Page 1 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
One
It was highly inappropriate to run down the streets of New Swansea in a tutu. Not only was it indecent, it was utterly impractical. But Quinnevere Ashelle had no other choice. She was running late, and her life, her dreams, her everything depended on timeliness. It was the first day of auditions for the Royalle Ballet, and this year, shewouldmake it into the corps de ballet.
Shehad to.
It was her last chance.
Steamship whistles blared obnoxiously overhead, grating against her ears. Thousands cheered and crammed the streets, wanting to witness the largest and fastest vessel to cross the Kardic Ocean. Children sang nursery rhymes and danced as their parents waved flags and jumped for joy, looking for the best view. Gramophones played classical music, and camera shutters echoed against cobblestones. The light from the flashbulbs reflected off the Mirror of Forgotten—the wicked magic mirror that loomed over the crowd. It stood stationary on Marina Hill, overlooking the docks. The majestic nature of it was meant to lure people near, drawing in individuals who were too cocky or foolish to listen to the warnings whispered throughout the town. This particularmirror was known for trading for people’s most cherished memories.
But Quinn was no fool. She wouldn’t be caught up in its beauty. Instead, she ran through the chaos, making her way to auditions with her necklace bouncing with her footfalls.
Panic rose in her throat.
The crowd was too dense, and time was not on her side.
Quinn was turning twenty-three tonight, and sadly, she was getting too old to join a ballet company. Apprentices were supposed to start at eighteen, but Quinn was five years behind on her dream, and unfortunately, she had to become an apprentice first to get her coveted role in the corps de ballet.
So, this year’s auditions were her final shot—only shot.
Five. Years. Behind. Because of her uncle. He didn’t see the value in non-practical things like dance, so he forced her to work as a junior medical examiner. But this year was different because Quinn was turning the age of majority, and she could finally make her own life decisions.
She could finally audition for the Queen’s Royalle Ballet, and she wouldn’t let the crowded streets of the Marina District destroy her future. The ballet was her ticket out of humble circumstances and into fame—and prestige. Respect.
But she couldn’t accomplish her goal stuck in this horde.
“Oh, fucking mirrors,” Quinn cursed under her breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Smashing down her scarlet tutu, she tried to weave through newsies and photographers—who would stop at nothing to get a picture of the rich and glamorous as they disembarked the grand ocean liner, the RMSColossal.
This was the least opportune moment to make history. Why couldn’t that godforsaken ship make port on any other day? Any other day when she hadn’t overslept. Any other day when her whole life wasn’t counting on it.
Just any other fucking day.
Quinn huffed, gripping her tulle skirt.
When she was finally about to get a respite from the chaos, a photographer elbowed her in the side, and she lost her balance. Quinn stumbled, hit a second man, and fell sideways. The world stilled. Time felt like molasses slowly dripping from a jar. The fall took an eternity—until it didn’t.
Quinn’s leg crashed into a miniaturized steamship souvenir, which sliced open the skin near her gastrocnemius muscle. Pain radiated through her bones as blood trickled down her calf, staining her tights and dreams in crimson. Quinn gasped. A mixture of untoward curse words escaped from her lips.
Her thoughts fuzzed, and her world changed.
All Quinn could focus on was external things because if she allowed anything else in, she would break. And she wouldn’t break, so she turned her attention to the fog hovering over the brick-and-mortar shops like a veil slanted off a corpse bride’s face. The icy autumn hurricane-like wind snaked through the streets, causing her cinnamon hair to fall out of her bun and dance down her chest. Storefront shutters smacked into rustic bricks. The coiling silver surface of the Mirror of Forgotten winked in the sunlight—mocking her. The nursery rhymes rotted, and screams pierced the morning dew.
Icy fire ripped through her leg; a burn so hot it felt cold. Quinn gritted her teeth, trying to brace herself for the pain. Dread sank into her stomach as blood gushed from her calf.
Dance. Auditions. It was all ruined. Now, she’d never make it to auditions on time, and her childhood dreams would wilt away like a cut rose—decaying. Her fantasies of traveling the world as a ballerina burned to ash between her fingers.
Quinn blinked as a bead of sweat glided down her temple. Sucking in a breath, she refused to give in.
This would not fucking end her.
She dug her fingertips into the coarse fabric of her tutu as she tried to ground herself. When that didn’t work, she moved her hand to clutch her necklace. It was the only piece of her parents she had left. Quinn didn’t remember much of their murders, butshe recalled the screams and a shattered magic mirror—a piece of which hung on a chain around her neck.
After a couple of breaths, the panic subsided, and her rational brain took over. She knew how to suture a wound. And she would rely on her training. After all, Quinn was raised in the morgue, surrounded by rotting bodies and an eccentric uncle. Medicine, suturing, and blood were constants in her life. She was a medical examiner. In fact, she’d known how to sew since she was six because her uncle decided it was prudent and appropriate to teach a six-year-old how to close a corpse. So she’d assisted with his autopsies ever since.
This scratch was nothing.
The souvenir only pierced into the dermis. Which meant she barely had to stitch anything.
