Page 51 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
Constance flipped open a book. “And I’m trying to search for anything to do with your tattoo and Blood Mirrors.” Since Jane shared the same tattoo on her wrist as Quinn, it made sense for one of the friends to investigate that while they were here.
Turning a few pages, Quinn grunted. This was a torture designed specifically for her. Her eyes clouded over as she turned the pages in the book. Not only was this task utterly dull, but it was also strenuous. The words jumped from page to page and danced a tango. None of the letters wanted to behave. It felt like a ballerina jumping grand jetés in her brain. Her temples throbbed, and her overall mood could only be described as a tornado mingling with a forest fire.
Quinn’s legs stung, and she tried to stretch her toes and did relevés with her feet to relieve the pain, but numbness curled up her legs like the talons of a vicious tiger. The exhaustion from drinking, ballet auditions, and all the stress of the murder lingered in her body. A rotten apple soured in her core as she carelessly flipped over another page.
Hours into the search, she gave up and rested her head in the tome.
“Eyes on the book, Ginger,” Emrys said as he leaned against the wall four tables away.
“Stop calling me that. It’s not accurate. My hair is reddish-brown.” It was just indecent to continue to repeat the same inaccuracy over and over again.
His signature, devilish smirk crossed his lips. “As you wish, little ballerina.”
Quinn sighed. At least that nickname was accurate.
Eventually, she focused back on the book and pretended to be very involved just to prove him wrong. Moving quickly, she took his advice and only looked for the pictures, which was how she stumbled upon something spectacularly strange.
A photographed painting of Emrys, but it couldn't be the Emrys standing across the room. It was too old. In the painting, the king held a staff, and on his middle finger, he had a strange freckle. It was on the inside of the finger where it shouldn’t have been visible to the sun. It was odd and unique.
Quinn bit the inside of her cheek and examined him as intently as a dead body. The portrait was identical but painted at least seven centuries before. She squinted and tried to read the information. It was a handwritten news sheet for a wedding announcement.
Emerson Avalon married Elody Wittfield in the year 50AV. The new princess who was chosen at the Suitor Ball is enjoying life at the palac—
Quinn stopped reading because the rest of the article was about the ceremony. She turned the page and found another marriage announcement.
Ezekiel Avalon married Charlotte Davies in the year 75AV.
It must have been Emerson’s son. The next page similarly was another announcement.
Edmund Avalon married Yasmin Perez in the year 100AV.
She flipped the page.
Page after page, Quinn turned to marriage announcements for the royal family. The articles changed from written news sheets to printed newspapers, but they were all similar. Quinn caught the pattern almost immediately. All the weddings took place twenty-five years apart. All of the married couples had a son, and each of their sons had a name that began with E.
Following the announcements were articles announcing the death of the princes.
Prince Emerson Avalon died on the fifth day of Summer 66AV.
Prince Ezekiel Avalon died on the fifth day of Summer 91 AV.
Prince Edmund Avalon died on the fifth day of Summer 116AV.
The princes died precisely sixteen years after their wedding on the same day. Every. Single. Time.
The hairs on her arms rose.
Was the royal family cursed? Cursed to repeat the same marriage and death cycle over and over again? Could a mirror cause that?
Was this what Emrys wanted her to find? And if it was, how could it possibly have anything to do with Jane’s murder?
It was an impossible pattern. How had someone not noticed before? Unless they had . . . and a mirror erased their memories. As soon as the thought hit her, it vanished, as did everything she’d just read.
Quinn shivered, fear dancing in her stomach, turning it hollow. She shook out her arms and tried to relax. Something was missing from her mind . . . but what?
“Is the book that horrifying?” Constance asked, noticing the discomfort.
“It’s a book.”
