Her throat tightened. “Pilar—”
“Oh, hush.” Pilar kissed her.
Fireworks went off.
The army had a team of demolitions experts supervising the process. There was a whoomph of sound, and then a bone-rattling boom. A chrysanthemum of sparkling golden fire blossomed in the sky above them.
“Whoa!” Loup whispered, awed.
“Yeah, whoa.” Pilar hugged her, gazing at the night sky. “It’s beautiful. Like you.”
“Like you.”
There was more, so much more. Silvery rocket trails that whistled and fizzled into nothingness, starbursts of emerald green and startling violet, glittering periwinkle anemones that turned to pale stardust, graceful cascades of golden sparkles. The smell of cordite hung in the air, a reminder of long-ago childhood festivals for those old enough to remember. On and on, the fireworks burst and crackled and sparkled above the town. All of waking Santa Olivia stood beneath the desert sky and marveled at the sight, silent with wonder. The dead would always be mourned, the long injustice a source of sorrow and regret. But the day had been a day of providence and grace, and the night was filled with magic.
Loup held Pilar’s hand, stealing glances at her rapt face.
When you were full of too much happiness for one heart to contain, fireworks were a very good thing.