the price of victory. jacinta. | 78th

If she shut her eyes, she could almost silence the fireworks that cracked and sparkled across the black, starless sky. She could almost ignore that it sounded like cannon fire. Her trembling, pale hands gripped the railing of the balcony like a lifeline. She did not find comfort in the fact that even if she did fall, she would be saved by the force field that glimmered below.

Jacinta leaned over the railing, grateful for the crown of braids that held her hair up on her head. She could not shake the overwhelming rising of her stomach, even though all of its contents had been discarded in the bathroom moments ago. She tried to steady her breathing, drawing deep breaths to stop herself from heaving. The autumn air was sharp and so bone-dry that it felt like it was cutting her airways. Goosebumps stood up on the exposed skin of her arms, back, and neck, which were uncovered by her strapless white gown. Her coat was inside, at the very entrance of the tower for safekeeping.

She opened her eyes and peered up at the sky, which was still alight with fireworks. A silvery crown appeared, shimmering in the darkness like diamonds. The next were a series of gold and red, and after that—violet. Deep, rich violet, darker than the other fireworks but somehow shining more brilliantly.

Jacinta had no intention of going back inside until the party was nearing an end. The recap videos should have been over by now, but she could not face anyone in this state. People would whisper about why she had retreated to the upper floor, but she could live with that.

The event was not supposed to be catastrophic. She thought she could suffer through it with a smile, as long as she had enough drinks to get her through the night. When she received the invitation for the post-finale celebration, she had tried to decline, only to be advised that she must be in attendance. Many of the victors had been invited, as well as the escorts, mentors, stylists, and many other figures of importance to the Hunger Games.

After h’orderves, they had been seated at their assigned round tables and made to endure the entertainment of the night: a viewing of a recap of the Games—including spotlights on each of the kills.

When Violet died, Jacinta never intended to see that image again. Her small frame lying in the blood-stained snow, her eyes closed and face frozen forever in the stillness death. She had been offered to view the body when it was returned from the Arena and cleaned to say goodbye, but she refused. She couldn’t. Jacinta hadn’t been ready then, and she still was not now. She had decided to face it only when she was required: at Violet’s funeral.

Jacinta had downed so many drinks after the viewing ended that she nearly vomited right then and there in the ballroom while chatting with Saffron Lowe. “Excuse me,” she had slurred out before rushing away to the elevator, leaving a concerned Jacquelyn and Colt behind.

And now here she stood, several minutes later, still trying to pull herself together. She had to be presentable for the cameras when she made her exit at the end of the evening, and though she hadn’t ruined her hair or makeup, her face was still white as a ghost and she couldn’t stop shaking.

She snapped herself halfway back into composure when she heard footsteps approaching behind her. Jacinta straightened herself, but the tremble in her hands remained. She turned, expecting to see Colt, Jacquelyn, or one of the victors. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of President Snow, a shock of white in the darkness of the night with his white suit and hair.

“Miss Salazar,” he said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jacinta hadn’t been aware before that her eyes widened when she saw him. She blinked, resituating herself into the best stoicism she could manage.

“Your absence is conspicuous,” Snow continued. “We had all assumed you came up for fresh air, but when you had been gone for so long...”

“I did,” Jacinta said, too quickly. “I’ve been feeling ill. And, you know—it’s stuffy in there. You should tell them to fix the airflow.”

“Ah.” Snow nodded his head slowly, like he was feigning belief of a child’s lie. Her father would do the same to her when she was young.

“I take it the recap of the Games was not easy for you to watch. I never offered you my condolences, Miss Salazar, for your sister.” Snow slowly walked closer to her as he spoke, wearing an earnest expression. Jacinta could see the ice that was underneath. It shone through his eyes.

President Snow did not make her uneasy in the way that he did others. Watching him approach her was like observing a snake slither towards her ankle, readying its jaws to snap open and pierce her with its fangs. This dance was a familiar one. He had almost the same demeanor and coldness as her father. For once, Jacinta was thankful for the circumstances of her childhood. It was the only defense she had in this moment.

But she did feel a sinking in her stomach that had now replaced the nausea. What was the point? she wondered.

“It is such a shame, truly, that she is not the one who was crowned tonight. That she suffered this fate in the first place.” His gaze passed over her face when he spoke the last line. When their eyes met, she understood.

Jacinta had known, but it was only theory. She could not make a concrete accusation, even to those close to her. Most people knew that it was not simply chance that her sister was drawn from all of those names in the Reaping immediately following Jacinta’s victory. But there was always doubt, or perhaps fate.

She had never believed in such a coincidence. She would bet all of her fortune that every ballot in that bowl bore her sister’s name.

“Victory comes at a price, Miss Salazar.”

Jacinta thought of strangling him, or throwing him to the ground and stabbing his eyes out with the stiletto heel of her shoe, but she was sure that there were guards waiting just inside, and even if she managed to maim or kill him, she would not get to live to enjoy her revenge.

This was not the Games. She was in a new arena now, one far more dangerous and difficult to navigate. It would take more than the skill of a killer to get her through.

She knew that Snow could see the rage in her eyes; she knew what she looked like when she was angry, but kept her steely composure. Her father. That was who she saw in the mirror when she was in this state.

“Yes,” was all she could reply. “That I have learned.”

I’ve known the truth since the Reaping. You know that. You just came here to gloat, was what she wanted to say, but she did not have to. The intensity in her eyes said it for her.

Snow held her gaze for moments longer. Her eyes were fire, his were ice. The tense silence between them stretched until Snow broke it at last, an offered his arm to her.

“Why don’t I escort you back to the party?” he suggested, though she knew it was a command.

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” It was an automatic response. Her tone was light with pleasantry but devoid of anything else.

Jacinta hooked her arm in President Snow’s and together they walked back into the elevator, silently trailed by a pair of guards.