him. He stopped by a bush of light lavender roses, plucking a petal and examining it closely. Hazel churned his words over and over in her head.
"You know," he began, his voice low and measured, "I've always found it quite intriguing that different colored roses carry different symbolic meanings."
"I have heard that before somewhere." She couldn't remember exactly where. Flowers weren't exactly on the forefront of her mind much back home. "So, do those tiger lilies represent large cat conservation?" she asked.
He paused, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. "I'm not entirely sure what those represent, honestly," he confessed. "But take pink roses, for example; they symbolize gratitude, while burgundy signifies passion. Purple embodies enchantment, orange speaks of desire and yellow stands for friendship. Green embodies harmony, and red, well, that's obviously love. What I've always appreciated about roses is their straightforward meanings. No games or tricks, unlike people."
As Hazel processed his explanation, her eyebrows knitted together. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this conversation than a mere lesson in botanical symbolism. "And white roses?" she asked, her gaze drifting to the ever-present white rose on Snow's lapel.
His gloved fingers brushed against the delicate petals. "White can carry a few different meanings, although they share a common thread," he explained, his voice filled with conviction. "It can signify purity or innocence. However, I prefer to think of it as representing new beginnings and fresh starts. "
The word "innocence" echoed in her mind as she looked at Senator Snow, struggling to connect the word with the man responsible for orchestrating the Hunger Games. "I was under the impression you disliked games or tricks, Senator," she said, her voice tinged with a hint of irony. "But then, Panem knows all too well your preference for... creating them."
Snow's eyebrows lifted at her words. Hazel's pulse quickened, and she suddenly realized that she might have ventured too far, her comment a step too close to outright defiance.
She hastened to soften her tone, an apologetic note creeping into her voice. "I apologize, Senator; I am not myself today."
He probed further. "No, don't apologize. What do you think it represents then?" he inquired, his tone carrying a hint of curiosity. Hazel hesitated, her thoughts racing as she considered her response.
Hazel weighed her words, "Perhaps the white rose does represent what you suggest, at least traditionally," she answered, her voice laced with uncertainty.
Snow's demeanor shifted, a sharper tone edging into his voice as he fixed her with his steady gaze. A tight knot formed in her stomach under his relentless scrutiny, aware of the precarious ground she was treading.
"Tell me truthfully, Miss Marlowe," he pressed, his eyes never leaving hers.
Summoning her courage, Hazel met his challenge. "Power," she said, her voice steady yet cautious. She was acutely conscious of the implications of her response, especially given the man standing before her, the living embodiment of the very concept she was dissecting.
"In your case, Senator," she continued, holding his gaze, "the white rose could well symbolize power but masked behind a veneer of purity. Perhaps even the pursuit of it."
Hazel struggled to maintain her intense eye contact with Snow. "To the people of the Capitol, your white rose might stand for purity, an ideal of a more virtuous nation. Yet, for those of us in the districts, we understand the true nature of the Capitol. It's a symbol of your control, a reminder of the power you hold over all of us and not just the tributes."
Her voice didn't waver as she added, "Unless, of course, you chose it simply because it matches your name – Snow. Which would be fitting, though maybe a little obvious."
He let out a short, incredulous laugh. Hazel's heart raced in response, her mind acutely aware of the potential repercussions of her boldness. Yet, there was an undeniable thrill in speaking her mind so freely, a defiance born from the knowledge of her impending death. At this moment, Hazel had seized a rare opportunity. Not everyone got to tell their own personal Grim Reaper precisely what they thought.
After a long pause, he responded, his voice measured and composed. "Power," he repeated, the word hanging in the air like a secret between them. "I did ask for an honest answer. I have to say that is not what I was expecting. The world can be complex, and symbols often carry multiple meanings." He paused for a moment before continuing, his tone taking on a more conversational note. "But you see, that makes the world intriguing, doesn't it?"
Hazel couldn't help but smile at Snow's remark. "I suppose you're right, " she admitted, her voice carrying a hint of newfound understanding. "But that would mean roses are more like people than you give them credit for. They aren't that straightforward after all."
Snow considered her answer with a thoughtful expression, "Interesting theory," he acknowledged, his icy blue eyes locking onto hers. "What color do you think I should wear?"
Hazel's mind raced. What was happening? Senator Snow was asking for her fashion advice? It was a surreal moment. Her eyes flickered to the perpetual white rose on his lapel; it stood out in cold contrast to the vibrant colors of the garden surrounding them. What color of roses do murderers wear?
Stolen novel; please report.
"I don't know," she replied, choosing her words with caution. "Those big cat conservation roses are impressive and represent a good cause."
A subtle twitch at the side of Snow's mouth hinted at an underlying entertainment. He tilted his head, "And here I thought I asked you to be honest."
Hazel offered, "My mother always told me that honesty is like salt. A little goes a long way, and it's best to be discerning to avoid ruining everyone's day."
A genuine smile crept through Snow's usually composed facade, and he cast a playful glance around them. "Smart woman," he remarked with a hint of warmth. The sun cast dappled shadows across his sharp features as they strolled amidst the rows of roses, the lush bushes creating an intimate canopy that shielded them from most of the manor's prying eyes, though the ever-watchful cameras on the large brick wall remained a constant presence.
"What are you doing out here anyway?" he inquired, his voice low and conspiratorial; as he moved closer, his steps measured. "If you're looking to escape, I can assure you it is very ill-advised. Or are you trying to hide from your new friends in districts one and two?"
Hazel's gaze met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he had overheard her conversation with Caleb and his group at breakfast. Her cheeks flushed, and she scolded herself for being too bold. Perhaps she was coming down with something just days before the Games began. Perfect timing.
Snapping her mind back to the present, Hazel replied, "No, definitely not running away. I just needed some fresh air."
Snow nodded, though his sharp gaze never wavered from her face. "It's understandable, feeling overwhelmed," he murmured, "but you and your brother have a real advantage. As long as you don't get on the bad side of all the strongest tributes before the games begin," he teased. Her irritation was evident, a spark of anger prickling at her heart.
"Advantage?" She echoed back, her tone laced with defiance. Her eyes met his unflinching. "That's not even the first time I've heard that word today."
"You should listen to your escort, Indira; she is not as vapid as she may appear," he advised. His voice took on a more serious tone as he continued, his words laced with a compelling intensity. "You and your brother are indeed at an advantage. As much as you would like to continue dwelling on the fact that you're both here, it's a poor decision if you want to keep yourself or your brother alive. You must, instead of focusing on what has happened, focus on what you can do and control from here." He moved closer to her again, his presence commanding her attention. "If you play your cards right," he asserted, his passion for the subject evident, "you two will have more sponsor money than the other tributes combined. And that can make the difference between life and death in the arena."
Hazel absorbed his words, a mix of resentment and realization battling within her. The truth of the Hunger Games was harsh, and her anger, though justified, needed to be strategically directed for any chance of survival.
"And here I thought you had stepped back from mentoring in the Games," a spark of defiance in her voice.
Snow's gaze sharpened at her comment, a flicker of pride evident in his eyes. "I suppose I'm feeling a bit generous today," he responded. "Plus, when I was a mentor, my tribute became a victor."
Ah, yes, Lucy Gray Baird. All of Panem was aware of her. Not that anyone had seen her in years. She was the adorable songbird underdog from District Twelve who had won in the 10th Hunger Games. Oddly, this was the only game so far in which re-runs were not broadcast on late-night television for sadists to partake.
"How is Lucy Gray?" Hazel continued, her curiosity overriding her caution. "I figured she would be here with the other victors or at least sing for the festivities."
Senator Snow's response was measured, and his eyes darkened as shadows flicked across his face. "She is well," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of distance. "But she prefers to live her life away from the spotlight."
"Smart girl," Hazel remarked, a slight edge to her voice as she echoed his sentiment. "Though it's unusual for a victor, especially one so gifted musically, to shy away from the spotlight." She paused, gauging his reaction before adding, "She must be enjoying her time, then. Perhaps on a patriotic holiday with the Castellans?"
The words lingered between them; the previously pleasant aroma of roses was now almost intrusive amid the growing tension. Hazel could sense the shift in the air, the delicate balance of their conversation teetering on a knife-edge.
Snow's gaze upon Hazel was intense, almost scorching in its scrutiny. She was aware she was treading dangerous waters. She was walking a fine line, and antagonizing a man who held her and her brother's fate in his hands was not wise.
Snow's piercing stare soon transformed into a practiced smile, a well-timed display of charm that was his trademark. He stepped closer, his gloved hand enveloping Hazel's; his touch was soft yet deliberate as he placed a small, calculated kiss on the back of her hand. His voice brushed against her ear as he whispered, "Be careful, Miss Marlowe."
Hazel's eyes widened at this unexpected gesture. Snow held her gaze for a moment longer, his ice-blue eyes betraying no emotion but his satisfaction before he turned and strolled away across the manicured lawns.
As he retreated, unease settled over her like a dark blanket. The scent of roses, once sweet and inviting, now tinged with a hint of danger. She couldn't help but wonder if her dinner would be served with a side of poison.
She stood frozen for several minutes, her mind racing and reevaluating all her life choices. The familiar voices of Leo and Silus calling out for her broke her from her reverie. Gathering her wits, she hurried to meet them.
The next few hours at the manor were a whirlwind of activity. Fabrics of various colors and textures flowed around them as stylists and many other staff bustled about the manicured grounds. Silus began to fill her in on his and Indira's strategy. Although Silus spoke, Hazel found it challenging to focus on the details. Her thoughts still lingered on the unsettling encounter with Senator Snow in the rose garden. Hazel and Silus were fitted for their formal attire for the evening's banquet, the process feeling almost surreal amidst the grandeur of the Capitol.
When it came time to be fitted for the evening's attire, Hazel felt almost detached, as if she were part of a grand, elaborate play. The gown chosen for her was a stunning piece – its deep emerald green complemented her fiery red hair and brought out the intensity of her green eyes. The dress, adorned with intricate lace and subtle beadwork, flowed to the floor, its design accentuating her slender yet strong frame. Hidden within its folds, close to her heart, was Cedar's pendant – a tangible link to her life back in District Seven. Her look was completed with delicate emerald earrings, which sparkled with every turn of her head, adding a sophisticated touch.
Indira worked on Hazel's hair with an artist's touch, arranging the crimson locks into an elaborate updo that accentuated Hazel's features. A few soft curls framed her face. As Hazel looked at herself in the mirror, the reflection staring back was like someone from another world, far removed from the life of District Seven.
Indira stood behind Hazel in the grand bathroom, her expert fingers weaving through the red tresses. Pins were held in her mouth as she concentrated on her task, her demeanor focused yet distant.
Catching Indira's eye in the mirror, a glimmer of tears reflected in the vanity lights. "Are you alright, Indira?" she spoke in a hushed tone, her concern genuine. Until this point, Indira had maintained a facade of detachment, rarely showing emotion except when on camera.
Indira's gaze lingered on Hazel, a faraway look in her eyes. "You remind me of Willow," she finally said; her voice was deep but quivered. "I styled her hair too. She had the prettiest blonde curls."
Hazel's heart clenched with empathy for Indira. The distance and coldness made sense now—they were shields against the heartache of losing tributes year after year. Hazel recalled Willow from District Seven; her life cut short, her lifeless eyes captured by the merciless cameras of the Games.
Indira's following words were quiet, almost a whisper. "Her favorite color was green," she said, a tear escaping down her cheek.
Hazel looked back at Indira through the mirror, "Thank you. I'm sorry for being difficult earlier."
Indira met her eyes in the mirror, "You don't owe me an apology. Just remember, you don't owe anyone anything.” Indira dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Regaining her composure, Indira added in her usual flat tone, "Just try not to mess up your hair. I won't have time to fix it again."
The transformation of the tributes in the grand living room was a spectacle to behold. Ruby, the youngest among them, was a picture of youthful elegance in her dark pink dress. The gown, with its delicate lace and a matching ribbon adorning her hair, was a perfect fit for her, exuding charm and innocence.
Ethan stood by her side, looking dapper in an elegant suit. His slicked-back hair complemented his black tie. Despite the solemn occasion, he maintained a protective and caring demeanor toward Ruby.
Across the room, the tributes from District Four made a striking impression. Flynn Waters, the male tribute, with his sandy hair and sea-green eyes
mirrored the colors of the ocean and exuded a quiet confidence.
Marina Brookings, the female tribute from District Four, showcased her athletic and robust physique in her elegant attire. Her braided black hair and brown eyes exuded a unique charm. As she glided through the room, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a mermaid emerging from the depths of the sea.
Hazel whistled as Silus made his entrance in his suit. "Well, look at you handsome. Can you imagine Rowan's reaction if he were here to see this?"
Silus, with his dark, unruly hair and rich, warm skin tones, underwent an equally remarkable transformation into a portrait of sophistication. The stylists had selected a tailored black tuxedo, accentuating his broad shoulders and substantial frame. Subtle, deep green embroidery adorned the tuxedo's lapels, capturing the light in an understated yet elegant manner.
Beneath the jacket, Silus donned a crisp, white dress shirt that offered a striking contrast to the darkness of his suit. An emerald silk bowtie provided the finishing touch. His shoes had been polished to a dazzling shine, gleaming as he walked.
Silus rolled his eyes, letting out a small chuckle. "Rowan would never let me live this down. It just feels... strange." His fingers explored the suit's fabric before his gaze shifted back to Hazel, his eyes filled with warmth. "You look stunning, sis."
They embraced, both trying to hold back any tears that threatened to well up. "Alright," Hazel said, her voice tinged with emotion, "The last thing we need is to mess this up, and I'm pretty sure Indira would have a heart attack if she had to start over."
Hazel's expression shifted as a thought suddenly struck her. "Oh no, wait!" she exclaimed, a hint of panic lacing her words. She excused herself from the group, her elegant gown swishing as she hurried away.
Indira's voice trailed after her, tinged with amusement and concern. "Careful with that hair, Hazel! I don't have the time to work miracles twice."
Racing up the stairs to their shared room, Hazel knew that she couldn't afford to waste any time. She entered the bathroom, her heart pounding with anxiety, her mind consumed by urgency. However, her heart sank as she frantically searched for what she had come for. "Shit," she whispered under her breath, realizing the gravity of the situation. The suture needle and kit were gone.