suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

ding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my
knees. Without heels, you can see my true stature. I look, very
simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at the most. Innocent.
Harmless. Yes, it is shocking that Cinna has pulled this off
when you remember I’ve just won the Games.
This is a very calculated look. Nothing Cinna designs is arbitrary.
I bite my lip trying to figure out his motivation.
“I thought it’d be something more . . . sophisticatedlooking,”
I say.
“I thought Peeta would like this better,” he answers carefully.
Peeta? No, it’s not about Peeta. It’s about the Capitol and
the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand
Cinna’s design, it’s a reminder the Games are not
quite finished. And beneath his benign reply, I sense a warning.
Of something he can’t even mention in front of his own
team.
We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It’s customary
for the victor and his or her support team to rise from
beneath the stage. First the prep team, followed by the escort,
the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. Only this year,
with two victors who share both an escort and a mentor, the
whole thing has had to be rethought. I find myself in a poorly
lit area under the stage. A brand-new metal plate has been installed
to transport me upward. You can still see small piles of
sawdust, smell fresh paint. Cinna and the prep team peel off to
change into their own costumes and take their positions, leav-
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