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“If I have vanity soaking into my pores, you’ve got self-deprecation soaking into yours. In terms of wardrobe choices, you could have done better for yourself, as usual.”

“I had other things on my mind than fashion, okay? Get over it.”

Ah, style block. He’s been a victim of that in the past. Nevertheless, he longs to conjure a camera, in order to document the visual. Moreover, it’s impossible not to snigger. “The clouds are pink.”

“You need to go away,” she says.

Envy leans back on his palms. “Need I remind you, this is my refuge.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever. I used to come here often. During my last intermission from the human realm, I spent most of the time in this place. When the period of rest was over, I simply portalled back the mortal world from the cavern.” He nudges his chin toward the bobbing boat. “Hence, I left my vessel behind.”

“Who else knows about your refuge?”

“Other than my Guide? You, hun.”

Sorrow releases a chafed noise, her legs agitating the water. For a while, they content themselves with the sounds of the lagoon brushing the banks.

Envy considers the surplus of things she’d just said and takes a wild guess. “The Goddess of Sorrow is cranky because she’s hungry.”

“I lost my appetite at the river,” she retorts. “But if I’d wanted food, I’d have fed myself.”

True. That said, nourishment requires unwinding instead of sucking all the positive energy from his abode. It involves nurturing oneself instead of depriving oneself.

Envy surveys the razor cuts up her arm, a ladder of marks extending from beneath her rolled-up sleeves. The sight of those blemishes produces a stitch in his side. Either that, or the piercing sensation is due to the cracked ribs.

To the contrary, the pointless bandage across her nose—because she still hasn’t removed it, and the rapids failed to strip it from her—unnerves him. It’s repulsive, and it makes her look like an ailing human. Furthermore, she hasn’t told him the reason for it, much less for the self-inflicted cuts.

He has a feeling that Love knows the story. And Wonder. And Merry.

The notion pinches him with an emotion that he’s all too familiar with.

Envy disregards the bandage, as well as the slices across her flesh. “Suit yourself.”

Channeling the stars, he envisions an alfresco meal. The divinities answer him. A woven mat appears, laden with figs, a board of cheese, a breadbasket of sweet rolls and hearty nut loaves, a plate of game and salmon, a platter of crackers and caviar, and decadent pastries that ooze with preserves.

Sorrow scrutinizes the fare. “You forgot the fourteen karat goblets.”

“Would it shock you to learn that I drink from the bottle?” Envy asks, dropping a fig on his tongue, chewing, and swallowing. “Besides, this set up is low maintenance.”

“Ha. You’re about as low maintenance as cashmere.”

“Cashmere is worth the maintenance.”

Sorrow rises, her limbs splashing from the depths and dripping onto the flat stones. She drenches a path to him with a nonchalant shift of hips. She has a forward bend to her whenever she walks, likes she’s constantly reaching for something, which is ludicrous considering she’s the least covetous being in history.

Envy would pursue that train of thought, if he weren’t busy amusing himself. Here she comes, heading toward his picnic, crossing the divide. It’s like getting an elusive creature to approach after eons of incentives and come-hither calls.

Miraculously, it has only worked now that he’s stopped trying. He can’t shake the victorious feeling this elicits. That is, until the distinct fragrance of salty, sweet, bitter, and sour reminds him that she’s merely answering the call of food.

Still, she’s the first to break from her corner, not him. He considers that a triumph and chuckles inwardly. How quickly one surrenders when one’s stomach grumbles.

The flannels drag across the ground, emitting a gentle scraping noise. The hem and sleeves hang past her ankles and wrists. Merry is just as slender, but she’s taller than Sorrow, who’s dwarfed by the ensemble.

Fates. She’d literally enchanted pajamas in the exact same size.

Sorrow drops next to him, scrunches the pants up to the knees, and plops a single leg back into the water. “What is it with you and clothes?”