The sketchbook is filled up now except for the last page, which is depressingly blank.

There was something relaxing about sewing by hand. The machines that the Capitol uses could do the job in a fraction the time and even less work, but Cinna admires the fact that in the old days, people could use a simple needle and thread and have enough patience to make entire outfits, ones that would have looked presentable even now.

Portia brings in two cups of coffee and sits next to him. He nods his thanks, but ignores the drink. She knows that he won't stop for anything once he starts working, but by now, it's more out of habit. Portia picks up the pure white wedding veil and examines it disdainfully, before setting it down and pulling out a half-finished black and feathered counterpart. A generic tuxedo is easy to make, and with too much time on her hands now, it's the least she can do to help. Cinna hates having to drag her into this, but she can be just as stubborn as he is sometimes, and there's nothing to do for it other than back down.

Cinna remembers an old story about a bird of fire. It would be born from the ashes scattered by its death, over and over again in every life that it lived, so that it never really died in the first place. Something about the story made it stick in his memory, and there isn't a more fitting example of it than now. He's certainly not oblivious to the rumors of the uprising, rumors that are most likely not rumors at all. And then there's the Quarter Quell, which is much too convenient, because what better way to silence the districts than with the most threatening reminder of them all?

But he and Portia both know that the sparks are already burning; they just need a little more incentive until they burst into flame, an inferno that surrounds the Capitol- no, President Snow.

He's afraid, certainly. But he's always been a risk taker, he and Portia both. Most other stylists simply make an outfit and that's it. He channels his emotions into his work, and this time he wants to send a message, one that the whole world will see.

Cinna can't quite remember the name of the bird, but for now, he'll just call it a mockingjay. It seems appropriate; ironic, even.

He smiles grimly as Katniss twirls on the stage, a mockingjay on fire.

In the quiet aftermath of the interviews, Cinna lights a single candle, admiring the flickering flame. Then he opens a black sketchbook, flipping to the very last page and drawing a symbol he's more than familiar with now. And Cinna adds one more thing, a real final message, because maybe, it was what he had been waiting for all along.

I'm still betting on you.