“Empress,” said Zoah in his sternest voice. “My son and the princess are to wed – immediately!”

He was seated on his magnificent throne looking every inch an emperor. The sun shone in through the palace windows making lovely zebras of light on the marble floors. Flame-coloured birds flew overhead, their cries like cold music. He glared at the waiting courtiers who were lined up like dutiful soldiers, eyes respectfully lowered in the presence of the mighty monarch whose glance could quell a regiment of crazed Punkoids.

“Immediately, is it?” the empress enquired scornfully, raising her tugga tugga glass to her lips. “And when did anything get done immediately around this outfit? And you, yes you, Princess! I hope you can keep my son in line! He needs discipline and must not be spoilt, for he has been spoilt silly by his indulgent father already. Are you with me, girl? You seem to be in a trance. Contemplating your honeymoon night, no doubt. I know all about young brides – I was one myself you know, about a thousand years ago. Now, where was I?”

“Disciplining your son.”

“Quite. You must not take any nonsense; rule with a firm hand. If he wants to go hunting for Siberian tigers, that’s fine, as long as he keeps his hair tidy and he’s back in time for dinner. Get that smirk off your face – I’m telling you this for your own good and the good of our two –”

“Empires?” Juraletta suggested.

“Well, I hardly call a young princess and a gorgon with bad breath an empire, but yes – our two empires. Now, where was I?”

“Join the two empires?”

“Yes, quite so. You must fuse, better to marry than to sizzle like a sausage, as the saying goes –”

“I know,” Juraletta said. “My first hus–” then she realised that the story of the Fissionable Duke’s ferocious combustion was perhaps best not related to her imminent mother-in-law.

Luckily, the empress seemed not to have noticed Juraletta’s words. “But make sure you keep the upper hand. Slyly. Men are just overgrown babies, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, Empress, of course – overgrown babies.”

“Good. Even though you appear to be a brainless flibbertigibbet, you seem to have a few neurons in good working order. And the prince’s table manners – well, he doesn’t have any.”

“Don’t worry – I’ll sort that out.”

“I see… so you’re planning to control him, are you? Just remember – he is my son, and the heir to a vast empire. You must respect him.”

“Even though he is an overgrown baby?”

“Even babies need respect.” The empress gave a smile so razored it could have been slipped between the building blocks of the pyramid of Cheops. And seeing that display of canines at her impudent jest, Juraletta breathed a sigh of relief. For the empress – by her scolding words – had accepted her as a daughter-in-law.

“His green skin and your mauve epidermis should combine to give a rather interesting shade of goldy-beige,” continued the empress gushily, pausing only to swallow a long draft of tugga tugga juice. “I assume you are planning offspring? If you cannot promise to provide a baker’s dozen of mewling urchins, I cannot bless this union. I trust you are familiar with the necessary routine to engender children – disgusting though it may be?”

“Of course, Empress,” said Juraletta. “And we will wed as soon as possible! Just as soon as I put on some more makeup.”

“Nonsense – princesses don’t need makeup.”

“I crave it,” said Juraletta. “I met a Slutoid, you see, and I’ve learned the error of my naïve ways. I am no longer the plain Jane of yore – I’ve been taught to make myself up like Lady Gaggadinia, so my days of being a moisture bundle are numbered!”

Perhaps I have gone too far, thought Juraletta. But then something rather odd happened. The Empress of Skorpeo, who hadn’t been known to laugh for three hundred years, broke into a prolonged snicker. Her risibility easily qualified as a rich adenoidal braying that echoed around the alabaster palace walls like a nannygoat relieving itself from a headache.

“Once a moisture bundle, always a moisture bundle,” she cackled.

“I’m a regular little Slutoid now,” said Juraletta archly. “Have you looked into my eyes? Do you see moisture? Do they look innocent?”

“A bride doesn’t have to be innocent, objectively, but she must certainly convince her husband of her ingenuousness,” the empress declared. “A slut is not what the doctor ordered. You must maintain a patina of innocence even if you have been deflowered, for while a princess can act how she likes behind closed doors, in public she must appear as pure as a spring flower. In short, I want you mascaraless and in a gown of pure white, not looking like a Slutoid.”

“If I am not allowed to drench my eyelashes with mascara, I won’t marry your son even if he is the handsomest stud in the galaxy,” Juraletta pronounced haughtily. “I’m no longer an innocent roaming the Corridors of Peep in my nightie. I am a grown woman now – an adult. I have chest rockets. And if it comes down to it I may chose to stay single.”

Zoah sighed. “Child, what is your heart’s desire?”

“The prince, I suppose. But he and everyone else has to accept my eyes, whatever their adornment.”

“I do accept your eyes, darling,” said Rhameo.

“So the union of our two worlds depends on face paint,” mused Zoah. “And the poor girl is simply suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I have no idea what a Stockholm is, but when it comes down to it perhaps mascara isn’t really the issue,” said the empress.

“Then what is, Mother?” asked Rhameo

“Her bosom.”

“By the gods, Mother. What’s wrong with her bosom?”

“She has two of them.”

“Are you saying I can’t handle four breasts?”

“It’s nothing to do with handling them – my worry is that it’s not very Skorpean, is it?”

“Now we see your true colours, Mother – you were happy for me to marry a giant slug from Volgogtha, but four breasts are beyond the pale? And besides – Juraletta is not Skorpean. She is Qwertian. Qwertian royalty.”

“I think we should proceed with the wedding now,” said Zoah. “Perhaps this young lady having twice the number of breasts we are used to on our world indicates that she is twice as fertile. Perhaps, my dear, that means that we shall have twice as many grandchildren?”

The empress paused, cogs turning almost audibly in her head. “Twice as many grandchildren?” she muttered quietly, then sat sharply upright, and smiled indulgently. “I can perhaps see the political advantages in this joining of our worlds. And what will you call your first born? Names are important, don’t you think? So… defining!” She raised her glass to her lips, then frowned. “Ah – damn! No tugga tugga juice to toast the newlyweds!”

“Ahdamn,” repeated Juraletta. “Quite an interesting name. I like it.”

“Like what? What are you talking about, child?”

“Adam.”