#regencylark

~~~

The first time he saw her was at this very bench on a Tuesday back in March, donned in lavender and gray. If her dress hadn't been sufficient, the vacant looking her eyes told him she was in mourning.

It had caught him off guard; the tableau so achingly familiar. Bringing him back to his grief the previous spring, when he'd arrived in London, having been injured in battle and discharged of his duties, only to return to the news of his brother's death and the Viscount title to fill— had it really been a year? It felt like a fortnight and a century all at once.

He'd sat at the far end of her bench, uncertain whether more for her benefit or his own. They hadn't spoken, but he'd pulled the stale bread from his pocket that he'd brought for the birds, pinching off a piece at a time and tossing it towards a group of geese, if only for something to keep his hands busy.

After a while, he realized he'd caught the woman's attention, so he'd ripped of a chunk, wordlessly extending it towards her and they sat apart, but together, feeding the geese in silence.

When he woke the next day, it was as if Spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. Yellow crocus heads poking up through the receding snow. He'd returned to Hyde Park, curious to see if the woman would as well, a roll secured in his pocket. But she wasn't there that day— at least not at their bench or at the same time, and he decided that maybe that was a good thing for her— or at least a better thing than sitting with a stranger alone in the park.

But then on Thursday she'd returned, looking slightly less stricken (at least so he hoped) and with bread that she extended in his direction this time.

And thus began their tradition.

They didn't talk much at first: Peeta hadn't minded. He liked watching her methodically rotate and tear her rolls, piece by piece, flicking her wrist at measured intervals, in various patterns. It was mesmerizing; somewhere between a clock mechanism and dance.

And between fallen crumbs, she'd slowly begun opening up. He learned that she was Miss Katniss Everdeen, ward of Lord Abernathy for the last seven years. Her favorite color was green and she preferred the country to town. They'd only come for her debut, an event abandoned in wake of her beloved sister's death.

But despite the recent tragedy, Katniss seemed to revive with the spring and with each passing week and bit of stale bread it became more and more apparent that Peeta was a goner.

Nothing felt more right than simply sitting on a bench with her in Hyde Park, feeding the geese.

But today she wears green, and while he is glad she's shrugged her mourning attire, he fears that he too will be shrugged upon her entrance into society.

~~~

"The Flickerman's ball," she says, catching his wrist as he reluctantly moves to depart after all the bread has been scattered. He peers down at the small hand that quickly flits back to lap, squeezing the fabric of her skirt.

She's not looking at him when she speaks again, but he can still see the flush on her cheeks, "I'll be preparing for the evening this Thursday and will be unable to take my usual stroll through the park."

"I see," he says, tempering his disappointment, his suspicions confirmed. "Then you will be missed—by more than the birds, though I am sure they'll forgive you your absence— granted you bring an extra portion on your next visit."

"And you?"

"I'll admit, I too could be bribed with stale bread, though there's nothing to forgive."

She's looking at him now, a shy smile on her lips "a relief, I am sure, though I was rather hoping I would still see you on Thursday… Will you not be in attendance?"