The Sterling Nightingale ⟷ Finnick Odair/OC

All other sound.

Chapter Thirty One | All other sound

"After that she turned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a mass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accounts and receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struck Marguerite – nor had she, alas, found it worthwhile to inquire – as to how Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of brains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

Two bruised ribs and countless other minor injuries all over her body – that is the doctor's diagnosis after he checks her over about an hour later. He wraps her stomach, treats her bruises with some kind of advanced diminishing formula, and leaves her in peace just as Finnick is coming out of the shower.

Sil is flicking through her PAAD when he steps out into the living room, running a towel over his damp hair. He's dressed in a pair of smart looking trousers and a linen button down, tucked into his pants. When she glances up at him and sees the subdued look on his face, Sil remembers why he's wearing such nice clothes at eight o'clock in the evening. There can be only one reason.

"You're going out tonight, aren't you," she says, not bothering to add an inflection to her question. She already knows the answer just from the carefully blank way his eyes flicker over her. He is trying to hide his fear, his self pity.

He doesn't respond at first. Instead he goes to sit down beside her, throwing his arms over the back of the couch. After a minute of silence, he mutters, "I won't be back till early morning."

He sends her a glance and she frowns. To be honest, he's still annoyed with her, but the hot shower he's just had has cleared his head a little. Enough, at least, to continue their conversation from before without letting his anger cloud his judgement.

"Tell me why you did it," he says, watching her carefully. She looks distinctly uncomfortable and he can't entirely blame her.

Sil's frown deepens. "I didn't want to, Finnick. You know how Snow is. If I hadn't, he would have taken my father...just like he took my mother."

He's expecting this response and immediately inquires, "What happened to your mother?" He doesn't remember her ever going into detail about it. Is it the same defies-the-Capitol-and-pays-for-it story that happens regularly to new Victors who don't fully understand how the system works, or is it something more? He recalls the strange conversation he'd had with Gemma before the Quarter Quell, and wonders if there isn't another, more hidden agenda behind Snow's actions. The President doesn't take rebel sympathizers lightly. And if what Snow had said about the Cornelius family is true when Finnick had woken up in that hospital, then surely there's more to the story.

Sil sighs. "I don't know all the details," she lies, because it's safer that way, and Finnick can't know. Knowing is dangerous and she's afraid of what he'd say to her – how he'd look at her – if he knew. So instead she just murmurs, "Snow came to the conclusion that my mother was involved in getting people visas to leave District 1. He killed her to send a message to the rebels."

Finnick stares at her. She recites this dryly, unemotionally. Coldly, even. As if she is talking about someone she is completely unrelated to. Is it a defense mechanism, perhaps, to compartmentalize her pain? He isn't sure how she does it if that's the case. He still remembers the day his entire family was wiped out – his mother, his father, his younger brother. He still feels the anguish as if it were yesterday. Not for the first time, he wonders if she has any emotions at all, or if she just hides them behind superficiality because it's easier that way.

"...I have to go," he mutters, deciding that this is a topic he doesn't want to get deeply into right now. There's no time anyway. He has to be at the hotel in twenty minutes.