Page 53 of Torn

“Ugh,” she laments, clapping her ears shut and making him snigger. “But there’s also fascination and rawness. The Gods are flawed in those pages. Humans know how to spin a tale, and I get hooked whenever I read about bravery and passion.”

Anger folds a throw blanket. “Define bravery and passion.”

Merry runs a dust cloth over a tabletop. “I’d rather live it.”

From the extreme to the domestic moments, it’s all normal, all acute. There is so much, in so little time, with so many emotions meandering in a single body.

They’re not idle about the Fate Court. Every dawn, they swap theories, but Merry hesitates to overexert her mouth, lest a revelation accidentally slip out. Anger appears to have his own boundaries, for his own unspoken reasons.

Either way, she’s tactical, heeding Wonder’s words of caution. Whenever gallivanting, Merry peers around, checking for spies and tailgaters, and militant Anger hefts his weapons, keeping vigil.

But when they’re apart, when Anger needs alone time, Merry really digs into the conflict. She visits Surprise and Kindness, who keep an urban garden a few miles away. It’s an optimal chance to ask her kindreds if they’ve seen or heard anything regarding the Fate Court.

Upon learning of Anger, it takes a while for the goddesses to recover from their stupor, particularly Surprise, who squashes one of her prize tomatoes, gelatin squirting everywhere. Merry tells them about the carnival incident, which elicits fear, then righteous, and finally umbrage—plus a concerned pat from Kindness.

Nothing. No clues or rumors.

Nonetheless, exiles have grown tired of subsisting. They’ve been meeting in groups, the need for vindication fizzing throughout the city. If they knew of Merry’s plan to undermine the Court, they’d support her, but she’s not going to compromise them.

She makes the rounds in safe territories, advising her peers to keep silent but guarded. Until Merry knows for certain why the Court attacked, she warns whomever she can, just in case the rulers have an unforeseen agenda.

Though Merry doubts it. This must be about the legend, since the Court has never bothered with exiles before. It can’t be a coincidence.

She doesn’t have to manage enemy turfs, since Anger had vowed to do his own reconnaissance there. More than her, he’ll be welcome amongst souls like Cruelty and Shame, who live on Malice’s side of the pond.

Merry weighs the rapport between Anger and that psychotic archer. Or if not a rapport, it’s a truce.

So be it. She can’t afford to resent that, nor to bicker with Anger about one more thing. Keeping enemies close is a wise idea.

***

The bathroom is a rotunda, the walls painted navy with mercury stars, the tiles an enamel white. A creamy overgrowth of suds surrounds Merry in the tub, water drizzling down her steepled legs, bubbles trickling over her skin. Merry can’t feel the heat—there are licks of steam, so it must be hot instead of cold—but she feels the silken caress of the liquid, the slippery, soapy texture.

Tonight, she contemplates her destiny for the thousandth time, how romantic and risky this courtship has been. Such captivation makes her cranium tingle. Succinct and suspenseful reactions clash, amazement and trepidation dashing from her knees to her navel.

She lathers herself, enjoying the foam that builds across her flesh. Sitting upright, she cinches the messy bun atop her head. Foam slides over her breasts, an alleviated noise rolling off her tongue.

Anger has been gone for an hour, so she takes liberties with a generous soak and a performance review. She’s made it no secret. He knows that she’s besotted, and she’s not embarrassed about it.

Goddesses don’t get embarrassed, do they?

Oh, there have been a few mortifying spells. A piece of parsley between her teeth. His confirmation that she snores. Gracious, and that time—

The door creaks open. Merry’s eyes whip toward the gap. Her arms freeze mid hair primp, her breasts dripping and exposed.

Anger strides over the threshold. “Merry, are you—”

She’s unsure in which order it happens. Whether he halts prior to his eyes sinking below her clavicle and landing on her puckered nipples. Whether she shrieks and dunks herself first. Whether his eyes goggle before or after she causes a tidal wave, the tsunami slapping his torso and drenching his shirt. Whether Anger slips because he’s dumbfounded, or whether he slips on the water that has splashed the tiles.

He crashes to the floor while Merry burrows into the tub. She squawks, peeking over the remnant knoll of bubbles. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck!” he croaks, peeling himself off the floor while shielding his eyes. “Sorry, I wasn’t—”

“I’m not finished—”

“Of course, I’ll just—”

“If you give me a moment—”

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