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Just as the dawn has unfurled into afternoon, so does the afternoon unfurl into dusk. Envy gives her a tour of the adjacent hollows, including a wardrobe recess —similar to his dressing closet at home in the Astral Sea—and a storage alcove that contains an assortment of old clothing drafts. He has additional ones stacked in his house, but sometimes, he has preferred to design fashions here, seclusion being optimal for a fickle muse.

“I’ve always liked making clothes more than enchanting them,” he says with wistful humor. “Even if none of our kind needs it.”

Impressed, Sorrow shuffles through sketches of a midnight gown with chain embellishments, a maroon leather vest, and a tiered black skirt. Envy braces himself as she pauses on that last rendering, then relaxes when she sets it down. “They’re, um, really good. I’m betting our people would appreciate the inspiration, even if tailors are—”

“A mortal fabrication?” Casually, he overturns the skirt drawing, so that it faces down. “More’s the pity.”

When they reach his designated sleeping chamber, Sorrow balks. Considering his personality, she must have anticipated brocade sheets. Rather, he enjoys subverting her expectations.

Monochromatic linens cover a bed propped at the hollow’s heart. Another narrow stream trickles through the makeshift room, vines embroider the walls, and a lantern hangs above the mattress.

Never once has he brought someone here. The experience makes him edgy, and he yearns to fling any misgivings out to the shore.

Before or after he tears those pajamas off her body?

A growl of umbrage crowds in his throat. She’s merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s been in want of a hot romp since their estrangement in the Celestial City, and the dormancy is wearing thin, to the point where he could fuck just about anyone right now.

She’s still wearing those flannels.

He could do her the way he once did. Or he could do nothing of the sort.

Picturing the least attractive images possible—seaweed, a broken mirror, a rayon shirt—Envy’s budding frustration recedes. He breaks from his position in the doorway.

When he does, Sorrow gets out of there quickly. Envy takes a moment to further tame the infamous wild beast—aka, his cock—then follows her.

Back at the threshold overlooking the lagoon, she retreats into the fresh air. Together, they hunker on the ground, their legs hanging over the side. The eddies grow active, the rocks dividing the lagoon into frothing tributaries. Moons swell, and the eventide constellations trickle out, their shapes honoring galaxies and symbols of destiny. An asterisk of mortal kismet, a spiral of immortal fate, the shape of a longbow, and the length of an arrow.

At his behest, Sorrow describes her own home in the Peaks. The assortment of lamps. The collection of fleece blankets.

Lamps. He adds that to the currant nectar, comfort food, and fleece bedding. Plus, her inventory of black fashion. Now that he thinks on it, it’s more Stellar Rockstar than Woeful Witch.

For a spell, they go silent, watching the world do whatever it’s doing out there. He spies the worry spreading across her profile.

“They’ll be okay,” Envy tells her.

Sorrow glances sideways at him. “What about us?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that.

As the second day progresses, she changes back into her skirt and vest. She resumes her task with aplomb, reminding him to think about that embarrassing moment.

Oh, but if she only knew. He’s never stopped thinking about it.

An ugly god is easy to spot.

Pushing it further, she requests that Envy take her to his least favorite place among the cascades. He grimaces but complies. They repeat their trip to the waterfall enclave. With their clothes beaded in mist, he guides her to a cavity with an aperture in the ceiling, through which they view a single, winking star.

Envy’s birth star.

When he originally discovered this, he’d felt despondent. Or perhaps, troubled.

He has rarely revisited this ligament of the past. Nonetheless, the more he talks, the more details pile up, and the harsher the grind becomes, to the degree where he resents her for making him dredge up this memory.

“I think on some level, peering through that chasm established how inflexible my life would be,” he says. “From birth on, it would only go in one direction, with very little divergence or say in the matter.”

He feels the press of her gaze. “Does that make me a selfish god?”

“No.” Sorrow shakes her head. “It means that you understand loss, because that’s what pain is. Loss of someone we care for, loss of something we treasure, loss of a home, loss of community, loss of purpose or will. Loss of freedom. Loss of choice.”