When The Clock Strikes Twelve

"When the clock strikes twelve, someone will be chosen."

The King's breath was warm Prince Leander's ear, and he had to suppress the urge to shiver.

Leander hated how his father said it. The way he said "will," as if Leander had never had a choice in the matter. He knew exactly who his father wished for him to marry.

But there had never been a time when he had not already chosen a bride, in his heart.

Coraline.

Coraline, whose eyes always danced with laughter and whose lips always seemed just moments away from spreading into a dazzling smile. Coraline, whose kindness and subtle wit were like a beacon floating in an eternally dark sea, and whose every fibre seemed tremble with a tangible, infectious joy.

Leander wrapped his white-gloved hands around the balcony rail, glad that his tense knuckles weren't visible through the thick material.

"Remember, you are marrying to solidify our family's claim to the throne," the King prompted. "It is your duty to our country. But of course, you are still free to select, from these women, one to be your bride. That is entirely your own choice."

"Of course, Father." Leander tried not to let his gaze wander to the ornate marble clock tower visible through the palace's glass dome, presiding over the opposite side of the palace courtyard.

The King nodded and, with a pointed glance at the dazzling spectrum of dresses waltzing across the ballroom floor below, he descended the stairs and took his place on the throne, calling for wine.

Leander sighed and let his shoulders droop, feeling hollow. He was supposed to have figured something out by now, to have come up with a way for he and Coraline to stay together . . . but he had nothing. His hands scrambled for ideas and came up empty every time.

"My lord," a familiar voice simpered from behind him.

Leander stiffened as a silk-draped hand curled around his upper arm, and he was engulfed by a heady cloud of sickly-sweet perfume. Locking his jaw, he kept his gaze firmly on the stars flickering in and out of sight through the domed glass roof overhead. Were they laughing at him right now, for thinking he could ever circumvent his fate as the Prince of Mésan? It certainly felt that way.

Despairing, Leander carefully arranged his face into a neutral expression and turned to brave the sultry gaze of Lady Bellicose. "Good evening, my lady."

"How are you enjoying the Selection Ball?"

Leander bit the inside of his cheek. "About as much as you would expect for the prince charged with selecting his bride."

"Then I imagine you are enjoying the experience a lot," she said, a conspiratorial smile stretching across her red-painted lips. She pressed closer to his side.

"How did you manage to find me up here? You're the first woman to approach me all evening, so I thought I was well-hidden."

Lady Bellicose patted his shoulder condescendingly. "Oh, everyone knows where you are, my lord," she purred. "They just know they don't stand a chance."

Or they were terrified of getting in your way, he thought with an inward sigh. "I see," he said aloud. Then, desperate to get away from the overwhelming perfume before he began to sneeze, he excused himself, saying, "I had best do a round or two of the ballroom, so no one feels as if they haven't been considered."

How conceited he sounded. And he was worse, he knew, because even as he extended his hand to a woman with a pink ribbon in her hair, and later smiled charmingly at a lady in a yellow gown as he led her into an open section of the floor, he knew already that he didn't want any of them.