"Yes." It was almost embarrassing to admit that out loud, but Courfeyrac was angry. He was angry and his anger was fresh enough that he would be boiling if not for the distance between himself and the Capitol, and his present company. He'd died for people who hadn't believed in him, given his life for people who wouldn't miss him or even mourn him. And those were his people. How could he expect that the people of District Eleven felt anything genuine toward him. How could he expect anything at all? Three days ago, he was in Paris, shot dead outside the cafe.

The elevator lurched to a halt and deposited them on the top floor. It was an extravaganza of violet proportions, and it was striking enough to jar Courfeyrac out of his moment of self-mourning.

"Ah, here we are. Purple. And what does this floor have in store?" He offered his arm to her again. "It is a shame all of this is for us. Surely there are people outside of this tower who could use a good meal."