Chapter Seven: Terrible Puns

The door heaves open with a sigh that can only be described as a dull morning put into a sound. Before us stands a wizened old man, nearly half my height from stooping, and with only a curling wisp of white hair left upon his head. He blinks curiously towards me— well, towards my thighs to be precise, as that's the direction his low posture leads to. I give a slight cough to catch his attention.

The man's eyes flicker up towards us as if he's only just now remembering that he could, in fact, raise his neck. Delight flows across his face in a toothy smile, and he thuds the curled golden cane he clutches with excitement. As he thumps it on the ground, his body wobbles, and I wish he'd stop before he keels over.

'Oh my, oh my! Is it our guests already? You're early! And alive!'

"Alive" is clearly a flexible term here in the Underworld. If by alive he means post-drowning, then Mercer and I are doing fantastically. We have nearly succumbed to a river that would have led us to our final resting place, found the decimated remains of a ferryman, started a fight with a mysterious stranger and then were nearly eaten by a three-headed dog. If this is what everyday life was like here, I begin to doubt whether I'd survive to see my first-year wedding anniversary.

I throw a quick look at Mercer, wondering whether he's doing his normal crying routine, or cowering at the sight of another human being. But judging from my companion's face, Mercer is outraged at the old man's pleasant surprise.

'Did you think we wouldn't make it?' He demands.

The old man either smiles or grimaces, the floppy wrinkles make it hard to say for sure. 'Of course, dear boy! Sacrifices rarely make it nowadays, so we simply didn't expect to see you get here so soon, if at all!'

I stare at him for so long that the silence causes the old man's joy to drop. A pulse throbs in Mercer's clenched jaw.

'So, the sacrifices aren't needed?' Mercer's voice is low.

Sensing danger, the old man shuffles back, giving a barking laugh. 'Yes, yes, you really are needed! Yes! We've been dying to meet you, actually. Harhar.'

The only noise is Cerberus snorting. My hands ache to throttle the man, even if he is thrice my age. Mercer appears to be an eager accomplice to boot.

'Well, come this way, come this way!' The old man makes a shaky gesture for us to step inside. Cerberus, too large for the door, has to squat in behind us so we fill the entrance hall of a large, dark cavern. Only a few torch brackets provide any light, sending dancing shadows across high domed ceilings.

I shiver. The castle is cold, and depressingly like a church. The silence is not the quiet of an empty house, but the muffled noise of stifled life.

'My name is Jefferson, and I'm the butler here,' the old man, Jefferson, introduces himself. 'I serve tea and Death, and tea to Death.'

He waits for us to laugh. Nobody does. Me on principle, and Mercer because I think death jokes are a little too soon for him.

'Well now, my Lady, shall I take you to your chamber?' Jefferson brushes over the dumb silence. 'We have housed every bride of Death here, but don't worry— there aren't any skeletons in your closet!'

Mercer and I share a doomed look as Jefferson takes off, his stick tapping furiously as he hobbles off into the darkness.

Is it too late to turn back and jump in that river? I wonder.

As we walk, the castle remains dimly lit, with cold stone floors that echo each of our footsteps. There's barely any decoration on the dark walls besides the occasional weapon on display, and then the odd torch bracket so that darkness doesn't swallow us entirely whole. The hallway leads to a grand staircase of black ebony, and we follow each flight, up and up, until we reach a small wooden door.

'I must ask the gentleman to remain here,' Jefferson announces, 'Only the lady is allowed into her chambers. Aside from the Lord, of course...only he can undertake such matters. Harhar.'

Kill. Me. Now.

He pulls out a skeleton key, lacing it through the fancy lock on the door. After a rattle, it creaks open in a foreboding manner. I want to get away from the pun-loving Jefferson, yes, but do I want to walk alone up the dark spiral staircase of narrow stone steps and a claustrophobic aura? I peer into the blackness, trying not to appear hesitant.

'When do I meet my husband?' I try to act meek and shy; behind the old man, Mercer's mouth drops open.

'Soon, soon, my dear! But we must give you some proper clothes, that minimal attire is grave indeed! I shall send a maid up!'

On second thoughts, I'll take the stairs than listen to this fool for another second.

Mercer's smirking at my discomfort at not being able to speak the torrent of filthy curses at Jefferson. Instead, I flatter him by thanking both him and Mercer for escorting me.

'I can't imagine how I would have gotten here if it wasn't for you,' I gush, and Cerberus snorts again.

And thank god, I flounce through the door and slam it in their faces.

My room is beautiful.

I imagined that I would be locked in the tower, not given a four-poster bed of satin blue and chaise armchairs and bookshelves lined with gold. I imagined a cold, wintery room, not this fireplace that has stacks of logs ready to burn. I imagined not seeing the outside world from my windowless cell, but my tower has a small rooftop window that I can look out across the dark land, and see the seven rivers of the Underworld amassing into the waterfall, and the small kingdom on the cliff. For a long time, I explore my room, flickering through pages of books and lying on the soft, quilted bed.

The maid that is sent up a while later catches me as I'm still in awe, and standing dazed in my walk-in wardrobe filled with dresses of expensive material.

'My Lady, my name is Bee— my Lady! Are you alright?'

I'm staring, open-mouthed, at an emerald dress lined with silver ivy.

This could buy food for a month! If we ate lavishly!

The girl rushes to my side, and I blink, caught unawares. 'Can I sell these?'

She frowns, confused. I realise that she has a pretty face; she's blonde, and her hair parts in a heart shape around porcelain features. Her big brown eyes are expressive, as if her thought processes are written there.

'If— if you don't like them, my Lady, my Lord will have them replaced. All of them. To how you desire.'

I forgot...I'm not in my world anymore. I don't have to worry about food or clothing, or who my father owes his debts to...

'No,' I reply slowly, wondering what a lady might say. For now, I have to keep up the pretence that I am a girl concerned first and foremost with her appearance. 'They will do for now. When will I meet my husband?'

I repeat the question I'd asked Jefferson earlier; his answer had been vague, but I need something more precise. I want to be ready to strike.

The girl— Bee— nods, happy to be able to answer something. 'At the party, my Lady!'

'Party?'

'Yes! In a few hours, my Lady! The Kingdom has been invited to your wedding masquerade ball!'

I smile. 'You don't have to be so nervous, Bee. I was only asking. My previous guide was not quite informed, I believe.'

Bee rubs her forehead in frustration. 'Thank you, my Lady. That's Jefferson, my Lady....you have to be patient with him, my Lady. The ball was arranged as soon as we knew of your arrival...we beg your forgiveness that more ceremony was not made, my Lady, but we didn't think you would arrive. We'd given up hope, my lady.'

'Please, just call me Nerissa.' Because you saying my lady is almost as infuriating as Jefferson's puns.

'Thank you, my l— Nerissa!' She squeaks, shutting her eyes tight like I might explode at her insolence.

'No, thank you for telling me,' I smile again. It's starting to hurt like a bitch, but I carry on acting like one of those wafting princesses that they tell kids about. 'Will you help me prepare for the ball? What shall I wear?'

Bee claps her hands excitedly, sending her bobbed hair bouncing around her adorable face. I really want to ask to borrow her clothes; a comfy black jumpsuit and plimsolls. But she begins rifling through the dresses, procuring them and asking my opinions.

I really don't care...

'I trust your judgement, Bee, on finding something my new husband would like.'

Did I prefer blue or pink? Neither. Black to match my soul.

'Whichever you think suits me better, Bee. Thank you.'

How did I want my hair, up or down? Why does that even matter?

'Up, please— it's how my mother had hers on her wedding night...'

My mother is a lesbian. Her wedding night to my father was a ruse, regardless of how she had her hair.

And so on, and so forth. Her last request is that I wear a bracelet around my wrist— to help me "see". When I think she's utterly mad, she explains in a low voice that the citizens of the Underworld weren't corporeal.

'The palace staff know how to take on human form, to help the Brides that come our way,' she says. 'Otherwise we'd be hard to see. Our guests won't do that.'

Shadows...like the ones we saw outside? They are the citizens of the Underworld?

Finally, Bee is satisfied with my appearance, and takes me down the millions of flights of stairs, to where hundreds of voices now filled the walls.

Bee holds my arm as we descend the grand staircase.

At first, no one looks in our direction; the guests are mingling and laughing and making their way into the castle, until, one by one, they spot us. Our steps go from unnoticed to loud, echoing across the hushed silence, and my high heels striking sharp compared to Bee's soft slippers.

'What are they looking at?' I whisper to Bee, and she laughs like I told a great joke.

'They're looking at you, Nerissa.'

Heat rushes to my face and my half-exposed chest, and I try hard not to meet anyone's gaze as we draw closer to the crowd. I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the mirrors upon the wall; a dress of ivory white, like a bride's, clings tightly around my breasts. The material barely covers me; the dress dips to a V to show off the cleavage, whilst the hidden corset beneath the dress accentuates them, pushing them upwards. The dress flares from my waist, plunging from icy white into a full skirt. What draws the eye most, however, is the beautifully embroidered tree of silver branches, swirling up the left side, and reaching across my hips and bosom. The branches are mostly bare, but red blossoms appeared along the branches towards my chest and neck.

To my dismay, people are bowing and I want to run away, back to the hours of dusty rogue-fighting and dog-riding. Speaking of, the crowd makes way for the great black hound as she lumbers through, growling for people to make way. I have never felt to relieved to see not one familiar face but three.

As I reach the foot of the steps, Cerberus bounds towards me. I feel Bee flinch away, and hear the crowd murmur. But I have found my hiding place; I fling my arms around Cerberus and look no further than her fur.

'Help me,' I whisper to her, 'I don't know what to do...can I follow your lead?'

The dog multitasks as one head nods, the other licks my cheek and another looks ahead of her, snapping to clear the way. Behind me, Bee is having some sort of mini panic attack at the sight of Cerberus, but she continues to follow behind us at a distance. Cerberus pads slowly, conscious of my hindered steps in the most uncomfortable shoes ever designed, but thankfully the speed creates a regal image, and the crowd watches us as we pass, bowing.

I peek at the faces around me. They, like my own, are covered by delicate masks completing their beautiful clothes. I'm glad my face is covered; I'm certain they think me some goddess, but reality is harsh and unforgiving. I know I am no pretty face like Bee, but I have never cared; my life has been street fights and hardship. But I will only let these people down, people that expected a lady.

My mask makes up for the visual delight, however; like my dress, it's made of branch-like streaks of silver winding around my eyes, forming a disguise across half of my face, but leaving my reddened lips free to pout.

I touch Cerberus's shoulder for support.

We reach the edge of the crowd where silver double doors have been thrown open to allow entry to a grand hall. The awful Jefferson is stood in the doorway, offering drinks and chatting to the guests. I saw him only a few hours ago, but it still feels too soon, so as he tries to engage me in conversation, I swipe a tall, thin glass of bubbling liquid and move on.

'My Lady, you look drop dead gorgeous!'

I smile to hide the volcano of seething annoyance welling up inside me.

The hall is crowded, and I'm both amazed and sceptical that they had managed to set this all up within a matter of hours. A great throne sits at the end of the hall, currently empty. A dancefloor covers most of the room, filled with couples swirling to an orchestra's waltz. The music is haunting, and I wonder briefly whether the dead have separate composers to the living. As we enter, people glance our way but thank heavens, the dancing nor music does not stop.

The air is stuffy and warm, filled with vibrant celebration. I'm surprised; how were the guests alive? Did they live here? Did they not pass through the river, as humans were clearly meant to?

I stare at a nearby dancing couple. The man is sturdy and dressed in a grey suit, and he spins the lady in his arms with skill. She whirls to the rhythm of the music, her body swinging and contorting in opposition to the man's. Her dress is deep violet, and the pair look more alive than anyone I'd met in Minoa. They're a blur as they dance around one another.

Laden tables of food fill the sides of the room in an extravagant buffet. I edge toward it, with Cerberus eager to join me. Beautiful rows of fruits are at the table nearest to me, and further down I can make out cheeses, meats and canapés.

'Looks like I've found my home for the evening,' I sigh, remembering how whenever I attend any parties, I always lurk by the food as default. Even in death, things don't change.

I don't pick up a plate as I ponder the fruit; my favourites, the strawberries, are the furthest from me, looking red and juicy.

My mouth waters. When did I last eat? When I was alive?

Gods, I deserve to eat the entire table! If I can't comfort eat after my death, when can I?

I grab the nearest fruit, deciding subconsciously to start near and work my way methodically around the buffet, to be sure not to miss anything. My fingers meet small, seedlike maroon fruit, the size of tiny beads. I recall seeing them in the wealthier districts, back on market days.

I pop a couple into my mouth, savouring the bittersweet taste as the juice bursts in my mouth. Pomegranates. That's what they're called.

The red of the juice stains my fingers. Seeing the red liquid makes me think of blood, and suddenly my stomach roils. I don't eat any more pomegranates, but my tongue still tingles from the ones that I had tasted.

The lights in the hall go out.

A breeze has stirred through the building, like a whisper. Murmurs arise around me, and I hear Cerberus's whining. The murmuring gets louder as people grow scared in the darkness, unable to see a metre before them.

I push away my beating heart, feeling the fear of adrenaline telling me to run. As a lady, I cannot run. I must stay calm.

The world around is dark, and all I have to guide me is the noise of talking and shouting. My mouth is dry, afraid. I step with care, wondering whether I will be able to find Cerberus.

Instead of fur, I walk into something infinitely more solid, and warm.

'Ohh— I'm sorry,' I murmur, embarrassed. I can't even see who I've walked into; all I can make out is a tall, dark outline. My hands are out in front of me, clutching at this person's clothes, feeling their chest. I jump as a pair of hands find my own body, gripping my waist and sliding me forwards, until I'm encircled.

If I wasn't playing the damsel in distress, I would have floored this person instantly. Would have, definitely. Instead, I let myself be grabbed and pulled in, until my cheek is resting against a warm body.

D-dum...D-dum...D-dum. D-dum. D-dum, d-dum, d-dum--

I pull my face away, realising that I was leaning into someone's chest!

And at that moment, the lights breathe back on, the fires roaring back in their brackets. And I stare up at the man holding me, and stare, and stare.

He's wearing a mask, so I can't see his face. But what I can see, I like. A crisp midnight blue suit makes his shoulders into sleek, jagged angles, and his torso is strong and muscular. A waistcoat of satin silver shows his slim but firm physique, and his white shirt is open enough to give a sneak peek at his neck. And I get the best preview of everyone, because he's still gripping me by the waist, and rather than pretending to swoon up at him in awe, I literally am lost for words.

I can't see behind his mask of plain silver, covering all his face, but I can make out his dark hair, curling around his neck. And I can feel his intense gaze all the way down to my stomach. I get the feeling he's staring at me as much as I'm staring at him.

I'm about to speak when the nearby people turn and gasp. At first, I wonder if it's because of me, even though they'd ignored me earlier. But then waves of people fall to their knees around us, all looking towards the stranger and me.

Now I can't speak for fear of knowing the answer. But neither can I move, because the man hasn't, and he still has a tight grip on my waist.

Once the room is quiet and kneeling, I hear the unmistakable voice of Jefferson cry, 'All rise for his majesty, Lord of the Underworld!'

Even though I'm in the arms of my new husband, at our wedding party, all I can think is: thank god there were no puns that time.

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A/N: We meet her husband at last! (WELL, kind of. You've seen bits of him, as in, a suit. And he's held Nerissa. How romantic...) What do you think of the scene? It's my first time really trying at romance so, how did it come off?

What do you think of Jefferson? I know he's a pain, but I love-hate dreadful puns and he just can't help but make them. How many can you spot?

And as to Nerissa eating pomegranates...any ideas? :D

Lots of loveeeeee

Larissa