iii. Fifteen

Last month was the dedication of the Children of Panem Memorial, a museum and vast network of gardens constructed on the former site of the Hunger Games arena. Peeta and I were asked – were begged, actually – to attend the grand opening as guests of honor, but we politely and firmly refused. Today we are visiting the site on our own, which is the only way we could bring ourselves to do it. Our lives don't belong to the cameras anymore.

At the entrance, a bronze mockingjay spreads its wings to form the arches of the gates. I glance at Peeta, my stomach heavy, and he reaches for my hand. We walk slowly and take our time. I can't find any words as we stop at the memorials for Rue… Thresh… Mags… Finnick. Peeta is just as quiet.

It's after dark when we make our way out and hail a transport car to our hotel. I don't sleep, and I know that Peeta doesn't either. If we did, I'm sure there would be nightmares. We simply hold each other in the dark.

That is the night I decide to defy the fear that has controlled me for too long.

It feels empowering somehow to throw the herbs away. I lay my palm flat on my belly and close my eyes. My doubts have all been burned away like the Capitol's wedding dress that blazed into a mockingjay when I twirled. I open my eyes again and smile at myself in the bathroom mirror.

Then I go out to Peeta.

He's sitting up in bed, sketching. I catch a glimpse of Rue's smiling face before he closes his notebook and sets it aside. His eyes widen in pleasant surprise when I climb onto his lap, my knees on either side of him. He settles his hands on my hips and leans forward to kiss me.

"Do you think those wishing stars can work more than once?" I ask him.

"I'm sure they can," he says. "Why?"

"We'll find out. Let me tell you my wish." I kiss his ear and whisper, "A year from now, I wish to see you holding our baby."

He is very, very still, and I don't dare move.

Finally, he says, "You want children. Real or not real?"

I draw back a little so he can see my face, and I touch his lips with mine. "Real, Peeta." I pull my shirt over my head while he watches. Has he fallen into a trance? "The herbs are gone," I tell him. I touch his face, suddenly afraid that I am too late. "You still want them, don't you?"

I'm ashamed to say that I emit a girlish squeal when he rolls us over suddenly, pinning my body beneath his. "Want them?" he repeats, and he laughs. "Yes, sweetheart, I want them. I want them."

After all these years, we are still capable of being over-eager. Such is the case tonight. We bump noses, struggle with clothing, and mumble the occasional amused "Oops…" But Peeta's hands and mouth are both deft and generous when it comes to pleasing me. He has already left me breathless and twice satisfied when he pushes into me at last. He moves slowly, taking his time as he lavishes kisses on my mouth and everywhere else he can reach, until we fall over the edge together.

It is a terrifying and happy moment when the test confirms what I already know. But it is the good kind of fear – the kind that leads to something wonderful. This is a fear I can handle. This is a fear I can embrace. Rather than an instrument of death, I have become the instrument of life. There are no crowds screaming my name, but I have never felt more victorious.