Satchel had spent the last three months drowning his sorrows not in bottles but in work. It seemed a natural thing to do. In fact, it seemed the only thing to do. But he’d had his moment in the sun the week before at Fashion Week, and he hadn’t felt warmed by it, not even a bit, not even as the positive reviews came in.
Now the Ball presented bottles and he couldn’t help himself. There was nothing to work towards now. Of course, he was working on his next line, on commissions, more of which had come through in the last week, but his dream had only ever been just that, and he had achieved it. There was no one special to celebrate it with. The person he wanted to celebrate with was gone, buried in District Nine.
He didn’t want to be inside, didn’t want to see the new Victor. He didn’t even want to think her name. She had killed him. She did not deserve this ball. She didn’t deserve anything. He stood outside on the balcony in the cool October air, smoking a cigarette, a glass of champagne in his left hand. “This area is for mopers only,” he said, “so if you’re not going to be in a sour mood, get out.”
