Timber

Chapter Eleven: The Scent of Roses

Senator Snow's blue eyes were the kind of striking that made people stare. Hazel wasn't immune. Yet they weren't warm like the skies that stretched above the forests of District Seven. Like her mothers. They were icy, striking, reminiscent of a crisp, clear winter.

The suit didn't help her stare. Impeccable, expensive, and clearly stitched by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Hazel didn't need to touch the fabric to know it cost more than anything she'd ever own.

A yellow rose was pinned to his lapel that was much too bright, too cheerful, and totally perverse. He looked like the Capitol's idea of an angel. She tilted her head, more like an angel of death. One that led district children to their demise.

He was the human version of Sapphire's breath, absolutely.

When their gazes collided, something flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe. It was gone just as quickly. So fast, in fact, it was as if she'd imagined it.

He offered a smile that didn't reach anything vital and turned back toward the platform, already reabsorbed in the growing commotion.

Still, her eyes kept drifting back to him. He moved like he owned the platform, which, knowing the Capitol, he probably did. Not rushed, not aimless. Wholly deliberate.

She didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until Silus bumped her shoulder.

Blinking rapidly, the spell snapped, and she inhaled, instantly regretting it. The scent of the station was a pungent combination of engine oil, hot metal, and some kind of citrus-cleaning agent that stung the inside of her nostrils.

One could practically taste it.

The building itself reminded her of a lumber hall back in Seven. Built wide and high to impress. It shouldn't have been beautiful, but it was. In that cold, distant way, Capitol things often were.

Somewhere nearby, metal clanged against concrete. Peacekeepers called out to one another as they unloaded the latest arrivals. She and Silus were just more pieces of freight, delivered right on time.

As Hazel's vision adjusted to the light, the other tributes began spilling out of their trains like livestock freshly prepared for auction. A parade of glassy stares and stiff limbs, all blinking up at the Capitol's version of heaven. Or in reality, a luxurious hell.

The floor beneath her boots was so slick she half expected to slip. It gleamed like the thick ice that covered the Alpine River every winter. Red carpets sliced through the marble like wounds. Decorative, dramatic, and exactly what she expected.

Welcome to the Capitol. Try not to bleed on the floor, and if you do, it will blend right in.

Hazel's gaze drifted across the other tributes; most appeared to be trying not to appear like they were falling apart.

One girl from District Four stood out. Tall. Her hair shimmered like sunlit ocean water, curling in waves down her back. What was odd was that she didn't seem scared. Not visibly, anyway. Her glare washed over the station with removed interest, like she was here for a gala instead of a death sentence.

A younger boy from District Eleven drifted a few steps behind his partner, clearly out of sync with the grandeur swallowing him whole. His head was shaved close, which somehow made him look even smaller. His eyes were wide, and dark, and they kept bouncing from the polished marble underfoot to the arched ceilings above.

As the tributes clustered together in a loose huddle, a figure broke through the crowd with far too much energy for the hour.

Dr. Gaul.