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“Fine, you’ve made your point,” she says. “I, the Goddess of Sorrow, take pleasure in some things. I’m not a zombie. Happy?”

“Only if you are.”

“Since when do you care?”

“It’s been a long journey. Let’s agree that I’m not myself these days. Frankly, neither are you, particularly in that get-up.”

Sorrow mumbles to herself, her cantankerous attitude failing to ruin this eventide. Is it his imagination, or is he developing a fondness for her grumpy moods?

Is there anyone in this realm capable of breaking down that wall? Anyone who would be her exception? Who would always succeed in disarming her?

If he doesn’t speak, this night will end. They’ll revert back to mutual discord.

She’d like to go for a walk. And well, he could do with a bout of movement, so long as he’s vigilant about his injuries.

A stroll would be romantic with a lover. But with this archeress, it’s only practical.

Right. It’s settled.

He dares to pinch her pajama sleeve. “I know a place.”

9

Envy

At his suggestion, another marvel occurs. Sorrow gives a start, her eyes betraying a queer sort of response, those orbs widening with intrigue.

Truthfully, he hadn’t expected that. He’d anticipated a big fat “nope.” Rejection is her forte. Being on the receiving end of a brush-off is not a common occurrence for him, but after their lusty affair, and after this conversation, he’s less certain about its effect.

Hers is a momentary pause of consideration. In the interim, he finds himself doing something to which he’s also unaccustomed. He holds his breath. He holds his breath for someone who has never taken it from him before.

Talk about a night of surprises. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have given this scene a second thought. Tonight, it has a gravity that makes no sense.

But his ribs hurt too much for him to analyze. Plus, he’s got reserves of pride to rely on, in addition to a reservoir of ready expressions to fall back on, should she refuse him.

She doesn’t. But neither does she jump to her feet. Rather, her face slumps as if he’s giving her no choice, as if he’s nagging her. “Sure,” she says. “Whatever.”

“Well, well, well,” he congratulates himself. “Did I just provide you with an enticement? Excellent.”

“Envy, I’m tired. Are we going to this ‘place you know’ or not?”

“Liar. You haven’t been tired since I joined you.”

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“Originality was the plan. But that’s a rhetorical question, is it not?”

He might be losing his grip on reality, but he’s not that colossal of a fool. Having been trained in the art of covetousness, he knows the signs of feigned indifference when he hears, sees, smells, tastes, and feels it. Many humans conceal their egos behind masked dismissal.

It’s no different with her. Or isn’t it?

Only she would get Envy to second guess his aptitude.

Like a sloth—basically, like Sorrow—she slides her leg out of the lagoon, the lazy drag of which tosses enough water onto the stones to drown a baby seal. How she manages to move lethargically yet create a tidal wave is beyond him.

Together, they rise. There’s an awkward pause, then he swings his arm ahead, and they stroll the footpath back to the cavern. Crossing through, he leads her deep into the abyss, bypassing shimming tunnels and passages that illuminate the space.

They resume their talk. They speak about their homes in the Astral Sea, and the places they have lived within the mortal realm, the worst and best of locations. They compare stories about humans they’ve targeted. They talk about the power trip and the guilt of it all.