‘You’re not helping.’
‘Well … I did kiss Hades.’
‘What?’ She snaps up, eyes wide.
‘Yeah, don’t get too excited though. He didn’t exactly enjoy it.’ I tell her everything.
‘Okay, first of all, Hades kept his wine store secret from me for years, and thenstillkept secret its magic refilling capabilities? That dick.’ She winces. ‘Though remind me to come back to that when saying the word “wine” doesn’t make me want to vomit. Secondly, his reaction doesn’t mean anything. You can’t just kiss him while you’re both drunk and expect him to declare his love for you.’
‘It does mean something. It means he only likes me as a friend,’ I say firmly. ‘That’s fine. That’s more than fine. I don’t have time to get upset over this.’
‘It’s okay to be upset about unrequited feelings,’ she says.
‘Not when you’re marrying the person involved in said feelings in five days and you need to search the mortals for a wedding planner.’
‘I really don’t like the way you just ignore your emotions because you’re busy.’
I shrug. ‘Yeah, well, I promise I’ll break down properly once I’m married.’
She pulls me into her arms. ‘Point me to the mortals. Maid of honour duties and whatnot – I suppose I should help.’
Together we find some people. A woman from Crete tells me she saw her five daughters all wed and every single one had a wedding that made the town talk for years. She’s organized beyond my wildest expectations and corrals everyone intovarious tasks. There’s a young man from Kos with a fantastic eye for lighting and an older woman with a sense for glamour.
But in the end it’s still not enough.
Hades and I don’t need a wedding. We needthewedding.
This isn’t just a ruse to spite Zeus. Hades was chosen by Kronos. In accepting him, I rejected the proposals of four of the twelve council members. Zeus, king of the gods and ruler of Olympus, and Poseidon, king of the sea, are married. This is the last royal wedding anyone will ever see among the gods.
I came into this knowing we were both dramatic, but it turns out we’re far more dramatic than I thought. Hades barks orders to emboss everything with skulls and Cerberus and other symbols of his realm.
‘What was it you said to me about a dog marking its territory, dear?’ I ask wryly.
‘Would you care to wear a burlap sack?’ he retorts, agitated as he surveys the courtyard where we will be married.
I make up bouquets in some of my best work. From a distance, the asphodel and styx stand prominent in the bunches but up close thousands of tiny blossoms in a rainbow of colours glisten like oil spills among the petals. I make the whole courtyard bloom, coat the walls in ivy, grow trees to provide shade.
Hades makes glass candle holders, elaborate centrepieces and huge marble statues. I hang garlands on the latter.
And in the flurry of running from one task to the next, the first day of the wedding is suddenly upon us.
THE MORNING OF OUR PROAULIA,I sit in front of the mirror staring far beyond my reflection. Scissors hang limply in my hand and I’m more aware of being alone than ever before.
I never wanted to get married – even when I was little and that was the only dream poured into my head. But I knew it would happen. And I thought I would be surrounded by my friends when it did.
I thought that when my proaulia came it would be Cyane handing my mother the scissors. I thought Eudokia and Myrrha would help dress me and that Amalthea would hang beads round my throat.
Styx is great, and I might venture so far as to call some of the mortals my friends too, but they aren’t the people who have known me my whole life. I am alone. And that’s fine. But on a day like today it really isn’t.
I pull my hair free of its braid, sighing to myself to just get it over with.
I watch myself in the mirror, see the waist-length hair thatmade me ‘little girl’. I grate at the mere thought of cutting my hair off and suddenly I’m on my feet, flinging the scissors across the room.
Why is every singlebloodypart of me dictated by what men want? Long hair for virgins, short for married women. Even the style: loose hair says you’re a slut, too tight and you’re frigid. Your dress is too short – you look too easy. Your dress is too long – you’re not easy enough. Not enough make-up and men won’t desire you, and what value do you hold if they don’t? Fully made-up and they’ll desire you too much and whatever happens, whatever they do to you, it’s your fault. Gods, everything – right down to my old name – has been decided by men.
And what’s worse is that no man has ever told me these rules. They’ve thought them, of course, but it’s my mother’s voice I hear. It’s the voice of the nymphs saying that Daphne wanted Apollo’s attention – she flirted too much. It’s me clutching a sickle and nodding mutely in the hope it keeps me safe.
Gods, I could scream because there’s no way out. Literally every decision I make is because of men, one way or another.
