Page 47 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
“Little ballerina, I would like to speak with you, and I would prefer if you didn’t run away from me this time,” the man said again, his tone as dark as shadows. A tone that dripped with arrogance and power. The tone only royalty could muster.
Emrys Avalon.
Quinn groaned again and pulled the covers over her head, mumbling, “No. Go away.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Go away.” She mumbled into her pillow for a third time.
“You know I can pick a lock, right?” Of course, he could. Quinn couldn’t see the prince’s face, but she imagined he looked rather proud of himself—a preening peacock.
“Uh, fine.” She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door. “How may I help you, your grand, glorious majesty?” she asked sarcastically as she opened the door to the impeccably dressed prince.
Thank God her uncle was already in the morgue. She had no idea how she’d explain this to him.
Emrys’s eyes raked over her, and he laughed. “You’re hungover.”
“I am not.”
“So, you’re hungover and a liar.”
“I’m pretty sure you are the liar and murderer.”
“I very well may be a liar, but I am certainly not a murderer.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a roguish smirk that could compete with any hero in a silent picture show, which was fitting considering that he escorted beautiful actresses to one of the Pleasure District’s clubs every night.
“Why are you here”—Quinn glanced at her grandfather clock—“at six in the morning?”
Quinn finally got a day to sleep in because ballet auditions were canceled for the next three days to honor Jane’s death, but this irritating prince had to ruin that.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his hand on the door as he peered in.
Quinn crossed her arms and shot him a glare so hot it could melt the Arctic. “Absolutely not. It would be utterly indecent.”
A lazy smile laced his tawny cheeks. “Fine, we can have this conversation in the hallway then.” He leaned against the door jam.
“What do you want?” Quinn crossed her arms in sad resistance. “What is so important that you must wake me up early in the morning, banging on my door?”
He glowered. “I want your help to solve the murder.”
Quinn forced her head high and stood up to him even though he was far, far taller, and stronger than her. To anyone watching, it must have looked like a cat cornered by a mouse. But if she were a mouse, she’d be a fearsome one to behold. “I’ll help you if you tell me why you were spending so much time with Jane.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
Emrys folded his arms in response to her stubbornness. “If I could tell you, I would. But I cannot. I am bound—” He cut his words off, and a flicker of something akin to pain thundered in his eyes. “I cannot tell you what Jane and I were discussing. However, I can say that the murder may be connected to secrets that Castle Hill and the Royalle House must protect at all costs.”
“Including the cost of murder?” Quinn asked.
Emrys shifted a hint of desperation in his stance. “Do you know the Graham Knight novels?” he asked, switching the subject.
“With the detective who is always wearing a deerstalking hat?” Quinn ran a finger down the doorframe, hoping that the sensory stimulation would cause his change in subject to make sense.
“Yes. Have you readThe Knight and the State Secret?”
“Of course not.” If he thought she read for fun, he was far stupider than she ever imagined.
“Right, well, the story is about—”
