The noise of the penthouse—Effie's frantic pacing and Haymitch's cynical laughter—faded as the heavy doors of my quarters clicked shut. Inside, the air was cooler, smelling of steam and high-end silk.
Portia and Darien stood by the workbench, looking at the piles of raw, iridescent fabric they had brought in. They looked exhausted, the weight of my score of twelve hanging over them like a physical burden. The Capitol would expect a visual miracle to match the number, and they were running out of time.
"We have to start," Portia whispered, her hands hovering uncertainly over a bolt of midnight silk. "The interviews are tomorrow, and the draping on this..."
I stepped forward, my shadow falling over the workbench. I didn't ask for permission. I simply reached out and took the fabric from her.
"Go sit down," I said. My voice wasn't unkind, but it left no room for argument. "Both of you."
Portia blinked, her eyes wide with confusion. "Zinnia, we're the stylists. We have to—"
"You have to make sure the Capitol believes you made these," I interrupted, my eyes locking onto hers. "But David and I are going to wear what I make. Nothing else."
I didn't offer an explanation. I didn't mention the month I had spent in the manor before the Reaping, or why my hands moved with such practiced ease. To the world, District 12 was a place of coal and starvation, not fine craftsmanship. I sat at the sewing machine and switched it on. The low hum of the motor was the only sound in the room.
Darien looked at Portia, then back at me. He saw the way I handled the shears—with the same cold precision I'd used to handle the spear in the gymnasium. He slowly stepped back and took a seat on the velvet sofa, pulling Portia down with him.
"Let her work," Darien murmured.
For the next several hours, I was a machine of silk and steel. I took the midnight-blue fabric and began to layer it, folding the edges with a speed that made Portia lean forward in her seat. David moved instinctively to my side. He didn't need instructions; he simply picked up the heavy rolls of thread and held the fabric steady as I turned the hems.
I wasn't just making clothes; I was making a statement. Every stitch was tight, reinforced, and perfect.
"Thread the silver bobbin, David," I said quietly.
He complied instantly, his small fingers moving with the same quiet efficiency as mine. Portia and Darien watched in a stunned, heavy silence. They were the most famous stylists in the Capitol, yet they were being sidelined by a tribute who refused to let them touch the needle.
"When people ask tomorrow," I said, not looking up from the fabric, "you tell them these were your designs. You tell them you spent the night in a fever of inspiration. You take every bit of the credit. Every interview, every camera—it was your genius, not mine."
Portia looked at the shimmering, liquid-silver gown beginning to take shape under my hands. It was more beautiful than anything she had sketched. "Zinnia... why would you give that away? This could make you a legend."
"Because a legend from District 12 who knows how to sew is a target," I said, clipping a thread with a sharp snap. "If President Snow realizes I have skills that don't belong to a girl from the Seam, I won't just be in the Games. I'll be in an interrogation room. Or on a lab table. I need to be a masterpiece they look at, not a person they look into."
I looked them both in the eye, my gaze hard. "The world thinks District 12 is nothing but dirt and ignorance. Let them keep thinking that. I am just the girl you dressed up. I am your puppet. Do you understand?"
Darien stood up, looking at me with a new kind of respect—the kind given to a general, not a tribute. "Understood, Zinnia. We'll play our part. You're the 'accidental' miracle, and we're the creators."
By the time the stars were sharp in the Capitol sky, the garments were finished. I held up David's jacket—a sharp, obsidian-colored piece that made him look like a shadow given form. Then I turned to the gown. It was the centerpiece of The Myth of Moonlight—a dress that looked like it was woven from the cold light of a dead star.
I looked at the two stylists. "Take them to the steaming room. And remember: you made these. Don't let a single person suspect otherwise."
As they gathered the clothes and left, David looked at the silver scraps on the floor.
"They're afraid of the dress, Mama," he whispered.
"Good," I said, pulling him close. "They should be. It's the only shield we have left."