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He sniffs at her ensemble. A shredded skirt that has seen better days, a vest dyed in a shade of nightmare-black, and boots with an assortment of metal buckles that she must have stolen from a guillotine.

This goddess is actually considered one of the elite? Are their rulers blind?

Look at her! She’s no more celestial than a witch!

Oval face pulled down like a large teardrop, half-moon eyes that reflect terseness more than tragedy, and a wry twist of her chapped mouth. The creepy goddess has painted her fingernails and lips to match her unkempt hair. It boggles Envy to think of how many ripe grapes were sacrificed in the name of that color. Some poor vineyard keeper is going hungry tonight.

Fates. Does sarcasm come with that surly face?

As if she’s heard the unspoken question, Sorrow swings her gaze toward Envy. Their eyes meet. She pierces him with a stare that pulls no punches, plays no games, and offers zero compliments.

And he loses his train of thought.

***

Sorrow

What is he looking at?

The stupid archer gawks like he’s caught her brewing an indistinguishable potion or speaking a language he doesn’t understand. In fact, it takes him a while to get over himself.

Suddenly, he puffs out his chest like a peacock.

He’s expecting what? For her to blush? To giggle? At him?

Ewwwww. She doesn’t blush or giggle. That’s disgusting.

And he’s a snob. Despite the Court’s introductions, they haven’t said a word to each other, yet already she can tell this much about the prig called Envy, with his silly clothes and shiny hair. He probably brushes that mane as though it’s a pet, and fancies himself a riot, and smooches his reflection.

Unimpressed, Sorrow slits her eyes. It takes effort to give him attention, and he must know as much, because her reaction accomplishes the opposite of what she’d intended. Basically, it resurrects his leer. Lapping up her expression like a sweet, he flashes her a smarmy, toothy grin.

Then he winks at her.

***

Envy

After the indoctrination, their class moseys to the summit of a blooming purple cliff overlooking the sea, where the road leads to their homes. Love invites them to race down the slope, an offer that gets snubbed. Anger twists his mouth in distaste and struts off. Sorrow leaves, tugging Wonder with her.

Because Envy’s too good for that hex of a female, he turns his sights on a disappointed Love. She’s comely and famous, two qualities that tickle him pink. Since no god or goddess their age has failed to simper in his presence, he makes a sly comment to the archeress, then puckers up for a kiss.

Love rewards Envy by tripping him down the hill. As he rolls to a stop at the bluffs’ base, Envy contemplates pouting. Except he has company, having landed at the feet of the last desirable female in the Peaks.

Looming over him like a wraith, Sorrow crosses her arms and juts out her gangly hip. He can practically hear her saying that rejection looks fantastic on him.

She must have just parted ways with Wonder. Or Wonder moseyed off on her own, intent on daydreaming.

Envy gains his feet, acting as if he’d meant to fall. Snorting, Sorrow flips around to leave.

He cocks his head, a smile worming across his face. Well, well. This won’t do. Muteness in his presence just will not do, so who can blame him for what comes out of his mouth?

He says, “So which star shed you like a tear?”

Sorrow whirls and snatches a fistful of his shirt. Jerking him into her, she sneers, “Don’t mess with me, pretty god.”

These are the first words they say to each other. And fine, now they’ve met.

***