Page 97 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
But at least it meant life. It meant hope.
Without sight, Quinn couldn’t know the extent of the damage. She needed to open her eyes. But even that task felt impossible. It was far more comfortable to drift into the land of sleep.
No, get up, move. If you don’t, you’ll die.
Fight. Survive.
And the first step, although very small, was to open her eyes. But her eyelids drooped and were heavy-laden. It took every ounce of her energy to open them enough to see. But what she managed to see was obscured by her thick black eyelashes.
Come on, Quinn. You can do this. You need to move.
Trying again, she gathered all the energy she could muster, and she fully opened her eyes. Within seconds of examining her wounds, she was hit by a burst of dizziness.
Blood stained her tutu so much that only tiny spots of the white remained. Claw marks ran down the entire length of herchest and torso. She’d been attacked by . . . by . . . a . . . Her mind emptied.
Focus. On your wounds, Quinn.
Oh, yes, her wounds. With a medical and precise eye, Quinn examined the injuries. They weren't deep, but they were numerous and gushing, and if she didn’t stop the bleeding soon, she’d die from blood loss.
Quinn pressed her arm against her chest, desperately trying to compress and stop the blood.
It wasn’t enough.
There were too many lacerations. She needed something to stop the bleeding. But her clothing was filthy and covered with germs and using it risked infection. But if she didn’t do something, she’d die.
Holy fucking hell. It was bad.
A beautiful mixture of curse words left her lips.
Petticoats.
But she didn’t have enough fabric under her tutu. She really needed to stop being late to ballet.
Quinn desperately crawled to the dead body beside her.
Waffling through the skirts as respectfully as possible, she tried to reach the woolen underskirt. The lowest petticoat was her best bet for both the cleanest and most efficient material. After much effort, she reached the skirt that she needed. With all the strength she could muster, she ripped and ripped.
But it took too much effort to pull apart, and her eyes . . . were . . . drooping. Sleep wasn’t so bad. A couple of minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt . . .
Sandpaper tickled her toes. It was scratchy and rather unpleasant. Quinn jolted awake.
She would not die here.
Not like this.
Not now.
Finding her feet, she realized that two flickering cat shadowslicked her toes and kept her awake—Hadleigh’s cat shadows. The magical familiars.
“Stop it,” Quinn groaned as she sat up and began to wrap her wounds—very poorly. But it worked well enough to stop most of the bleeding.
But now Quinn needed to figure out how to get out of the alley and find help . . . in the middle of the night, amongst abandoned streets.
Focus.You’re a strong, athletic ballerina. You can do this.
Pushing herself to her feet, she managed to take three steps before crumbling back to the ground. But Quinn didn’t quit. When you fall in ballet, you get back up. When you fall in life,you get back up.
And that was what she did. She kept getting back up until . . . she hit a brick wall and toppled over.
