Then again, Death is rather superstitious. I’ve noticed that he prefers things in certain numbers （in threes）， that he never has his back to a door, and that he does certain things on certain days. Guess I’ll have plenty of time to figure that out since I’ll be fucking marrying him tomorrow.
“There’s that face again,” Lovia says. “Is it still your father? Or is it the hair? We can try a different look.”
I don’t give a shit about what my hair looks like for the damn wedding, but Lovia is so invested in it that I don’t want to break her heart. She’s probably the only person in this whole castle who is actually looking forward to this thing. I guess weddings aren’t very common in Tuonela.
“The hair is wonderful,” I tell her adamantly. “Really. But please, let’s not fuss over me. Your father said he wants it to be as quick and painless as possible.”
She rolls her eyes. “Such a romantic, right?”
“He is the king and he knows what he wants,” I tell her firmly. “Besides, this is all for political gain. You know that, don’t you? He doesn’t love me.”
I don’t mean for it to come all out like that, but it does.
Lovia doesn’t seem bothered, though.
“Do you love him?” she asks, and I swear she looks hopeful.
I try not to wince. “Does it matter?”
She sighs, pouting slightly with her pink lips. “I guess not. I’m just happy that he has someone.”
I snort.
“Even if that someone is literally forced into the marriage?”
Her eyes soften sympathetically. “I know how this all seems to you. I don’t pretend to have the answers. I just want you to know that even though he’s Death, my father isn’t as bad as he seems.”
The jury is still out on that. The only time Death seems to redeem himself is in the bedroom, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to go on that alone. I mean, it’s been days since I’ve seen him at all. There’s a chance I’ll never get to sleep with him and then what do I get? Whole bunch of being the Queen of Death for eons to come with no dick.
“What about you?” I ask her as she starts taking my hair down from the updo. “When you go to the Upper World, do you see yourself getting married?”
She laughs and shakes her head, strands of blonde hair coming loose from her braid. “I am not suited for marriage. In this world or the next. There are always shamans and other Gods coming through this land trying to win my hand. It’s the stuff legends are made of—the Bride of Tuonela is supposed to be me. But my father never wanted to give me away like that. He gave me freedom from the start to be who I needed to be, so long as I did my role.”
I mull that over. Daddy Death and his daughter seem to have a pretty pure relationship, and that’s something that wins him major points in my book. But the points don’t add up to much when you consider the negatives. Mainly being the whole God of Death thing, keeping me as a prisoner, and forcing me into marriage.
“You do want to marry him though,” she says, her voice singsong as she lets my hair flow over my shoulders. “You may not love him, but you do want to marry him. That much I can tell.”
I’m about to protest, but then I stop myself. I have to remind myself of the truth, of the real truth. My purpose. My plan. I find it harder and harder to stick to it without having Bell here to remind me each day, but it still remains. When I marry Death, I become a queen. And while I have zero experience being a queen, it will give me power and clout. Over time, I will get used to the role, and Death will get used to seeing me in that role.
And just when it seems like he’s really got me, that’s when I go.
It’s a long con, maybe the longest con ever, which means it has to start now.
So I just give Lovia an awkward smile and shrug. “Well, who doesn’t want to be a queen?” I tell her.
That seems to please her, enough that she lets it go.
However, she doesn’t let the whole wedding thing go.
The next morning, the day of the ceremony, she has Raila doing a full-on body spa treatment on me, from waxing my legs with frosthoney, to the sugar scrubs, to dustings of edible powders from herbs that only grow under falling stars. Then I’m being crammed into a red gown with a black lace veil and my hair is being threaded with crimson poppy petals and black feathers and shining rubies.
I have to admit, I do a double-take when I see myself in the mirror. I may not have a crown on my head yet, but I look like a queen. So much so that I hardly recognize myself. For once my height makes me look statuesque instead of huge, my strange face looks ethereal and wise. I carry myself differently here, wearing the clothes instead of the clothes wearing me.