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Earlier, he’d spied on Sorrow as she counted the arrows in her quiver. He knows why, as they all do. Though Envy might know a bit more about her lost arrow than everyone in this boat.

What would Sorrow say if he told her?

The wind teases her hair, concealing part of her profile. Absently, he leans over to get a better look. When that fails to expose more of her, it produces a disturbing crick in his neck.

“Narcissus loves the water,” she says out of nowhere, her tone as weightless as chiffon, unlike the customarily burlap scrape of her voice.

It’s highly alien to his ears, so much that he blinks like an imbecile. “Who?”

“Ugh. Forget it. You’re such a lightarrow.”

When he fumbles for a witty comeback, she continues to caress the liquid surface. “He was the son of a river god and a nymph. Everyone worshipped his perfect looks and wanted a piece of the pie, but that only made him scorn them.”

“I know who Narcissus is,” he mutters. “And the assessment sounds only half accurate. I lap up admiration with a spoon.”

“Are you saying you’re not the least bit vexed that deities are merely interested in your face? Are you saying that’s the only attention you want?”

His snickers. “I flatter myself on being a connoisseur of envy. As such, I’d say you’re jealous because our people never looked at you with the same ravenous inclinations.”

Her finger pauses, then abandons the water. Scooting on her backside, Sorrow swivels his way, wiping those unkempt tresses from her visage. “No. All I want is for others to look at me and see the truth, not some flamboyant charade. I don’t have to pretend for anyone.”

He shifts uncomfortably, then vacates his lounge against the pole and squats before her, eager to change the subject. “So what makes you such an expert on Andrew’s subtext?”

Her lips quirk, on the cusp of a victorious smile. “Aww, poor wittle gawd. I wasn’t aware that his speech about magic was subtext. Or do you need the gist spelled out for you?”

“Hun, I hardly need you to translate for me. Your mumbling and grumbling, moaning and groaning, cursing and whining, has always been tedious enough to comprehend.”

Quick as flicking a pocketknife, she flips him her middle digit, the fingernail painted the same murky shade as her lips. “Can you comprehend this?”

Envy chuckles meanly. “You lack originality, not to mention makeup that suits your skin tone.”

“Now that you’ve listed your priorities in a soul mate, we can rest easy. Our chemistry, or lack thereof, is evidence that this legend is bogus. I’m condescending, and crude, and gruff. I don’t blush. I don’t pine. And I don’t mourn the loss of your dick, much less the flash of your pearly whites. Make no mistake, I tick none of your boxes, and I’m positive you wouldn’t even know what my own boxes are.”

“Oh, I’ve located a couple of them.”

She rolls her eyes. “I repeat: I don’t blush.”

It’s a three-step process. His gaze slides to her arms, the undersides of which bear ladders of razor cuts. Then he taps the aesthetic dressing across her nose. Lastly, he draws out the next words, sewing every syllable into the space between them. “But you still break, don’t you? You sad, sad little goddess.”

She recovers from the sucker punch. “You’re jealous that I understood Andrew while you didn’t. Because you hate being left out, because you want to be taken seriously even though you’ve got nothing to show for yourself but a glass arrow, a pretty face, and a fancy wardrobe that any of us can conjure. That’s the extent of your breakage. That’s as much as you know about being in pain.”

“You’re one to talk,” he fires back. “You wouldn’t recognize the opposite of pain if it pinched your scrawny, pessimistic ass. If I know nothing about pain, then you know even less about pleasure. Fess up, Goddess of Sorrow. You’re a black cloud and a killjoy.”

For a second, her eyes tremble like thawed ice, and her lips clamp shut. It’s such a candid reaction that Envy forgets to congratulate himself on the retort, which had come out sharper than intended.

And louder. So loud that they could have been overheard in a soundproof room. Loud enough to yank everyone out of their slumber, causing them to gawk in his direction.

Usually, Envy likes being the center of attention. But not at this juncture.

Condemnation, this female has a talent for making the spotlight a cursed experience.

“Have we interrupted a lover’s quarrel?” Merry yawns.

“Seems to me, we interrupted a homicide,” Malice contests.

“You interrupted nothing, because there’s nothing here,” Sorrow vents, gesturing between herself and Envy.

“Precisely, so for the last time, stop getting your hopes up,” Envy sighs at the group. “Look, tropes are fine and dandy. I have nothing against forbidden love—” he indicates Love and Andrew, “or unrequited pining—,” he flicks his wrist toward Anger and Merry, “—or second chance romance,” he gestures to Wonder and Malice. “I don’t mind, especially if I’m reading erotica. But if you’re hoping for a marriage of convenience, you’ve got the wrong god and goddess.”