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“You can’t say clothes or fucking.”

“Fine. You can’t say black taffeta or witchcraft. That’s—”

“Getting. Really. Old.”

“I disagree. As to my fancies.” Envy clears his throat. “I like long walks on the beach.”

“For crying out loud.” Sorrow ducks her head sideways. “Nice try.”

Yes, it was. And it worked, because there’s that cusp of a smile.

She conceals the grin, stashing it away like a secret. Envy is stunned that he’s come remotely this close to witnessing it. Stunned and gratified. It’s a silly achievement, even sillier that he considers it an achievement at all.

And yet he wants to try again, and again, and potentially again. And so he does. He prompts her to go first instead, but she wrinkles her nose, that strip dancing across the bridge. He wants to see her skin crinkle there, wants to rip that adhesive from her face, so that she can’t hide a single inch of her countenance.

At this rate, he’ll get nowhere. But who is he, if not a mastermind at persuasion? Physically, he’d made an effort with her once before. Be that as it may, it’s an utterly different experience to make an effort with her mentally, intellectually, personally. He has an itch, which he plans to scratch.

If she has trouble identifying her pleasures, he’ll push her out of that comfort zone. Measuring his words, he persuades Sorrow to consult her memories, the tastes that she’s never forgotten, the ones that she returns to whenever she’s in a certain mood, the ones that ignite or soothe her pallet without fail. And before they know it, a pair of tumblers fill their hands, a rich liquid sloshing from within. The essence of berries wafts into his nostrils.

“Currant nectar?” he balks.

“Currant nectar,” she confirms.

Essentially, juice.Thisis a substance that gives her utmost pleasure? But it’s so common place, so ordinary. Still, any possible reaction escapes him, because Sorrow’s irises do something weird, freakish, and spectacular: They light the hell up.

Those rings of color—the pigment of tears—brightens. It saturates as she tips back the vessel and chugs. Licking those chapped lips, a deep and resonant sound curls from her throat, as if she’s guzzling a flute of champagne.

For a fraction of a second, his mind detours along with his prick. Then he pulls himself together as she explains that it’s a comfort drink. Or comfort food, as humans call it.

Envy knows the term. He just never associated it with her tongue.

That rosy, wet tongue.

To distract himself, he listens as she describes the sweet quality of the drink and the refreshing sharpness of its aftertaste. She truly favors this unremarkable brew over delicacies. Belatedly, he realizes why. It’s a refreshment that cleanses, whereas he has never indulged in it, due to its unappetizing simplicity.

“But that’s what I like about it,” Sorrow confides. “It’s like a fleece blanket.” When Envy’s confusion tweaks across his face, she motions to his tumbler. “For Fates sake, just try it.”

When he does, the effect is striking. The nectar is a luscious balance between sweet and earthy. He takes another swig, then another, thoroughly draining the tumbler.

“That wasn’t vile,” he concedes.

She gives him a nod of approval. “How’s that for pleasure?”

Envy sets down the empty drink and leans forward, balancing his forearms on his thighs. “What else?”

They experiment. Sorrow enchants a barrage of mortal comfort food, such as stews, pies, and casseroles, followed by nut butters, meat dishes, and vegetables. He joins her as she samples everything mindfully. In between fragments of quiet feasting, they rate the pleasure-factors of each option.

Sorrow has decided that her signatures are peanut butter, meatballs, and mashed potatoes. Her pride about it is…cute.

In spite of her list, she declares the currant nectar her favorite.

Fleece blankets. Berried juice. Now they’re getting somewhere.

Envy studies her tranquil profile. He can’t decide if it makes him uncomfortable or if this feeling is akin to her precious drink. Something he just might be able to take solace in.

Sorrow catches him studying her. When he doesn’t look away, she averts her gaze and rubs her bicep as if there’s a chill. “What I wouldn’t give for a walk right now.”

“Would thatpleaseyou?” he teases, to which she gives him a snide look.