In line with some sort of convoluted idea of feminism, Princess Jocasta got to choose her husband.
From a selected shortlist.
Within twenty-four hours.
The first discards were easy. Too old. Not rich. Not handsome enough.
Then there were three.
One had broken off his betrothal to court her.
That left two.
Each had a picture of his home to show. Walliam’s house was nice, but Aiden’s castle atop its conical hill fed her fantasies.
She said ‘yes’.
They married joyfully.
But she argued with him every day, so he threw her down the mountain into the killing sea.