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He knows who they’re calling out for. He knows who went over.

The boat makes a mad dash in the wrong direction, in theverywrong direction. His head leaps between one course and the other. His eyes jump from his friends to the sinking puddle of purple beneath the surface.

It will be okay. She will be okay.

She knows how to swim. She’ll live, and they’ll find her later. She’ll live, she’ll live, she’ll…oh, everlasting Fates!

Envy gives a final wrench on the pole, driving the boat from its trajectory.

Then he releases the shaft. Then he sighs.

Then he hops onto the nearest ledge. Then he dives.

The surface shoots toward him, consuming him whole. A funnel sucks him down, plugging his ears and battering his clothes—his clothes, which are ruined. He shall blame her for this. He shall blame her for forcing him to abandon their friends, not to mention his weaponry, the latter of which will likely go overboard as well.

Yes, he shall do a thorough job blaming that spitfire goddess. Meanwhile, she won’t give a shit.

Fine, he’ll make her give a shit. That will become his life’s purpose.

He pumps, descending into an abyss void of sound or smell. It’s all satin qualities and metallic tastes down here.

Those, plus sight. Glints of cerise and ruby underwater plants. A flash of multicolored scales as a serpent passes him, its diaphanous, corkscrew fins cutting through beams of starlight.

Envy floats in place. His gaze darts, swerving here and there, hunting for unmistakable traces. Those shredded skirts, bloated from the current. Those boots, scuffed and old because she refuses to enchant new ones. The vest, accented with a stitching needle, a tool not for meant sewing but for mending gashes.

If she were as flexible as Wonder, as spry as Love, or as alert as Merry, this wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t be down here, with froth spurting from his nose and his mane a knotted beast that’s come undone.

His shoes stifle his progress. Fumbling, Envy manages to wrench them off—right before a wave drives into him. He cracks from the inside, the impact hammering through his consciousness. Groaning, he clutches his throbbing ribs.

The entire time, he thinks, why, why,why? Why did he jump, when their friends need him more?

Wait. There she is.

There she’s gliding toward him like an eel, swimming his way in a swirl of black. The more distance she closes, the deeper her victorious leer gets.

She’s in one piece. She’s fine.

And he’s a nincompoop for thinking otherwise. Livid and smarting from his wound, Envy growls. Froth spills from his mouth, which doesn’t alleviate that feminine smirk.

But no, it’s not a smirk. It’s a wince.

And she isn’t gliding, she’s paddling. Her arms toil, fighting the current to her last, stubborn breath, and her ice weapons are nowhere to be seen. The rapids must have consumed them.

Abreast of him, Sorrow’s joints give. She droops and goes limp like a drowning star.

Envy catches that drowning star before it sinks. His side shrieks, protesting her weight, but there’s nothing for it. Maneuvering her onto his back and linking her arms over his shoulders, he shoots upward.

Breaking the surface, he wheezes for air, which magnifies his injury. Blinking the water out of his face, he searches for their transport, but it’s gone.

All he sees is a coastline. And the homes of their enemies.

6

Sorrow

There’s something very, very, very peculiar about the way she wakes up. To start, she’s surrounded by water. With her eyelids fused together, she registers a froth of fluid sweeping against her lips, the taste as pure as melted crystals. Liquid swabs her back and calves, producing a gentle lapping sound. Either she’s drooling profusely or engulfed within a deep, dark swell.

Also, she’s not alone.