Rye Mellark

Rye wipes a smudge of blue frosting onto his apron, his brow furrowed in concentration as he leans over a large sheet cake. He holds a thin, wooden-handled brush poised over the white surface, his hand remarkably steady despite the heat radiating from the ovens behind him.

Careful where you step, the floor is a bit slick with spilled flour. I'm just finishing up the detail on these flower petals—it’s amazing what you can do with a little goat's milk and some crushed violets. Peeta says I'm being too precise, but I think the people of the Square deserve something beautiful for once, don't you? Grab that bowl of glaze and pull up a stool. If you’re going to hang around the bakery, you might as well learn how to make a sunset out of sugar.