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Indeed, the hearth is merely aesthetic. If Envy is one thing—although he’d call himself numerous marvelous things—he’s aesthetic. There’s no harm in surrounding himself with ambience.

Sorrow relents, acknowledging that the brimming flames are a comfort. If this archeress is one thing—and historically, she has often declared herself only a handful of things—she’s an advocate of tranquility. That fact is becoming patently clear.

She admits that she wouldn’t have betted on such a setup from him. Ah, but there’s a lot she doesn’t know about Envy, as there might be secrets he doesn’t know about this female. He reclines against an ottoman, ready to peel those layers from her.

Another source of pleasure for this goddess is lighting. The glowing candles and swaying blaze illuminate her in whites and blues, while she sits cross-legged beside the sizzling logs. The visual is marvelous, his peer in pajamas, loose strips of hair falling around her face, a relaxed expression slackening her features.

The topic of aesthetics leads to a discussion about practicality versus frivolity. Envy and Sorrow compare notes, supplying one another with the objects they deem necessary and unnecessary, ruminating on tokens of bliss and whether they’re as valuable as base needs.

Mostly they disagree about this, their voices rising to the rafters, but the argument isn’t venomous or goading. It’s effortless and congenial. They whisper and laugh, snap and challenge.

For once, Envy isn’t hankering to be right. He’s too busy wondering what she’ll say next.

Three times, he covertly pinches himself. Simultaneously, this day feels new and nostalgic. It lasts a second and a millennium.

By the afternoon, they’ve ventured into rocky terrain, pondering what they think of this campaign on behalf of humanity. What does this battle mean to Envy? What does it mean to Sorrow?

Envy concedes. They’re not like their friends, who each have tangible experiences with mortals. Love fell for a human. Anger fell for an immortal outcast who grew up in the sphere of humans. Wonder fell for a human-turned-god.

But Envy and Sorrow? What compels them?

“Being in love isn’t the only foundation for change,” Sorrow persists, tucking her feet under her. “Some just change on their own.”

“Or because of friendship.” Envy gazes at the flames. “Seeing Love, Anger, and Wonder like that? Seeing their stories unravel? That was enough for me. Wasn’t it for you?”

“But what about fate and free will?”

“I think they’re the same from different angles.”

“Jeez. How poetically evasive.”

“I’ll amend, you hussy. I think they can exist in harmony, but figuring out how to compromise?”

“That’s where it gets tricky,” she agrees. “That’s why our motley crew keeps arguing about the methods.”

Because even if Envy and Sorrow were to accept the legend binding them together, even if it led to some grand inspiration across the board and resulted in a truce, the Fates would still have to conceive a balance between destiny and chance.

And they’d have to do so with the stars’ blessing. Oh, how complications abound.

Envy frowns. “You didn’t answer my question about our band.”

Sorrow glances away. “I’d sprint into a monsoon with them.”

“But?” he prompts. “Come on, tell me something you would never tell them. I sense it coming.”

“But I don’t want to follow them into war. A giant part of me wants to stop them.”

Wow. He’d underestimated her knack for surprises. His tongue seizes as if she’d tightened a rope around it.

Her profile contorts, sucked into memories. Sorrow’s eyes jump across the fire, her pupils glazing over. The seconds morph into minutes, until her throat bobs. “I’ve had enough of war to last a hundred lives.”

She sounds old and exhausted, telling him about the mortal wars that she’s seen. The wastelands where she was stationed, the death tolls that she witnessed. From what Envy knows, those wars kept Sorrow, Anger, and Love busy. Them, in addition to Grief and many others.

Envy loses his sense of time and space. Both narrow to Sorrow’s crumbling face as she drags out each syllable. There were so many bodies, and she’d tried to strike as many as she could, to alleviate them of agony—not the physical pain, since that’s impossible, but the emotional torment. Yet their numbers were so great, she couldn’t get to all of them before they passed.

Sorrow swears that she’d tried. She tried so hard.

“There was a soldier,” she confides. “A boy of maybe seventeen. He was g-gutted on a m-mine field. And h-he w-was crying for his sister.”