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The male inspects her glitter stars. “Nice garnish. But my lashes are shinier.”

“Um, maybe you can teach me that trick?”

With a snigger, he stands and leaps across the water. Landing on Sorrow’s pier, the child squats beside her and extends his hand. “My name is Faith.”

A wish god, indeed. Feeling inexplicably bashful, she shakes his hand. “It’s an honor.”

The voices around them fade. The sky begins to drone.

Rising on the deck, Sorrow and Faith search the constellations, and the moons, and the planets.

“Whuuuuut’s that sound?” Faith draws out.

But it’s rhetorical. It’s a well-known sound coming their way. It’s the sound made by a troop of silver creatures flying on wings that vibrate like propellers.

It’s a premonition. It’s a wild card. It’s a war tactic.

Sorrow gulps. “Dragonflies.”

27

Envy

It’s too quiet. Everything about this summit is too quiet, to the point where he hears an arrowhead slicing through the air—someone is twirling his glass weapon like a baton.

Ah, right. That’s him.

The arrow is a vicious pinwheel going rogue, spinning out of control as he flips it across his digits. If he wheels it any faster, it’s going to fly out of his hand and skewer somebody’s eye.

He’s a caged tiger, prowling the length of the parapet, pacing around his friends, who do their utmost to remain calm.

Or they were doing their utmost, until now. Patience exceeded, Love grinds her teeth. Wonder crosses her arms over her buxom chest and lances him with a disgruntled glare. Merry chews on her lower lip, the concern in her pink, sparkler eyes blinding him.

Andrew massages the bridge of his nose. Malice balances on a single bended knee, positioned on the stone tooth of a crenellation, where he aims a hickory arrow at Envy.

Anger simply gets angry. “Stop fucking doing that!”

“No,” Envy snarls, pacing faster, twirling faster.

“For Christ’s sake, mate,” Malice warns, his arrowhead trailing Envy’s movements. “I can make you stop. I like making people stop.”

“That won’t help, dearest,” Wonder disputes to her lover.

“Let him be,” Merry chides. “His heart is wounded by the tragic loss of love.”

Envy whirls on the misfit goddess while pointing his finger. “Take that back.”

“Why, kindred? You admitted your feelings before she left.”

“Well, I’m taking that back, too.”

Anger snatches Envy’s arrow and spins it from his reach. When Envy growls, ready to pounce, Anger braces his free hand against Envy’s torso, breaking his stride. “Enough, Envy,” Anger speaks in a low, vehement voice. “We need you.”

The rage god flicks his gaze sideways, indicating their audience. Envy’s friends and allies, from a rebel band to their rebel allies, who shoot glances toward the scene. From a distant platform, Harmony watches, her flat gaze telling Envy that expelling his energy will do him no favors.

Nor this fight. Nor the people relying on him.

Ever the leader, Anger has reigned in his temper, his words striking true. As much as Envy would like to continue fuming, it’s not fair to unleash on the rest of them. Very well, so his restlessness is a coping mechanism, preventing him from smashing his knuckles into the nearest edifice and ruining his manicure.