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In any case, he should return the weapon. It’s hers, after all.

An ugly god is easy to spot.

Rising to his feet, Envy checks the perimeter to make sure nobody’s watching. He twirls the arrow like a baton, then jams it into his quiver and struts away.

***

Sorrow

As the sky darkens from blue to purple, Sorrow stands before his home. She’d trudged here in order to apologize for what happened. Partly, Echo had insisted. Mainly, Sorrow hadn’t been able to stomach the guilt, not after a few hours of reflection, when her temper had subsided.

Tapping on the front door yields no response. In what fantasy would he ever answer the door to her?

Irate, Sorrow raps her fist on the facade, harder than she’d intended because the door swings open. She freezes, her hand arrested midair. For some reason, the scene inside causes palpitations to slam against her breastbone.

The flesh. The moans. The thrusts.

Nostalgia is plastered to a wall, his head flung back and his mouth open in rapture. Envy’s the reason. He stands behind the god, waist-deep inside his guest.

Sorrow stumbles backward. Before she can flee, Envy swings his gaze toward her. His lunging backside ceases for a moment, shock flickering in his eyes before they taper with ridicule.

Resuming his thrusts, he mouths tightly,Get. Out!

Sorrow gets out, though not before tossing him a defiant glare, which promptly buckles the second she wheels around and slams the door, shutting out the heightening sounds of rutting. She storms down the pier, her eyes stinging.

Why is she upset? What’s the matter with her?

On her way, she slips on a rock. When her quiver overturns, she stoops to collect the arrows. That’s when she notices.

Sorrow counts and recounts the stock, but one is still missing.

Panicking, she races across the boardwalk. Barreling into her house, she chucks her longbow and quiver aside. Then she tears through the lamplit dwelling, rifling through cupboards and checking underneath fleece blankets.

Nowhere. The arrow is nowhere to be found.

She’ll have to go one arrow short until she finds it. Either she has misplaced it, or someone is playing a trick, or someone has committed the ultimate insult and stolen from her.

It’s a celestial offense. A measure of disrespect. A slap in the face.

Nope. No way. No one is vindictive enough to take another archer’s weapon.

No one is that selfish.

***

Envy

He should give it back. He really should give it back.

After Nostalgia leaves, Envy paces. Damn her for interrupting.

Damn himself for barking at her. He hadn’t meant it.

Not to mention, he’s scarcely certain why he’s keeping the arrow a secret. It had been a lark at first, to deprive her of something sacred, the way she’d deprived him of his pride in front of everyone.

But the second his fingers had wrapped around the stem of ice, it stopped being about that. Instead, an indistinct and uncompromising sensation had flowed through him. Perhaps he’d wanted a token of her rejection? That makes no sense.

Either way, he’d just wanted the arrow. He’d wanted something of hers.