![]() Too damaged to sell in even the worst of times, and this was to be his reaping shirt? This morning he had gone to her room at daybreak, only to find both his cousin and the shirt missing. The shirt they’d dug from the back of the wardrobe-his father’s, from better days-was stained and yellowed with age, half the buttons missing, a cigarette burn on one cuff. Only his cousin’s cleverness with a needle had saved him so far. ![]() Tigris had said to trust her, and he did. For today’s ceremony, however, students were instructed to be dressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated. Fortunately, the Academy provided the uniforms it required for daily use. He had an acceptable pair of dark dress pants bought on the black market last year, but the shirt was what people looked at. His shirt for the reaping was worrying him. That at eighteen, the heir to the once-great house of Snow had nothing to live on but his wits. It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum. He needed to eat a large bowl of the anemic stuff, and drink every drop of broth, to prevent his stomach from growling during the reaping ceremony. ![]() Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling water and swore that one day it would never pass his lips again. ![]()
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