Page 3 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
“Quinnevere, why are you wearing a tutu at the docking of theColossal?” he asked as she returned her tools to her medical kit and placed them back in her pack.
She wanted to say,why do you think I am wearing a fucking tutu? Obviously, I am going to dance.He brought out the worst in her.But instead, she smiled through her teeth and said, “Queen’s Royalle Ballet auditions.”
“How is a junior medical examiner going to make it into the Royalle Ballet? Even if you had the talent, you wouldn’t have the time to perform.”
Did he realize how condescending he was? “I wouldn’t do them both.”
“But you’re one of the brightest minds in the city. I assume you do more autopsies now than your uncle. Why would you waste that?” A baffled expression sparked on his bronze cheeks.
She wanted to say,and how would you know?You never show up to the murder briefings, and when you do, you destroy evidence, mess with my investigations, and get me in trouble with all the physicians at University Square.But she said nothing. Again, struck by the audience, hanging off their every word.
Castle Hill oversaw both the police and the Mirror-Blessed investigations. Murder briefings were the prince’s responsibility—which was why Quinn had to interact with him so much—but Emrys only showed up to a handful of them. The last time the prince came to one of her autopsies, he burned all her notes and tampered with the lab results. It was so egregious that the entire investigation had to be dropped, and Quinn was blamed for allowing it to happen. He made her look like an idiot in front ofher peers—and worse, the medical students. But the most egregious part was that even though the senior physicians knew Emrys was responsible, he never got reprimanded. Emrys could get away with murder, and no one would even bat an eye.
Perhaps Emrys was responsible forthatcase’s murder. Why else tamper with the evidence? Unless it was to protect one of his lovers, like Harlowe Merriwether. Either way, it was infuriating.
Quinn hated to look dumb. She hated that hemadeher look dumb. While she didn’t want to be a medical examiner, she never wanted to be bad at something, which is why she only slept three to four hours a night. She needed to perform her assistant duties while also training for the ballet. Her body and mind suffered, while Emrys wasted away his privilege, having absolutely no understanding or concern for the suffering of others. Her fingernails bit into her palms, her stomach broiling.
So she ignored him.
She set her jaw and tried to calm her thoughts. He was getting under her skin again, and that never led to good places.
And only dance mattered.
Quickly standing, she attempted to balance on her good leg. It did not go well, and she toppled sideways. But Emrys’s hands were like quicksilver, sliding around her waist and steadying her like a partner in a dance. He flinched at the touch, and Quinn sucked in a breath and held it. The feeling of his firm grip soaked through the tulle of her tutu, making it feel like his fingers were stroking her naked body.
She shuddered.
“Here, let me help you,” Emrys said, the heat from his words caressing her neck.
Tilting her chin up, she caught his chestnut gaze—which sometimes had a hint of azure blue in them. Temptation and dark promises lingered there. Promises like those hands stroking a different part of her body intimately. Quinn gulped, smashing down her traitorous thoughts. She’d never had a lover and neverwanted one—she had no time for that—but she was starting to see why Emrys was so coveted in the bedroom.
Emrys released his hands from her waist, and Quinn stifled a protesting sigh at the loss of stability.Get yourself together. You do not need him to steady you. Moreover, you do not want him to touch you.
“I don’t need your help.” Her words were all wanton and breathy, and she pinched her eyes shut for a moment as shame stirred in her stomach.
Dammit. Quinn was better than this.Pretty men are to look at, not to touch. A great motto. She swallowed hard and brushed him off again. He wouldn’t stand in the way of her dreams. Placing weight onto her bad leg, she tested her strength.
As she moved to leave, Emrys clutched her upper arm. “Let me walk you to auditions.” A chorus of camera lightbulbs flashed, reminding her of how public and documented their interaction was becoming.
“No,” she whispered, a little too weakly for her tastes. “No, I can do it myself.” Quinn wrenched out of his hold and sidestepped him before making her way through the multitude.
Her tights were ruined, and her calf pulsed with pain, but none of that mattered. Rain or shine, hell or high water, Quinnevere Ashelle would make it to auditions, and if she had to dance with an injured leg, so be it.
Two
Quinnevere Ashelle tiptoed through the studio door twenty minutes late with no tights and a ruffled tutu. She sucked in a deep breath as mortification rattled her bones. The tardiness hadn’t escaped the attention of the Queen’s Royalle Ballet director or her close friend and ballet mistress, Jane Whitfield-Wryte. Quinn wilted under their scrutiny and mouthed her apologies as she ran to the side of the room and dropped her pack before quickly slipping into her pointe shoes and rushing to the barre.
Quinn took the spot beside Constance DeWinter, another one of her best friends and the best dancer in the room. Quinn knew all the other dancers there, and Constance was a shoo-in for an apprentice position.
“What happened? You’re never late.” Constance whispered while performing a plié.
“A titanic pain in my—” A glare from the ballet director cut Quinn off.
The last thing Quinn wanted to do after walking in late with no tights and a stained tutu was to anger the director further. So, with her mouth in a tight line, Quinn joined the rhythm of exercises, ensuring that her feet moved through first, second, andfourth positions with elegance and precision. Her calf burned in the first position and ached in the second position, and by the fifth position, she could ignore the pain and focus on other things, like the curl of cinnamon escaping her bun and clinging to the back of her neck. And how, as she warmed up, she smelled more and more like blood and street grime.
The music changed tempo as excited whispers twirled through the room. The ballerinas gossiped about the arrival of the prince and the Festival of Blood, a ten-day holiday celebrating the Blood Rebellion—the war that ended the tyrannical rule of all vampires seven hundred years ago. The holiday festivities culminated on Winter’s Eve with the Royalle Suitor Ball. All eligible girls in New Swansea had received their invitations in the morning. When Quinn found hers in the mailbox, she tore it to pieces and threw it in the rubbish bin. No force in all the world would get her to attend a ball with Emrys Avalon.
“Prince Charming is back,” Constance whispered out of the corner of her mouth, her deep olive skin shining with sweat.
