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“I’ve chosen my conquests. I’ve chosen my rivals. I’ve chosen my arrows. I’ve chosen this uprising.”

“You’re backpedaling, trying to convince yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You know better. We’re not completely at destiny’s mercy. But what about the things you haven’t been able to choose? Or the choices you wish you hadn’t made?” she challenges. “What are your regrets? What are your mistakes? What’s your pain?”

She probes him with questions. Why? How? What? When?

He snaps, sounding foreign to himself, yet he won’t fold in her presence. And part of him hankers to tell Sorrow, because his words make her throat constrict.

She cares about what she’s hearing. She cares to know.

Afterward, Envy’s drained and testy, yet oddly reinvigorated. “It’s my turn.”

He ushers her to a pool that dances at precisely the same hour each day. They watch coiled threads of water spring into the air, the synchronization akin to a living fountain.

And then she’s up again. “Say something you don’t want to say.”

“I haven’t a thing to wear for battle.”

“Something of substance!” she pipes, bursting into laughter.

Laughter. Smiling.

Envy insists he needs time to reply, when really, he needs time to recover from her. Always her.

And then it hits him. It hits him as they return to the cavern, finally in need of rest. Envy gestures to a certain hollow that will appeal to her, closing his eyes and enchanting a few adornments in her honor. After a stunted farewell, he pauses at the entrance to his own sleeping chamber.

Sorrow stands behind Envy, waiting for him to retire first.

Say something you don’t want to say.

With his back turned, he licks his lips and speaks into the quiet. “You intimidate me.”

And then he leaves.

13

Sorrow

She stands, motionless. The candles continue to glow, and the fire continues to paint the cavern in a white blaze, because these aesthetics will keep going as long as their owner wishes. They haven’t been snuffed out since Sorrow and Envy’s arrival.

Has it only been two days? Is tomorrow really the final day?

When was the last time she asked about his ribs? When was the last time he gave her a status report?

On second thought, his wincing has declined, and the bruises on his torso have nearly faded. Visibly, he’s on the brink of recuperation.

Whereas Sorrow is not okay. She’s super not okay.

She has misplaced her presence of mind. Her gaze meanders from one focal point to the next, from the tapers to the looping cloth canopies, from the scattered pillows and cushions to the glistening lagoon outside.

The contents of her brain jumble together, mashing up like porridge. She’s pretty certain her jaw has dropped.

“What did you just say?” she whispers to no one. Specifically, to theno onewho’d been standing there minutes ago.

Yeah, she’s a little late finding the words.