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Look at me.

She won’t do it. That’s not her style. During the one-hundred-fifty-and-a-half times they’d gotten pornographic—yes, one-hundred-fifty-and-a half, due to an unfinished position—not once had she looked at him. The sting of resentment snaps at his skin like a rubber band. He shouldn’t say it. Really, he shouldn’t.

But he does. “Can’t sleep? Sorrow, I’ve told you before. The monster under your bed is just a mirror.”

Her head flips toward him. “Well, you own enough of them to know, so I trust your judgement…What?”

There’s that look. That direct look.

It satisfies him until another reality strikes. Everything about her is utterly sloppy and lacks grooming. Same old, same old. But on closer inspection, she’s not wearing her customary, melodramatic outfit. Rather, she’s wearing something that blows him off his feet.

As his gaze roams across the flannel ensemble, Sorrow’s eyes widen in realization. The garments are of a mortal style, with clouds printed on them. Little clouds the likes of which only one fully-grown, immortal soul would don with a straight face.

“Those are Merry’s pajamas,” he says.

“Yes,” Sorrow grits between her teeth.

“You’ve enchanted Merry’s pajamas.”

“Bravo. Would you like a gold star?”

“Why did you enchant Merry’s pajamas?”

“Several months ago, before we set out to conquer the world, she hosted a sleepover—”

“To which I was not invited?” Envy quips.

“I hate sleepovers,” she gripes. “They’re a juvenile excuse to stuff yourself with gelato, and share secrets, and paint each other’s toenails some shade called Kismet, so everything stinks of acetone, and you have to sleep in the same room, and there are pillow fights.”

“Are we talking about the human or non-human version of sleepovers?”

“The Merry Version. There was music from a record that never seemed to end, plus a fashion show to see who could conceive the most ridiculous sleepwear in history. And all this…this talk…aboutfeelings, and narrating legends over lemonade, and philosophical-existential crap, and ‘fate this’ and ‘free will that,’ and ‘my soul mate’ and ‘your soul mate.’” Sorrow glowers at Envy, those eyes two sharp droplets in her face. “Well, aren’t you going to stop me?”

“And miss an opportunity to hear you complain?”

“All that bonding swoonery.”

“Swoonery?” He sniggers, shuffling into the fresh air while eyeing the spot beside her.

At the last moment, he changes his mind and sidesteps Sorrow. By the opposite end of the lagoon’s footpath, he settles across from her, rolling up his pants and dunking his limbs.

Sorrow’s eyes dart away from his naked chest. “During the sleepover, I couldn’t think of what to put on, and the skateboard queen got ambitious, and she went to her dresser.”

“And you obviously got attached.”

Sorrow juts her chin toward her skirt and vest, sprawled flat on a rock. “My clothes needed drying.”

“You could have customized an outfit that’s suitable to your witching hour.”

“For your information, I didn’t feel like wearing anything combat-worthy. Not if I was going to try and rest.”

Granted the ensemble would surely look cute on Merry, it’s all wrong for Sorrow. “And this is the best you could come up with? Have you ever heard of chic loungewear?”

“I usually sleep naked.”

“At last, something we have in common.” He plucks at his pants. “Rather astute, choosing silk.”

“It wasn’t hard to gauge. Your vanity has a high thread count.”