"Has he told anybody?" she asks, without addressing the prostitute portion. "Because, he's a person. One person. I don't know yet if he'd be the best person."
"Right. And you haven't brought home any magic." She chews her lip. "Have you got friends here who might help? I really am best when there's magic involved."
"Unfortunately, no," she says, with another of her barely-perceptible smiles. "People seem to find me off-putting."
"I don't know," she says. "Regardless of my preferences I am a walking threat of violence and it is difficult to establish genuine personal relationships under those circumstances. My brother might have better luck."
"He can convince me to trust him, or trust you? It seems like I'd be working with both of you."
"Have you ever set up a consultancy? Like mine, only advertising your ability to separate people from their blood?"
Because the bar takes seashells, but her patrons mostly don't.
"Not everybody wants my advice. Most people want money, and some of them have magical trinkets they'll part with. And you've got your victor's village house, you can probably hide more stuff than I can."
"You also desire to overthrow the Capitol. If we were to combine our efforts we could each access resources otherwise closed to us. For example, I believe I access Milliways more frequently than you do, although I have not been doing it for as long. I also have the means to visit the Capitol, which you do not. On the other hand, you have evidently learned to make much better use of Milliways than I. You have a room here, you trade seashells for sustenance. And you are wearing a magical weapon as a hair ornament."
"How often do you come here?" she asks softly. "I barely - never more than once in six months. Once it stayed away for more than a year. I thought it was never coming back. That I'd grow up and think I'd imagined it. And how do you know about the shells and the stick?"
She pauses.
"I encounter the bar on my own roughly twice a month. Tony is capable of summoning the door in one try out of three, discounting repeats on failure, which never work."
(The last word in that tirade is, in District Four, a curse word.)
"Would it be a trust-establishing gesture if I put you on our tab?"
On their tab. On a rich, victor's tab.
"It would help," she says, because she's needy but she's not reckless.
"What would do that?" Bell asks. "...I mean, I wouldn't actually put it past myself to live here for half a year. I love my parents but I don't miss them, not really. I just don't know if they'd have enough to eat if I weren't around."
"That, then, would depend on how much time your half year spanned for us. If our timelines are closely linked, and you live on the Bar's idea of unexceptional meals, I don't anticipate a problem. If you live here at six months to my two weeks, or make frequent extravagant purchases, there may be trouble eventually."
"I usually get potatoes. With butter on them they're nutritionally complete, and at least they aren't clams," says Shell Bell. "And they're cheap. But that's when I'm trying to stretch one bag of clamshells as long as I can. And rationing my others to buy nonperishables to bring home and 'find on the beach, it must have fallen off a cruise ship, Mom' at... key moments."
"It is no longer necessary for you to live on buttered potatoes," says Sherlock.
Bell looks nostalgic. "First time I came here I was six and didn't know shells could be money. I asked the bar for 'food I could afford'. I have dreams about what she gave me sometimes."