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“Anger rescued the weapons after you went overboard,” Merry rhapsodizes as Sorrow accepts the longbow with tremulous expression. “He dove in to find both of you, but you’d vanished, so he braved the rapids and saved the archery instead, preventing them from sinking to a dismal end.”

“I tried to find yours,” Anger says to Envy. “They’d tumbled from the boat, and we couldn’t see them.” He glimpses the set of glass resting in the alcove. “Though it appears you sniffed them out on your own.”

Envy recaps the past seventy-two hours, omitting the personal bits about him and Sorrow. Anger grimaces as if the concept of Envy and Sorrow stuck together is cataclysmic.

Sorrow gives an abbreviated report about their rulers, about being captured, and about the monarchs maiming her. Is it just Envy, or does he detect a note of contrition in her voice?

No, it’s not just him. A mastermind of subtext seems to notice as well. Malice tilts his shrewd head as he surveys the goddess.

Envy’s friends take turns breaking down their excursion. After the rapids, they’d ended up on another side of the cliff and discovered a conduit, which was the only option, since none are as versed with this particular summit as Envy.

Battered and bruised, they rested and then sifted their way out, hoping for an outlet or lookout point where they could search for Envy and Sorrow. Or at least rejoin the path leading to their original destination.

Neither had panned out. They wandered for three days before stumbling upon the waterfall enclave hours ago. From there, they managed to locate the cavern and recognized the signs of Envy’s residency. Basically, the hollow filled with his wardrobe tipped them off.

By then, Envy and Sorrow were gone and dealing with the Fate Court. But the group had backtracked through the enclave, on a hunch that Envy and Sorrow might be nearby. And here they are, at the hub, where the grotto intersects with the tunnel, leading from the palace’s throne garden. It appears the belly of this cliff has a number of arteries beyond what Envy had comprehended.

“We might’ve found you two sooner, if the stormy god to my left hadn’t bitched about taking the east tunnel instead of west,” Malice remarks, then erects his index finger, the nail as sharp as a talon. “I sayeth, we went round and round more times than a fucking prayer circle.”

“Will you please let that go?” Anger snaps.

“Sorry, mate.” Malice levels him with a devil-may-care grin. “Beating that dead horse is what you get for not listening to me, or Wonder, or Andrew, or Love. It’s also what you get for turning down my original ‘Teepee-the-Palace’ idea.”

Ah, yes. Malice had suggested that as a military tactic, prior to entering the Peaks. But because he’s Malice, no one had been able to gauge whether he’d been serious or not. Either way, Anger had shot down the proposal.

As for their outlook, everyone agrees. Though the Court knows of their presence, it doesn’t detour the plan. Sorrow hadn’t given anything away, after all.

Envy had intended to sail his boat with her to Fortune’s Crest. From the enclave, there’s a waterway that will take them there. But the vessel isn’t big enough for all of them, which means they’re traveling on foot.

They clean themselves up, enchant fresh garments, and set forth. Skirting sideways through a slot that spares them from getting drenched by the falls, they emerge into another cavity. After a while, it connects with the original secret groove—naughty Siren, keeping this from him!—and dumps them into the waterfall enclave.

At Envy’s direction, the band hikes along one of the natural bridges. From there, they cross dots of light, glistening baths, and cascades that flow from the recesses that lead to multiple niches.

Merry skateboards whenever the terrain allows her to, but mostly she clasps the vehicle to her chest and whispers with Anger. Love and Andrew play a guessing game to distract themselves. Malice and Wonder theorize on all things legendary.

During an awkward silence, Envy brushes his fingers against Sorrow’s hip, and he attempts to tease the goddess. Yet her spine goes rigid.

To the rest of the group, her attitude is business as usual.

To him, it’s something else entirely.

Fog licks around his limbs as he leads the procession. His friends crane their necks to admire the mystical scenery and scan the water trees, vigilant of an ambush.

Ascending in elevation, they travel higher into the bluffs, leaving the refuge behind. The environment changes, narrowing to a slim peninsula, an estuary snaking along its winding summit. The only way to navigate the crest is via boat or the trail of boulders running down the center. As they hop from one slab to the next, a vista greets them.

Andrew stalls atop one of the rocks and marvels at the panorama of blooming cliffs, sylvan valleys, and metallic shores.

“Welcome to my childhood,” Love tells him.

“Welcome to your history,” Anger whispers affectionately to Merry, who’s rosy-cheeked and riveted by the setting.

“Welcome back to your stomping ground,” Wonder says to Malice, who gives her an artful grin.

Envy glances at Sorrow, only to find the goddess gnawing on her lower lip. For some reason, a bad omen threads in his mind. His thirst for her attention withers to disappointment, then to scrutiny.

Something is wrong.

Stars and moons crowd the sky, pearlescent rays skipping across the water. The journey proves to be longer than he’d predicted, but they near Fortune’s Crest without incident.