There was something about midnight that set it apart from every other hour. Something about its romantic name—midnight—and the darkness that shrouds the sky made small bumps dot my arms and the fine hairs of my skin to spike. I bit my lip, suppressing laughter. Cookie was right; I read too much...I asked too many questions. I ignored too many rules. I was too this and not enough that. Never quiet and sedate, never like Analiese. I wrinkled my nose. Now, I sounded like my mother.

I stirred from my bed, tossing the covers away in favor of the heated air blowing subtly from the vents. I rubbed my arms as I shuffled to my feet and arched my back. The small bones of my vertebrae cracked. I twisted my neck to its side, searching for a similar release. A small pop echoed in the night. The last vestiges of fatigue faded as I crouched to the floor and rolled the carpet away. I found the small ridge of that uneven tile and dragged it away faster than I had yesterday afternoon.

Revealed in all its glory, the journal stood out against the weathered wood and rusted metal of its background. Hunching over the gaping hole, sitting cross-legged, I retrieved the journal and quickly relieved it of its taut twine and dull cover. As it's slight weight settled into my hands with familiar ease, my eyes scoured it, committing each leathered line, deep crease, and small scratch to memory. I thumbed the keyhole again, wishing for the lock.

When I'd stolen a parting kiss from Jack, I'd stolen the journal as well, switching the journal for my 2000 citz. The last of my savings. And for what? A paltry excerpt, political documents, a locked journal. Worthless items. I stretched back through the past thirteen months, recounting the music sheets, poetry, novels, documents, portraits, and scenic paintings, collected each eighteenth.

Worthless. What use could they ever be to me, my hoard of forgotten artifacts that I'd stashed in secret places throughout the palace? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I ruffled my bangs, my body tensing as the realization of what I had done these past thirteen months came to me. I remembered the money I had wasted, the danger I had courted.

My stomach was in knots, tightening crudely with sharp stabs jabbing my abdomen. The pain only increased as I remembered my conversation with Analiese.

She knew. If not everything—enough, enough to destroy me. With one little slip to my mother...my skin chilled. With one murmured whisper to my father...my breath stopped. I sat still, heart thudding and stomach clenched. She wouldn't, I thought. She wouldn't want to, but she would—if given no other choice. She'd hesitate, bite her nails, try to reason and deflect, but ultimately she'd tell, her pretty eyes misting with tears she'd never allow to fall.

What had I done? Worse, what was I about to do? The twenty-fifth marked my last jaunt, the final rendezvous. Knowing I never should have made the promise to return, I was left wondering what was there to do about my reckless actions. I could ignore the last appointment, overlook the arrival of midnight. But could I do that to Jack? Could I lie to him as easily as I did to others, to Mother, Analiese, and Cookie? Could I steal from him, disregarding his needs, his time, in favor of my own selfishness? Could I leave our partnership, imprinting in his mind the truth that city girls use and abuse?

This started from love, a simple, inexperienced love for inanimate things because I'd learned early on that family, often times, was a disappointment. So I'd taken that love that should have been for them and had given it to the ones who cared, the ones who would never hurt me.

I closed my eyes and remembered how it all started.

My mother had thrown her drink at the wall. It wasn't the first time she'd done it, but it was the first time it had mattered. Never before had her morning cup—filled with her thick chocolate drink—reached the life-size portrait of my father's inauguration. It usually fell short a generous distance from the wall, smattering to the ground in smithereens and pooling together to make a twisted circle of shards and bubbling brew.

That day, we all—Mother, Analiese, and I—stood frozen, mouths agape, looking more alike than ever with the similarity of our motionless bodies. The dark chocolate oozed down the portrait, like muddied slime. It sizzled over my father's haughty, nineteen-year-old sneer.

Mother screeched. Snatching a comb from her table, she hurled it at the portrait's center. I heard Analiese's quick sigh of relief when it bounced off the canvass without leaving a mark.

My father was going to be livid. I gaped at my mother, imagining the grave that would cover her tall stature, her chocolate brown skin—almost as dark as what she'd thrown—and her mean smile. Without really meaning to, I laughed. My stomach felt light and bubbly and my laughs came out as uncontrollable chortles.

A whispered, "Celeste," from my right warned me. But it was too late. Mother swooped down to me. Her hand clasped my jaw. I lifted my face, seeing for the first time, the tiny grooves that settled like webs around her eyes and surrounded her lips. I took in her smooth skin and her beauty, and for the first time, I was glad I was not cursed with what she had, that the only thing of hers I shared was that chocolate brown skin.

"You think this is funny?" she asked.

My humor deflated, and my smile grew flat under her glare. I wished I could laugh in the face of her anger, but fear held me back.

I shook myself from her grip, rubbing a hand over my jaw. I forgot my fear as I gazed into her eyes. Something else replaced it. Anger, recklessness, disdain...? I didn't know what it was, but it was enough to allow me to face the devil and say, "I think it's pathetic. A grown woman indulging in temper tantrums is truly sad. There's nothing funny in that."

I heard the piercing whiz of the slap before feeling the sharp sting across my cheek.

Mother smiled a little as she said, "Hate me if you want, if you think that will get you anywhere, but you will not disrespect me. I am your Madame Principia and you will treat me accordingly, regardless of your useless feelings."

She sashayed to her cream chaise and snapped her fingers. Analiese hurried to place a cigarette and lighter in Mother's awaiting hand.

Mother fitted the white stick between her lips and lit it up. She sucked. Her eyes drifted close. A cloud of hazelnut streamed in the air.

I sneezed.

The next day, the art conservators arrived at the palace. Analiese greeted them, directing them to the portrait that the servants had laid out in the hall last night.

She left them to their assignment—with a nod at their respectful bows—heels clacking against the marble flooring. As she passed me she said, "Don't be a nuisance."

I wasn't a nuisance. I watched them with their paint-stained overalls and scuffed boots as they erased the chocolate smear of my mother's anger, interweaving work with laughs and jokes amongst friends and equals. This was what life could have been if I were them and not me.

I watched them from my hidden corner for lengths of time, silently observing them mingle in the kitchen as they took their afternoon meal. I'd followed them so much during their week- long stay, I'd begun to think of them as a common aspect of my life, forgetting the rarity of their arrival.

Their final day came too soon. They'd finished restoring the portrait and were painting the finishing touches. I couldn't imagine a time when their easy camaraderie would not brighten the sterile halls, giving light to my cold home. That day, I contemplated leaving my city forever for the first time.

When the leader of their pack, a red-haired boy with a solemn face and a quick step, deviated from the crew—I trailed him, searching for a reason, an excuse to make them stay, at least for a while. He made it easy with his smug confidence and reckless actions as he slipped into a room forbidden to him and rifled through my mother's forgotten collection of glass animals, taking the smallest and least missed, swiping the dust away, and dropping them into empty pockets.

I'd felt the thrill of the chase then, not fully understanding this excitement thrumming throughout my blood at the time. I cleared my throat, taking a step back when he swirled around before standing my ground.

His emerald eyes twinkled, disconcerting me, and he dropped into the standard bow. "Filia Principia," he said, addressing me by my proper title. "What a precious collection of glass animals." He rose from the bow. "What do you think of the tiger? It's not my favorite, but it's not too shabby."

"I'm sure you like them. They're very expensive." I frowned. "And I never said you could rise."

He bent back down, but the formality of the bow was crushed by his smile. I waved him up, feeling very young and foolish.

"Yes, very expensive." He peered through the small elephant clasped in his hands. "I can tell."

I ground my teeth, feeling younger and more foolish with each passing second. "Which is why you attempted to steal them."

"Stealing from the palace is treasonous. You think I'd risk my pretty, little neck for that?"

"I think you were careless enough to get caught." His ears burned red, but his smile didn't waver.

"Fine," he said, palms high in the air. "I was stealing. I'm sorry." He dropped into the bow again. "Please, forgive me."

I snorted. "You're not serious. You're mocking me? Are you aware of the fact that with one scream, I could finish you?"

He laughed. "A sweet girl like you? I don't think so."

"Would you stake your life on it?"

He stopped smiling then. "What do you want?"

I surveyed him, his tired face and dirty overalls, committing each detail to memory because I knew I would let him go, let them all go and let them return to their side of the world while I remained in mine. I was about to free him when I saw a small paper edge curling out from his pocket.

"What is that?" I asked, gesturing with my hands.

He pulled it out, a small frown creasing his face. Sauntering to meet me, he held it out in the air, and the paper unrolled like a scroll. I tried to make sense of the words, but he snatched it shut before I could.

I held out my hand. "Give it to me."

Shrugging he asked, "Why should I?" He roamed the room, pausing to stand by my mother's abandoned toys. "You want to kill me."

"I never said that."

"'I could finish you'?" Doesn't seem like friendly overture to me."

"I'll pay you."

"You think you can buy me off ?"

"Everyone can be bought."

"Correction. You think you can afford me?"

"Easily." I waited until he stopped and met my gaze. "I'll give you 100 citz."

He kept his face blank, but I saw his surprise. I inwardly applauded his false nonchalance.

"Show me the money," he said, and I did. I walked sedately to my room, removed 100 citz from the lining of my pillowcase, and stuffed the banknotes in my sleeve. I returned to him and exchanged the money for what was my first collection—a short poem in a language my tutor was making me study. That night, I cracked open my lesson book to decode the rhythmic stanzas.

After he pocketed the cash, he assessed me. Stroking his jaw, he said, "It's possible I may have some more of that...if you're interested."

"If I'm interested?"

"That poem may or may not have a second page."

"May or may not?"

"That all depends—"

"—on whether I have the money to spend?" I finished. He shrugged, and I asked, "And will you be stealing that one, too?"

"I am nothing, if not a slave to the arts."

I laughed. "What's your name?"

His eyes glinted. "How much would you be willing to pay for it?"

I didn't let him know that I already had a guess. I remembered the blond asking him for a smaller bristle. In my mind, I repeated the name, Jack.

The memory played so readily in my mind, unfiltered and unclogged by the distance. I wondered if Jack remembered it the way I had, the meeting of two souls alike in more ways than one.

The knots in my belly unraveled as I remembered the love for the first poetry that I had received, the love for everything that had come after, and how the love had settled the angry and lonely part of me.

If they'd done all of that for me, maybe they weren't so worthless. And if Jack had been the one to give all of them to me, maybe this last jaunt, the final rendezvous was worth it. 

Just this one last time, and then I would be done.