The Sterling Nightingale ⟷ Finnick Odair/OC

Or simply breathing

Chapter Thirty Four | Or simply breathing

"It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that the keenest observer – a veritable prophet – could never have guessed that, at this present moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laid for the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those stirring times had ever seen." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

The day of the Charity Gala comes quickly, and with it, several plans that are layered one on top of the other, stacked so high that Sil wonders how she'll manage to orchestrate them all. As for Finnick, he just wonders how he'll get through the night.

"Another party?" Finnick bemoans, watching as Sil riffles through her closet, plucking gown after gown off the rack. Apparently, none of them live up to her standards, for she tsks at each option and adds them to the growing mountain of dresses that currently occupies her bed.

"This is for you," Sil tells him, studying a lavender confection with a discerning eye. It's puffy, with huge skirts, and probably cost a fortune just in terms of the fabric yardage alone. Sil purses her mouth at it and throws it over to the mattress to join the rest. As she turns back to her closet, she trills, "You said you wanted to find the identity of the Nightingale, didn't you?"

She plucks out a very colorful, sequined mini dress and Finnick crosses his arms. She barely holds it for more than a second before adding it to the mountain. It isn't nearly as flamboyant or dressy for a gala of this caliber.

"Yeah, well, I didn't say I wanted to go to another party to do it," Finnick mutters, and adds in a louder voice, "Isn't there another way? I feel like arm candy whenever I go out with you."

The phrase makes Sil laugh. She turns to wink at him and drawls, "Gracious, darling, but I do believe you may be the finest arm candy I've ever had."

Finnick rolls his eyes, but can't stop the amused smile from spreading over his face at her declaration.

"I'm afraid this is our only option, unless you've got a better idea," she says after throwing two more dresses on the bed. To be perfectly honest, Finnick is a little concerned about how many gowns she owns. She's been at it for ages now, and the mountain of lace and chiffon on the mattress looks about ready to topple over.

He eyes it warily and murmurs, "I've already exhausted my other options..." Sil only pauses for a moment, but the brief glance she sends him tells Finnick that she's quite aware as to what those other options are. Hotel rooms and clients; payment in the form of secrets. He sighs and grumbles, "I don't even know why Snow thinks I'm the most qualified person for this job. The Nightingale could be anyone."

Sil hums, holds up a sunshine yellow gown, and breezily responds, "Indeed. For all you know, you've already met the man." Then, turning to face him with a dramatic gasp, Sil adds, "Perhaps you've even spoken to him, without even knowing!"

Oh, she shouldn't jest. When Finnick does discover the identity of the Sterling Nightingale – and he will, she has little doubt of that – he might be cross with her for dredging up this small bit of humor in his time of need. She can't help herself though. Anything that might make this dreary situation a little lighter is a blessing.

Finnick snorts at her and steps forward, quite finished with watching the debacle of her never-ending closet. As he pushes her out of the way to inspect the contents of it himself, he wonders, "Do you think he knows I'm looking for him?"

Sil stands off to the side and tilts her head, leaning against the closet door and watching as he riffles through the hangers within. Surely, she shouldn't be overly callous with the tides of this discussion, but...well, Finnick has a mischievous side. Perhaps he'll find it amusing later on, if they ever find themselves on solid ground.