in best interest ♢ jaci&val [92nd]

j a c i n t a   s a l a z a r .

Yesterday afternoon, a letter arrived at Jacinta's Victor's Village home. It was from her favorite sister — favorite living sister, anyway — Elena. She had questioned, but only for a moment, why Elena hadn't just come and knocked on her door, but she figured that Elena had tried when she wasn't home and so she resorted to leaving a letter.

The letter requested Jacinta to come to the Salazar mansion the next day, where Elena still resided, with Violet. She had brought her daughter there before, but only when her parents had not been present. Marina and Valentino — she still could not decide which one she loathed more.

It was a brisk spring day in District Seven. She wore a beige trench coat and black leather boots, with large sunglasses to obscure her face. It did little to hide her identity, especially with her young daughter in tow. Jacinta dressed Violet every morning. She had never been the kind of girl who played with dolls as a child — her parents mandated that it was knives instead — nor did she envision herself as a maternal woman. But every day when Violet was finished with her breakfast, Jacinta would take her into her walk-in closet, which was filled with an assortment of shoes, dresses, coats, skirts, and accessories, and pick out an outfit for her daughter to wear that day.

Today, it was a pink cape coat with a white dress underneath, matching tights, and patent leather Mary Jane shoes. Jacinta had done Violet's hair in double braids with white ribbons tied into bows at the ends.

When Jacinta arrived to the Salazar mansion, she paused for a moment. She seldom came here, but when she did, she was filled with bitter nostalgia. Jacinta was loathe to admit that she had happy memories in this house. As much as it stung, she preferred to think of throwing a knife at her father after her victory in the Hunger Games than her fond ones with him.

She looked through the window, where she could see the living room dimly lit by an ornate lampshade. Her father had taught her how to dance, right there, on the dark green rug by the coffee table, when she was Violet's age — six years old. The windows had been frosted that day. Snow was falling, the first of winter.

Jacinta opened the creaking gate and ascended the steps to the door with Violet. She rang the doorbell, and approaching footsteps quickly followed.

It was not Elena who answered. It was Valentino.

She blinked a few times before her gaze hardened into a glare. Her grip on Violet's hand tightened, pulling her daughter closer to her side.

"Why are you here?" she said sharply.