Archive of Our Own ^beta

Start Notes

Hello! Here is my 1. I know i can't keep saying it's my first fanfic every time i post something, even though is not my first fanfic, but i can't help it. Everytime i write something here, it feels like the first time. I probably can say it's my first Effie-centered work, cause i am thinking about this girl every single day now. Anyway, that's it. Enjoy it :)

Effie was a quick learner in many parts of her life, but the art of pouring tea was not one of them.

She had already tried everything she could think of—from begging her wealthiest friends to teach her how to do it properly, to sneaking away to the attic with her mother’s etiquette book so she could learn it by herself. Nothing seemed to work, though. No matter how hard she tried, her hands always betrayed her at some point. She would either misplace a spoon, tip a cup too far, or spill tea across her mother’s third-favorite table set because she poured the wrong amount of tea again . Privately, Mother would look at her with such heavy disappointment that Effie sometimes thought she'd rather cut off her own hands than ever try pouring tea again. If the mistake happened in public, she would simply grip Effie by the nape and lead her out of the room like a misbehaved dog. When she was particularly lucky, Mother wouldn’t pinch her arms too hard, and she wouldn’t have to wear the ugly long-sleeved uniform to school for the next few weeks . Unfortunately, she wasn’t always lucky.

“You should thank me, Euphemia,” Mother said once, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her perfectly ironed skirt as she tried to ignore the angry red welts printed on her daughter’s hands. She did that sometimes —averted her eyes when the physical proof of what she had done did glare at her a little too hard. “Not every mother cares for their daughters as much as I do. When you get admired for your table manners in the future, you will see that all these tears weren’t for nothing. Now, now… let’s stop with that, shall we? You are not a baby anymore to be making such a scene.”

She had muttered the last part as she looked at her daughter's teary eyes from her reflection in the mirror of Daddy’s business partner's washroom. His wife had greeted them with her special golden tea set that afternoon, showing off her beautiful teacups and the huge matching pot with handmade flowers painted in real gold around the delicate porcelain — from District One, she had said. A limited edition that she had paid a small fortune for. Effie had fallen in love with the delicate china almost immediately, and when Mrs. Pinchman placed one teacup in front of her, filled to the brim with a rich chamomile tea, Effie proudly held it with both hands, eager to show that she was big enough to drink tea with them now…at least until her clumsy hands trembled so much while she tried to stir the tea — just like Mother had taught her —that she accidentally cracked the edge of the delicate china.

For a second, time seemed to freeze. Mr. and Mrs. Pinchman smiled nervously under Mother’s furious gaze when they saw the small crack separating two golden petals. Their eyes moved from Effie’s crimson face to her trembling hands to Daddy’s blank expression staring at his own hands, and they all knew what was about to come. Even as they tried to assure her parents that it wasn’t a big deal; snapping their fingers for the help to come and replace the barely cracked teacup with a polite nod to Effie and a side comment about how poorly-made those District products really were, “despite the overprice cost” Mrs. Pinchman added with a grimace, no one said a word when mother took Effie firmly by the nape and led her out of the room, muttering an unconvincing excuse that she needed to use the washroom very quickly. When Effie returned twenty minutes later, her palms red and her eyes puffy from crying too much, everyone politely pretended nothing had happened at all.

At least she wouldn’t have to wear the ugly uniform, she thought. Her gloves would hide it well enough.

“Maybe ‘m just bad,” Effie whispered to herself later that night, clutching her stuffed duckling tighter to her chest as she sank deeper under the blankets. The soft purple glow from the shiny stars glued to her bedroom ceiling made her feel like she was sleeping inside a cereal box. Their light was overwhelmingly bright for the occasion, and Effie flipped onto her stomach, stubbornly burying her face in her soft, white pillow. She wasn’t feeling very happy at that moment, and their shiny, purple light seemed almost mocking at her miserable state —she would ask her Daddy to take them out the next morning, she decided. And if her once-dry pillowcase was damp now, she chose to ignore it… 

She cried herself to sleep that night. Not for the first time —not for the last, either.

Two weeks later, as she did her homework in her room, the still-swollen scratches on her hands making it hard to hold the pencil properly, Effie decided that she would become the best tea pourer in all of Panem—even if it meant resorting to methods her mother would surely disapprove of: like asking their district maid for help or, even worse, going around the city loudly declaring that Cornelia Trinket had failed to teach her eldest daughter how to behave like a proper lady on her own… which was, of course, exactly what Effie intended to do.

So in the morning, when her mother had left the house after breakfast, announcing she was off to buy new cuffs for her brother’s school uniform, and Mrs. Leefolt had taken baby Prosie for a walk around the block, claiming the girl was in dire need of a proper sunbathe because “she looks awfully pale, Miss Euphemia,” Effie made her move. She slipped out the back door in her summer dress, tricycle in tow, and made her way straight to the house at the end of the street —the grand, three-story mansion recently taken over by Mrs. Margaret Schindler , the mysterious and newly married neighbor whom Mother and Mrs. Maybilee had been gossiping about nonstop for the three months she’d lived there

And if Mother didn’t like her, then she was probably the perfect woman to ask for help 

Mrs. Margaret turned out to be as nice as a kitten. She’d complimented Effie’s dress the moment she saw her waiting in the foyer and had offered her something cold to drink, because it was very warm outside—without mentioning the sweat streaking her white-blond hair or the damp patch behind her knees from have cycling over in her favorite bright green stockings on such a hot day. And when she asked if Effie had gotten her hair done at a professional salon, when she had so clearly done it herself, she felt like she might explode with affection. Effie liked Mrs. Margaret very much, she decided. Perhaps even more than she could ever like any of her own blood-related aunts.

So when the woman asked her to take off her shoes and sit in one of the comfortable-looking chairs in her vintage tea area as she gathered all the books and scribbled papers from the round table in the corner, Effie couldn’t do anything but smile and follow her instructions, like a well-behaved dog. 

It was only later, as she sat in the living room with her stockinged feet resting on the carpet floor, waiting for Mrs. Margaret to come back with a tray of tea, cookies, and a small share of tangerines, that she noticed what a peculiar creature her hostess truly was. It’s not like she wasn’t expecting something odd. Being Cornelia Trinket’s daughter, Effie had, naturally, already heard all sorts of things about Margaret Schindler —how she was known for walking around the city in colorful pants instead of a proper dress and how her rustic accessories were far too cheap-looking for the polished side of town. She refused to wear a corset unless it was absolutely necessary, despite being married to one of the most respected men in the estate market, and would rather join the pool competition at the University bar than attend Sunday brunch at the Central Avenue with the other businessmen's wives. Mother had even said once that, although Margaret tried to disguise it by hiring competent professionals to style it, the elaborate hairdos she often wore outside the house were clearly done with her own natural red hair—not a wig or extensions, as a proper lady ought to use.

“Having a scandalous natural color is no excuse to go around the city with no wig on,” Mrs. Maybilee whispered one afternoon, frowning down as she straightened a new card in the pack in her hands. It was Bridge club day again; mother had already won the last two sets. “I hate to be this person, but I won't be surprised if her marriage doesn't last a year. I mean, no good man wants an unkempt bumpkin by his side—for Elysium’s sake. Especially not one with the reputation of the Schindler boy .”

“She is indeed a very odd creature, I have to agree,” Mother nodded, taking a new card from the pack on the table. “A few weeks ago, Magnus and I were wandering around the main square, trying to find something decent to wear for this fancy dinner with his business associates, when I saw her and Mr. Vanderbilt outside the store —you know, the old professor of the Minerva Academy?— Well, they’re talking ‘bout the ancient books from the Heavensbee’s book bidding, and she was bragging about this unique collection she’d inherited from her grandfather or something. And I couldn’t help but think— what kind of respectable woman gives that much attention to such nonsense?”

“The kind who wears leather boots for a spring cocktail party, I suppose,” Maybilee laughed, putting her cards down so she could reach for the inner pocket of her fur coat.  She had barely spared Effie a look before taking a cigarette out and lighting it without a second of hesitation. “I bid three spades.”

A soft gasp from across the table jolted Effie from her daze. Mrs. Margaret was already reaching for her with a napkin delicately poised between her slender fingers, drying the small pool of liquid that formed in front of her before Effie could even realize what was happening. When she looked down at her trembling hands and saw the mess she’d made— the amber liquid from the cup, that somehow had made its way to her hands, had splatter all across Mrs. Margeret’s pristine white tablecloth— it was all Effie could do not to burst into tears right then and there… 

“I’m sorry,” Effie whispered instead, closing her eyes as tightly as she could to avoid the tears

“Oh, it’s okay, dear! Don’t worry ‘bout it. It’s just a little wet.” Mrs. Margaret said softly, wincing a little as she took the half-full teacup from Effie’s still shaking hands and placed it down. She gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Maybe it has to do with your hands… Does your papa shake like that?”

“I— I don’t know,” Effie mumbled, curling her hands into small fists and hiding them beneath the table—away from Mrs. Margaret’s knowing gaze and that sad smile that made Effie wish she’d just stand up and slap her square on the face instead. Anything was better than the pity in those hazel eyes. That strange, distant look that made her want to scream. Effie had expected pain—maybe some hostility too. Even the silent treatment in the worst-case scenarios, if she had been particularly bad. Those she could handle. They were familiar, things she knew how to respond to. But this quiet understanding? This unfiltered kindness? Effie didn’t know what to do with it. “I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, enough with that. You don’t worry about it, it was an accident” Mrs. Margaret gave a lazy wave of her ungloved hands “Anyway, with a little practice, I am sure you’re going to be pouring tea like a true Patrician . You’ll see…” 

It was a lie; they both knew that. Years spent in a house built on half-truths and quiet deceptions had made Effie an expert at spotting them —her eyes wouldn’t meet hers as she spoke, and her mouth trembled a little to the left when she was getting nervous. In her defence, Mrs. Margaret wasn’t a particularly skilled liar either. But she was trying so hard to be convincing, and she had done so much already, with the lessons and the softness of her features, that Effie couldn’t help but smile her thanks, anyway. It wasn't often that someone lied just to spare her feelings.

Her mother had never done anything to spare her feelings

“What if I don’t?” Effie whispered anyway, looking at her empty saucer 

“If you don’t…” Mrs. Margaret echoed, pondering the question as she added another sugar cube to her freshly poured tea. She spared a look at Effie’s little frame before lifting it to her lips, her big, impossibly blue eyes staring back at her with far too much expectation. “Well, if you don’t, then you’ll have to be the best at something else. Pouring tea is hardly the most important skill a woman should have in life, little one. You don’t have to be good at everything .”

“But Mother is good at everything,” Effie muttered bitterly, pushing the small bowl with the slices of tangerine away from her, suddenly losing all her taste for the sweety little fruits Mrs. Margaret had offered her earlier 

“Is she?” she asked, taking a small sip from her tea. “Why'd you think that?”

Effie’s eyes snapped at her so fast her eyeballs almost popped out of her face, a faint line slicing the soft skin of her forehead as she frowned at the older woman. Her tiny hands flew to her chest in utter shock, too, like she’d just been asked the most ridiculous question of her life.

“Well, because she is ,” Effie said stubbornly. “There is nothing she can’t do. She is incredible.”

Mrs. Margaret looked at her face for a second too long, lowering her teacup slowly back to the saucer as she let her words sink. There was a flicker in her eyes that hinted she didn’t like the answer, but Effie refused to take it back. That was the truth —her mother was annoyingly skilled in making everyone else in a room feel useless, and she’d known it from the moment she first opened her eyes in that pink nursery and saw her perfectly powdered face staring back at her, barely touched by the aftermath of childbirth. 

“Yeah, I bet she is,” Mrs. Margaret nodded, breaking a cookie in two and placing one of the halves on Effie’s plate. “But she can’t be perfect at everything —no one is. There must be something she can’t do…”

“Well, there’s not,” Effie insisted, crossing her arms over her chest 

“Okay,” Margaret smiled softly, lifting her hands in surrender and taking a small bite of the cookie. Without a word, she looked at the big painting on the opposite wall, and Effie followed her gaze. In the painting, an old man was sitting in a bad, bare chested, and barely covered with some sort of tunic from the waist down. One of his hands was reaching for a golden chalice a boy was handing him, his other one had a single finger pointing to the sky, triumphant, or maybe angry. Overall, he looked silly, Effie thought. Why would a half-naked man be sitting in a room full of sad-looking boys? And why would someone want to hang it in their living room, for everyone to see? “But are you certain?”

Effie looked down at her plate, frowning her little browns as her mind wandered away. She had never allowed herself to dwell on the things her mother wasn’t capable of doing. Somehow, it was easier to keep thinking of her as this untouchable, mythological creature—always hovering at the edges of her life like one of the goddesses her father used to read about when they could afford a good book, but who never was totally present in the same plane as the rest of them—rather than just another regular housewife. Most days, Effie had this little voice in the back of her mind that constantly whispered to her that if she started seeing her mother as flesh and bones like a normal person, all the anger she had to endure would be much harder to swallow. It was easier to justify her mother hating her when they were not made of the same thing. But still, as she froze under the patient silence of Mrs. Margaret Schindler, the odd woman from down the street with the natural hair and colorful pants, Effie couldn’t help but catalogue every single flaw she could remember seeing on her mother 

She had big feets and weird-looking toes, and had to wear a special platform inside every shoe because one of her feet turned inward — ” from a birth condition” , she had said defensively, when a two-year-old Effie questioned her about it. Her natural hair was really poorly treated, and her nails were mostly fake because she chewed the ones underneath, even though she always said it was unladylike to bring the fingers to the mouth. Also, one day her brother asked how much it was four times seven, and she had to check on Daddy’s fancy calculator because she’d said thirty-one instead of twenty-eight. She was also a terrible singer and couldn’t make a pot of tea by herself, cause she was helpless in the kitchen. And based on the fact that she and Daddy got divorced more than once since Edgar was born, they could assume that she wasn’t a particularly good lover as well… 

“She is... cranky in the morning,” Effie admitted instead, the guilt burning down her throat.  

“Oh, Okay…Well, does it make her any less good in your eyes?” Effie shook her head no without a second of hesitation, taking her share of cookies from the saucer. Shortbread biscuit with peanut butter and fleur de sel , her brother’s favorite. “So there you go, then. You can still be amazing even if you struggle with something, Effie. Maybe one day you’ll learn to drink tea gracefully, or maybe you won’t. Either way, it doesn’t make you any less capable of great things in the future.”

As Effie walked back home that afternoon, drunk on tangerine tea and drained from all the heavy conversation they shared in that afternoon, Mrs. Margaret’s voice still haunted her thoughts. In six years, she was the first person in all of Panem to ever dare question Mother’s superiority complex out loud—and something about hearing it from a voice other than the one in the back of her own mind made Effie feel so dangerously valid, she wondered if she'd ever be able to look at the welts on her hands the same way again. If her mother wasn’t perfect herself, then what gave her the right to punish Effie for her imperfections? And if Effie wasn’t always trying to fit into her mother’s shoes anymore, would she even remember how to walk on her own? 

The idea seemed terrifying. Because, as beautiful and encouraging as Mrs. Margaret’s speech had been, Effie wasn’t sure she could live in any other way than on her knees. Sometimes, things were just the way they were. And for Effie, her life has always been about how many times she could make her mother look at her during the day. She just loved her mother, and she knew she loved her too, so should Effie really give up years of hard work just because some random lady hinted that her value should be bigger than her flaws? The idea was tempting, in theory, but Effie wasn’t brave enough to find out by herself —So instead of overthinking again, she just parked her tricycle on the front yard and got into the garage, squeezing herself between her brother’s shiny silver bike and her father’s bulky motorcycle, so she could reach the back door

Mrs. Leefolt was sitting in the chair closer to the window when Effie managed to get into the kitchen, smoking a smelly cigarette and reading the old monthly edition of The Capton Magazine. Effie stared at the glossy paper for several minutes before she moved, trying to understand how the woman had it if Effie had heard mother say that she would throw it away first thing in the morning last night, cause the rats had chewed on the last pages. Maybe leptospirosis wasn’t a risk in the Districts like it was in the Capitol. Or Mother was just trying to be nice again, by giving her things to the help, instead of throwing them away. Effie once heard that life in the Districts wasn’t very nice, so a little bit of rat’s pee wasn’t anything compared to what poor Mrs. Leefolt probably had to endure back home… right? 

Oblivious to the nature of Effie’s stare, Mrs. Leefolt shifted her attention toward her, narrowing her pitch-black eyes as she gave Effie a slow, full-body scan. Her once-pale cheeks were now flushed a deep red from the cycling back home, her double braids fraying at the ends where the ribbon had come loose. Her torn stockings were beyond saving, sweat ran down the backs of her knees, and streaks of dirt from Mrs. Margaret’s front garden stained the edges of her leather shoes. When she took a long drag of her cigarette, held the smoke for a while, and exhaled it painfully slowly, Effie knew she was cooked

“I made cucumber salad,” Mrs. Leefolt said instead, lowering her eyes back to the magazine. 

“Oh… thank you.” Effie blinked, holding the fabric of her skirt between shaking fingers. “Is…is mother home?”

“Upstairs, sneaking over ur Pa’ stuff,” she shrugged, flipping the page. “Baby Prosie’s has the cramps again, ‘s enough to keep her out in her room the entire day… Your momma, I mean…I bet she didn’t notice you were not home.” Mrs. Leefolt looked up again, locking her intense, tired eyes into Effie’s blue ones. “Now go fix ur face, girl. You look like u’re stomped on by a bunch o’ peacekeepers”

Effie blinked a few times, both confused and stunned that the woman was actually giving her the chance to escape her mother’s furious punishments. Mrs. Leefolt had been hired to take care of baby Prosie when her mother decided she wasn't cute enough for the trouble anymore, but it was nice to see that she also kept an eye on Effie, sometimes. And despite her being a district woman, it made Effie feel warm all over again. So before she could even cross the threshold and walk upstairs to her room, so she could scrub all traces of Mrs. Margaret’s forbidden house off her, she looked back at the exhausted woman, who was now sipping from a small paper cup, and smiled the brightest smile she could afford 

“Thank you,” Effie said gently, straightening her back so her gratitude sounded more genuine. Mrs. Leefolt didn’t say anything to her, nor smiled back. She just looked at the child’s face for a second too long before nodding and drifting back to the glossy magazine on her hands, the cigarette burning down in the ashtray 

Mrs. Leefolt was an odd creature, Effie thought —a woman from District Two who was willing to cross half of the city every week to work for a family of strangers who could barely look in her eyes for a full minute. Sometimes, Effie felt sorry for her. For the lack of silk in the clothes she wore when she wasn’t wearing the green uniform her mother provided to her, or the fact that she had never tried a single tangerine in her life. But as she stood there now, her bright green stockings soaked with sweat and something that looked like lines of dust across her behind, Effie could feel the woman eying her with the same morbid attention she sometimes eyed her …and she thought that, maybe , Mrs. Leefolt felt sorry for her too

The thought made her want to throw up every drop of Mrs. Margaret flowery tangerine tea 

End Notes 

(1) Hope you all understood the "The death of Socrates" reference. Will it make more sense in future chapters? maybe. Will I ever write future chapters? Can't say, it all depends on my brain working as I ask them to, won't make promises. But if I do, I would advise you all to keep a closer look at Missus Margaret Schindler. (2) Yes, District maids, for me, it makes sense that regular rich folks -not the damn billionares- wouldn't afford Avoxs, so they relyed on the District help. So yeah, Mrs. Leefold is here too. (3) Thank you so much for reading this thing, let me know what you think. Kisses