Page 62 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
“Why don’t we go over what we know about the murders.” Quinn cut him off. It would be an excellent way to put non-offensive words in his mouth.
“Great idea, Gingey,” he said.
Quinn sighed. Again, with that stupid nickname. He was doing it at this point to bother her, and they both knew it. “Stop, calling me that. It is not accurate.”
Her issue was the accuracy more than the nickname itself.
He held up his hands again in defeat. “So, Quinnevere, where should we start with the evidence?”
“From the beginning,” Quinn said. “We know there is a serial killer out there, possibly a vampire, who has been killing members of the Blood Council and specifically members that have some connection to the Blood Mirrors.” Once Quinn was finished, she started the variation again, dancing as the others continued.
“Blood Mirrors that hold the vampires’ greatest secret,” Giselle added, placing her book on the floor.
“So, the motive is the mirrors, but how does the key figure into all of this?” Jevon added.
As Quinn spotted him, she saw that he crossed a leg in front of him while leaning against the wall nonchalantly. Jevon was normally so still, so quiet, so observant that sometimes he blended into the scenery like a chameleon, which is why everyone’s eyes except Quinn’s landed on him.
Breathless and doing pas de bourrée steps, Quinn said, “I have no idea. Jane was trying to tell me something, so maybe it led to another clue. If only we could figureout where it goes.”
“Can I see it again?” Giselle asked.
As Jevon walked to hand the key over, Quinn did a double pirouette that went into attitude, her leg high in the air before finishing in a plié with her leg still extended out. It was a hard turn to complete, but Quinn had no issues with the steps. No issues except the pain dripping from her leg like acid.
“Hmm, it looks familiar. It didn’t open any of the rooms in the casino . . .” Giselle studied the key, sliding a finger across it. “Do you mind if I hold onto it for a while?”
“No, go ahea—” Quinn choked out as she jumped into a grand jeté across the floor. Quinn made the movement look smooth and elegant, but jumping with her legs in a full split across the floor took skill and dedication.
“Is there any evidence that might help us?” Constance asked, finally setting her shoes down.
Quinn ignored the question, running across the floor and trying to make her arms look as if she were chained and being dragged away. She poured every ounce of emotion into the movements. Stopping and clutching her side, she said, “Well, there is . . . the feather, sequins . . . and prints.”
Quinn gulped for air, so out of breath that she was barely able to answer the question. One should not dance and speak. It was too much. She collapsed beside Constance, sweat dripping from her forehead.
Once she finally was able to compose herself, she told them about the matching fingerprint on the feather and Jane’s corset, along with a print lifted from St. John’s neck. The victims were killed by the same person, and they had the fingerprints to prove it.
“So, we’re missing suspects. But you have the killer’s fingerprints . . . so all we need to do is find some suspects and check their prints,” Giselle said, rose buds blossoming on her bronze cheeks as excitement grew on her face. “You know what this means, Quinn.” Yes, she did. Quinn gulped, knowing precisely what her best friend would say next. “We’re breaking into CastleHill and attending that council meeting so that we can figure out a list of suspects.”
It made sense to gather fingerprints at the council meeting because they had the greatest connections to the victims.
“Precisely what I was thinking,” Quinn agreed, but her stomach churned with anxiety. She hated breaking the rules. But her preferences no longer mattered. “Not only can we get a list of suspects, but we could also gather fingerprint samples.”
“No, we absolutely are not going to break into Castle Hill to watch a council meeting. If we get caught, we could go to jail.” Constance stood up as if to make her position clearer.
“You know, Constance, sometimes you seem like two different people.” Giselle glowered at her friend. “Most days, you would die for a bit of excitement and fun. And then other days you’re just . . .” Giselle thought on the appropriate word, finally finishing with, “boring.”
“I might be boring, but at least I am not foolish. We are talking about the palace and the queen,” Constance said. “We’re not going.”
“I agree with Constance,” Emrys cut in. “It is not safe to be at Castle Hill tonight.”
The argument continued for a long time, and Giselle and Quinn finally agreed that they wouldn’t try to sneak into the palace because the prince didn’t approve. But knowing Giselle, they were absolutely going to break into the Royalle Palace.
Quinn crossed her arms. “If you don’t want us to go, fine, but Emrys, you’ll need to gather all of the fingerprints from council members.”
“Absolutely, but for now, I must be off. Castle Hill business.” Emrys bowed to the group before sauntering over to Quinn and clasping her hand. “Do remember to stay far, far away from Castle Hill tonight.” He winked.
Lifting it to his lips, he kissed the back of her hand while simultaneously slipping a paper between her fingers. Then he disappeared out the door and into the night.
Quinn unrolled a parchment that held five words:
