Clove returned early from her trip to Twelve, unhappy with the results. Her fingers traced the edges of her knife on the train back, her feet propped up on the seat opposite her. Every time someone glanced sideways at her, her eyes shot to catch their gaze and hold it until they looked away.
She wasn’t quite sure if Cato was back from Eleven. Clove had considered stopping in Eleven to take care of Thresh, but somehow she doubted that Cato would let that happen. He’d find out she was there and find ways to distract her from her goal until he finally convinced her to go home, defeated.
In the apartment, she practiced flinging the knives. There was nothing else to do beyond that. She sat and thought in the darkness and silence of her apartment- only interrupted by her mother entering with what measly earnings she’d gotten from helping organize the rebuilding of some of the less fortunate districts.
Clove got to her feet, going over to the wall and prying the knives from the wood.
“Clove? Are you here?” Her mother called.
Clove sighed, stabbing the wall again. “Yes.”
The knife went back with the others at her hip and she left the room- then her house. “I’ll be back.”