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Envy offers her a sweet roll. “It’s an essential of life, but a beautiful one. Like shelter and food, which expresses who we are to people.”

She accepts the bread, breaking it apart before munching. “And what you’d like them to see.”

“I’m no fake when it comes to my tastes.”

“Deities curate their lives the same as humans.”

“Why shouldn’t we? It’s a delight.”

She scoots closer to the feast. Selecting a silver fork, she spears a wedge of camembert and waves it in the air. “But you’re still directing the world’s impression of you.”

“What about pleasure?” Envy argues. “What if I’m doing it for myself. For the simple pleasure.”

“Ha. Coming from the poster child of envy, I don’t get how your thirsts are remotely quenched in any given situation.”

“How dare you call me one-dimensional,” he exaggerates with feigned umbrage.

“Pleasure is never simple. It comes with consequences and false hopes that happiness is permanent.”

“That’s asorrowful attitude. Aren’t you overcomplicating the delight of, say, biting into a succulent fruit or wrapping yourself in velour? What are the consequences of that?”

“The feeling doesn’t last.”

“The memory does,” he murmurs as their feet graze below the surface.

Sorrow conceals her grimace by snatching a fig and nibbling on it. Envy studies the small grind of her mouth as she chews the morsel, her lips puckering in a manner that gnaws on his groin.

He shifts, reprimanding himself for noticing.

Not only does she keep quiet, but she has trouble swallowing.

Does she know how to relish anything? To savor anything?

Their kind are skilled in the emotions they serve, but they’re not meant to be slaves to them. Yet based on the histories of Love, Anger, and Wonder, that’s not entirely true.

On the flip side, Sorrow is hardly a drama queen. No, she’s withdrawn, a veritable tapestry of irony. She’s caustic and sardonic.

By the same token, Envy can’t recall an incident in which she has cried.

Or laughed out loud. Or expelled any uncensored sound.

Beneath him, she’d moaned. Yet she hadn’t once shouted with mindless abandon or sighed with contentment in the aftermath. It had been primal between them, an aggressive expulsion of energy, and oftentimes over quickly. Each time, the instant after she came around his shaft, hooting mechanically like a steam engine, she’d stare into space. Then she’d scramble into her clothes, uncomfortable with his lingering touches.

Is this why they’ve never kissed?

Envy scarcely calls himself sentimental, but a few minutes of fondling hurts no one. Except perhapsthis one. It must be a defect on her part, because it’s certainly not his fault. He’s an unparalleled lover, to whom she’d come back for more.

Then again, what does he expect from someone who has spent her existence monitoring and managing human suffering? Does she own her hurt? Or does it belong to her mortal targets? How have they known one another for centuries, without knowing one another?

Glowing motes swim in the air, peppering the atmosphere with a firefly sort of light. For some bizarre reason, Envy’s fascinated to discover what Sorrow’s laugh sounds like. Her tears, too.

As well as the basics. Sweet or savory? Favorites? Pastimes?

“You think pain is a consequence of pleasure,” he summarizes.

She shrugs. “The more enjoyment you get from something, the more painful it is to lose it.”

“How would you know? How would you know unless you’ve taken advantage of delight? Instead, you avoid pleasure.”