第116章

  real roses? could it be that i am near the garden where the evil things grow?
  as i creep down the hall, the odor becomes overpowering. perhaps not as strong as the actual mutts, but purer, because it's not competing with sewage and explosives. i turn a corner and find myself staring at two surprised guards. not peacekeepers, of course. there are no more peacekeepers. but not the trim, gray-uniformed soldiers from 13 either. these two, a man and a woman, wear the tattered, thrown-together clothes of actual rebels. still bandaged and gaunt, they are now keeping watch over the doorway to the roses. when i move to enter, their guns form an x in front of me.
  "you can't go in, miss," says the man.
  "soldier," the woman corrects him. "you can't go in, soldier everdeen. president's orders."
  i just stand there patiently waiting for them to lower their guns, for them to understand, without my telling them, that behind those doors is something i need. just a rose. a single bloom. to place in snow's lapel before i shoot him. my presence seems to worry the guards. they're discussing calling haymitch, when a woman speaks up behind me. "let her go in."
  i know the voice but can't immediately place it. not seam, not 13, definitely not capitol. i turn my head and find myself face-to-face with paylor, the commander from 8. she looks even more beat up than she did at the hospital, but who doesn't?
  "on my authority," says paylor. "she has a right to anything behind that door." these are her soldiers, not coin's. they drop their weapons without question and let me pass.
  at the end of a short hallway, i push apart the glass doors and step inside. by now the smell's so strong that it begins to flatten out, as if there's no more my nose can absorb. the damp, mild air feels good on my hot skin. and the roses are glorious. row after row of sumptuous blooms, in lush pink, sunset orange, and even pale blue. i wander through the aisles of carefully pruned plants, looking but not touching, because i have learned the hard way how deadly these beauties can be. i know when i find it, crowning the top of a slender bush. a magnificent white bud just beginning to open. i pull my left sleeve over my hand so that my skin won't actually have to touch it, take up a pair of pruning shears, and have just positioned them on the stem when he speaks.
  "that's a nice one."
  my hand jerks, the shears snap shut, severing the stem.
  "the colors are lovely, of course, but nothing says perfection like white."
  i still can't see him, but his voice seems to rise up from an adjacent bed of red roses. delicately pinching the stem of the bud through the fabric of my sleeve, i move slowly around the corner and find him sitting on a stool against the wall. he's as well groomed and finely dressed as ever, but weighted down with manacles, ankle shackles, tracking devices. in the bright light, his skin's a pale, sickly green. he holds a white handkerchief spotted with fresh blood. even in his deteriorated state, his snake eyes shine bright and cold. "i was hoping you'd find your way to my quarters."
  his quarters. i have trespassed into his home, the way he slithered into mine last year, hissing threats with his bloody, rosy breath. this greenhouse is one of his rooms, perhaps his favorite; perhaps in better times he tended the plants himself. but now it's part of his prison. that's why the guards halted me. and that's why paylor let me in.
  i'd supposed he would be secured in the deepest dungeon that the capitol had to offer, not cradled in the lap of luxury. yet coin left him here. to set a precedent, i guess. so that if in the future she ever fell from grace, it would be understood that presidents--even the most despicable--get special treatment. who knows, after all, when her own power might fade?