Chapter Text
"Snow lands on top," Liber read out loud, the words leaving a strange taste in his mouth.
A sigh. His eyes moved with a mind of their own, drinking in the black and white picture of Coriolanus Snow under the bold heading. Liber loathed everything about the man. His perfectly symmetrical face. His crooked, boyish grin. His combed up hair. Six months in office, and Liber—damn it all—still had no clue who Coriolanus Snow was. Arrogant? He surely appeared to be, especially in interviews. Generous? He constantly donated to charities in the Capitol. Romantic? Well, he was hosting the most expensive celebration Liber had ever witnessed for his wife.
"Save the teatime for later, ladies!" the head chef snatched the paper from his hands. "Move!"
Liber's body tensed. His hands remained suspended in the air for a moment, fingers curled as though the newspaper was still between them.
The head chef's gravelly voice jolted him to action. "Let's go!"
Liber's gaze fell to the stainless steel countertop. In front of him were two transparent plates, edges decorated with gold. On his left, a chopping board and a knife. On his right, two plump strawberries. Time was of the essence. The overhead lights nearly blinded him, but maybe that was for the best. It left no room for error, nor excuses. He picked up his knife and—
"I can't work in these conditions!"
He dropped his knife back on the counter with a loud clang. His left eye gave an irritated twitch. Really. He didn't understand how he was the "spoiled brat" of the mansion when the only real "brat" was the one with unruly locks currently sticking out of her bandana—Vera Turnus.
"I'm an artist, Manius," Vera slammed her flour-covered hands onto the counter with fury. "An artist!"
Hands clasped tightly behind his hunched back, Manius heaved an exhausted, miserable sigh. "I understand," he began, “but—”
"What are we feeding these people?" Vera begged, cupping her hands together in a pleading gesture. "Antlers? Bones?"
Oh, that was it!
"We're feeding them whatever President Snow deems fit!" Liber snapped, staring her down from across the kitchen. “Show some respect!”
A few heads spun toward him. Expressions varied between disappointment and irritation. Seriously? Vera wasn't the only person who was struggling in the Capitol.
Liber lived in an apartment infested with cockroaches, for example. But did anyone hear him complain? Of course not. It took him nearly two hours just to reach the president's mansion. Half of his salary went to his rent and countless doctor appointments. Peacekeepers stood at the gates every morning, pretending that they didn't remember his name. Once, one of them had even mistaken him for a beggar. He was "lightly" tased four times.
So, the simpletons around him were going to have to forgive his bluntness. Matter of fact, Liber didn't even need their forgiveness. Let them stare at him with those deep scowls and wrinkled noses of disgust. He didn't owe anyone an explanation. Especially tonight. This birthday celebration was his one chance. One chance to prove to the Snow family that he was more than just another cog in the machine.
Carefully, so carefully, his wandering eyes fixated on the cake near the door. Six layers. Vanilla buttercream. White roses made out of gumpaste. Pearls imported from District 1. For a long, silent moment, Liber glowered at the three figures working tirelessly on the cake. One squeezed a piping bag on the edges of the fourth layer. The other two placed a few birthday candles on the top layer with the help of a small ladder.
Dread pooled in his stomach.
Would President Snow have enough space for his cheesecake after this monstrosity of a cake? Suddenly, Liber couldn't breathe. Wiping his sweaty hands on his apron, he focused on the sheer fact that President Snow was young, and that young people often ate until they were about to burst wide open. The thought offered him some comfort. And Mrs. Snow? Even younger, all rosy-cheeked and dainty, with that sort of elegant demeanor. Honestly, when the couple had first arrived in the mansion, Liber had thought they were both under eighteen years old.
He wouldn't tell anyone out loud, but a small part of him was bothered, serving people a decade younger than him. He couldn't even tie his shoelaces properly at age twenty-three, yet Coriolanus Snow was comfortably ruling an entire country as though it were his birthright. Well, the blond's age was one thing. The question of who had been foolish enough to vote for him was another thing entirely. Certainly not Liber. Not his aunt. Not that neighbor with the strange mustache.
“Okay, okay," Vera begged Manius, dragging Liber back to the present. "What if I just added a bit of salt on them, hm? He won't even notice, I swear!"
“Oh, he will notice,” Manius tugged at his collar. “And I wouldn’t test him if I were you."
Now, if this was President Ravinstill's wife's—Palmyra Ravinstill's—birthday celebration, he wouldn't have noticed a damn thing. Ravinstill had been an easy-going, languid man. An open book, really. Especially near the end of his life. He couldn't breathe without a machine tethered to his face, but at least he hadn't sent chills down Liber's spine whenever they made eye contact.
“Fine,” Vera sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then I want Liber to get those strawberries off his cheesecakes."
What. “Excuse me?” Liber's eyes widened. He turned to Manius, wildly gesturing the plump strawberries on his counter. "This is my one thing, Manius! My one thing! You can't take it away from me, please!"
Manius glanced up at the ceiling, exasperated.
"Uh-oh," Vera nudged the shoulder of another cook mockingly, "Looks like the spoiled brat is at it again, folks."
A few snickers rose from the kitchen.
Liber felt a creeping tide of warmth climb up his neck.
"I wasn't the one screaming about Snow’s choice of dish for the past hour,” he hissed, watching Vera's knowing smirk melt into a scowl.
“That's more than enough," Manius chimed in.
The kitchen fell into an awkward silence. The only sound he could hear was the muffled, muted tune drifting lazily from the speakers. Something about a man. Something about his undying love.
It wasn't fair.
Not the song.
He could barely hear the lyrics now.
It was the kitchen. The mansion. The rules. The traditions. How everyone took Vera's side instead of his. Was it always going to be like this? Him against the wolves?
Manius took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know," he began, "that this has been hard."
Liber stared at the floor, sweat pooling in his back.
"We all miss Ravinstill," Manius continued.
Someone let out a desperate sob.
"He was assiduous, principled and conscientious beyond measure," Manius said.
Liber didn't even know what some of the words meant.
"But now, we have a new president," Manius put his glasses back on. "And I couldn't care less if he wants to change the seating arrangement in the dining room for the fifth time," he threw a look at one of the maids listening by the door, "or if he wants to serve unique dishes for his guests," he pointed at Vera.
Vera's cheeks turned a bright shade of pink.
"He is the president. We are his staff. Am I clear?"
"Crystal," Liber huffed, picking up his knife again.
One by one, everyone in the kitchen joined in. Some mumbled half-hearted apologies. Others blurted out excuses. But it seemed enough for Manius, for he headed for the door, tugging continuously at his collar.
Perhaps even without the strawberries, he could make—
“Oh, and Liber?” Manius stood at the threshold of the kitchen with a raised brow.
“Yes?” Liber breathed.
“Mr. Snow changed his mind.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want any cheesecake," Manius said, then left without another word.
Upstairs, the party was in full swing.
Except for. . . one tiny detail.
Manius could be wrong, but it seemed as though Dr. Volumnia Gaul currently had the Minister of War in a headlock.
He narrowed his eyes, blinking rapidly against the lights.
Slightly intoxicated, adorned in crimson red and charcoal black, and positively making a fool of the Minister of War, was indeed Dr. Gaul, who had the man in a tight headlock. This was a disaster. President Snow was clear in his orders. Tonight had to be nothing short of perfection. No wrinkles on the table cloths. No footprints on the silk carpets. No dust on the silverware. And most importantly: no trouble.
Dr. Gaul was trouble.
He had to act quick before Dr. Gaul decided to fold the Minister of War like origami.
"Volumnia," Manius spread his arms wide with a pleasant smile. "A pleasure to have you here tonight."
Dr. Gaul froze mid-act, blinking at Manius. Then, recognition dawned on her face. "Manny!" she chirped.
Interlacing his hands behind his back, Manius bent at a ninety degree angle to meet the Minister of War's frustrated gaze.
"Adonis," he said knowingly, "is that a new jacket?"
Adonis, despite his rather unfortunate position, brightened at the mention. "It is! I actually—"
"Hippity Hoppity!" Dr. Gaul practically threw Adonis's body on the floor. "I need to find Marie!"
"Goodness me!" Adonis puffed his chest, chin tilted upward, wobbling on his feet. Brushing the dust off his sleeves, he continued to ramble about how "improper" Dr. Gaul was as he walked away.
Problem one solved, at least.
Now, onto problem number two.
"And where is this Marie?" Manius snapped his fingers at a nearby servant. When their eyes met, he mimed holding a glass and taking a drink. Then, he pointed at Dr. Gaul. The servant gave a swift nod and disappeared into the crowd.
Unaware of the silent exchange, Dr. Gaul placed a gloved hand to her chest. "Oh, I don't know!" she lamented. "Perhaps she's with the cows again!"
"Lovely," Manius gritted, eyes scanning the room. There were approximately seventy-five guests here tonight. Seventy-six if he counted the Minister of Energy's Pomeranian—Missy.
Hm.
Problem number two required more time to solve, it seemed.
He could introduce Dr. Gaul to Althea Cardew. There she was, spinning in circles, showing off her dress to a few, very, very, impressionable women who stared at her with envy. No. That wouldn't work. Dr. Gaul wasn't particularly fond of the Cardew family.
There had to be another who could charm her.
She was familiar with Felix Ravinstill. Well, she was familiar with the entire Ravinstill family, to be fair. He could encourage Felix to tell another dull story about his late grand-uncle. Then again, Dr. Gaul had never been able to get along with the old man.
Alright.
An empty chair it was, then.
"So," Manius started, leading Dr. Gaul to a far corner of the room. "How's retirement?"
"Quite well! Quite well!" Dr. Gaul nodded, sinking into her chair. "And how's yours?"
Manius bit the inside of his cheek.
Dr. Gaul let out a cackle, slapping her knee. "Hah! Still changing diapers, I see. The other one was too old," she said, pushing her index finger down her forehead to give herself furrowed brows, "and this one," she pulled back her cheeks, "is too young!"
"Water?" the servant from before leaned in with a metal tray balanced on his palm.
Manius mouthed a silent "thank you" to the servant while Dr. Gaul reached for the glass and gulped it down in one sitting.
Except for Vera's dramatic outburst, a few young maids stealing a tray of posca and Dr. Gaul putting the Minister of War in a headlock, Manius would consider tonight a success.
In truth, he didn't care for the boy's age like the others. What mattered was whether he was satisfied or not. A nod of his blond head. A thumbs-up. A sigh of relief. A quick: "I like that one," or a swift, "That's good," were mostly enough.
Of course, Manius's father would have said otherwise. The "Great" Pliny Canville. He had served three presidents in his lifetime. For Pliny, presidents were nothing more than petulant children. Ravinstill, for instance, had been obsessed with plants. The botanic garden in the mansion grounds? That had been all him. The one before Ravinstill had been even worse. He couldn't stand the color orange. And to this day, you still wouldn't see anything orange around—at least not on the first floor of the mansion.
Pliny believed that the trick was to know these men so personally, so intimately, that one would be able to guess what they think before they even said it out loud. Satisfaction wasn't enough. The president needed to be thrilled. Elated. Overjoyed, even. A happy president meant a happy nation, and Coriolanus Snow was. . .
Manius's heart raced as he sized up the crowded room.
"He's not here," Dr. Gaul sing-songed, fingers tapping on the table.
That mocking, ridiculous tone of hers. It reminded him of the worst date of his life with Volumnia Gaul, in that small, dingy restaurant. The same look. The same finger tapping. The same knowing grin. She had liked to push his buttons back then. Inspect him as though he was one of her experiments. Cut him open. Rip apart his heart and hang it on her wall for decoration. A shiver went up his spine at the memory. One date with her had been more than enough to last him for a lifetime.
"And you don't know where he is," Dr. Gaul hummed, tilting her head quizzically. "Interesting."
"Of course I do," Manius lied. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"It's his songbird," Dr. Gaul wiggled her brows.
Songbird? Manius frowned. Coriolanus Snow didn't have a pet.
"She's not happy," Dr. Gaul looked around in a bored manner. "She never is."
Problem number three.
"Songbirds, cows, Marie," Manius straightened, sighing. "Anything else?"
Find President Snow.
Dr. Gaul smiled. "Tick-tock."
"This is the worst night of my life," Liber let out a moan, curled up on the floor.
He was going to be stuck in this kitchen forever. He was going to have to share his bed with a family of cockroaches. Those parasites would have to start paying rent at this point. Imagine that, he thought glumly. A man and his forty-five cockroaches, living happily in a run-down apartment. Well, at least he wouldn't be alone. The baby cockroaches might enjoy an episode of Lucky Flickerman and his little card games, maybe.
Someone stepped over his body without even acknowledging him.
Typical.
"Liber?"
An ugly pair of shoes came into view.
"You're lying on the floor."
"I like it here," he murmured, staring at the shoes, lost in thought.
"It's pathetic."
Vera.
That had to be Vera.
"Oh, come on," she gently nudged his leg with her foot. "They're not that bad."
"Wait," Liber sat up, propping himself on his hands. "Did you. . ?"
Vera averted her eyes. "You've been sobbing about your soggy cheesecakes since this morning," she shrugged. "I only took one bite."
"And?"
Fidgeting with her sleeve, Vera let out a small: "It's good."
"Really?"
"Don't make me say it again," she said, sinking down on the floor. Taking off her bandana, she rested the back of her head on the counter behind them.
They both sat in silence for a while. Vera stretching the bandana in her hand absent-mindedly. Liber staring at the last remaining cook in the kitchen, washing dishes. The smell of lemon and citrus filled his senses, calming his racing heart.
For some reason, he felt that if he moved even an inch, Vera would sank her teeth right into his neck.
"You remember how Ravinstill used to wander around the mansion at the most random times?"
He recalled. Vaguely. But he nodded regardless.
"Well," Vera traced the pattern on her bandana, "one time, he saw me pulling an all-nighter. . . Palmyra's aunt and her endless complaints. . ." she snorted. "There he stood, in his blue pajamas, and asked me for a glass of water."
Liber held his breath.
"That's it," Vera said, brushing the bangs out of her face.
"He must have been up because of Pongo," Liber sniffed. "Poor thing couldn't hold a meal in his stomach near the end."
"Oh, right," Vera hummed. "He was Ravinstill's favorite."
"Manius couldn't even get near that dog," Liber wheezed. "Remember what he used to say?"
Pulling at her collar dramatically, Vera mimicked Manius's hoarse voice and exclaimed: "My allergies!"
It felt good. To let his shoulders relax a bit. To not have Vera scream at him for once. Time was of the essence, perhaps, but here, in this small kitchen of despair and chaos, it stood still.
"Oh, there he is," Vera reached for the crumpled piece of newspaper left on the counter. Placing her bandana to rest on her wrist like a bracelet, her fingers gingerly followed the outline of Coriolanus Snow's face.
"He's a real looker, isn't he?" she asked.
Liber gaped at the picture. "He's a child."
Vera sighed. "Go on, then."
"What?"
She thrusted the paper in his hands. "Tell him about your stupid cheesecake."
Amused, Liber played along. "The color white really brings out your eyes, sir."
Vera lightly punched him in the arm. "Be serious! This is your moment!"
"Alright!" Liber rubbed the place where his skin burned. Turning back to the newspaper, he exhaled, "What do you think of it, sir?"
Silence.
Coriolanus Snow stared at him, frozen in time.
"I think he likes it," Vera said, quietly.
"Oh, I bet he does," Liber scowled, looking at the clock on the wall. "Speaking of, where is he? I haven't had a panic attack for the past minute or two."
Vera stilled. "He must be upstairs."
Upstairs. At the celebration. Being endearing and fetching and everything that the gossip columns say about him. And where was Liber? Downstairs. Alone. Afraid. With his cheesecakes. Well, one cheesecake. Vera had eaten the other one. But. . . maybe one cheesecake was all he needed.
"Manius was right," Liber said, getting to his feet.
"What are you talking about?"
"We are his staff, Vera. And if I'm going to serve that brat for however many years, then he needs to know."
"Needs to know what?"
"That I made him a damn cheesecake!"
"You're gonna go upstairs?"
"Well, it's either that or living with a family of cockroaches," Liber marched to his station.
"Wait! Wait!" Vera ran up from behind him, chest heaving. "Then I'm coming too! I have a few words to say to that boy about the menus!"
"Alright!" Liber said, feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Let's find President Snow!"
"What do you mean he's not here?" Manius hissed. "Is it really so hard to keep track of one president for one evening?"
A dark, throbbing red crept up Commander Hadrian's face. "I swear to you, he was just here!"
"Sir!" A servant hurried toward them, breathless. An empty metal tray rested beneath his arm. "We can't find Mrs. Snow anywhere!"
Only a few years until retirement, he reminded himself. Soon, it was going to be just him, his book, and a nice cup of tea to keep him company. Only a few years. Only a few years. Only a few years.
"Sergeant!" Hadrian barked at someone behind Manius, fiddling with his cuffs. "Clear the first floor, immediately!"
Pliny Canville. Channel that Pliny Canville inside, Manius. What would his father say? Furrowed brows. Squared shoulders. Well, for one thing, Pliny wouldn't have lost the president. He would have watched Coriolanus like a hawk. He shook his head. Focus, he thought. Information. He needed information.
Manius stepped in Hadrian's path. "That might frighten the guests," he said. "And it's of the utmost importance that the celebration remains intact."
Anger rode Hadrian's voice like a rising wave. "Mr. Canville," he gritted, "with all due respect, locating the Snow family must be our priority now!"
Manius placed a firm hand on Hadrian's shoulder. "Give me ten minutes."
Hadrian shifted on his feet.
"If anyone can find them," the servant—who Manius had forgotten had been watching the exchange—backed him up, "it's Manius!"
"Fine!" Hadrian threw his hands in the air. "But only ten!"
Already, the wheels in his head were turning. If he were the President of Panem, where would he go? Bathroom? No, people must have checked that place by now. They would have alerted him. Was it possible that he had simply grown weary of the attention and needed a moment to collect himself? Manius almost laughed. Almost. Coriolanus Snow? Growing weary of curious faces of the elite? Impossible.
When he re-entered the room, the servant from before was already at his side, trailing after him like a shadow.
"When was the last place you saw either of them?" Manius asked while graciously smiling at an elderly couple when they made eye contact.
"Uh," the servant scratched his head. "The door?"
Manius squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could erase the words he'd just heard. "You're telling me," he began, "that you saw the president and his wife leave this room to who knows where and didn't alert a peacekeeper to accompany them?"
The servant gulped.
Problem number four.
Hire more competent people.
A sharp, throbbing pain pierced his right temple, travelling all the way to the back of his head. "Go," he said, ushering him away. "Make sure the guests do not start asking any questions."
The servant nodded hurriedly and bolted out of his sight.
The door. They got out the door. But where?
From the corner of his eye, he saw Dr. Gaul grinning at him.
He had no lead.
He was desperate.
"You have ten minutes," he started, slowly approaching her.
"No," Dr. Gaul slurred, "You have ten minutes."
"Volumnia—"
"He's with his songbird, old man," Dr. Gaul groaned.
"For the last time, he doesn't have a pet!" Manius whispered furiously, leaning in.
Dr. Gaul wrapped a coil around her finger, watching it spring back into place the moment she let go. "She's his only weakness, you know."
She? Manius reeled. "Mrs. Snow," he mumbled to himself. "Volumnia, where is Mrs. Snow?"
"She flew upstairs," Dr. Gaul replied. "You might be able to catch her if you're fast enough."
Manius didn't even listen to the rest of her nonsense, for he practically ran out of the—
"Ow!"
"Vera?" Manius gripped Vera's shoulders to steady himself from the sudden impact. He looked to his left. "Liber?"
"Evening, Manny," Liber's drawled, smiling awkwardly. "How are. . . things?"
"Downstairs," Manius ordered. "Now."
"But I need to talk to him about the menu!" Vera moaned. "And Liber—"
"Mr. Canville!"
That was probably Hadrian.
There was no time.
"Stick by me and do not utter a single word, you understand?"
Problem number five.
Keep Liber and Vera out of trouble.
The duo could barely keep up with his pace as they climbed the stairs. He yanked at his collar. Once. Twice. Okay, three times. He was stretching the fabric, but he didn't care. Vivid scenarios flashed before his eyes. Coriolanus had fallen off the balcony and one of the gardeners was going to find his body in the morning. Pliny was going to rise out his grave to tell him that he had done a horrible job. That he hadn't been good enough. Smart enough. Strong enough. Wait. What if the situation was even worse? What if Mrs. Snow had filed for a divorce? For Panem's sake, he hoped Coriolanus was dead instead. That would be the better outcome.
Manius sucked in a breath.
"She's not happy," Dr. Gaul had said, merely an hour ago. "She never is."
That comment had probably been another tactic. Another way to get under his skin. Please. Mrs. Snow was perfectly happy. But despite the reassuring voice in his head, doubt began to grow in his heart.
"There!" Vera pointed at a large door at the end of the corridor. "I see light!"
That was. . . Mrs. Snow's suite.
Oh, this was not good.
Not good at all.
"President Snow!" Liber marched to the door.
Someone help him.
Liber had a plate in his hand.
"Wait for me!" Vera exclaimed.
"Stop!" Manius rushed after them, but it was too late.
Liber opened the door.
What awaited them inside was not what Manius had expected at all.
He didn't even know where to start, honestly.
There was Mrs. Snow, dressed in her signature white, sitting on the edge of her bed, her face buried in her hands. The man who nearly began a nationwide search for himself lay back on his wife's carpet, one arm lazily covering his eyes.
But somehow, that wasn't the worst part.
There was a large peacock perched in Mrs. Snow's reading nook, looking oddly pleased with itself.
Liber, unfortunately, was the first to speak.
"Sir," he stepped forward, hands trembling. "I made cheesecake."