Liam

“Snow rubs his thumbs over the bird and snake heads. “There’s a pretty pair.” He flips it. “And an inscription.” An inscription? I must’ve missed it in the whirlwind of reaping day. Without asking for permission, he pulls a pair of specs from his breast pocket and tilts the striker to catch the light. “Ah, very sweet. From L.D. Who might that be?” Lying to conceal her won’t help. Even though they didn’t air it to the country, I bet they showed Snow what happened during the reaping. Me trying to save a girl from the Peacekeepers. Her reaction to my reaping. Twelve’s a small district. If he has a mind to, he will track down my girlfriend. “Lenore,” I say. “But Lenore what? No, no, don’t tell me. Let me guess. D . . . D . . . That’s a tough one. None of the usual suspects, but they so rarely are. I can think of plenty prefaced by deep or dark. Deep blue. Dark green. But that’s not how they work. Perhaps something in nature? Like amber or ivory. Daffodil . . . dandelion . . . diamond? No, that’s no color at all, really. All right, I’m stumped. Lenore what?” The milk has soured in my stomach at his musings and what they reveal. He knows Lenore Dove is Covey; only they name their children this way. First name from a ballad, second a color. Amber and Ivory are actual family names. How has he unearthed this obscure fact about a pocket of musicians in the throwaway district of 12? Capitol informers? “Dove,” I tell him. “Dove!” He smacks his forehead. “Dove. I have always heard ‘dove color,’ though. It’s a bit of a cheat. But who could resist when you get both the color and the bird? And we know how they feel about their birds.”
― Suzanne Collins, Sunrise on the Reaping