Page 79

At last, the passage expands. The falls dry up as she reaches a border walled in a crust of foliage. Over the ridge, a panorama greets her from below—the dominion of water homes on stilts, with its network of boardwalks and piers.

Nighttime incites a slow crawl of activity, most of her kin scarcely active. Lanterns from the morning still float in the glossy pool, and water trees sprout from the depths.

Earlier, Sorrow had been faced with three options.

One, pull Envy from sleep and ride him into the ground.

Two, shake Envy from sleep and bribe him to accompany her.

Three, leave him sleeping and deal with his wrath when she gets back.

By now, Mister Narcissus has probably stirred and realized she’s gone. She pictures his face contorted with fury, those full lips swollen from their kiss.

Their first kiss.

Not her first lip-lock in history, but definitely the first toe curling, full-bodied one. The second his tongue snatched hers, her pelvis had turned on its axis.

And her heart…

Sorrow can’t say what her heart had done.

From this vantage point, she scans the vicinity. The water reflects billions of asterisks and a cluster of moons. Fronds brush as she creeps down the slope, to where the shoreline swabs dainty pebbles laced in starlight, the environment wafting with the astral aromas: sharp silver and pure white.

Lowering onto all fours, Sorrow crawls like a crab and submerges herself, paddling with her head just above water. She pumps her arms like a frog, the pool quivering as she travels beneath the walkways, weary of agitating the lanterns.

With shoes laced up her calves, this trip is additionally laborious. All the same, the distance isn’t detrimental, so she manages.

Her pulse rams into her wrists. Her lungs seize up.

But she keeps going. Avoiding the radiant beams, she navigates beneath the planks, passing several footfalls and murmured conversations. Someone plays a flute. Another polishes his or her longbow.

Each sound is the loudest she has ever heard. The tension increases tenfold as she reaches a designated pier. She knows its location well, waxed in moonlight and lonely on its perch. The round edifice has a single story, except rather than candles or draperies, a dusty lamp stands in each window.

Sorrow grasps one of the stilts balancing her house. If her theory is correct, and that group of archers have salvaged Love’s iron archery, they might also have Sorrow’s or Envy’s weapons.

In fact, they might have stashed those weapons as bait. Maybe they’re expecting her friends to come sniffing for estranged archery.

On second thought, when Sorrow and Envy checked his house, they hadn’t found a single set of arms, because that group confiscated everything. So maybe searching for Envy’s glass weapons will amount to zero.

Or maybe that group simply hadn’t thought to hide anything yet, instead of just taking what isn’t theirs. Or maybe Envy hadn’t looked hard enough. Or maybe lots of logistical things.

No matter what, searching is paramount. Sorrow stalls, pressing her ear to the planks and listening. There’s no sound of a guard, or a lookout, or an intruder.

Hooking her fingers over the pier, she hauls herself upward, careful not to slosh about. Casting the community another glance, she scuttles to the door and creeps inside. There, she rises to her feet and pauses in the shadows. She soaks up the details, as if she hasn’t been here in a millennium, as if everything has changed that much.

The lamps. The fleece blankets. The table where she routinely shared currant nectar with her Guide. The bed where Sorrow cried herself to sleep. The floor where she cut herself after torturing Wonder. And out the window, the pier’s edge where she sat beside Envy, their legs bobbing in the water as he asked whether she’d miss him, once they set off for the human realm.

Back when she couldn’t wait to be away from him. Back when she knew her purpose. Back when she believed in it.

A lump forms in Sorrow’s throat. She hustles through the house, checking the cupboards and closet and chests, rummaging for the welcome sight of archery.

Nothing. Not a thing.

The subsequent trip to Love’s home drains her of composure. Crafted of a dozen mullioned windows, the house stands vacant. Sorrow repeats the process of swimming, and crawling, and sneaking inside. Under her friend’s bed, someone has strapped a familiar set of iron arms to the bottom of the mattress.

Sorrow puffs out a breath. Yes!

After collecting the archery, she harnesses it to her back, noting the foreign weight. That infamous goddess seems to carry a heavier burden.