Page 43 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

But he only sniffs and turns away. Evidently satisfied.

I sag, desperately relieved. “How else may I serve you?”

Please let me go. Please let me go.

“I require your aid in deciphering this passage.” The prince holds up the book he is reading.

“My . . . aid?” I repeat, bewildered. “I’m sure there is nothing you cannot understand that I would.”

“Excellent use of flattery. It will serve you well.” The prince turns the book around and slides it across his desk toward me. “As it happens, you are a human, and I am not. Thus, your insight on this human text will prove enlightening to me. Read that passage aloud and tell me what it means.”

I take the book and read the title of the passage. “The Clockmaker’s Son? This is a fairytale.”

The prince steeples his fingers. “I am aware. Proceed.”

I hesitate, then clear my throat. “Once upon a time, there was a princess so beautiful that word of her radiance spread to the ends of the earth. Suitors traveled vast distances for a single glimpse of her face, offering wealth and admiration. Yet, she cared not for them or their gifts. The only gift she longed for was the ability to stop time, for her true love was her work—a grand tapestry, larger than any other in the world, portraying the history of her kingdom in intricate detail. Every morning, she rose early to work on her tapestry before she was forced to entertain her suitors. One morning, her clock broke. Unbeknownst to her, the day slipped away, and her suitors wept outside, grieving her absence.”

I pause, looking at the prince to ensure he wants me to continue. When his gaze does not shift from my face, I swallow and keep reading. “The clockmaker’s son, renowned for his intricately fashioned timepieces, came at once to repair her broken clock. ‘Why do you care not for your suitors, who have come far and wide to give you the world?’ the young man asked. ‘They do not give me what I truly wish,’ the princess replied. When the clockmaker’s son asked what it was that she truly wished, she told him. ‘You are a clockmaker’s son,’ the princess implored. ‘You know the secrets of time. Teach me to master it, that I might bend it to my will.’ The clockmaker’s son answered her, ‘Time is not a thing to be mastered, my lady. To kill time is to rob life of its sweetness.’ Undeterred, the princess coaxed him into her service with her beauty and wit, and together they toiled on a wondrous clock. It was gilded and gleaming, each tick sang like a silver bell, each chime like a choir of stars. When at last it was complete, the clockmaker’s son warned her: ‘This clock will steal from you as much as it grants. For each moment you steal, another shall wither and fade. Use it wisely, if at all.’”

I stop reading, glaring at the book.

“Why have you stopped? Keep reading,” says the prince.

“I do not like the rest of the story,” I reply sourly.

He merely lifts one eyebrow.

I huff and keep reading. “But the princess, enamored with her newfound power, ignored his plea. She stopped the hours whenever she worked, skipping past the ones spent with her suitors. All the while, the clockmaker’s son watched, his heart aching with unspoken love. One day, she bade him to stop the clock entirely so she might finally finish the grand tapestry. Reluctantly, he obeyed. When she tied off the last thread, triumphant and satisfied, she turned around, only to find the clockmaker’s son collapsed to the ground—his life drained by the magic he’d given her. The princess wept over his body. For it was only now that she realized that the true treasure she possessed was not her work or the magical clock, but the clockmaker’s son himself.”

I slam the book shut and return it to Prince Rahk’s desk. “Do you see why I don’t like it? It has a horrible ending.”

“I thought it a very fitting end for the selfish princess.”

I restrain my impulse to defend the princess. Was it truly such a great fault for her to care about her work more than she cared about a bunch of men who wanted nothing but her beauty? Who cared nothing for her skill and diligence and passion? To me, it seems like the greater fault lay with the clockmaker’s son—who could have justtold herthat using the clock would kill him. How was she to be blamed when he withheld that crucial information from her?

But twelve-year-old Nat would hardly identify with the princess in the tale, so I keep my mouth shut.

“There is a phrase in this story that I find curious,” Prince Rahk says. “They mentionkilling time. Even with the magical clock, they couldn’t kill time. Time kills you, not the other way around. Within the story itself, it even proves my point that in the end, time is the ultimate power. So why do they claim to have the power to kill time?”

“Oh, that.” I shrug. “It’s a euphemism. To kill time is to waste it. It doesn’t mean they intended to destroy time altogether.”

“Ah, I see.” He takes the book back, flipping it open to where it was before.

I take a half step closer. “Why . . . why are you reading fairytales?”

“Do you require an explanation?”

“N-no, of course not. I was merely curious.”

“If it will sate your curiosity, I read them because I find stories to be at the core of a culture. I wish to understand yours, so I read your stories. Satisfied?”

I nod, backing away toward the door. “Yes, my lord. If there is nothing else—”

“You read very well.”

I halt my progress. I consider my disguise again, wondering if I have revealed myself. But no, twelve-year-olds can read. I cannot think of anything I’ve miscalculated. “Thank you.”

“Do you have much education?” the prince asks.

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