Author's Note: Greetings to all my wonderful readers – if you're still out there. Sincerest apologies for temporarily abandoning my story. Thanks to all of you wonderful people who messaged me to make sure I had not died and to offer words of encouragement (Special thanks PPerfect; you're the best!) Long story short: I had to take a break about which I did not have much choice, got a little lazy, and then had a VERY hard time getting back into the swing of things. However, it feels really good to be back to writing again. This was originally going to be two chapters, but I didn't really like the first one by itself, so I reworked it into a single one. Next update should take less than a year.

Every week it feels like the Saturdays get farther and farther apart. Just when I think that it can't possibly get worse, it does, and this is without a doubt the longest wait for a Saturday yet. And I last saw Gale on a weeknight. Spent the night with him, even. But then, it was the first time I had seen him come home with his uniform soaked in blood. Even though he chose not to tell me what events had lead to that state, the details didn't matter. No one should have to experience that, and next time it could be his own blood.

Although I suppose I would rather Gale show up covered in his own blood than not show up at all. Like the workers in District 8. If he comes home battered, injured, or traumatized, at least he's still alive.

That thought – that Gale coming home hurt would be the bright side - makes me so angry I feel sick, so I do my best to twist it into motivation for the rebellion. It's hard, though, since there is still so little to be done right now. So I wait. Some more.

I pass the time by reading newspapers with my mother when she feels up to it, and practicing nocturnes on the piano when she doesn't. I am certain that the stress of the present unknown has completely nullified any benefit that the success of our plans had given her health. It hurts to see the worry eat at her, so I remind myself that the last thing she needs is a daughter in the same state. I make an effort at lighter conversation with her – she needs to have some interaction that does not center on talk of death and injustice and war – and find it oddly awkward, as if we've completely forgotten how to do it. It reminds me a little of how hard it was to talk with Katniss at first, before we actually learned how to be friends. Is that what Mom and have become – mere acquaintances?

When I run out of things to distract myself, I go back to grappling with what to say to Gale. He had left me with words about change, and now I had to figure a way to get more information from him without divulging any. Part of me feels like using him like that might make me a bad person, but the other part justifies it with a long list of well-intentioned reasons for doing so, not the least of which being his own personal safety. Then I remember that I got used to being an awful (or, at least, questionable) person a while ago and the whole thing ought not bother me quite so much. Grocery shopping for peaches helps a little. Well, a lot actually. Especially since I manage to actually find one. It was one of only a handful of Capitol-imported items in the produce aisle, disappointingly under-ripe, and absurdly overpriced. But it was a peach. I put it in the basket on the kitchen counter and make a concerted effort never to look at it when anyone else is around.

….

I figure something is up when I get home and the boys politely say "hello," and then discretely shuffle to the door to go outside. My sister, who is discrete about exactly nothing, confirms my suspicions when she trots after them and says, "Mom said she wants to talk to you."

My initial reaction is that I ought to march right out the door with them and drag Rory back inside so we can settle this once and for all, but one look at my mother's expression tells me that would be an unwise decision. The little rat will have to come back eventually, and I'm really good at waiting. "What's Rory's problem now?" I ask, with perhaps a touch more attitude than I should.

"Actually," she says casually without looking up from the sudsy washtub that swallows her arms, "Rory hasn't made a peep." One hand lifts a bit of fabric from the water while the other fishes for the little brush she uses for stubborn stains. "I was wondering why you didn't come home last night." Finally, her eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised slightly as if expecting an immediate and perfectly reasonable response.

I don't know if I have ever been so terrified of my mother.

She shrugs a little, and continues with unnerving placidity, "I was a little worried about you, after the day you had, figured you'd be late, need some time, you know..." The brush scratches gently at the fabric as she speaks, and for some reason it seems so loud that I can't think. "So I waited up and waited up. It's been too cold to fall asleep in the meadow, so I thought about walking to the Everdeens', see if you were there…." Scratch, scratch scratch, scratch. "But then it was the middle of the night and I couldn't really go knocking on doors to find somebody to stay with the kids while I did that." Scratch, scratch. "So I didn't sleep all night and as soon as I got them to school this morning I went over to the mine and asked the foreman to make sure you clocked in." She pulls another shirt from the rumpled pile on the chair next to her, soaks it, and resumes brushing. Scratch, scratch, scratch. "That meant you were alive and not in jail, so I just figured I'd wait till you got home today to find out what happened." Scratch, scratch. "Feel free to chime in at any time."

I do the math as fast as I can. I could tell her the truth and end up stuck with a really uncomfortable conversation. I could lie, get caught when she asks Katniss' mother (or somebody else) to corroborate my story, and end up stuck with a really really uncomfortable conversation. I opt to thread the needle and talk my way out of it with a little of both. "I stayed at the Mayor's house."

"Oh?" she says, as if genuinely surprised beneath the quiet ire. It would seem that she did in fact think that I had spent the night at the Everdeens'. Or, judging from the disapproval in her tone thus far, specifically with Katniss.

"I was tired and miserable by the time I walked Madge back there, and she offered to let me rest awhile. I started to doze off when she went to check on her mom, so she gave me a blanket and told me I could stay." There. That was mostly true. And about as tame as it comes. She doesn't really need to know that the blanket was on Madge's bed. With Madge in it. While she was wearing only a nightdress. That is all entirely unnecessary information. Entirely unnecessary.

She seems to weigh my answer for a moment, then settle on believing me. I'm pretty sure it has more to do with believing that Madge is that nice, but I'll take it. "And you accepted without any thought for your family whatsoever. That someone might be concerned."

The remark offends me so deeply – she of anyone ought to know that my family is my most sacred priority – that I snap at her before I can stop myself. "Look, what's this about? You didn't get this upset when I slept in the meadow that night."

She drops her work at last and points a finger sharply at me. When she speaks, her voice is frightneningly level. "That night I didn't wait up to know you were gone, because that night you didn't come home covered in someone else's blood. That night you didn't scare the hell out of me."

I sigh and drop my eyes. "I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "Everything was just so…. I didn't think about you worrying. Truly."

When she speaks again, her voice has lost a little of its hostility. "Listen, I understand. Maybe you don't think I do, but I do. All I ask is that you understand there's a big difference between 'I'll probably late' and 'I might not be home.'"

I look back up at her and nod contritely.

She seems to accept my apology, and fishes another shirt out of the soapy water. I begin to think that I have escaped largely unscathed until she speaks again. "And be careful, Gale."

Oh, no. She's going there after all. "About what?" I ask as innocently as I can.

My mother looks at me like she knows I'm deliberately playing dumb. "You know about what.

It's clear she likes you, Gale. I don't know why, because you're barely civil to her, and that's been an improvement. She's a nice girl and she-"

I interrupt immediately. "Mom." My head falls back while I try to digest the utter horror of this situation. I thought I'd avoided this pretty neatly. I should have known. My mother is pretty sharp. She just doesn't always advertise it. Which I guess makes her sharper. "It wasn't like that…." And it wasn't. At least not until morning, anyway.

"I'm not saying it was. But she might get her hopes up, with you actually letting her be nice to you. That's not fair to her. And it's not exactly fair to Katniss, either."

Good God it keeps getting worse. "Me and Katniss, we're not-"

"Fine," she says with non-negotiable Hawthorne finality. "I'll let it go. I've made my point." She pauses for a second and her hands still again. "But don't you dare ever scare the hell out of me like that again." Finally, just barely and at the very end, her voice cracks. It breaks my heart. I cross the room and when I reach her she throws her arms around me. She chokes a little and only for a moment, and tears don't quite fall. It's the closest I've seen her come to crying since my father died. I add one more thing to my list of promises.

….

It turns out, of course, that perhaps I should have looked at the peach at least a few times. Saturday after dinner, Rose presents me and my mother with a homemade apple pie for dessert. She usually gets those kinds of things from the Mellark's bakery, but every so often she'll make something from scratch for us. It isn't quite as pretty as the ones the baker sells, but it smells every bit as good and it's straight out of the oven. The first forkful is no less than heavenly, and I ask her if she'll share her secret.

"I used that last peach," she says. "You slice it up really fine and stir it in with the apples."

I try very hard not to look disappointed. There was, after all, no reason for her not to think the peach wasn't community property. I inspect the filling on my plate, and sure enough there are tiny pale-orange slivers amongst the apples. "It's amazing. I'd have never thought to do that," I say. Even though I've never tried it, I would bet that Gale with peaches is a thousand times more amazing than apples with peaches.

I have just finished helping Rose with washing the dishes and she is getting ready to go home when I hear the front door open, and a few seconds later my father walks in. It is surprising that he would be home so early, especially since his work hours have been worse than usual of late.

"Well, hello there, stranger," Rose chuckles. "I was beginning to think you moved out."

They chat for a moment and make small talk – it has been a long time since they have both been here at the same time – and though Dad is cheerful there is something impatient about him. I wonder what's going on.

Once she leaves, he beckons me into the parlor where Mom had been watching television. I find Haymitch Abernathy standing there too, disheveled and surly as ever. He and my mother, while not hostile to each other, do not make eye contact. I look at each of them in turn as my father continues to wave us on, now into the den. Mom is as curious as I am; the tiniest of smiles tugs at the corner of Haymitch's mouth.

The space is too small for four people, and I feel almost immediately claustrophobic at the proximity. Or maybe it's the smell of alcohol wafting off Haymitch's coat. Actually, it's probably leaking directly from his pores. He heads immediately for the decanters on the bookshelf, so I position myself strategically on the opposite side of the room. He glances up at me as he generously pours the amber liquid into a tumbler. "Running with the big dogs now, eh sweetheart?" he says.

It does feel oddly like some sort of momentous occasion, as if I have been officially recognized as part of the rebellion now that I've been invited to witness this type of clandestine meeting firsthand. I can only nod in response as the suspense steals my voice away. I look to my father, silently begging him to tell us what must obviously be very important news.

"Care to do the honors, Haymitch?" he says, the faintest hint of satisfaction coloring his tone.

The Victor of the Fiftieth Hunger Games takes a long sip from his glass and says without flourish, "Seneca Crane is dead."

My mouth falls open in shock for a second, disbelieving that this long-awaited moment has finally arrived, before I break into an ecstatic smile. My mother slumps over in her chair as if some enormous weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

"Heavensbee is in," Dad continues. "We still have our stylists of course. And a slew of other Victors willing to help us."

A sudden, familiar wave of anger hits me and the emotion is almost too much; I lean back against the wall for balance, and one hand covers my face as I become ashamed of the grin splitting my face. What kind of world have they created that I continue to be elated when people die?

I miss some of what they say as I try to gather myself, but my mother's soft voice is the one that pulls me back in. "We've got the Head Gamemaker in our pocket. Now the real work begins."

She is right. The closer we get to the summit, the more difficult and dangerous the climb becomes. They begin immediately discussing how to make the best use of District Thirteen – they have better technology and firepower than the rest of us but virtually no other resources, and a president who is often unwilling to compromise. Then, the next Hunger Games will be a Quarter Quell which will make devising a plan all the more difficult. We may have the Head Gamemaker on our side now, but Quarter Quells come with rules that he cannot control. How will we get another set of tributes to carry on what Katniss and Peeta started? How do we control the rebellious notions of other district citizens – like the ones in Eight – into a more coordinated effort and still keep it a secret?

I remember thinking that my father was foolish to have kept copies of so many notes. Now that I am here in the thick of this new development, I can appreciate the necessity. After a few minutes I rifle through the desk for a pencil and paper so I can scribble down the myriad details flying about.

We are scheming for what feels like hours when my mother stops suddenly and cocks her head. "What's that?" she asks, straining for some sound. "Is someone at the door?"

Then I hear it, a faint knocking, almost impossible to pick up from here. Gale! I feel guilty for having forgotten him, but only for a moment; tonight I had a good reason. "I'll see who it is," I offer. "I'll be right back."

I dash into the kitchen and sure enough I find Gale Hawthorne standing on my back porch. I don't get a chance to say anything because when he sees that no one is behind me to catch us he takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply.

"God, I missed that," he mumbles against my lips while I brace two hands against his arms to keep my balance. He moves to kiss me again and I abruptly remember that it is a very bad time for this.

I push back at him gently, and he looks a touch confused. "I did, too, but we can't right now."

He frowns a little, and it feels good to know that I get him all off-kilter, too. I point over my shoulder into the house. "My dad is here. He came home early tonight," I whisper.

Gale takes a step back and nods in understanding. His gray eyes flicker back over my shoulder. "Do you want to go, or do you need to stay home?" he asks.

I bite my lip. I could probably escape at this point, but then again, I don't really want to. The things that are happening for the Rebellion right now are too important to miss. But I can't very well explain that to Gale.

"I want to go but… Mom's having a really bad night. I can't leave her. And Dad tries to help, but he's gone so much he doesn't really know what to do all the time."

He looks disappointed, but something about the way he looks at me says that he has deep respect for this choice. I feel despicably guilty that this time it's really just a ruse. "Another night then?"

I don't want to put off talking to him any longer; I already feel like the waiting has been taking years off my life. "If you're okay with a little later, I might be able to get away once things settle down. I still want to see you." It's all I can do not to throw my arms around him again.

Gale shifts his weight a little as he considers this, and he agrees. "Should I come back here, or do you want to meet me somewhere?" he asks.

I doubt I'll be alone later, but I don't really want to be wandering around town by myself late at night either. "You can come here. If someone besides me answers the door tell them Mrs. Everdeen sent something for my mom."

"And when I don't have something to give I should…." waves one hand as if waiting for a suggestion.

"Oh, rip up some moss out of the garden on your way up the walk. Dad would never know the difference. Just tell him she said I'd know what to do with it."

This makes him laugh. "Sounds like a plan."

I glance at the clock on the wall. "Okay. How about-"

"Who is it, Magpie?" My father's voice cuts me off from the parlor. Distantly, I recognize that he must have been concerned after I'd been having such a long conversation with whomever had come to the door. But the thing that consumes most of my attention is the dignity-shattering embarrassment at the fact that he has used my pet name in front of Gale Hawthorne.

I bite my tongue till it hurts and close my eyes for a moment, because I don't want to see Gale's expression. Not that it matters. I know exactly what it must look like anyway. I hear him snort a stifled laugh and say "Magpie?" as if to confirm that he heard correctly while I immediately begin plotting ways to murder my father.

I turn toward the doorway behind me just as Dad appears in it, pushing his glassed back up his nose and utterly oblivious that he may have humiliated his nearly-adult daughter. A pillow over his face once he's asleep? Rat poison in his tea? "It's Gale. You know, Katniss' friend?"

He looks past me and squints as if trying to remember, and then the lights come on. "Oh right! Strawberries!"

Gale nods politely, one corner of his mouth still ticked upward in amusement. "I was just on my way over to the Everdeen's," he explains as he gestures vaguely in the direction of the Victor's Village. "Thought I'd see if Madge wanted to tag along since she visits so often." His face becomes more serious as he adds, "I'm sorry Mrs. Undersee isn't feeling well."

"Oh," Dad says, and thankfully he both buys Gale's story and plays along with mine. "Well, thank you. Tell them we all say hello."

"Will do." Gale manages to keep it together at least long enough for me to close the door, but I am absolutely certain that tears of laughter must be rolling down his face before he even reaches the garden gate.

Great, I think as I stalk back to the den. He'll never let that one go. So much for a serious conversation later.

….

When I come back to the Undersee's house, Madge is waiting on the back porch. She is wrapped up in a wooly coat and holds a steaming cup of tea between her hands for warmth. I pause at the garden gate and whistle a bird-call at her – a mockingjay, because I doubt I could imitate her namesake convincingly. She gets the point though, because she simply rolls her eyes at me and remains silent.

I top the steps and sit down next to her. "So," I say, "a little bird told me you missed me while I was gone."

"Really?" she says. "An idiot told me you thought you were clever. Oh wait, that was you. Sorry." Madge takes a long sip of her tea, then picks up a second mug sitting beside her that I hadn't been able to see. She makes a show of slowly pouring the contents into the flower bed without looking at me and then calmly setting it back down on the concrete. Apparently, it was supposed to have been mine.

I wince. "Well aren't your feathers ruffled."

"Somebody had some extra time to think of things to say, didn't he?" she says dryly as she gets to her feet and starts down the walk toward the back of the garden.

Not nearly as much time as I've had to think of things to do, I muse as I recall the kiss we'd shared earlier. Or the morning a few days ago…. "Oh, I got a whole list, Magpie," I say as I follow.

"Ugh, don't call me that!"

Her reaction only goads me on. I'm sure she knows this, but she continues to act annoyed anyway. Just like I decide to continue. "Why not? It's actually kind of cute," I tease.

"It's embarrassing. You're never going to let me live it down, are you?"

I give her a playful little shove. "I mean, you wouldn't want me to come up with a nickname for you, would you?"

She pushes me back and I just catch the glimmer of a smile in the darkness. "God, no. No good could ever come of that."

I rush back at her and pick her up in my arms; a joyful squeak escapes her and she starts to laugh until our lips meet.

"Dammit, it's hard to stay mad at you…." She mutters.

I kiss her again, slower this time, as I lower her back to the ground. "I'm pretty good at getting myself out of trouble."

Her blue eyes – eerily washed out to silver in the dark – loose a little of their light and her smile fades a few degrees. "I… wanted to talk to you about that," she says earnestly.

"Madge, I told you before –"

"Listen to me first, Gale," she interrupts, and even out here away from the porch light I can tell she has that look about her that says she is not to be argued with. "The other day you said you were going to get things in the mine to change soon. What did you mean?" She is intense and matter of fact when she speaks, and I know that I don't have any choice but to participate in this discussion.

I try to give her an answer that will placate her without giving her more reason for concern. "I meant that you won't have to worry as much as you say you do. That we'll get some things to improve a little."

"What are you changing? How are you going to do it?" she asks immediately. She clearly has no intention of settling for vague responses.

But I'm not sure I'm willing to go into specifics with her. The last thing I want to do is give her reason to think I'd be reckless and endanger myself. "Madge, you don't have to-"

"Yes I do, Gale," she snaps, stubborn as ever. "I want to know what you're doing because you could use my help." The shock must show clearly on my face (this is far from what I expected) because she continues, "I don't work where you work or live where you live but I might have a very useful perspective for you. I read my father's newspapers and I see things on television that no one else gets to see. I can help you work out how to do the things you want to do so no one gets hurt. Or at least reduce the chances of that happening."

I pause to soak this in for a moment. She makes a very valid point, a point that I had never really considered. And I admire the fire in her all over again. "They want to protest working conditions. Try to get safer equipment. Maybe better hours. Better wages. If they get a couple teams together, some of them want to strike."

Madge shakes her head furiously. "You can't let them do that," she says.

I bristle instantly at her reaction. This back-and-forth is not what I was hoping for.

"Listen," she demands. "Hear me out and you'll see what I mean. They're really cracking down in some of the other Districts. Getting really strict. The Capitol does that sometimes in the big districts, it's one of the ways they keep them under control. They mostly ignore us in Twelve because we're so small and there isn't much that concerns them here. But if they catch wind of anything, anything, that will change. It'll never work with just a few teams. They'll arrest every one of you and probably convict you all of treason, and replace you with the next set of people waiting for a job. It'll only have a chance if it's the whole mine."

She isn't wrong, I realize. It is entirely possible – even likely – that the Capitol we serve would consider four or five teams of miners completely disposable. It'll take soon out of the equation, though; there's no way anyone could get the entire mine on board with that kind of plan quickly. But given enough time, it could happen.

"Is there someone trying to organize all this?" she asks.

"A few, actually, not just one," I say.

She shakes her head again. "I read about treason trials all the time. Ninety-nine percent of the time I'm convinced it's just the Capitol setting it up to keep people afraid. But sometimes they're real. Every time, they track down the leaders and when they cut them out of the picture no one can or will do anything else. If there's any possible way, just try to get other workers to network; don't designate a person in charge and make them a target that can be taken out to ruin your plans…."

I am stunned and elated by what she has to say. Never in my wildest dreams – even after I realized that I loved her – did I ever imagine the Mayor's daughter giving advice on how to strike in the District Twelve Coal Mine. She has for so long now been my inspiration; now she is my coconspirator. We scheme late into the night while we huddle close to stay warm, mulling over details and probabilities, clinging to a hope that is slowly becoming brighter and more real. I had at first hoped for more of what we had started a few days ago but find that I am not at all disappointed. When I finally kiss her goodnight, I marvel at how she still makes me feel like rain, falling harder and faster, harder and faster. And how, as often as not, it doesn't even have a damn thing to do with the kiss.

Footnote: Ever try peaches in your apple pie? Ohhhh Yeahhhh.