Page 61 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
And if that’s real, then so was the necklace. Quinn clutched it tight, its cage cutting into her skin. It was alive. A soul. A brunette woman. She shivered and pulled the chain over her head. Maybe she shouldn’t wear an alive soul around her neck. After a moment, she pulled it back over her head.
Jane told her to keep it close. So, she would.
Quinn shuddered and turned her eyes to her friends. Emrys sprawled on the studio dance floor, flipping through autopsy reports that he inconspicuously “borrowed” from Uncle Matias. Constance rested against the studio mirror and sewed her deep olive pointe shoes to her specifications. Ballet dancers wentthrough at least three pairs of pointe shoes in a week, and each new set had to be broken in and tailored to the specific dancer. Giselle had her nose deep into a book, and Jevon stood slightly in the corner, observing the scene, and flipping Jane’s key through his fingers. As usual, he was quiet, reserved, and examining.
Quinn practiced with precision and grace. Her arms fluttered and floated, painting a nightmare across the room. A nightmare embodying death’s embrace. Her dancing was like broken promises, last kisses, and shattered dreams. Her feet glided and glittered along a field of corpses clawing at her toes.
Everything matched the tone of the dance—everything except probably Quinn’s face.
She gritted her teeth and tried to show her character’s sorrow and horror. Unfortunately, Quinn’s version of distraught felt more like a mild case of irritation.
Her left leg tingled as she finished her pique turns, sweat flowing down her body. The Realm of Death variation from Lover’s Lost was taxing in almost every way imaginable.
“No. No, no, stop,” Constance called, the needle in her hand still moving even though she wasn’t looking at her task. “You need to feel terrified and devastated. You just lost your husband and will forever be trapped in the land of the dead.”
“I am trying,” Quinn huffed. “This is my devastated face.”
“No, that is your constipated face,” Constance said. Despite the harsh words, her tone was warm and soft. It was the somber calmness that she typically had when dancing. In fact, Constance always seemed to be in a less energetic mood around Emrys.
He chuckled, his face now deep in the Ashelle murder autopsy report.
“Perhaps it ismy I am gonna murder someone face.” Quinn glared at the top of Emrys’s raven hair.
Giselle’s ruby lips rose with amusement. “If that is your murderous face, it will scare absolutely no one.”
Pain rippled through Quinn’s calf. It wasn’t until she stopped dancing that she felt the deep agony in her leg. She shook out hernumb calves to try to release the tension. “That’s probably true. Thankfully, I don’t plan on being a murderer.”
“No, you just plan on investigating them.” Constance’s maple wood eyes flicked back to her pointe shoes as she folded the toe, trying to break them in.
“Well . . . hopefully not,” Quinn pouted. But even that lacked the proper childish emotion. Quinn didn’t need to actually see it to know her acting was bad. “Hopefully, I’ll be dancing in the Royalle Ballet for the next five years.”
Emrys wrinkled his nose.
Constance’s eyes narrowed. “Do you ever rest?”
“Of course, she doesn’t,” Giselle chimed in, turning a page of her book.
Quinn crossed her arms and huffed. “I’ll rest when I am dead.”
A wicked grin danced on Emrys's face as he looked up for the first time all practice. “Let’s hope your death is more restful—”
Constance hit him with her shoe, cutting him off. “Let’s stop talking about her death.”
His entire body sparkled with mischievous amusement, and he shrugged as if discussing Quinn’s death was as normal as discussing the weather.
Constance pursed her lips. “Back to work, Quinny. And try to imagine what it would be like to lose the love of your life,” Constance commanded, still glowering at Emrys.
“Perhaps she needs to know what it is to touch a man before she can accurately pretend to lose a great love.” Emrys winked before ducking his face back into his report.
All three girls glowered at him. He held up his hands in surrender. “If you are looking for a murderous face, you should copy the one you have right now. It is grand.”
The fire burning inside Quinn deepened to a poisonous gas, spreading, and suffocating him in his place.
“See.” His playboy smile grew. “Precisely my point, you’re withering.” Emrys's eyes returned to his book. “But you reallyshould find yourself a gentleman and learn to . . .lovefrom experience and return to your lessons in passion.” He winked and emphasized the word love as if he meant an entirely different word.
Horror ruptured in Quinn’s stomach while Giselle hit him over the head with her book. “Watch yourself, princey, and go back to your reading.”
He shrugged. “I am just saying—”
