of yours is still alive before we start planning a wedding.â
Three
A princess does not approach a strange man and ask if she can have whatâs in his breeches. A princess remembers that not only is it not nice to ask others for things, but also that not every man plays a game wherein he hides sweets in his clothing so his daughter can find them.
âPrincess Christian of Sonderburg-Beckâs Guide for Her Daughterâs Illumination and Betterment
Leo had died and gone to hell. He accepted the fact that the men who had set upon him had been right to leave him for deadâobviously, he died from the wounds inflicted by them. He had a vague memory of dragging himself through the woods to the faint glimmer of light flashing off windows, but clearly that was a delusion, a fevered imagining of a brain that had ceased its primary function.
Dammit, there was a root poking up into his spleen. He shifted irritably. It was just his luck to end up in the hell where roots ensured that the dead did not rest easily.
Then there were the harpies. Shrill female voices argued and squabbled over his head, no doubt trying to decide who would get to rend his flesh and commence the torment of his soul.
Blast it all, the harpies had started at his feet. Cold air swept over his toes as his boots were removed. The voices of the harpies shifted and changed to less cacophonous sounds, although they still argued. That irritated him. He was dead, after all, in hell, with a blasted root the size of a small heifer attempting to bore its way through his tender organs, and yet the harpies continued to squabble and fuss at him.
He opened an eye to glare at them. âCan you give a man no rest? Must you strip me of my boots now? I havenât been dead that long, you know. Isnât there some sort of a period of respite before the torment commences?â
One of the harpies was holding a lantern up to a piece of paper. She looked over at him, and he felt a sense of surprise that she wasnât old and hag-like and the bearer of plentiful warts upon her grisly visage, as any proper harpy ought to be. In fact, her visage wasnât grisly in the least. She had an oval face that reminded him of a Botticelli. If she hadnât been a harpy, he would have thought her pretty.
Whoever heard of a pretty harpy? Death must be playing with his ability to reason.
âYou are deficient in warts,â he told her, closing his eye and waving a hand toward her. âI will have nothing to do with you.â
âWarts!â
âOh, thank the Lord, he is still alive.â
âJulia, did you hear that? He told me I had warts!â
âNo, dear, I think he said you were deficient in warts, although that was indeed a very odd comment to make. Sir, what is your name?â a soft voice said near his ear. He brushed at his ear, squirming a little to try to find comfort on that damned root. âAre you, as I suspect, English?â
âOf course heâs English, Julia,â the other harpy snapped, and to his further annoyance, began to tug at his sleeve. Odd that he couldnât feel his arm. He could feel his toes. He wiggled them. They were cold now that the harpies had stripped them bare to his stockings, and he wanted to inform them of that fact, but he figured they would just laugh and tell him that was what happened to men who died and went to hell. Still, he worried a bit at the lack of feeling in his left arm. âHe sounds very English. What I want to know is if heâs an officer.â
âMadam, I was a major in His Majestyâs army before I died and arrived at this place,â he said stiffly, trying to convey to the harpy through the coldness in his voice just how irritated he was, but she, like all the other heartless beings of hell, paid no mind to his wants or desires and continued to rip the clothing from his poor, naked body.
âArmy? Well, hell!â
âPrincess!â
âI think
Three
A princess does not approach a strange man and ask if she can have whatâs in his breeches. A princess remembers that not only is it not nice to ask others for things, but also that not every man plays a game wherein he hides sweets in his clothing so his daughter can find them.
âPrincess Christian of Sonderburg-Beckâs Guide for Her Daughterâs Illumination and Betterment
Leo had died and gone to hell. He accepted the fact that the men who had set upon him had been right to leave him for deadâobviously, he died from the wounds inflicted by them. He had a vague memory of dragging himself through the woods to the faint glimmer of light flashing off windows, but clearly that was a delusion, a fevered imagining of a brain that had ceased its primary function.
Dammit, there was a root poking up into his spleen. He shifted irritably. It was just his luck to end up in the hell where roots ensured that the dead did not rest easily.
Then there were the harpies. Shrill female voices argued and squabbled over his head, no doubt trying to decide who would get to rend his flesh and commence the torment of his soul.
Blast it all, the harpies had started at his feet. Cold air swept over his toes as his boots were removed. The voices of the harpies shifted and changed to less cacophonous sounds, although they still argued. That irritated him. He was dead, after all, in hell, with a blasted root the size of a small heifer attempting to bore its way through his tender organs, and yet the harpies continued to squabble and fuss at him.
He opened an eye to glare at them. âCan you give a man no rest? Must you strip me of my boots now? I havenât been dead that long, you know. Isnât there some sort of a period of respite before the torment commences?â
One of the harpies was holding a lantern up to a piece of paper. She looked over at him, and he felt a sense of surprise that she wasnât old and hag-like and the bearer of plentiful warts upon her grisly visage, as any proper harpy ought to be. In fact, her visage wasnât grisly in the least. She had an oval face that reminded him of a Botticelli. If she hadnât been a harpy, he would have thought her pretty.
Whoever heard of a pretty harpy? Death must be playing with his ability to reason.
âYou are deficient in warts,â he told her, closing his eye and waving a hand toward her. âI will have nothing to do with you.â
âWarts!â
âOh, thank the Lord, he is still alive.â
âJulia, did you hear that? He told me I had warts!â
âNo, dear, I think he said you were deficient in warts, although that was indeed a very odd comment to make. Sir, what is your name?â a soft voice said near his ear. He brushed at his ear, squirming a little to try to find comfort on that damned root. âAre you, as I suspect, English?â
âOf course heâs English, Julia,â the other harpy snapped, and to his further annoyance, began to tug at his sleeve. Odd that he couldnât feel his arm. He could feel his toes. He wiggled them. They were cold now that the harpies had stripped them bare to his stockings, and he wanted to inform them of that fact, but he figured they would just laugh and tell him that was what happened to men who died and went to hell. Still, he worried a bit at the lack of feeling in his left arm. âHe sounds very English. What I want to know is if heâs an officer.â
âMadam, I was a major in His Majestyâs army before I died and arrived at this place,â he said stiffly, trying to convey to the harpy through the coldness in his voice just how irritated he was, but she, like all the other heartless beings of hell, paid no mind to his wants or desires and continued to rip the clothing from his poor, naked body.
âArmy? Well, hell!â
âPrincess!â
âI think
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