“I’m not. I just…” Freeze.
My expression derails as the fairy lady appears again behind him, hovering over the little river. This time, she brought a grandfather clock and pushes it down onto the water as if the surface is made of concrete—which maybe it is because, after a quick splash, the clock keeps standing there. What is her darn problem? Is it her mission now to ruin my perfect night with the Prince from the Snow Plains?
“You…what?” Jacob prompts me with a worried frown.
“Nothing.” Tense and angry, I stride faster, trying hard to ignore the fairy on the water. “We should go back to the feast.” Hopefully, the crowd will keep her away.
His hand snatches my wrist, and he hauls me back. “Stop!”
I gasp as I nearly bump into his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he demands, the lines around his mouth hardening.
I remain silent because I really don’t know what to say when the Fairy Godmother is acting like a maniac behind him, floundering and pedaling in the air. She doggedly slaps her wand against the glass of the clock face. Behind it, the minute hand just begins to bridge the last minute to midnight.
Wait! Midnight? There was something happening at midnight, right? What was it? What was it?!
The fairy grabs a fistful of her skirt, shaking it. Oh crap, my gown!
FIRST STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
My mouth drops open. Ugh!
SECOND STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
“If the kiss was a mistake, then tell me.” Jacob doesn’t let go of my hand, but the silver-framed sapphires turn soft as they plead with me. “Don’t just run away.”
THIRD STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
Dang, I might have no other choice!
FOURTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
“I’m so sorry, but it’s late. I need to leave!” Really, really fast!
FIFTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
My hand is caught. I can’t get away, and my heart starts to flutter against my throat like a lunatic canary in a cage. “Please, Prince Jacob, you must let me go. I can’t stay here.”
SIXTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
“Only for a few more minutes, I beg you.”
SEVENTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
Not even for a few more seconds.
I tug harder at my hand, whining in panic as I do a funky version of the potty dance.
EIGHTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
My wailing stirs his mercy, and he finally lets me go. But his torn look breaks my heart. I hitch up my skirt, ready to run. “I don’t want to go. Really. I wish I could stay the entire night out here in the garden with you, but I can’t.”
NINTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
I dash off the bridge.
“I need to tell you something. It’s important,” his desperate voice follows me.
TENTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
I swirl around and run back, but not because of his pleading. I just realized I was heading deeper into the garden. With my dress disappearing in two more seconds, I should probably head for the exit instead.
ELEVENTH STRIKE OF THE CLOCK.
Trembling in terror, I skitter to a stop in front of Jacob once more. His expression is hopeful now. I grimace. Holy broken glass slipper, he can’t see me pop into my underwear. It will be the death of me. There must be another way out.
Oh, wait! Did I say slipper? Heck, the shoes I’m wearing are from Kansas!