The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (The Hunger Games, #0)

by Suzanne Collins

For today’s ceremony, however, students were instructed to be dressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated.

Tigris had said to trust her, and he did. Only his cousin’s cleverness with a needle had saved him so far. Still, he couldn’t expect miracles.

Only one thing — herself — and the house of Snow had not yet fallen that far. Or was it falling now as he salted the cabbage?

“Remember, children,” she’d say, “we are but besieged — we have not surrendered!”

Her small act of defiance.

For a decade now, though the rebels had been silent,

Avoxes — tongueless workers made the best workers, or so his grandmother said

Everyone had learned to despise waste. It was creeping back into fashion, though. A sign of prosperity, like a decent shirt.

A tendency toward obsession was hardwired into his brain and would likely be his undoing if he couldn’t learn to outsmart it.

“Snow lands on top!”

It was the saying that had gotten them through the war, when it was a constant struggle not to be ground into the earth.

Reaping day was terrible in the districts, but not much of a celebration in the Capitol either.

“Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem, I salute you.”

Their grandmother appeared, a fresh-cut red rose cupped lovingly in her tremorous hands.

reached for the rose, but a thorn pierced his palm in the shaky exchange. Blood welled from the wound, and he held his hand out to keep it from staining his precious shirt.

only wanted you to look elegant,” she told him.

self-control was an essential skill,

“It does look elegant. You know what her roses mean to her. Thank her.”

Sometimes Coriolanus wondered if the debris had been left there to remind the citizens of what they had endured. People had short memories. They needed to navigate the rubble, peel off the grubby ration coupons, and witness the Hunger Games to keep the war fresh in their minds. Forgetting could lead to complacency, and then they’d all be back at square one.

he tried to measure his pace. He wanted to arrive on time, but cool and composed, not a sweaty mess. This reaping day, like most, was shaping up to be a scorcher.

July...

He felt grateful for the perfume of his grandmother’s rose, as his wa...

Anyone who was anyone attended the Academy, and Coriolanus would need those connections as a foundation for his future.

there was a certain standard expected of a Snow.

Viewing was encouraged in the Capitol, but a lot of people avoided it. How to make it more engaging was the challenge.

posca, a concoction of watery wine laced with honey and herbs.

It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years he had seen upperclassmen make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply.

but his only real currency was charm, which he spread liberally as he made his way through the

“Tenth anniversary and all that.”

For Coriolanus, the Plinths and their kind were a threat to all he held dear.

It was particularly vexing because the bulk of the Snow family fortune had also been invested in munitions — but in District 13.

the nation’s soldiers, to District 12, where the

Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of the Hunger Games, was overseeing the mentor program personally.

“And last but least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

Not that a girl couldn’t win, but in his mind the Hunger Games were largely about brute force, and the girls were naturally smaller than the boys and therefore at a disadvantage.

“The District Twelve girl tribute is Lucy Gray Baird,”

Lucy Gray Baird stood upright in a dress made of a rainbow of ruffles, now raggedy but once fancy. Her dark, curly hair was pulled up and woven with limp wildflowers. Her colorful ensemble drew the eye, as to a tattered butterfly in a field of moths.

His long shot of a tribute, his throwaway, his insult had captured the Capitol’s attention.

There was something vaguely familiar but disturbing about her. The rows of raspberry pink, royal blue, and daffodil yellow ruffles

Coriolanus reached back into his memory to the circuses of his early childhood. Jugglers and acrobats, clowns and dancing girls in puffy dresses twirling around while his brain grew giddy with spun sugar. His tribute’s choosing such festive attire for the darkest event of the year showed a strangeness beyond a simple lapse of judgment.

She had won their sympathy, despite her oddness. They had no idea who she was or why she had attacked Mayfair, but who couldn’t see that the smirking thing was spiteful, and her father a brute who would flatten a girl he’d just sentenced to death?

Singing transformed her, and Coriolanus no longer found her so disconcerting. There was something exciting, even attractive, about her. The camera drank her in as she crossed to the front of the stage and leaned out over the audience, sweet and insolent.

He gave a bemused shake of his head, but inside he was glowing. Snow lands on top.

“The District Twelve boy tribute is Jessup Diggs.”

The tributes would be given precious little time with the audience before the Games began. How could he get the audience to invest in her and, by extension, him, in just an interview?

“When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals,”

She ran her thumb over the glossy, white surface and slipped the petal into her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the flavor. “Tastes like bedtime.”

too. He again had the impression that he was witnessing a performance, but a private one this time.

“I do my best to take care of you,”

“Well, good luck, Gorgeous,”