The Sterling Nightingale ⟷ Finnick Odair/OC

Fits against yours

Chapter Fifty One | Fits against yours

"Yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril." Emma Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel

The next morning, Sil is up before dawn. It isn't entirely by choice. The morphling has completely worn off now, and the medication that the doctor had given her is not strong enough to dull the pain altogether. On top of that, sleeping on her stomach is extremely uncomfortable. She's had a very restless sleep speckled with unpleasant dreams that haven't helped.

With a sigh, she rolls out of bed and clumsily pops two of the pills that the doctor had given her yesterday. She will have to go back to get her wounds checked today. Whatever ointment the doctor had used on her seems to have helped considerably though. Before, even the slightest movement had been agonizing. Now, as she stands up and carefully moves across her room, the pain is more of a dull ache and the wounds, when she looks, have scabbed over already. It is perhaps the one good thing about the Capitol, these medical advancements.

She goes to the window and pulls the curtains open. The sun is barely peeking over the far horizon, casting the sky with a soft grey light as the world awakens. She considers sitting in one of the chairs to watch its slow arch, but she gets bored after only a few minutes of idling around.

Oh, Sil enjoys luxurious days spent lazing around just as much as the next person, but she isn't in the mood for that right now. Not in President Snow's manor and not while she is injured. And besides, she has far too much work to do to waste her time. So after staring at the window for several lengthy, awful minutes, Sil rolls her eyes and turns to get dressed.

Having no other clothes besides the bloody rags she'd arrived in yesterday, Sil carefully wriggles into a long robe that the nurse had brought last night. It's a bit painful to move, but she manages after a brief struggle. Once she is dressed a bit more conservatively, she wastes very little time in grabbing her PAAD underneath her arm and walking into the hall in just her nightshirt and robe.

Well it's not as if the entirety of Panem hasn't seen her in less. She does get quite a few looks from rebel soldiers patrolling the halls, though.

One even stops and asks her if she needs any assistance, to which she pauses, tilts her head, and suggests, "I would love some coffee, darling, if you're heading in the direction of the kitchen. One spoon of sugar and a dash of cream. And maybe some croissants!"

The soldier nods quickly, eyeing her in a way that should probably make her feel awkward for being so underdressed, except that she is far more concerned with getting her coffee and starting her work to truly care.

She strides away before the soldier can verbally respond, calling over her shoulder, "I'll be down on the veranda, my love. Do hurry."

She does indeed venture to the veranda, which is on the bottom floor and boasts several comfortable looking chairs. She takes a seat in one, carefully easing back so as not to upset her wounds, and crosses her legs before propping the PAAD in her lap. Then, opening the screen, Sil frowns at the device and wonders how she should go about this, and who she should contact.

Luckily, a very familiar voice brings the answer to her problems.

"Silver?! What the hell are you doing?" Mr. Dorsey's voice suddenly questions, and Sil is so surprised to hear the cadence of it that she turns quickly, her PAAD sliding off her lap in the process.

Dorsey has quick reflexes though. He's close enough to snatch it before it hits the ground, and goes to hand it to her with a disbelieving look on his face, like he can't believe she'd be so clumsy. That's about the time when he notices the bandages peeking out from beneath her nightshirt, and he curses almost theatrically.