To sweeten up your day . . .
Katniss lay on her side, blinking through tears at the goldenrods bunched together on the nightstand. The wildflowers that Peeta had left behind in the study after she'd broken him. Her mouth quivered, ready to spill over in a fresh round of sobbing, but she choked them back. She yearned for Peeta to come to her as he always had. She longed for that, then she didn't, then she did. These feelings were night and day, in constant rotation. Her heart just wouldn't let her be.
The memory of his face, the elation draining from it when she'd lied and told him she didn't want him. She'd seen nothing but that face ever since. Blast her. She was a fool. She'd had her chance, and like a coward, she threw it away.
Outside, the dawn arched to life with swatches of pink and orange unfurling over the treetops. It was a thirst-quenching sight, an hour for archers and animals. Kat wondered what Peeta thought of sunrises, since they'd only ever talked about sunsets. Did he enjoy the former as much?
Her thumb skimmed across the petals, then she withdrew her hand from the softness. She wiped her eyes with her knuckles, the place where he'd kissed her many times in greeting, affection, or play. She tried to wipe away those times as well, because it served her right. Losing Peeta was what she deserved. Letting him go, to find someone better, was what he deserved.
A sleepless night of self-reproach dragged on her shoulders, but she refused to lag and be useless. Kat hauled herself out of bed and started a new day, away from home, where she could do some actual good—after procuring Mr. Mellark's permission. She didn't like taking a carriage into the Seam, fancy as the vehicle was. She'd done so only once for a trip to the almshouse because she'd brought too many baskets of fare and clothing to carry alone. Peeta had joined her that day. He'd baked a dozen loaves of bread and driven the carriage himself.
This time, she walked, from the iron-gated townhouses of her neighborhood to the shops and markets of the merchant quarter, and then onto the woodland road. Armed with a basket of fruit, the fresh air lifted her spirits . . . until the air wasn't so fresh anymore. The grainy, windswept texture of coal swirled around her. Brittle cottages and shacks, some in need of new roofs or paint, lined wayward paths. The scent of sweat and root vegetable plots clashed, as did the sounds of trash being rifled through, neighbors bickering, and children roughhousing. She'd lived here once, had dug through those piles of refuse with Gale, had played—when Grisly Uncle Cray gave her a spare moment to play—with other peasants. She had survived here.
Yet she hadn't returned often, a mere handful of visits so far. As a child, there had been no reason to, not even to continue looking for Gale. Before the Mellarks took her in, the one time she braved his family's door in search of him, they also couldn't say where he'd gone. None of them had known that he'd been stuck in the coal mines at the time. Kat hadn't been close to his family, and they had their own troubles, so she hadn't dared to bother them after that. She had figured that if Gale came back, he would find her.
He hadn't. He'd escaped the mines but hadn't found her because by then, she'd been safe in a new home, after which she'd been too afraid to cross paths with Grisly Uncle Cray anyway. Not that the brute would have wanted her back, but his temper alone had scared her from setting foot in the Seam. As if Mr. Mellark would have even allowed her to risk it in the first place.
It was only after learning from Effie—who knew everything happening within this district—that Cray had drunk himself into an early grave last year, that Mr. Mellark permitted Kat to make charitable trips to the Seam. Yet during these trips, she'd never seen Gale. She hadn't sought out his family again to ask about him, too scared to hear that he'd become a ghost. Without knowing it, they'd been so close to each other. It would have been easy to run into one another here or in the merchant quarter, where he sold his game. But instead, fate reunited them in the forest.
Katniss hiked toward the orphanage. Unlike among elite society, she knew how to protect herself in this part of the district, how to behave, and the people welcomed her and her offerings. At the children's home, she passed out apricots and grapes to the boys and girls, then sang songs with them, delighting in their joyous faces.
Afterward, she paused outside the building and stared ahead. Maybe she could convince the Young Ladies Committee to make a joint trip here, on a regular basis. That was, if Deliah Cartwright didn't stick her nose up—
Katniss blinked. Was . . . was that . . .
"Deliah?" she blurted.
The girl froze at the sound of her name, her fingers gripping a half-open parasol. She'd been exiting a cottage, positively glowing until ensnared by Kat's voice. She wore a drab oatmeal frock and a plain bonnet, an ensemble the girl would never willingly choose for herself, but Kat knew that haughty stride anywhere. Deliah Cartwright. In the Seam.
She turned in Kat's direction, her eyes downcast for a moment before they lifted—and popped wide. The parasol snapped shut. Deliah whipped around and rushed toward a mule wagon that waited for her at the end of the sidewalk. Kat's gaze narrowed at the elderly driver passed out on his seat, his hat tipped over his eyes and his mouth split open. Why would Deliah hire such a ride?
"Wait!" Kat sprang into action, running across the road and catching Deliah by the elbow.
The girl hissed and pulled back. "Stop it. You'll make a scene!"
"Everything's a scene here," Kat said, gesturing around. The Seam possessed no shortage of distractions. A woman brandished a rolling pin out her window and shouted obscenities at a man leaving her building. A pair of hounds growled at each other, their fur bristling. A baby wailed from nowhere. Men lurched into coughing fits from illness. Street children howled with laughter. And now, Deliah.
Kat shook her head in disbelief. "What—"
"I'm doing nothing wrong. Just shh." Deliah hustled Kat into a ramshackle stable near the mule wagon, backed her against the wall, and aimed her parasol at Kat's chest. "Were you following me?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Well then, what? What do you want?"
"Want?"
"To keep your mouth shut," Deliah squawked. "What do you want?"
Kat knocked the parasol out of the way. "I'm not a snoop."
"And I'm not an idiot."
"I was visiting the orphanage."
"Oh, that's right. This is your old turf. Of course you'd feel free to come back whenever you felt like it, not a care in the world."
Katniss stared at her. She stared and saw something remarkable, something the girl struggled to hide, indeed a phenomenon: the veins thick at Deliah's temples, her chest short of breaths, her eyes glittering—not with anger, but with fear. Some conclusions were easy to pin down: No one knew Deliah was here in pseudo-disguise, and they weren't supposed to know. She'd been visiting someone, a person who made her happy based on her euphoric smile only moments ago.
Katniss remembered the secret Effie shared with her about Deliah's footman. The one she'd apparently done intimate things with. The scandal that Kat had announced so thoughtlessly in front of Gale, Finnick, and Peeta.
Deliah's color climbed so high it might actually fly off her face. "It's always easy for you, isn't it? To be accepted into our world, to be fearless, to break the rules and still be loved. How lucky for you."
"You're wrong. I'm not fearless," Katniss admitted, internally replaying her mistakes of the past weeks, including the way she'd humiliated Deliah. "I'm . . . I'm sorry about what I said on my birthday. It wasn't fair."
"No, it wasn't. Thomas is a good man."
"Thomas?"
Stricken, Deliah clamped her mouth shut. Abruptly, she turned away. Could Thomas be the footman? Had she come here to be with him?
"But . . ." Katniss hesitated. "I thought you liked Peeta."
Deliah scoffed. "Don't be silly. Peeta Mellark is young, handsome, eligible, kind, and a fine match. I've always liked him. What girl wouldn't? But I don't . . ." She whirled around, drew her shoulders back, and glared at Kat. "But he's not Thomas. And if you dare say anything about this, so help me, I'll—"
"I won't," Kat answered. "I won't do that."
"You did before."
"I know. I apologize."
"I won't let you ruin him."
And now, Kat understood. Deliah had fallen for her servant. She loved him.
She glowered at Katniss. And then, with an involuntary cry, she dropped her face into her free palm. Shocked, Katniss watched the girl fall apart and then right herself within seconds, giving Katniss no time to offer a handkerchief or ask if she was all right. It barely gave Katniss time to process her own wash of sympathy, nor her amazement. Here they were, up to their ankles in hay with horseflies bobbing around the stable, while Deliah Cartwright grudgingly wept in the presence of Katniss Everdeen.
"My family caught us and fired him," she said as the dam broke and flooded the stable. "I tried to stay away for his sake. I kept pursuing Peeta instead, to please my family. I didn't realize how far I'd taken things until the night of the symphony, when you reminded me of what I'd done not only to you, but to Mr. Hawthorne. The whole time, I should have chosen Thom instead of squandering my energy on Peeta—and on you. I'm sorry about the newspaper."
Katniss didn't know what to say. At all.
"Work is scarce, so Thom has been living with his family until he finds new employment. I needed to make amends and took a chance that he might be home." A tender smile quirked Deliah's lips before she recalled to whom she was speaking. She straightened her spine and swiped a fist across her cheek to clear the tears. "There. Now, you know. You win."
"There's no winner," Kat mumbled. She had offended Thomas the same way Deliah had done to Gale. Not to mention everyone else who'd felt the brunt of the girls' bickering over the years. For that alone, shame curdled inside Katniss's stomach.
After an awkward pause, she asked, "What will you do?"
Deliah deflated. "We'll find a way."
"If you ever need someone to listen—"
"I won't."
"Fine. But if you do ever need an ally—"
"I doubt that, especially you." Deliah's rolled her eyes toward the ground, then back up. "However if, in a moment of insanity or desperation or poor taste, I change my mind . . . If I need to talk . . ."
Katniss stifled an amused grin. "Okay."
"Right. So go ahead and serenade Peeta. He's all yours."
"I'm not intent on Peeta."
"Honestly Katniss, don't lie to yourself. Your nose will grow. Furthermore, stop insulting all my devious efforts by saying they were in vain, not when you were such fierce competition."
"Um . . . thank you?"
"Matter of fact, don't insult Peeta. Do you know what he said on the way to the symphony, right after I described, in precious detail, your kiss with Gale? He said he didn't blame Gale for wanting you. 'Loving her is natural,' Peeta said. 'Love and friendship—they grow together. They make each other real. At least, they do to me.'"
Kat's heart twirled in circles. "He said that?"
Deliah poked her again. "If you don't do something about it, I'll go back to hating you. It will hardly be a challenge."
Finnick, Johanna, Sae, Gale, Effie, Mr. Mellark. Everyone who mattered. Everyone had nudged her, had given their blessing. Everyone but herself. It hadn't been enough that they believed she was right for Peeta. She'd needed to believe it. And how could she, coming from the Seam, barely acting like a lady? It was one thing to be a friend to Peeta. It was another to be a sweetheart.
She wanted to deserve him. She had to believe that she did, more than anyone else, but why hadn't she? She'd made him happy all these years. Could any other girl do that? Had any other girl done that?
Of all the people to convince her . . . Deliah Cartwright. If a psychic had predicted this, Katniss would have belly-laughed in their face.
"I rejected him. He'll never speak to me again," she reminded herself.
Deliah waved that off. "He shouldn't have to speak to you. He's done enough of that, I'll wager. You have to speak to him."
"He won't listen, and I'm not the most skilled talker."
"Ugh, will you stop it for once? He's Peeta. He'll listen to you. You only need to entice him."
"I haven't an enticing bone in my body."
"True, but Peeta seems unaware of that. Fortunately for you, I have some experience with the opposite sex." Deliah surveyed Kat's figure from top to bottom. "Lead me to your closet."
kpkpkpkpkp
Katniss sat on her bed, traumatized by the sight of Deliah Cartwright huffing and puffing through the velvets, lustrings, brocades, cashmeres, linens, cottons, and satins of her wardrobe. The past ten minutes had felt like an hour. Kat winced each time the girl scrutinized a dress and flung it to the side. "No . . . Nope . . . Noooooo."
Once upon a time, Kat thought her taste had surpassed Deliah's fetish for pastels. And not for the first time, Kat second-guessed her decision to let her enemy—her former enemy—talk her into this. Their aesthetics couldn't be more opposite, and Deliah couldn't possibly know what Peeta would swoon over, and what good would a dress do when Kat had recently torn his heart out?
The stress of finding nothing that met with her approval turned the girl's glossy locks into a tracker jacker's nest. Then, at last: "Ooooh!"
An ooooh from Deliah. This couldn't be good.
She emerged from the depths, her face coiled into a manic expression of glee. She held up a gown of copper sarcenet. The long, fitted bodice melted into a skirt, which split down the middle at the knees, revealing a copper lace underlayer in a feather motif. It was delicate enough to be chaste but sheer enough to reveal bare ankles. Only two braided straps of material held up the entire thing, and the neckline ended in an arrowhead-shaped point, one that only a girl with minimal breasts could pull off without being vulgar.
To be fair, Effie had purchased the thin silk dress for Kat, declaring it a trailblazer of style. Despite her flawless reputation, her advanced years, and her three-time widowhood, Effie preferred fashion that made an extreme statement. Instead of dowager-approved bombazines, she preferred cloths and cuts with flair. She excelled in dominating a room.
Katniss was not her great aunt. She shot to her feet. "Pick something else."
Deliah grunted. "You may as well be Amish."
"Why are you helping me? I appreciate this, truly, but . . . why?"
"Thomas, of course. I know what that's like to want someone you never expected to, I owe you for keeping our secret, and perhaps I'd like to redeem myself. Let's leave it at that."
"Maybe talking to Peeta will be enough. I need to write a speech—"
"You won't get to that part if you don't get his attention first," Deliah said, shaking the hanger for emphasis.
"I know him better than you do."
"Do you know him when he has a broken heart?"
Kat bit her tongue. She didn't. In all their years, he'd never suffered a broken heart until her. He might ignore her, he might glare at her, he might . . . who knew? But what if her change of heart confused him and made things worse? What if a dress and speech did little to impress him? Was this really her? What other choice did she have? Her own impulses hadn't served either of them well thus far. Besides, Peeta deserved to be wooed.
And upon closer inspection, the gown was rather lovely. The arrowhead-shaped neckline. The feather motif. The woodland color. If she was going to humble herself, she'd best do it in something attractive, to show Peeta that he was worth every effort. Tonight, they both would attend a ball at the residence of Caesar Flickerman. The gown suited the occasion, but it wasn't a seduction, she told herself. It was a declaration.
kpkpkpkpkp
An hour later, Kat summoned additional reinforcement. She, Deliah, and Johanna gathered in front of Kat's upright mirror, inspecting the copper gown brushing her curves. Sunrise and sunset. Half of her hair was braided at the sides and harnessed by a simple clip, with the rest swaying down her back. Compared to Deliah's fondant-yellow confection of a dress, which she'd had delivered here, and Jo's navy silk, Katniss stood out like a sore thumb. She'd never worn anything this bold before.
"This is a dumb idea," Kat said.
"I second that," Johanna said. "Katniss, his bedroom door is twenty paces away—use it."
"No," Deliah protested. "This is a grand gesture. It's romantic."
"Caesar Flickerman's ball? Are you serious?"
"There will be fireworks. She can whisk him away during the spectacle, when no one will see them. She can declare herself in the garden, under the lights."
"A party isn't the time or place. Especially not when they live in the same damn house. They have privacy right here," Johanna persisted, then addressed Katniss. "Go down the hall like a normal person, knock on his door, and just tell him how you feel."
"How booooring," Deliah said, aghast.
"What's she doing here?" Jo asked, motioning to Deliah. "Since when did you two become allies?"
"It doesn't matter," Kat said. "I'm going to throw up."
She didn't, but as they left the room and halted at the foyer downstairs, she was tempted to use the excuse yet again. The masculine voices of Peeta, Finnick, and Mr. Mellark drifted to her from the entrance. Her guardian wasn't attending the evening's festivities, but the two young men were. She peeked around the corner and saw a dark gray jacket wrapped around Peeta's broad back, his blond curls sweeping the collar.
Katniss reared backward into the shadows. "I-I can't."
"Good," Jo said.
"No. Not good." Deliah snatched Kat by the wrist. "You look ravishing and so do I, and I'm fed up with your wishy-washy nonsense. Let's go."
Kat's sweaty palm latched onto the nearest doorknob. "I'll fail."
"You've faced this entire district before."
"This isn't the district. This is Peeta."
"And you're Katniss Everdeen." She pointed ahead. "March."
"But what if I—"
Deliah gave her a tame but effective shove. Finnick and Mr. Mellark looked up as Kat stumbled into the hall. Only their shocked expressions saved her from faltering into a tall vase of primroses. She straightened, clearing her throat. Peeta glanced over his shoulder quickly before moving to turn back around.
He stopped. His gaze snapped up to take a second look. She watched him spin toward her fully, his expression ballooning from surprise to awe. Aside from the slight parting of his lips, she wasn't certain whether he was even breathing. Those dumbstruck eyes traveled the length of her.
But it wasn't the gown that affected him most. It was the pearl. When he noticed the pendant at her throat—a past gift from him, a present from one best friend to the other, and the only piece of jewelry she wore—the skin between his brows crinkled. His irises dulled before he flinched away.
Pain. That's what she'd just seen.
Finnick whistled. "Well, aren't you a shiny little good-luck penny."
Beaming, Mr. Mellark came forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "My girl, you are as radiant as the sun."
"We're late," Peeta said, his words strained as he pinched his sleeves.
"Fashionably so," Deliah corrected, stepping into the foyer with Johanna.
The men startled at Deliah's presence. Their faces shifted between her and Katniss, but because Kat was too busy agonizing over other things, Deliah wiggled her fingers in the air, explaining that they'd reached a truce. Understandably, it took a while for that concept to sink in.
After Mr. Mellark made them all promise that they would behave themselves, Peeta strode past Katniss and offered his arm to Jo. It hurt, but Kat knew why he'd done it. After everything that had happened, Jo was the least complicated partner between the three girls, which left Finnick to escort Deliah and Kat to the coach.
Deliah gave Kat an encouraging nod, to which Kat forced a smile. Caesar Flickerman's home wasn't her first choice of location, but it would have to do. If she didn't seize the perfect moment tonight and sweep Peeta off his feet, he would believe she'd worn the pearl to echo what she'd claimed in the study, to labor the point that they were only friends. She needed to see this plan through, to find a spot in starlight and reveal her heart.
They squeezed into the coach. Finnick chattered during the whole trip through town, essentially holding court with himself since no one else was in the mood to participate. Peeta stared out the window, the muscles of his profile set in a concentrated manner that Kat knew: He was mentally reciting his favorite rye bread recipe. He did this whenever he needed to distract himself.
She perched across from him. Each time the coach rocked, their calves bumped.
Beside her, Deliah kicked her ankle and mouthed, Say something. However, the only thing Kat wanted to say, she couldn't divulge in a cramped coach. For reassurance, she dipped her fingers into the reticule on her lap, feeling the folded paper that she'd tucked inside there earlier. The speech she'd written.
Caesar Flickerman's townhouse appeared, blooming with candlelight. The dandy had a reputation as a gossipmonger and the proud owner of the most eclectically decorated home in the district. Parrot-printed wallpaper, gilded furniture, self-portraits, and lots of blue. Blue in the guestrooms, blue rugs, blue cushions.
Snubbing the traditional expectations of a large, stuffy ballroom, the festivities took place in the garden, adorned with lilacs and bluebells, cockatoos in cages, and a wind quintet. A banquet table yielded wine and tarts, turtle soup, lobster tails, and a roasted pig with an apple lodged in its mouth.
Once they arrived, Peeta tipped his chin at the females of their group. "You all look very—" his eyes held Katniss's "—beautiful."
She watched him walk away, halting here and there to greet friends, finally joining a group of men who'd called out for him. And the women . . . their gazes followed him, too.
Finnick sighed. "I'll keep an eye on him."
Jo's expression was sympathetic, Deliah's frustrated. They didn't leave Kat's side, although she secretly wished they would. She wanted to be alone with Peeta. She wanted to stomp over to him, grab him, and kiss him crazy. Rather, she let herself be sucked into random discussions, from one group to the next, and urged into dances on the lawn. Caesar Flickerman pestered people for honeyed tidbits of scandal and ordered around his son, Percy, who jumped out of his coattails with every snap of his father's fingers. Marvel St. Marvel caught sight of Katniss, his lips peeling back into an amorous leer.
The only consolation was the image of Gale and Madge, engrossed in conversation with her father. Gale spotted Kat and waved, easing some of her tension—at least until a flaxen-haired debutante approached Peeta with big fat hearts in her eyes. He chuckled at something she said, so that to anyone watching, they were flirting. Anxiety skittered through Kat's chest. She doubted that she would last until the fireworks at midnight.
The supper bell chimed. Guests piled their plates and navigated the assigned seating of a dozen tables scattered throughout the garden. Not surprising, the candidates with the most rumors circling around them earned a prime invitation at Flickerman's table. Gale and Madge conversed in low tones, their heads bent toward one another. Deliah ignored the ramblings of Marvel St. Marvel, guzzling her wine in order to spare herself from having to respond to him. And Mr. Haymitch Abernathy lay passed out in his seat.
The atmosphere reeked of rich sauces and overripe flowers. The chairs were made of wrought iron, unyielding and uncomfortable.
"Mellark!" Flickerman's massive teeth shouted at Peeta, startling his guests from their own exchanges. "I have an itch to be meddlesome, Young Mellark. Entertain our curiosity and tell us what you and Odair have been up to since returning from your trip."
"Wreaking local havoc, of course," Finnick joked.
"Elaborate, if you please."
"We don't have enough courses for that."
"Besides, there are ladies present," Marvel St. Marvel added, a hypocritical objection when Kat recalled his desperate advances weeks ago, on the night that Peeta came home.
"Ahh," Flickerman said, extending his pinky. "Now, that's a subject of intrigue. Ladies and bachelors. Indulge me, gentlemen."
"I'll make it easy for you. I'm spoken for," Finnick said.
"Indeed, we've all heard about Miss Cresta and your intentions, et cetera, et cetera. And you, Mellark? Any special attachments yet?"
Beneath her lashes, Katniss chanced a glimpse of Peeta. He focused on chewing and then swallowed before answering. "Not particularly."
"I don't believe it," Flickerman booed. "Look at that face—a handsome, well-born man like you."
"This is impertinent dinner conversation. Love is a personal matter," Madge interjected, casting her eyes at Gale.
Flickerman looked genuinely perplexed. "Miss Undersee, why would I give a hoot about love?"
"Agreed," mocked Finnick. "This is about a completely different matter: the market of convenience. Wedlock based on a prosperous engagement and a rational union. That's the pudding to fatten your futures with." He tapped Peeta on the arm. "Pay attention, oh young, hungry one."
Johanna rolled her eyes. "He doesn't need that kind of advice, brainless."
"Why not?" Peeta asked. "It makes sense to me."
"Actually, I was . . . joking," Finnick drew out, puzzled.
"I'm not. Maybe it's better when the heart is practical. Maybe love is a daydream. It keeps us from seeing what's real and not real."
Katniss's head swung up. The clinking of silverware and crystal ceased as every guest frowned at Peeta. Rascal aside, he was a gentleman, a charmer, and sensitive by nature. Many of the guests might describe love that way, but he never would.
"Maybe you haven't been schooled by the right females," said the debutante beside him, the pretty one he'd been bantering with for most of the evening. Her fingers slid across the white tablecloth, intending settle on his forearm.
A bold gesture. In fact, aside from Deliah, the only other girl here with that kind of public nerve was . . .
Kat's arm whipped across the table's width. Her hand slapped the surface, landing in the open space between the girl's venturing digits and Peeta's arm, the force of it causing everyone's plates to dance and a gentleman to spit out his drink. The girl lurched back, her fingers curled, her jaw unhinged. A servant, who'd been watching the scene, walked blindly into the banquet table and nearly tipped the whole thing over. From her seat, Deliah covered both eyes and shook her head in misery. Even Mr. Abernathy had awoken from his slumber to properly hiccup and witness the drama.
A horrible pause followed. Peeta gaped at Kat, his features hardening into confusion.
Burning with remorse, she retracted her arm and met his gaze. "I didn't mean to—"
"You never do," he said. "You don't mean to do a thousand things, but you do them anyway."
"I haven't changed for the worse. Neither have you, so stop acting like it."
"I'm not the one acting, Katniss. I'm done acting with you, I'm done trying to understand you, and I'm done lying to myself. I'm done hiding what I want, wanting what I can't have, and believing it's worth a try. I'm done hoping."
"Don't say that."
He leaned forward, his voice rising. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to give up? To offer only friendship? Why does it bother you now?"
She felt herself flush. "Because . . . because everyone says . . . you love me."
"And did you ever love me? As more than a friend, even once? One moment? Or was each time too flawed and complicated for you?"
A flock of heads banked between her and Peeta. She grappled for a response, hating to do this here, in front of prying eyes. At her silence, he gulped. "That's what I thought."
"It wasn't meant to happen this way. That's not how I feel. I mean—"
"Naturally. I'm mistaken. You don't know yourself well enough to know what you feel. You kiss a man, then you push him away, and then you keep him from moving on."
"There's a reason."
Peeta surged to his feet. "I don't need a reason. I don't need games. I need you to let me go!"
Katniss stood. "I can't."
"Why?"
"Because yes! I love you, too!"
A collective gasp resounded through the tables. Katniss felt everyone gawking, disregarding the sudden ignition of sound, the peripheral flash of brightness overhead, the sparks flying. Peeta stared at her, and she stared back, and then there was no one else. Just them. Yet she heard it, saw it in the reflections of his eyes. A chaos of stars bursting across the sky. Fireworks.
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