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One morning, all rugged up, out past the fence, but journeying home, Lian asks him:
“Daddy, Why’ve you got two names?”
“Ah.” he says, stalling for time, and takes a good look at her. There’s a rabbit slung over one shoulder, and her tiny quiver slung over the other. She's got thin shoulders; bird bones. Roy hums, instead of answering, because what does he say to her? How does he answer a question that cuts down to ivory white?
He sighs, supposes a question unanswered is a question sought after, and where would that get Lian? Lying in an open grave, if the odds are as favorable as they have been of late. Covey don’t do nothing but hurt, these days.
So he says, “All the boys I grew up with-” He sighs. How does he explain this to her? How does one put raw grief into words?
“-When I was a little boy, Lian, this man took me in with his kin, and they raised me as theirs.”
They’re both still walking, and Roy only hopes his voice doesn’t carry. District Twelve is not especially welcoming to Covey talk anymore. And even the woods can prove traitorous. They are, after all, where every Baird is buried, secrets and all.
“And,” He continues, “they weren’t Seam, or Merchant, but something of a travelling band. Something separate. And all them, those kids- my cousins, at the time- were named after ballads.”
He pauses, then clarifies, “Story songs,” He nods with conviction, “And colors.”
“And Roy’s not got a ballad. S’just a district name. But William does. Which is my middle name, you know this, Lian. So I went by Roy-William, for nearly nine years. Roy-William, and then you need a color too, don’t you, Lian?
Lian nods.
“So my cousin, Birdie Flax, she says to the man, who was some sort of father, Roy-William Claret. After the red of my hair, she says, though it’s not really accurate. And it stuck.”
Roy still thinks about Birdie sometimes. Wonders about her life in The Old There-Before. Whether she'd spare the time to watch over him, someday. What she’d think.
“All those kids,” He says, voice rough, “All grown up–-your uncle Mal Duncan for example— they still call me that. That’s all it is, sweet thing. An old nick-name.”
It’s something of a means of resistance, but he won’t tell Lian that. No, his sweet girl’s vocal enough. Jade would fret wildly if he told their daughter why his peers say it with such insistence. It makes Jade nervous, when she hears him called that name just by itself. She swings her head around, like a prey animal. Like a peacekeeper’s gonna pounce on them, any time she hears even a hint. She’s well within her rights, given what happened to her father. His passive resistance, his eventual hanging, the loss of the apothecary. But.
But—Roy wishes she’d be a little less scared, even if only to sing a wider catalogue of songs. To hear a name from his childhood, one that rings true.
She’s banned several of his favorite ballads, that name, the wrong sorta talk, citing walls too thin.
No Capitol dissent, no resistance talk, no hanging tree. Nothing that could risk their precious life in the so-called nicest part of the Seam. She’s nervous about their outings to the woods, even as it fills their bellies. God, he loves her, and he’d give anything for her, but he wishes—
“Have I got a song, Daddy?” Lian pipes up, and Roy’s very suddenly pulled from his thoughts. He frowns. “No, Lian." his hesitance, infinitesimal, but Lian seems to notice, "Mama named you.”
Before he knew she existed, Roy thinks. The thought rings bitter, like pine resin. Lian’s his angel, and she brought him and Jade together again, and still, he’d have given his guitar, his bows, his everything to have known.
But eighteen-year-olds aren’t known for their wise decision making, and Weng Chan’s too dead to blame. And Roy has her now. Has the both of them. His girls.
“Oh.” Lian says, hanging her head low.
“You know what, Lian?” Roy placates, “You ask your uncle Mal to write you a ballad, and I’ll sing it everyday.”
Lian tilts her head up to him and smiles like a sky split open. She readjusts the strap of the quiver as they walk on. Hefts the rabbit higher.
Eventually, they come to the drop-off spot. A hollow tree that Roy had found, age thirteen, had used to stash sleeping syrup at seventeen, and now uses to store all manners of things.
Lian wiggles the quiver off of her shoulder. Hands it to Roy as he snakes his own bow through the jaws of the hollow, and starts singing to herself. The birds fall silent, listening. For a moment, her voice is the only thing the woods hear. The mockingjays, perched above both of them, echo her song back to her. She giggles, delighted in the way only a child can be.
Roy feels a pain in his heart, alien to the moment. He shoves her bow in the tree, still careful not to snag the bowstring of her little recurve. He clears his throat and whistles to her. “C’mon, Lian.” The birds, still searching for something to copy, warble the notes of his speaking.
Lian laughs again. The birds pick that up too. Lian claps, in appreciation for the bonny things.
Roy grabs onto her hand. “Let’s find a gift for Mama, hey? Something nice in the Meadow.”
They walk, hand in hand to the fence surrounding District Twelve. Roy listens for the rare hum of electricity, but unsurprisingly, the fence is uncharged. Roy lifts the loose flap of the fence, and watches Lian crawl, belly down like a snake, under the fence. She wriggles loose of the wire, and crouches on the other side, in wait.
Roy grunts as he gets to his knees, following her movements. His jacket is covered in dirt when he emerges. He’s gonna have to tear the hole larger, he’s sick of dirt in his hair.
Lian, having waited long enough, runs off to forage a gift for Jade. She comes up with a bunch of flowers. The swirl of colors makes Roy dizzy. He says, “Give’em here, Lian.’’ She does so, and Roy ties a bit of twine around the stems. He smiles at her, and hands them back.
“C’mon Lian, Mama’s waiting.”