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Growling so that bubbles burst from her lips, Sorrow plops through the surface and crawls onto the pier like a crab. Wobbling upright behind the dwelling, her skirt and vest cling to her body in a manner that draws Envy’s leer. She’d discourage that if he weren’t balancing a comatose god in his arms.

“We lost his bow,” Sorrow mutters. “And he’s going to awaken.”

“If he rouses before we’re done, we’ll tie him up. I have experience with that.”

“Or someone will see him.”

“Ah. True.” Envy hustles the archer down the planks while keeping to the shadows, then deposits him on a neighboring pier, propping him upright on the ground and slumping him against a torchlit pole.

To passersby, it will appear as if Nostalgia passed out from an alcohol binge. He’ll know differently, but he won’t go public about it, except to his comrades who are hunting for Sorrow’s band.

Oh, well. Something’s gotta give.

By the time Envy hastens back, he’s clutching his side. Sorrow extends her arm. “Envy, what—”

“Just keep watch,” he growls, then shuffles into the house.

Sorrow paces. She’s never set foot inside, though she had peeked once.

She had peeked and regretted what she’d seen.

But that was ages ago, and he’s taking too long, and they shouldn’t linger. Anxiety wins out as she glowers through the window. The one and only time Sorrow had gotten a swift glimpse indoors, she hadn’t paid attention to the decor. Presently, she anticipates the makings of a brothel.

A bathing chamber large enough to fit a harem. A dressing closet crammed with enough clothes to intimidate an emperor.

Beaded draperies. Tiger print. Lots of red.

To the contrary, she spots neutral hues, and plump sofas, and barrels that hold bolts of fancy cloth, and sewing materials, and a drafting table, and weathered renderings of clothing.

Okay. Not what she expected.

She watches Envy rifle through the spacious interior, then backs up as he returns empty-handed. “He ransacked my boudoir. I swear, if Nostalgia took my favorite cashmere robe, there will be infinity to pay.”

Whatever. The house had looked pristine to her. When she says so, he wags his finger to a hyperbolic degree. With a jab of that digit, he points through the window at a rug that’s been partially flipped over, in addition to a slanted mirror.

“Did he find anything?” she asks.

“Would you classify extra weapons as anything?” he replies.

Motherfucker! Evidently, Envy had kept a surplus of arms here. Bows are sacred, but they aren’t the only means of combat. Deprived of their archery, Sorrow and Envy could have used alternatives. Maybe that’s another reason he’d wanted to come here.

But like the arrow she’d lost in her youth, his extra weapons are exceptions to the conjuring rules. They can’t be replaced through magic.

Rules, rules, rules. So many rules.

The fundamentals of wielding arrows are severely complex. The end result depends on a combination of factors, including whether a striker brandishes an arrow by hand or with a bow, the striker’s intention, the type of arrow used, the intensity of its power, the duration of its magical effects, and of course, the root emotion it serves.

But one thing is clear: When a deity is banished, they lose the ability to wield their root emotion. Their arrows no longer radiate that power. That applies to their band, most of whom have been exiled for their defiance.

On the other hand, Anger and Love are exempt. Due to all the shit that’s happened in recent years, their weapons are now immune to losing their power. Which means that in a war zone, they’ll have to render the arrows infirm, as will the remaining loyals in these lands. Otherwise, they’ll be shooting emotions into their targets, rendering the fight nonexistent and downright absurd.

Sorrow would snigger at the notion, if she thought it were funny.

They slip back into the water. An eternity goes by, in which she’s never moved slower, dreading every splash of liquid, every sweep of her limbs.

At last, they emerge from under the walkway and let the cliffside shadows grab them. Rounding the bend, the lanterns fade, as does society. A slender conduit flows ahead. Out of earshot and well-tucked into the crevice, they swim freely without speaking.

After an hour, Envy’s movements grow increasingly desperate. He’s a ship, a wide berth of muscles and flesh. Sorrow’s more like a pale skiff, but she’s faster at present.