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There’s no technical reason they can’t be together. No laws or customs prevent them. That isn’t the stickler.

The stickler is they’re not like Love and Andrew, or Anger and Merry, or Wonder and Malice. And they never will be.

Her declaration sobers Envy, his features folding like a deck of cards. He nods, thinks about it, and fixes her with a sidelong, scandalous grin. “Friends show each other their playgrounds. Do you want to see the rest of mine?”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—

“Yes,” she says.

Because that’s what a friend would say.

So this crazy, peaceful, tense, wayward night continues. Sorrow averts her gaze while Envy splashes out of the pool and steps into his pants. Once dressed, he extends his hand to her. It’s a gentlemanly thing to do, because Envy prides himself on impeccability. He will sneer, and coo, and purr. He’ll waggle his eyebrows and flick his fingers. And he’ll offer his arm, and open the door, and pull out the chair.

Be that as it may, Sorrow wavers. Frowning, she examines his hand like it’s fake, like the offering is a prank.

Entertained, he crooks his finger, beckoning her. “One, sheepishness doesn’t become you. Two, I don’t have eternity.”

She snorts in spite of herself. “Three, are you sure about that? Because you sound like you’re full of shit.”

“And it sounds like you’re stalling. Has no one ever spoiled you like a goddess? Played the gallant suitor?”

She winces. He notices, his eyes narrowing perceptively.

She wasn’t a virgin before him, but wooing is for “he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not” juveniles with big dreams and even bigger, starrier eyes. So what if she doesn’t have experience being catered to or adored by her lovers? Who needs that? It’s clingy.

“Actually, I’m waiting for you to turn around,” she says. “I appreciate the hand, but I’m not about to give you a show.”

Mercifully, Envy doesn’t comment. But he does sigh—a prolonged, theatrical drawn-out expulsion of air that he inherited from his ego. Dropping his hand, he winds around, easing his hands into his pockets.

She slogs out of the water and hustles into her clothes. While she’s at it, Sorrow adds another thing to her list of pleasures: the visual of Envy’s round, hard ass in loose pants. He may as well be hiding a pair of plums under there. She wants to name a holiday after that ass.

A smug chuckle reverberates from his chest. Sorrow pauses to glower at him. How does he do that? How did he know?

When she announces that she’s ready, he rounds on her once more, glimpsing the Merry-inspired pajamas hanging off Sorrow like an oversized blanket, the hems puddling to the grass and concealing her toes. Combined with her drenched and stringy hair, she really could have conjured something better than this snafu. In short, she has never looked less attractive in her life.

Yet this happens: “I stand corrected,” Envy says with relish. “By some force of magic, you look all sorts of cute in that outfit.”

“If you tell anyone about this,” she warns. “If you tell anyone about this night, or these clothes, or anything else, I will drive a fucking arrow through your skull.”

“Tsk, tsk. That’s a violent threat for someone who wants to be friends and who doesn’t care what others think of her. Just enchant your standard, ghastly attire, if you’re squeamish about pink. There’s no need to torture yourself on no one’s account.”

So true. “Where are we going?”

For the second time, he takes her hand.

For the second time, she lets him.

Because that’s what a friend would do.

11

Sorrow

Friends talk. In this world, as well as the mortal world, friends bicker and reflect. They laugh and cry. They get mad and apologize. They agree and disagree. They ramble and trickle off into comfortable silence.

And that’s okay. Because friends can be quiet around each other, as quiet as they can be loud.

When authentic, friends expose themselves with explicit details and unraveled secrets. They share things, and show each other their lives, and reveal their hopes, and confide their fears. They take care of each other.