After my birthday fiasco, Plutarch continues. "Back to business. Along with your mentors, District Twelve will be assigned its very own stylist."

"And not a moment too soon," Drusilla snorts and gives Louella's gingham dress an appraising look. "Honestly, where do you people find these things?"

"My ma made it," says Louella evenly. "Where did you find yours?"

Louella's holding her own, but Maysilee lands the insult. "I was wondering the same. It's like someone mated a Peacekeeper and a canary and . . . there you are."

"What?" says Drusilla. She rises from her chair but wobbles a bit before she finds her balance on her spiked heels.

"Careful," says Maysilee. She drips sugar as she goes for the jugular. "Might be time to rethink those boots. Wouldn't something closer to the ground be safer for a person your age?"

Drusilla hauls off and slaps Maysilee, who, without missing a beat, slaps her right back. A real wallop. Drusilla's knocked off her boots and into the chair I recently vacated. Everyone freezes and I wonder if we're about to be executed on the spot.

"Don't you ever touch me again," says Maysilee. The color's gone from her face except for the print of Drusilla's hand. You got to hand it to Maysilee, nobody's using footage of her for propaganda.

"Why don't we all take a deep breath?" Plutarch suggests. "It's been a tough day. Everybody's emotions are running high and —!"

Drusilla flies up, rips the riding crop from its boot clip, and begins beating Maysilee, who cries out and raises her arms to protect her head. But the blows keep raining down, forcing her to the floor.

"Drusilla! Stop! Drusilla, we have to put her on camera tomorrow!" Plutarch warns. He has to summon two Peacekeepers from the hallway to pull her off.

"Nasty, disgusting creature," Drusilla pants. "I will destroy you before you even make it to the arena."

The welts have already risen on Maysilee's arms and neck, but she ignores them. I doubt she's ever been hit before, let alone whipped. I haven't much either. Mamaw used to cuff me on the head, but it was more to get my attention than to hurt me. Maysilee slowly pushes herself up from the floor, using the wall for support, before she responds. "Really? How? You're not a Gamemaker. You're not even a stylist. You're nothing but a low-rent escort hanging on by your fingernails to the trashiest district in Panem."

This hits a nerve. Fear flickers across Drusilla's face before she recovers. "And you're headed for a bloody and agonizing death."

Maysilee gives a bitter laugh. "That's right. I am. So why should I care what you say? Unless I win, of course. But even then, who do you think will be more popular? The victor of the Quarter Quell . . . or you?"

Drusilla's expression twists into a leer. "I hope you do win. You have no idea what's in store for you then. You know nothing."

Drusilla tenses, but tries to make a dignified exit.

"You may find Drusilla ridiculous, but be smart. You four don't have your own district mentor. Your stylist's job begins and ends with your appearance. It might not be fair, but Drusilla may be the best advocate you have in the Capitol. Think about it before you burn that bridge entirely." He leaves, quietly closing the door behind him.

I glance at Maysilee, who's still trying to process the whole ordeal. "Well, at least the worst part's over," I offer.

Maysilee raises an eyebrow. "The worst part's just beginning," she says.

"What's that mean?" I ask, genuinely concerned.

"It means we're officially in the arena now," she says, a hint of a smile on her lips. "And we're going to do whatever it takes to survive."