Page 101 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
The door clicked, and the queen was gone.
“You can open your eyes now. I know you’re awake,” he said, stroking her forehead and feeling her temperature. Then he placed a hand on her neck as she opened her eyes. “Your heart rate is back up. But it's still low. Only forty-five beats per minute.”
“That’s normal for me.” Quinn stared into his molten irises.
“Oh, good.” He smiled, a finger lacing into her hair. “It will take two full days for you to heal. But in about twenty hours, your wounds will be gone. With no scars. Which I know will disappoint you since you believe beauty is in the imperfections.”
She laughed, and it stung. The man didn't forget anything, did he?
“You’re going to be fine.” He poked her nose in a strangely cute and intimate way. Then his voice changed to a hypnotic and enchanting tone as he said, “Go to sleep now, pretty cinnamon.”
Her mind emptied, and a wave of disorientation hit her. The last thing she heard was a man with a strangely familiar voice that she couldn’t quite place say, “You will need to clean her up.”
Then, a sleep filled with nightmares claimed her soul.
Thirty-Four
Nails hammered at the back of her skull like someone constructed a building inside her head, her memory a blur of flickering images. A crimson river, spilling and flowing. Coldness. Emptiness. A midnight death. A shadowed prince. Claws, fangs, and broken screams. Blood. So much blood. Leaking through her fingers and dripping through her hair.
Her memories were a maze of cobwebs.
Complex and twisted.
A severed haze, like a ray of sun bursting through a layer of thick morning mist.
The last solid thing Quinn remembered was . . . a beautiful man, a manifestation of darkness telling her to sleep. And then nothing.
As she rolled over, her legs caressed a cloud—soft and silky. The finest sheets she’d ever felt in her life.
A blue velvet curtain hung around the massive four-poster bed. Gilded rose carvings decorated the wood above her. The curtains had golden roses embroidered into it.
Quinn opened the drapes and swung her legs onto the floor. Her toes scratched against hardwood.
But something was off. Her feet felt different. Pulling up afoot, she inspected it and nearly screamed at the sight. Her toenails were no longer bruised, and the pads of her feet had no calluses—perfectly smooth. She ran her fingers along her calf; the cut from the souvenir steamship was gone with no scar. Checking the rest of her body, Quinn discovered that every one of her scars had vanished.
Just like in the first chamber in the Mirror of Terror. It came true.
Her heart was a fast-flying hummingbird in her chest.
A sudden wave of memory hit. Compulsion and blood. And a vampire hovering over her broken body. Then, as the wave hit, it disappeared and was replaced by a wave of frustration gathering in her core. She had no calluses. Getting her feet into shape for ballet took years. Years of built-up muscles, broken toenails, and calluses.
She needed them to dance.
There were Royalle Ballet auditions to complete.
But if the first chamber of the Mirror of Terror came true, what was next? All of the chambers had gotten progressively worse.
Her stomach dropped to her toes, and her hands shook terribly. She was losing all control, and she needed to hold onto it tightly.
Control was freedom—it was safety.
Quinn rubbed her temples, desperately trying to remember. Only magic could heal and leave no scars. Had she gone to the healing mirror or some other looking glass? She’d been hurt. That memory was clear, but how did she heal? Had a mirror healed her but stolen her memory? Was that its cost?
Quinn stood and turned in a circle. Crystal sconces decorated with white roses lit the room dimly. Gold paint shone on the walls, glittering with expensive carvings. A violet armchair sat against the walls, and in the corner, was her massive wardrobe.
The bedroom door swung open with fury, and Giselle flew in and pounced on her best friend. Quinn grimaced and stiffened aspain raked through her body. She was magically healed, but her whole body felt unspeakably sore. “Ouch.”
“Oh, sorry,” Giselle said, releasing her arms.
