MIDNIGHT MEMORIES chapter 1-3

CHAPTER 1

Jimin won’t stop staring.

I’m not sure if he’s been glaring like this at every person Prince Yoongi whisks across the ballroom or if he’s reserved his pinched nose and dagger eyes just for me.

Because he recognizes me.

Because he knows.

Either way, I’m fairly sure he’s silently plotting ways to spill wine on my gown or send me tumbling down the front steps, tripping over my own two feet—anything that will look like an accident, while leaving me utterly humiliated.

Or worse.

Please don’t let it be something worse.

“That was around the same time I won my trophy for the tiger Hunt,” Prince Yoongi is saying.

He flashes me a smile, and his gummy teeth seem to sparkle as brightly as the chandelier overhead. “As you can imagine, Maeyung—Taeyang—”

“It’s Taehyung, Your Highness,” I correctly resist rolling my eyes as he flounders for my name.

Again.

My cheeks grow warm, even though I’m more embarrassed for him than for myself.

This is, after all, the longest sentence I’ve managed to squeeze in throughout our conversation so far.

“Right Taeyong ” the prince repeats.

I expect him to apologize for his poor manners in forgetting my name, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he simply keeps talking.

“As you can imagine, Minyong—”

Still wrong.

I don’t bother correcting him this time, though.

A lack of consideration on his behalf doesn’t permit one on mine.

That’s what Maeri, my stepmother’s cook, would tell me if she was here right now, and she’d be right.

“My trophy case was overflowing at that point,” His Highness goes on. “Loving cups. Ribbons. Plaques. Three hundred eighty-six of them, if you can believe it—I counted them myself. Afterward, I had to ask the servants to empty out a whole floor of the Imperial Library to make room for them all.”

I cringe, imagining all the books that must have gone to waste in favor of a shrine to the prince’s greatness.

Tales of enchantment.

Heart- wrenching romances.

Woah

Exotic paradises.

Thousands—if not millions—of pages of drama and intrigue undoubtedly relegated to the castle’s musty basement, doomed to be forgotten.

I’d trade this moment for the chance to be back in my chair by the fireplace reading any one of them.

“It took them days to complete, and it made such a racket, I feared poor Mother would perish of migraine,” Prince Yoongi tells me. “Happily, the display is complete now, and it is—if I dare say so myself—rather impressive. I would be quite pleased to show you, if you like ?”

“Oh ” As I struggle for a polite excuse to avoid a more detailed tour

of the prince’s accomplishments, I notice Hoseok approach Jimin on the edge of the dance floor.

His thin form wobbles slightly; he’s had a bit too much champagne, perhaps.

And he’s still chewing on a canapé when he stands on tiptoe to whisper something in Jimin’s ear.

Jimin’s head bobs in agreement, and his eyes narrow further. Then, Hoseok joins him in glaring murderously in my direction.

So much for the bonds of brotherhood.

As we waltz closer to Jimin and Hoseok, I try to hear what they’re saying—if they’re talking about me, conspiring to reveal who I am: the shunned, illegitimate half-brother.

A daily reminder of our late father’s indiscretions.

The boy, the step-mother relegated to life in the drafty attic before his bones were even laid to rest in the family mausoleum.

Their servant, more or less.

“I’ve never seen the boy waltzing with the prince before in my life, have you?” Jimin asks.

“No,” Hoseok agrees. “We simply must find out who he is.”

“I bet he’s the niece of that baron from Daegu. They never should’ve admitted an outsider to the ball, no matter how pretty he is.”

I nearly trip over the hem of my gown in surprise at their chattering.

My brothers don’t recognize me.

Nearly all of my eighteen years spent living in the same home, and the minute my face is clean of ash and my work dress swapped for satin and gloves, they can’t tell who I am.

They’ve never looked closely enough at me, I suppose.

Perhaps I should feel slighted.

Tonight, though, I’m too grateful for the anonymity to mind.

“Shall I take your stunned silence as an agreement, then?” Prince Yoongi presses.

I feel his hand on my waist, guiding me away from Jimin and Hoseok again, moving me closer to the balcony.

Agreement? Oh yes.

Agreement to tour his award museum.

“Well ” I begin.

Before I can reply, I’m saved by the orchestra.

The music swells, the waltz drawing toward its end.

Prince Yoongi extends his hand and gives me a twirl in time to the crescendo.

For a moment, the room swirls around me—mounds of taffeta in every shade on the Royal Artiste's painting palette, a marble floor smooth enough to skate on, and long, lace-covered tables overflowing with a fountain of champagne flutes, trays of delicate pastries, and elaborate floral displays.

King Yongdae and Queen Minji have certainly wasted no expense in their effort to find their only son a partner.

Then, it’s over.

Prince Yoongi draws me back toward him.

I spin to an abrupt halt against his chest, breathless and slightly lightheaded.

I look up into his face, and I realize something: not even being incredibly rich and almost impossibly handsome can make up for all his dull conversation and lack of attentiveness.

“That was—”

Before I can finish my whispered sentence, the prince does it for me.

“Enthralling? Exhilarating?” he offers, his chin jutting out smugly.

Not exactly words I would have chosen—and certainly not ones I’d use now, hearing him say them, seeing the gleam in his eye as he relishes the effect, he assumes he’s had on me.

I simply smile and nod my head vaguely, neither confirming nor denying my feelings about our dance.

“Shall we proceed to tour the Imperial Library now?” he asks, offering me his arm again.

I feel a glitch like the world came to an abrupt halt.

My eyes widened. I turn fluidly towards Prince Yoongi, “Did you feel that?”

“The love in the air. Of course, beautiful!” Prince Yoongi adds.

Rather than replying, I just hum.

My stomach bubbles anxiously as if I’ve had too much champagne, just like Hoseok.

Glancing around, I search for an escape—and then I catch my reflection in the wall of French doors leading out to the balcony.

My cheeks are too flushed for their color to be simply the rouge that Maeri brushed across my face earlier.

Some of the blonde streaks she painstakingly sculpted in my dark hair are losing their bounce, too.

“Would you mind terribly if I rested a moment first?” I ask the prince. “I feel warm and could do with some fresh air.”

Yoongi’s eyes flit toward the corridor in the distance—the route, I’m sure, that leads to the Imperial Library and his precious trophies.

There’s a reluctant longing in his expression, as if he’s a little boy who’s been promised an ice cream in exchange for good behavior.

“All right, if you must,” he says with a sigh.

Apparently, this is what a grown-up, royal temper tantrum looks like.

Despite having offended him, I curtsy in farewell, but before I can turn toward the door, he offers his arm to me again.

“Let us be quick, though, my Prince,” he adds. “My Tiger hunt trophy looks especially magnificent in the moonlight that peeks through the library windows around this time of evening.”

He expects to accompany me.

Just my luck—he picks now to remember his manners.

So much for my getaway.

Forcing a smile, I allow myself to be led to the French doors.

“Your Highness, allow me to get that for you,” greets an awkwardly staring servant, giving a small bow and reaching for the handle to let us outside.

“Jimhook,” the prince replies, acknowledging the gesture with a tight nod of his head.

“It’s Jungkook, actually, sir,” the young man corrects quietly as we pass.

Apparently, I’m not the only one to be slighted by Prince Yoongi this evening. I grin sympathetically at Jungkook, but he doesn’t seem annoyed or disappointed.

He simply shrugs his shoulders behind the prince’s back and winks at me.

There’s a brightness in his eyes, and a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth showcasing his rabbit like teeths in full display—he’s someone who laughs a lot; I can tell.

And despite the frosty winter’s breeze that wraps itself around the castle the instant Prince Yoongi and I step outside onto the balcony, I feel warm all over again, like I just peered into the face of springtime.

“I won a game of chess against the Duke of Busan sitting right over there, you know,” Prince Yoongi tells me as we make our way across the balcony.

He points toward a spot to our left, where a pair of older gentlemen stand together, laughing heartily and smoking pipes.

“It was a challenging match—we played well into the early hours of the morning, even. The duke is the finest chess master in the kingdom—or he was, anyway.”

I have never met a prince before tonight, so I’m unsure if all this bragging is typical of the station they carry.

Perhaps these feats would be more impressive if they were more meaningful than awards for hunting, sports, or games—if they were for fighting bravely in battle or for helping the poor.

Regardless, I can tell by the way Prince Yoongi’s chest swells with pride beneath his tuxedo that I’m meant to be thoroughly astounded.

“Well done, Your Highness,” I tell him, hoping I sound more impressed than I feel.

As I step toward the railing, something far more overwhelming catches my attention.

The glow of the moon reflects against the freshly fallen snow, giving everything—tree branches, the lake, and the jagged mountain range beyond it—the appearance of having been dipped in diamonds.

I gasp, staring out at the scene, feeling the magic within it.

I’ll have to tell Maeri about the view later; it’s like the setting from one of her mysterious tales about the Folk of the Woods.

“The highlands look lovely from here,” I murmur.

“Do they?” The prince’s brow wrinkles with confusion, like he can’t understand why I’m marveling at the landscape when I have him beside me.

He follows my gaze out to the horizon, as if trying to see the same thing I do, but he seems not quite sure where to look.

I nod.

“To be able to stand here each day and take in their beauty must be one of your greatest treasures, Your Highness.”

As though to prove my point, a pair of foxes with fur as white as ivory wander out from the forest and into the clearing by the lake.

I giggle as they playfully roll in the powder and nip at each other’s tails, nearly blending in with the snowdrifts themselves, before slipping out of sight once again.

“If I were to live in this castle, it would take a dozen stallions to drag me from this balcony,” I add dreamily as visions of faeries flitting between these trees and gnomes guarding the foothills fill my head. “You can’t really see the range where I live ”

Hurriedly, I clear my throat.

It’s best not to speak of home, with my sad attic and perpetually cold feet.

Maeri made it clear when she handed me this gown from the chest under her bed that I am to be happy tonight—that I am to enjoy myself, to forget about chores or past wrongs or missing Appa.

She’s always been so good to me; I owe her my promise to do as she asked.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. You haven’t met my champion stallions,” Prince Yoongi says, the wrinkle disappearing from his forehead as he chuckles.

Now his stallions are champions, too—another feat meant to dazzle me, I’m sure.

Unlike his trophy museum, though, I would actually like to see his horses.

I’m about to open my mouth to say so when a speckle of white drifts down in front of my vision.

Then another.

And another.

It’s snowing.

I shiver.

I’ve been so overcome by the view that I’ve barely noticed how cold my arms have gotten.

The sheer fabric of my gown is completely inadequate to protect me against winter’s breath for long.

“It’s grown quite cold, hasn’t it?” I say to the prince.

I can’t help myself: his tuxedo jacket is looking terribly warm and comforting to me right now.

Part of me wishes he’d offer to drape it over my shoulders so we can stay outside just a few minutes more.

“Yes, well, it’s around Christmas.” He smooths the sleeves of his jacket over his arms and pulls the cuffs down a bit to keep himself snug.

So much for offering it to me.

As he glances down at his sleeves, a flicker of gold at his wrist catches his attention.

“It is getting late,” he tells me, checking the time on his watch. “If you’d still like to see the Imperial Library, we had best go now.”

Something inside turns me cold—a deeper, darker chill than even the weather.

I stand up straight, afraid.

For the first time since Prince Yoongi asked me to dance, he has my full and undivided attention.

“Late?” I choke. “What time is it?”

Yoongi gapes at me as if I’ve just performed acrobatics—amused and, perhaps, slightly bewildered. “It’s nearly midnight. Why?”

Midnight.

Maeri had warned me about midnight.

She said to get home by now.

Yeji, my stepmother, won’t want to stay out much later, and I’ll need time to wash away my makeup and hide this gown before she and my brothers return.

Well, at least my brothers are not as bad as my step-mother.

Because if she catches me defying her explicit order to stay home, there will be no firewood for me for a week.

“I have to go,” I tell the prince—at least, I think I tell him; my heartbeat is echoing so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear myself speak the words.

There’s no time to wait for him to respond.

I feel his hand on my arm, reaching out to stop me, but I’m already moving, and I slip from his grasp.

“Minjong, come back—”

Clutching at the skirt of my gown, I lift the decadent fabric above my ankles so I can move better, run faster.

I clatter across the balcony, my ankles wobbling.

Glass stilettos, despite their unmistakable glamour, suddenly seem like a most unfortunate choice in footwear.

“Prince? Prince, wait!”

Inside, I hear Jungkook’s voice behind me, calling out as I sweep by him, but I don’t bother to stop.

I can’t.

The grandfather clock hovering in the corner has already begun to strike the hour.

“Mister, are you well?”

The ballroom is a blur.

Couples twirling.

Servers carrying shiny trays of blinis and caviar.

Aging women trading gossip behind the gentle beating of their fans.

And wallflowers looking shy and sullen—any other midnight, I’d be among them.

Jungkook’s voice fades as I leave him behind, his words drowned out by the chorus of stunned murmurs that follow when I scurry toward the exit, nearly knocking into the champagne fountain along the way.

All I know is that I have to get home.

“Oof!”

I push against the heavy iron door that separates the foyer and adjacent ballroom from the night beyond.

Then I’m free—back outside with the stars and snow.

The stone steps that lead away from the castle are slippery, and I reach for the railing.

That’s when I notice it: my gown.

Gone are the layers of delicate, baby-blue fabric.

Disappeared are the tiny beads sewn into the bodice.

Vanished is the sash around my waist.

It’s changed, become different and drab—some dingy garment I barely recognize, with patches and tears.

Little more than a rag.

“No!” I gasp, tears filling my eyes.

And I slide, my glass slippers proving no match for the icy steps.

Their sparkle in the moonlight as I tumble head over feet is the last thing I see before pain shrouds my skull and my vision goes black.

!~~~!!!~~~!!!~~~!

CHAPTER 2

A dull ache wraps around the back of my head.

I feel like I’m moving—spinning—as if the world won’t stop turning all around me.

And then there’s the noise.

Music.

An orchestra.

A waltz.

The same waltz I danced to with Prince Yoongi, oddly.

I open my eyes, expecting to find myself stretched out on the too—narrow bed in the attic at home with one of my threadbare quilts draped over me and Maeri pressing a cloth to my temple, cleansing a wound.

But I’m not.

The headache dissolves almost immediately as I glance around.

The room feels as though it’s moving because I am, in fact, spinning—twirling across a dance floor with the train of my gown whirling behind me.

The orchestra plays from the far corner of the room

—the one diagonal from the champagne fountain—and I watch as Hoseok’s form bobbles around the edges of the room in search of Jimin.

I blink, trying to shake away the scene in front of me—to dismiss it like any other hazy daydream—but I can’t.

It stays the same.

And that makes me panic.

I try to breathe, but I seem to have forgotten how.

Instead, I feel as if I’m suffocating.

I take my hand off my dance partner’s shoulder and try to loosen the ribbon on the choker Maeri tied around my neck, but it doesn’t help.

“Are you all right, Taehyung?”

That voice.

It’s different.

It’s not Prince Yoongi.

This voice is deeper, more velveteen, and the man speaking has a slight accent—the husky brogue that comes from living in some faraway land, maybe Gyeongsang, I think.

My head snaps up, startled, and I stare into the face of my dance partner for the first time.

“Yes, Yes, I’m fine,” I tell him, panting.

I’m not so sure I am, though.

The man in front of me, holding me near and gliding me over the marble floor, has a nut—brown hair that looks as though it took far too much time to make seem like it took no time at all.

The corner of his mouth rises, and a dimple forms in his cheek above it.

“I’m quite glad to hear that, pretty,” he replies, then winks. “You looked as though you were going to faint a moment ago.”

I might yet, I want to tell him.

Still, I manage a weak grin as I place my hand back on his shoulder and we sweep past the grandfather clock.

That’s right—that’s the answer.

The grandfather clock won’t lie.

It will tell me the truth—that it’s earlier or later than it was when I danced with the prince.

But it does neither.

Craning my neck as we waltz away again, I catch a glimpse of the clock’s hands.

It’s 11:30, around the same time it was when I danced with Prince Yoongi before.

And when I glance toward the French doors by the balcony, I spot a shimmer of moonlight, then the inky shadows of the snowcapped mountains hovering in the distance all over again.

There’s even a tuft of silvery smoke rising above the trio of gray-haired men in tuxedos.

Everything is identical to the way it was before.

It’s as if time has turned backward, repeating itself.

Blessed bones, I think, stunned.

What is happening?

Unease creeps across my skin the way frost might steal across a window in winter, leaving an icy trail behind.

Maybe there’s a simpler explanation: maybe I’ve lost my mind—maybe my fall down the castle steps were worse than I thought.

“I pride myself on being not only a gentleman, but also an honest man, dear Taehyung,” my partner says, leaning closer so his lips graze against my ear.

A warm spark bursts across my skin at the touch.

This is a new sensation and one I think I rather like.

“So, you can be assured that I mean no offense when I tell you that you are looking rather peaked again.”

Somehow, I manage to gulp down a breath of air.

Gradually, I realize that I’m shaking; I’m not sure if it’s more because I might be going mad or if it’s due to the way he stares at me—as if I might be a jewel slipped out from King Yongdae’s crown.

I clutch at the fabric on his tuxedo jacket so I don’t have to see the way my fingers twitch on his shoulder.

He’s right.

I shouldn’t be dancing—not feeling like this.

“C-could we sit down, perhaps ?” I suggest.

My voice trails off as I realize I don’t know his name.

He knows mine—a vast improvement over my dance with Prince Yoongi—but I can’t place his.

“Namjoon,” he says slowly, as if reminding me of something he’s told me before; in whatever version of this night, we’re dancing right now, he probably has.

“Namjoon?” I repeat, testing the syllables out as I try to remember ever having heard his name before.

I don’t.

He chuckles then, the dimple returning and his dark eyes glinting. “It’s a good thing that I am not easily offended. In fact, I feel quite certain that a young man as beautiful as yourself could throw a glass of water on my face and I’d consider it a compliment.”

Despite how strange and unsettling this evening is turning out to be, I can’t help but grin.

And blush.

My heart flutters like the wings of the doves released across the kingdom in honor of Queen Minji’s birthday last year.

Namjoon may not be a prince, but he’s far more charming than Yoongi could ever hope to be.

At least in quirks, he I better than the grumpy forgetful Prince.

His wit helps distract me from the peculiar circumstances surrounding our dance.

“Now, let’s find you a chaise, shall we?” Namjoon adds, giving me a final twirl before sweeping me toward the edge of the room.

Tucked in the corner, not far from the doors to the balcony and the servants standing by, waiting to be called upon by a guest, a tufted bench sits empty.

Big enough for two, but more comfortable for one.

“Ah, there we are,” Namjoon says, guiding me toward it.

He waves his free hand with mock fanfare, ushering me to be seated.

“It may not be the throne you deserve, but I suspect I’ll find the looks of it vastly improved with you perched upon it.”

There it is again: those doves in my ribcage, threatening to burst through my corset.

And then, as I seat myself, he kisses my hand—right there, by my knuckles.

Part of me wishes I wasn’t wearing gloves so I could feel his lips against my skin once more.

“Is that better now, beautiful Taehyung?” he asks softly, sliding onto the bench beside me.

His hand, I notice, doesn’t leave mine.

I nod. “Very much so. Thank you.”

Namjoon smiles, and I feel as if I’m breathing in the scent of the season’s first wildflowers.

“I suspected that would help,” he tells me. “My young brother is prone to fainting. I learned how to detect the signs from a young age.”

I sit up straighter. “You have a brother?”

“I have,” he says with a nod. “Two of them. In fact, both are here tonight, hoping to catch a certain prince’s eye.”

He scans the room quickly, then points to a pair of nearly identical young men so frail and fair they almost blend in against the ornate, pearly wallpaper behind them.

“Ah, there they are. It’s fortunate this room isn’t drafty or they might blow away.”

Turning back to me, he winks again, and I giggle lightly—almost exactly the same way Hoseok does when the blacksmith’s son comes by to re-shoe our horses.

Other than Appa—and a mutual loathing for the moles that ruin our garden each spring—I never thought I could have anything in common with him.

It’s odd to realize that I do.

“I have two brothers as well,” I tell Namjoon.

As I say this, my gaze falls on Jimin dancing with Prince Yoongi just a few yards away.

He throws his head back with an exaggerated laugh.

Play-acting.

Probably pretending to be interested in whichever one of His Highness’s three hundred eighty-six hunting trophies he’s currently talking about.

“They have spoken of little else but the prince and this ball for weeks now,” I say.

“Your brothers will have rather fierce competition, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?” he muses. “I feel sorry for the prince, then.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Namjoon’s hand leaves mine, and disappointment pulses through me—until he reaches over to brush my cheek with his fingertips instead.

“Because I have already beaten him to finding the most delightful person in the ballroom.”

My face feels the same way it does when I’ve been sitting by the fireplace for too long, and I quickly become aware of how close Namjoon and I are.

How his knee is touching mine.

How I can see the flecks of amber in his eyes.

If I were to move forward just a few inches, our lips would brush against one another’s.

“Shall I fetch us some champagne, and then perhaps you can tell me all about your disagreeable brothers and the many ways in which you’re lovelier and far more clever than either of them?” Namjoon asks softly.

He’s staring, I notice, not into my eyes, but at my lips.

My throat goes dry as I wonder if he’s thinking about a kiss, too.

“Champagne sounds nice,” I whisper.

Namjoon stands, as luminous as the moonlight on the snow outside. “I look forward to my return, then, dear Taehyung.”

As I watch him disappear into the crowd, heading toward the champagne fountain, I sigh happily.

Growing up, I used to envy Jimin and Hoseok the sketches they kept of Prince Yoongi hidden beneath their goose-down mattresses—the ones I found while changing the sheets on their beds.

And even though the drawings never did the prince’s dazzling jade eyes or silky hair justice, I feel quite cured of them now.

Let the other men vie for His Highness’s attention—let them treat him as a grand prize.

I feel as if I’ve found one of my own.

But then the moments begin to pass.

The waltz ends, and I watch as Jimin curtsies to the prince, then feigns surprise when the orchestra begins to play again and the prince asks him to keep dancing.

Namjoon still hasn’t returned.

I shift uncomfortably on the chaise and keep searching the faces scattered across the ballroom for his.

I spot my stepmother fanning herself by a statue of King Yongdae’s great-grandfather.

And Hoseok standing on the outskirts, a champagne flute in each hand, glaring at Jimin with the same venom they reserved for me during my last midnight dance.

Once again, no Namjoon.

I glance at the grandfather clock.

Ten minutes to midnight.

I don’t have much time.

I promised Maeri I’d get back—and I still remember the shambles my gown turned into outside.

I can’t be noticed like that; I can’t be caught.

Yeji will likely disown me for bringing such shame on her.

But I want so badly to see Namjoon again.

Where is he?

I don’t understand what’s happening tonight, but one fact is clear: each minute counts.

So, determined to find him, I stand up.

And there he is, not far from the orchestra.

Kissing a man with auburn hair and shoulders as broad that when you band your arms around them they will never wanna unwound again.

“Namjoon?”

I murmur his name and try to convince myself it’s not him with the broad shoulder man—I don’t want to believe it’s him, anyway.

So many dancers are moving past, blocking my view.

Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.

But then he steps back to look at his latest pursuit, and I see his face.

The dimple.

The sparkling eyes.

There’s no mistaking him.

Namjoon even reaches over to brush the plump lips man’s cheek exactly the same way he did mine.

The man with star eyes and beautiful smile blushes and bats his eyes at the touch, his dainty shoulders shrugging modestly as he says something—a compliment, maybe.

Also, exactly like he gave me.

“Oh, Namjoon, hush!” he seems to say.

My heart feels as if it’s been punched through by the heels of my glass stilettos, and my eyes glaze over with tears.

Namjoon isn’t worth weeping over; I know that.

I spent fifteen minutes with him, maybe less—far too little time to be picking out china patterns and baby names.

What I mourn for isn’t him, but the hope that someone could care for me—maybe even come to love me someday.

Aside from Maeri, I haven’t had that in so long, not since Appa died.

I wasn’t lonely with Appa, and he was always so kind.

If he bought toys for Jimin, Hoseok, and me, he’d give me the prettiest.

If he had candies, he’d let me pick my favorite first.

It wasn’t just gifts, either.

He’d read stories to me each night, show me where he’d traveled to for work on the map in his study, and take me to feed the ducks at the pond by the mill.

It didn’t matter that Yeji would shout at me when he wasn’t around, or that my brothers refused to play with me.

I had Appa.

Until I didn’t anymore.

Until the carriage accident happened.

I miss him—every minute with him.

I miss mattering to someone.

So, gathering up my skirts, I rush toward the French doors.

The room feels suddenly suffocating, and I tug futilely at my choker again.

For a moment, I fumble with the handle on a door, but then it opens, and the balcony stretches out before me.

Finally, peace and quiet—not to mention some safety from this world of trifling scoundrels.

“Taehyung?"

I’ve just reached the railing and begun looking out at the snowy landscape when I hear my name behind me.

Hurriedly, I wipe a tear from my cheek.

Rouge discolors my crisp, white glove, but it hardly seems to matter anymore.

Namjoon is gone, and it’ll be midnight again soon.

Turning, I see Jungkook, the boy who opened the door when I came here with the prince, standing behind me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says when he sees my face.

‘I’m not frightened’, I want to tell him.

A little startled, maybe.

Disappointed, yes.

Confused, most definitely.

He goes on, though, before I can manage the words.

“That is your name, isn’t it—Taehyung?” he asks. “I thought I heard the Earl of Ulsan call you that inside.”

Dumbly, I nod.

Namjoon.

He’s talking about Namjoon.

Of course, Jungkook would’ve heard, would’ve seen—he was probably stationed by the doors nearby again, waiting to serve one of the guests.

And if he saw me with Namjoon, that also means he knows about our flirting—and my resultant jilting.

My shoulders sag, and a fresh wave of hurt and humiliation rolls over me.

Jungkook knows what a fool I am.

“I—I never met—that is to say, I haven’t been ”

My voice trails off as I struggle to find words to explain how I allowed Namjoon to trick me.

I could tell Jungkook this is my first ball, or how I thought Namjoon might be my first kiss, or that I’d cried myself to sleep for weeks on end leading up until tonight, knowing Yeji forbade me from coming.

Anything I say will incriminate me, though. I’ll look naïve, or he’ll figure out I don’t belong here.

Jungkook simply smiles, though—that same carefree, all-encompassing grin I remember from last time around.

“No need to explain,” he assures me.

Stepping closer, he lowers his voice and adds, “The earl is known to have a wandering eye and to be insincere in his affections. You are far from the first young man he’s tried to take advantage of.”

The words, meant to make me feel better, just make me feel weak and inexperienced all over again.

“That’s not why I came over, though,” Jungkook tells me, quickly changing the subject when he sees the way my bottom lip trembles once more. “I thought you might be cold, so I brought you this.”

He extends his arm.

Only now, when I see the black jacket folded over the crook of elbow, do I realize that he’s down to his waistcoat.

The jacket is his; he’s offering it to me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, remembering the way Prince Yoongi let me shiver before. “That’s very kind.”

I reach for the jacket just as fat, lacy snowflakes begin falling around us, but Jungkook stops me.

“Allow me, Please,” he says, leaning over to drape the fabric across my shoulders.

I simply stand, astounded, as if frozen to the spot—perhaps my shoes are made of ice instead of glass—and I marvel at how much more generous and well-mannered Jungkook is than the prince.

“I remember you were cold last time,” Jungkook says as he straightens the collar and steps back to look at me. “Is that better now?”

It is better. His jacket is warm, and the fabric is soft and smells faintly of spearmint—his soap or toothpaste, maybe.

But I can only focus on one thing: last time, he said.

Jungkook knows there was a last time.

He’s been through this night before, too.

“What did you just say?” I choke.

“Is that better now?” Jungkook repeats.

I shake my head and swallow hard. He’ll think I’ve gone mad if I’m wrong and misheard him, but I’m certain—I’m positive—that he said the words.

“No, the other part—about last time. You’ve been through this night before, haven’t you?”

The smile falls from Jungkook’s face like night overtaking the last rays of day.

Hesitating, he glances cautiously around us, as if about to confess to a crime—as if his accidental slip will be his undoing.

Then, ever so slightly, he nods.

“You mean you have, too?” he whispers.

Excitement stirs inside of me.

I didn’t mishear, and I didn’t imagine it.

I grab his hands and cup them in both of mine.

“Yes!” I burst. “I thought I was losing my mind, to tell you the truth.”

“Me, too,” he says with a relieved sigh, his grin quickly returning.

There’s so much more I want to ask him, so much more to say—a near infinite amount of questions and hypotheses.

But there’s no time.

Faintly, chimes echo through the air.

They seem to surround us, rising up from the bell towers of the churches in the valley or seeping through the glass of the French doors from the grandfather clock in the ballroom.

There’s no escape from the sound.

It’s midnight.

“I have to go,” I say, pulling Jungkook’s jacket tighter around me. “Please don’t, Taehyung—”

But I have to.

I don’t know if we’ll repeat this night again or not, and I can’t take the risk of being caught if it's the latter.

I have to get away; I have to get home.

“I’ll find you during the next midnight,” I call over my shoulder to him as I race back to the French doors.

If there is another midnight.

By the time I weave through the sea of gowns, past the champagne fountains, and toward the castle’s main entrance, the snow is falling thickly, heavily.

Stepping into the night, I take the first stair carefully, clinging to the railing as my glass heels slide on the ice underfoot.

It’s no use.

Despite my caution, I slip anyway.

The world becomes a blur of blue and white, stars and snow.

My vision goes dark just as I realize I’m still wearing Jungkook’s jacket over my now-ragged dress.

I have to find Jungkook.

!~~~!!!~~~!!!~~~!

CHAPTER 3

It’s a sentence sharp and important enough to slice through the headache hovering in my brain—and it’s the first thought that crosses my mind when I open my eyes and find myself waltzing, once again, across the ballroom floor.

If I can find Jungkook, maybe we can figure out what’s happening.

Perhaps we can even stop it.

It’s all I can think about, a flame burning within me.

I twist my head wildly, looking around, searching for a sandy-haired young man in a stirrup pants—at least, I assume he’s in that only, as I still seem to be wearing his jacket draped over my shoulders.

“If you don’t mind, I’m right here, my Prince.”

Until my dance partner speaks, I’m completely unaware of the fact that I actually have one.

I look down into his face. Immediately, the scowl on his lips makes it clear just how inconsiderate he finds my neglect of him.

For a moment, I hesitate, torn between manners and my need to find Jungkook.

Then, I have an idea: my dance partner is around Maeri’s height, a much shorter man than the prince and Namjoon are.

It’s easy to see over his shoulder.

If I face forward, I can keep searching for Jungkook between twirls, while pacifying the man in front of me.

“I apologize,” I tell him. “I must seem terribly rude. It’s just that I’m looking for someone.”

The man’s cheeks redden, and his eyes—particularly the one behind his monocle—bulge.

He’s decidedly not pacified after all.

“You are being rude, Mister,” he says sharply. “I have been trying to have a conversation with you this entire waltz, and yet you seem intent on frittering away my spot on your dance card.”

I recoil at his bitterness.

“I meant no offense, sir—”

“Wooshik,” he interrupts.

“I meant no offense, Wooshik—”

“No. Sir Wooshik. Address me as Sir Wooshik!” he scolds.

Wooshik’s voice is loud and shrieky, a tempest stored in his undersized chest.

A few other dancers turn to witness his commotion.

Among them, I notice, is Prince Yoongi.

This time, he holds Hoseok in his arms.

Embarrassed, I look back at Sir Wooshik. Although he’s making a scene, I can only imagine the series of slights and cruelties that must have come before this night to make him so defensive and temperamental.

And I feel sorry for him—I understand what it’s like to feel neglected and unnoticed; it’s how I’ve lived most of my life as well.

“I have apologized, Sir Wooshik,” I tell him gently in a whisper, hoping my quiet will inspire him to lower his voice. “Please, let’s put this squabble behind us and begin again.”

His scowl deepens, though.

He withdraws his hand from my waist and drops my other palm abruptly, as if I might be on fire.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” he says coolly. “Let’s see how you enjoy being treated like rubbish! Go, since your attention is so clearly elsewhere. Perhaps the young man who gave you his jacket will prove a more intriguing match!”

With that, Sir Wooshik stalks away, leaving me on the dance floor, alone and aghast, while everyone stares.

Couples stop twirling.

Laughter halts.

Even the orchestra falters over the next bar of music; the notes take on a sinister, somber tone as bows slip across their strings.

Yeji and my half brothers have barely acknowledged my existence for so long, and as terrible as that has felt, this sort of attention is far worse.

I want to sink into the marble and disappear.

I want it to be midnight so this version of tonight will be over.

Apparently, Sir Wooshik feels the same.

“Stop gawking, all of you!” he screams at a servant as he crosses toward the foyer.

“I wasn’t, sir—” the woman tries to explain.

Sir Wooshik brings down his fist on the silver tray in her hands.

Onion tartlets and toast points with salmon soar high into the air.

At the same time, her tray clatters to the floor with an abrupt, metallic clang.

Despite all the shouting, it’s that sound that startles me most.

Such a deafening, definitive thud.

As Sir Wooshik disappears from the room, I bring my hands to cover my mouth and rush toward the safety beyond the French doors once more.

Until I find Jungkook or the clock strikes twelve, the balcony is my only refuge.

“What is it, Minjin?” I hear Prince Yoongi ask now my brother Jimin as I scramble to escape.

When did Jimin and Hoseok switch?

“I think I know him,” Jimin says.

His voice wavers, and although I don’t meet his eye, I can picture the puzzled look that must be on his face—the way his eyebrows crinkle when he doesn’t understand something.

Blessed bones.

This night is getting even worse.

It’s too late for me to change my route to the balcony, though.

For just a second, the train of my gown brushes against Jimin’s when I pass, and my heart thumps as I wait for him to call out my name in accusation.

But he doesn’t.

“I think Oh!! Umm…never mind. It would be impossible,” he says instead.

And I can’t help but feel relieved.

Maeri once told me that Appa felt guilty for what happened to me— that’s why he lavished me with affection.

He didn’t know about me for the first few years of my life, she had explained after he passed, and when he finally did find out, it was because my birth mother was dying of Shadow Cough.

Telling the doctor who tended to her the name of my father was the last kindness she showed me before breath faded from her lungs forever.

According to Maeri, Appa was horrified when he found out how my mother and I had been living—in a shabby bedsit with a leaky roof that stank of rotting flesh from the butcher’s shop below it.

Yeji wanted to send me to an orphanage.

It was too painful, she felt, to have me around.

I was evidence of her failings—of her temper and coldness, and of the cruel way she had banished my father from his own home one night during an argument.

Appa wouldn’t give me up, though.

He said I was owed every happiness and advantage in life as repayment for how I’d been brought into the world.

He chose me.

Me, over the risk of his wife’s scorn.

I remind myself of this as I stand on the balcony.

I remind myself of this a lot, actually.

It’s soothing.

And when I spot Jungkook crossing toward me, I feel warm and comforted all over again.

After the scene inside with Sir Wooshik, he’s an especially welcome sight.

“Taehyung, you’re here again,” he says.

I don’t care how much Prince Yoongi’s trophies gleam in the moonlight—none of them can compare to the brightness of Jungkook’s smile. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

That effervescence in my stomach is back.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here, too.”

“And you have my jacket still,” he chuckles, his eyes drifting slowly over the collar.

“Good. I was worried it might have been lost forever.”

My hands go to the dark fabric draped across my shoulders with a fleeting panic.

“Do you want it back?”

Jungkook shakes his head.

His eyes match the colors of my dress, a dream-like mix of sapphires and aquamarine.

I like the hues on myself, even more so on him.

“Not at all,” he assures me, raising a palm to stop me from taking the jacket off. “I only worried because it would cost me an entire semester’s worth of textbooks to replace it.”

“Textbooks for what?”

“School, of course.” He leans against the railing beside me in a pose that’s equal parts hopeful and confident.

“I’m planning to attend university next year,” he explains. “I want to study law and become a barrister. That’s why I work at castle events sometimes—to save money for tuition. My father’s a bookbinder and will help me as much as he can, but it’s not quite enough.”

There’s much more to Jungkook than a generous spirit and a grin that could chase away the darkest storms, it seems.

His plans for his studies aren’t all that catch my attention, though.

“A bookbinder?” I echo, raising my brows.

“I know it’s not exactly glamorous not compared to being a prince, anyway,” he says.

He glances down at his hands, and for just a moment, I notice a few lingering blots of ink on his fingers.

With a self- conscious cringe, he shoves both fists in his pockets to hide them.

“The glue seems to prefer sticking to me, and the ink tends to linger, I’m afraid.”

“I think it’s fairly glamorous,” I tell him, undeterred.

“I love books— my father used to read to me when I was small. I still read often, sitting by the fire at night. My brothers tease me about all the ash that gets on my toes.”

With another one of the men, I’ve met here tonight, I might feel more guarded, on edge, but not around Jungkook.

The words fall uninhibited from my mouth like one of the fountains in the courtyard on a warm spring day.

I trust him—I have from the moment he shrugged off the prince’s mistake with his name.

“Is that so? I read late into the night, too,” Jungkook says, grinning.

He pats the pockets on his waistcoat lightly, searching for something.

“I may not get ashes on my feet from it, but I do have to wear glasses now so I can see the letters.”

He pulls out a pair of delicate, wire-rimmed spectacles from inside his waistcoat and puts them on.

At once, he transforms from a cheerful, bright-eyed young man to a scholarly figure, distinguished and wise.

“They suit you,” I say, staring just a moment longer than I probably should.

Jungkook slips the spectacles back into his pocket then. “I could show you my father’s shop sometime, if you like,” he offers. “It’s in Hongdae, just off the High Street—”

“Hongdae? I live there, too.” The intricately woven curls on my head nearly come loose as I nod vigorously.

“I think I know the place you’re talking about—Magic ‘Book’ Shop, is it? Appa used to take me there.”

Surprise registers in Jungkook’s face, intensifying the blue in his eyes.

“That’s the one,” he marvels.

He pauses and clears his throat, sobering once more.

“At least, we can go if we ever find a way to stop all these midnights.”

“Right. The midnights,” I murmur.

My daydreams of the dewy scent of ink and the crisp feel of parchment beneath my fingertips vanish as quickly as they came.

Sighing, I look out into the night and watch the foxes scuttle across the snow by the shore of the lake, following the same path they had before when I stood here with Prince Yoongi.

“You don’t think we’ll be stuck like this forever, do you?” I ask.

“Blessed bones, I hope not,” Jungkook says, shaking his head. “We could work together, try to find an answer—or at least a way out ?”

I nod again. “All right.”

For a moment, we’re quiet, each trying to think of an explanation for what’s happening to us.

Every possibility seems more far-fetched than the one before it, though, and all feel too absurd to bother mentioning.

“Alternate universes?” I finally suggest, half teasing.

We’ve already crossed the threshold of the ridiculous; one more step can’t hurt.

A grin rises at the corners of Jungkook’s mouth. “Maybe or time travel.”

I giggle. “I know—how about magic?”

Across the balcony, the group of men with their pipes cheer loudly and pat each other on their backs.

A rowdy celebration for a reason I can only imagine.

And although it has nothing to do with us, it gives me an idea.

“What about everyone else?” I ask. “The others seem to stay in place in time—the men smoking, the white foxes playing. The prince is always dancing, too, even if his partner changes. Only you and I move forward.”

My hand goes to the collar of his jacket then; it’s the best proof we have that he and I are on a separate trajectory, able to carry on in our own small ways.

“Do you think they even know what’s happening?”

Around us, snow begins to fall, speckling the night sky.

“Not as far as I can tell,” Jungkook says. “I’ve started testing people. I keep dropping ‘last time’ into conversations when I can. No one else has caught on, though, just you.”

My mouth goes dry. “It’s only the two of us We’re connected to this somehow. Strange.”

The serious, studious face of the barrister-in-training returns.

“What do you think that means?”

“I’m not sure,” I whisper.

The snow begins to intensify, and although I’m uncertain what Jungkook and I have to do with tonight’s strange events, I do know what that means: another midnight is approaching.

Soon, chimes will peal out across the valley.

Maeri’s warning replays in my mind.

I have to hurry.

Yeji and my brothers can’t find out I was at the ball.

“Here,” I tell him.

Clearing my throat, I brush away the thought and swing his jacket from my shoulders.

“I have to leave again. You should take this back—just in case.”

Just in case this night doesn’t repeat.

In case I don’t see him again after the clock strikes.

In case I can’t remember him if we pass each other on the streets in Hongdae.

I don’t say the words, yet he seems to know what I mean anyhow.

“Keep it,” he says, raising a hand to stop me.

“But you can’t afford another, Jungkook,” I remind him. “I don’t want to be the reason you can’t go to university next year.”

He simply shakes his head.

“You’ll get cold,” he insists. “Some things are more important than jackets and textbooks.”

His eyes linger on my face, as if he’s learning me by heart in case I’m the subject of one of his exams at school.

My cheeks warm.

If he keeps looking at me like this, I won’t need his jacket much longer after all.

“All right,” I relent.

Reaching up below my hair line, I begin to untie the choker Maeri fastened around my neck.

The velvet band is soft, the same blue as a robin’s egg, and the crystal affixed to it almost looks like a snowflake itself.

“I’ll keep your jacket if you keep this.”

“What is it?” he asks as I take his hand in mine and begin to wrap the choker around his wrist.

“It’s a necklace my father gave me for my sixteenth birthday,” I explain.

I don’t tell him more—how Appa died a week later and it’s the last gift he gave me.

Jungkook seems reluctant enough to take it as it is.

“Taehyung, you can’t—”

Shaking my head, I tie the loose ends of the band in a bow to secure it above the cuff of his sleeves.

“Now you have something precious of mine, too,” I tell him. “Consider it an insurance policy against your jacket in case something unexpected happens before the next midnight. When all of this is over, we’ll exchange the two back again.”

In the distance, a bell rings out then.

“Taehyung—”

But I’ve already swung Jungkook’s jacket over my shoulders and am clattering toward the French doors, my glass shoes sliding through the snow.

There will be no tumbling down the castle’s front steps for me this time.

I’m determined to avoid it.

I rush through the ballroom, past Prince Yoongi and Jimin waltzing

around the statue of King Yongdae’s grandfather, behind which Namjoon is kissing the same plump lip’s man and into the foyer, where Sir Wooshik is screaming at another servant, this time about the slowness with which his furs have been fetched from the cloakroom.

And instead of rushing forward to the intricately carved, double wooden doors, I veer to the left.

To the smaller, humbler exit used by the castle staff during shift changes.

“At last!”

The words escape my lips as I open the door to find that the ground is level here.

No steep, icy granite steps for me slip down.

The clocks ring out again—the eleventh chime—and I step out into the night.

A veil of white snow shrouds the path outside the castle.

I can almost hear the flakes falling from the sky, clinking faintly against one another like a million champagne flutes raised in a toast.

Lifting my skirts, I scurry around the side of the building, cautiously watching the edge of the woods for signs of fierce beasts or Folk of Woods intent on playing tricks on me.

The last chime tolls, and the blood in my veins gives a startled jolt as the toe of my glass slipper catches on something— a raised, gnarled tree root hidden beneath the snow.

I fall forward, face- first in the frozen drifts, and my world fades to shadows yet again.

So much for avoiding a tumble.

!~~~!!!~~~!!!~~~!