Page 102

“You. Can’t. Be. Serious,” Anger grates between his incisors, rage climbing up his face.

“It’s not true.” Traumatized, Merry whips her head from side to side. “I-I won’t believe it.”

“Nor I,” Love croaks, choking her weapon.

“Neither will I,” Andrew says, aiming his frost crossbow. “This is bullshit.”

Wonder searches Sorrow’s visage, prodding for clues. “Dearest?”

But astute Malice is already there, beating everyone to it. He slants his gilded head, aiming the razor’s edge of his jaw at her. “What do they have on you?”

Heads bob toward him, then toward Sorrow. Although he’s correct, it’s no more than the hunt for an excuse. Her soul wilts from their conviction, the loyalty that she hasn’t reciprocated.

The look of betrayal on Envy’s face grabs her by the jugular, threatening to shove Sorrow to her knees. His words slice the air in half. “Who cares why she’s doing this?” he spits. “She’s bending over to the enemy like a spineless waif.”

“Who cares?” Merry repeats, incredulous. Disarming, she pats her chest and bawls, “I do! I care, because she’s family. We’re all family.” She pivots toward each of them. “Aren’t we?”

Staggered silence. The archers swap mournful looks, the sorts of expressions that bleed.

Sorrow withholds a sob as Merry flounces toward her. “Sorrow…?”

As she trails off, the unspoken question surfaces: Why is Sorrow doing this?

Because she has to. Because they’re going to lose. And when they lose, the degree of Envy’s suffering—all of their suffering—will depend on her. Because she has no choice. Because the moment she fell in love with this misfit group, and the moment she gave herself to Envy, everything changed.

The reply is simple, yet the words flounder across her tongue. Her stupefied friends shift, torn between disbelief, and hurt, and hostility.

This is what wounds do. They taint and fester.

The Court would have rooted out this location anyway, but it decimates her peers’ advantage and the element of surprise. Plus, Sorrow’s treachery is a ruthless measure, so inconceivable that it demolishes them, stripping them of a bit more faith.

These archers were once her classmates, then her allies, then her friends. As Merry had said, they’ve become Sorrow’s family. She knows their numbers, and their weapons, and their fighting tactics.

And the Court knows hers.

Envy’s glower hardens into contempt.

The ruler offers them a conciliatory glance, her sympathy genuine rather than patronizing. In particular, this catches Wonder’s attention. And that brings to mind something Wonder once shared about her mission with Malice in the Archives, while the pair did bookish spy work. When they’d briefly gotten caught, this reigning goddess had exhibited crumbs of empathy toward Wonder and Malice, even curiosity about their cause.

“Consider this a parlay,” the ruler says. “You’re outnumbered, outraged, out-magicked, and outranked. Stand down, and we’ll show benevolence in the face of treason.”

“Compromise with us, and we’ll stand down,” Love says.

When the female glances at Love, a twinkle of pride shows through. “Goddess of Love. Our infamous revolutionary spark.” She inclines her head. “I’m afraid, only when the stars command it of us shall we compromise. And they haven’t. What does that tell you?”

No one speaks.

Whyhaven’tthe stars intervened?

“Then a battle, it must be,” the goddess concludes.

A fully-grown dragonfly soars from around the corner of gravel and distended slabs. So that’s how this female got here in record time.

The creature’s buzz startles the company. True, dragonflies allow only rulers and Guides to mount them, but the guest of a sovereign must be an exception, because the goddess ushers Sorrow onto the creature’s silver back, then straddles in front. “Oh, and as to your choice of fortification,” the ruler says, somewhat apologetically. “Don’t you think we know the stargazer’s weak points of entry?”

Sorrow’s eyes widen. Such a basic fact that hadn’t occurred to her, nor to her friends. Thusly, the announcement stalls their weapons.

With that, the dragonfly whirls and vaults into the firmament. Sorrow’s belly swoops from the elevation. She grips the female’s middle for balance, the wind lashing at their hair.