Downstairs, I find my mother and Prim tending to a subdued Gale. The medicine must be wearing off, by the look on his face. I brace myself for another fight but try to keep my voice calm. "Can't you give him another shot?"
"I will, if it's needed. We thought we'd try the snow coat first," says my mother. She has removed his bandages. You can practically see the heat radiating off his back. She lays a clean cloth across his angry flesh and nods to Prim.
Prim comes over, stirring what appears to be a large bowl of snow. But it's tinted a light green and gives off a sweet, clean scent. Snow coat. She carefully begins to ladle the stuff onto the cloth. I can almost hear the sizzle of Gale's tormented skin meeting the snow mixture. His eyes flutter open, perplexed, and then he lets out a sound of relief.
"It's lucky we have snow," says my mother.
I think of what it must be like to recover from a whipping in midsummer, with the searing heat and the tepid water from the tap. "What did you do in warm months?" I ask.
A crease appears between my mother's eyebrows as she frowns. "Tried to keep the flies away."
My stomach turns at the thought. She fills a handkerchief with the snow-coat mixture and I hold it to the weal on my cheek. Instantly the pain withdraws. It's the coldness of the snow, yes, but whatever mix of herbal juices my mother has added numbs as well. "Oh. That's wonderful. Why didn't you put this on him last night?"
"I needed the wound to set first," she says.
I don't know what that means exactly, but as long as it works, who am I to question her? She knows what she's doing, my mother. I feel a pang of remorse about yesterday, the awful things I yelled at her as Peeta and Haymitch dragged me from the kitchen. "I'm sorry. About screaming at you yesterday."
"I've heard worse," she says. "You've seen how people are, when someone they love is in pain."
Someone they love. The words numb my tongue as if it's been packed in snow coat. Of course, I love Gale. But what kind of love does she mean? What do I mean when I say I love Gale? I don't know. I did kiss him last night, in a moment when my emotions were running so high. But I'm sure he doesn't remember it. Does he? I hope not. If he does, everything will just get more complicated and I really can't think about kissing when I've got a rebellion to incite. I give my head a little shake to clear it. "Where's Peeta?" I say.
"He went home when we heard you stirring. Didn't want to leave his house unattended during the storm," says my mother.
"Did he get back all right?" I ask. In a blizzard, you can get lost in a matter of yards and wander off course into oblivion.
"Why don't you give him a call and check?" she says.
I go into the study, a room I've pretty much avoided since my meeting with President Snow, and dial Peeta's number. After a few rings he answers.
"Hey. I just wanted to make sure you got home," I say.
"Katniss, I live three houses away from you," he says.
"I know, but with the weather and all," I say.
"Well, I'm fine. Thank you for checking." There's a long pause. "How's Gale?"
"All right. My mother and Prim are giving him snow coat now," I say.
"And your face?" he asks.
"I've got some, too," I say. "Have you seen Haymitch today?"
"I checked in on him. Dead drunk. But I built up his fire and left him some bread," he says.
"I wanted to talk to - to both of you." I don't dare add more, here on my phone, which is surely tapped.
"Probably have to wait until after the weather calms down," he says. "Nothing much will happen before that, anyway."
"No, nothing much," I agree.
It takes two days for the storm to blow itself out, leaving us with drifts higher than my head. Another day before the path is cleared from the Victor's Village to the square. During this time I help tend to Gale, apply snow coat to my cheek, try to remember everything I can about the uprising in District 8, in case it will help us. The swelling in my face goes down, leaving me with an itchy, healing wound and a very black eye. But still, the first chance I get, I call Peeta to see if he wants to go into town with me.
We rouse Haymitch and drag him along with us. He complains, but not as much as usual. We all know we need to discuss what happened and it can't be anywhere as dangerous as our homes in the Victor's Village. In fact, we wait until the village is well behind us to even speak. I spend the time studying the ten-foot walls of snow piled up on either side of the narrow path that has been cleared, wondering if they will collapse in on us.
Finally Haymitch breaks the silence. "So we're all heading off into the great unknown, are we?" he asks me.
"No," I say. "Not anymore."
"Worked through the flaws in that plan, did you, sweetheart?" he asks. "Any new ideas?"
"I want to start an uprising," I say.
Haymitch just laughs. It's not even a mean laugh, which is more troubling. It shows he can't even take me seriously. "Well, I want a drink. You let me know how that works out for you, though," he says.
"Then what's your plan?" I spit back at him.
"My plan is to make sure everything is just perfect for your wedding," says Haymitch. "I called and rescheduled the photo shoot without giving too many details."
"You don't even have a phone," I say.
"Effie had that fixed," he says. "Do you know she asked me if I'd like to give you away? I told her the sooner the better."
"Haymitch." I can hear the pleading creeping into my voice.
"Katniss." He mimics my tone. "It won't work."
We shut up as a team of men with shovels passes us, headed out to the Victor's Village. Maybe they can do something about those ten-foot walls. And by the time they're out of earshot, the square is too close. We step into it and all come to a stop simultaneously.
Nothing much will happen during the blizzard. That's what Peeta and I had agreed. But we couldn't have been more wrong. The square has been transformed. A huge banner with the seal of Panem hangs off the roof of the Justice Building. Peacekeepers, in pristine white uniforms, march on the cleanly swept cobblestones. Along the rooftops, more of them occupy nests of machine guns. Most unnerving is a line of new constructions - an official whipping post, several stockades, and a gallows - set up in the center of the square.
"Thread's a quick worker," says Haymitch.
Some streets away from the square, I see a blaze flare up. None of us has to say it. That can only be the Hob going up in smoke. I think of Greasy Sae, Ripper, all my friends who make their living there.