Chapter 1

One

I t was highly inappropriate to run down the streets of New Swansea in a tutu. Not only was it indecent, it was utterly impractical. But Quinnevere Ashelle had no other choice. She was running late, and her life, her dreams, her everything depended on timeliness. It was the first day of auditions for the Royalle Ballet, and this year, she would make it into the corps de ballet.

She had to .

It was her last chance.

Steamship whistles blared obnoxiously overhead, grating against her ears. Thousands cheered and crammed the streets, wanting to witness the largest and fastest vessel to cross the Kardic Ocean. Children sang nursery rhymes and danced as their parents waved flags and jumped for joy, looking for the best view. Gramophones played classical music, and camera shutters echoed against cobblestones. The light from the flashbulbs reflected off the Mirror of Forgotten—the wicked magic mirror that loomed over the crowd. It stood stationary on Marina Hill, overlooking the docks. The majestic nature of it was meant to lure people near, drawing in individuals who were too cocky or foolish to listen to the warnings whispered throughout the town. This particular mirror was known for trading for people's most cherished memories.

But Quinn was no fool. She wouldn't be caught up in its beauty. Instead, she ran through the chaos, making her way to auditions with her necklace bouncing with her footfalls.

Panic rose in her throat.

The crowd was too dense, and time was not on her side.

Quinn was turning twenty-three tonight, and sadly, she was getting too old to join a ballet company. Apprentices were supposed to start at eighteen, but Quinn was five years behind on her dream, and unfortunately, she had to become an apprentice first to get her coveted role in the corps de ballet.

So, this year's auditions were her final shot—only shot.

Five. Years. Behind. Because of her uncle. He didn't see the value in non-practical things like dance, so he forced her to work as a junior medical examiner. But this year was different because Quinn was turning the age of majority, and she could finally make her own life decisions.

She could finally audition for the Queen's Royalle Ballet, and she wouldn't let the crowded streets of the Marina District destroy her future. The ballet was her ticket out of humble circumstances and into fame—and prestige. Respect.

But she couldn't accomplish her goal stuck in this horde.

"Oh, fucking mirrors," Quinn cursed under her breath. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Smashing down her scarlet tutu, she tried to weave through newsies and photographers—who would stop at nothing to get a picture of the rich and glamorous as they disembarked the grand ocean liner, the RMS Colossal .

This was the least opportune moment to make history. Why couldn't that godforsaken ship make port on any other day? Any other day when she hadn't overslept. Any other day when her whole life wasn't counting on it.

Just any other fucking day.

Quinn huffed, gripping her tulle skirt .

When she was finally about to get a respite from the chaos, a photographer elbowed her in the side, and she lost her balance. Quinn stumbled, hit a second man, and fell sideways. The world stilled. Time felt like molasses slowly dripping from a jar. The fall took an eternity—until it didn't.

Quinn's leg crashed into a miniaturized steamship souvenir, which sliced open the skin near her gastrocnemius muscle. Pain radiated through her bones as blood trickled down her calf, staining her tights and dreams in crimson. Quinn gasped. A mixture of untoward curse words escaped from her lips.

Her thoughts fuzzed, and her world changed.

All Quinn could focus on was external things because if she allowed anything else in, she would break. And she wouldn't break, so she turned her attention to the fog hovering over the brick-and-mortar shops like a veil slanted off a corpse bride's face. The icy autumn hurricane-like wind snaked through the streets, causing her cinnamon hair to fall out of her bun and dance down her chest. Storefront shutters smacked into rustic bricks. The coiling silver surface of the Mirror of Forgotten winked in the sunlight—mocking her. The nursery rhymes rotted, and screams pierced the morning dew.

Icy fire ripped through her leg; a burn so hot it felt cold. Quinn gritted her teeth, trying to brace herself for the pain. Dread sank into her stomach as blood gushed from her calf.

Dance. Auditions. It was all ruined. Now, she'd never make it to auditions on time, and her childhood dreams would wilt away like a cut rose—decaying. Her fantasies of traveling the world as a ballerina burned to ash between her fingers.

Quinn blinked as a bead of sweat glided down her temple. Sucking in a breath, she refused to give in.

This would not fucking end her.

She dug her fingertips into the coarse fabric of her tutu as she tried to ground herself. When that didn't work, she moved her hand to clutch her necklace. It was the only piece of her parents she had left. Quinn didn't remember much of their murders, but she recalled the screams and a shattered magic mirror—a piece of which hung on a chain around her neck.

After a couple of breaths, the panic subsided, and her rational brain took over. She knew how to suture a wound. And she would rely on her training. After all, Quinn was raised in the morgue, surrounded by rotting bodies and an eccentric uncle. Medicine, suturing, and blood were constants in her life. She was a medical examiner. In fact, she'd known how to sew since she was six because her uncle decided it was prudent and appropriate to teach a six-year-old how to close a corpse. So she'd assisted with his autopsies ever since.

This scratch was nothing.

The souvenir only pierced into the dermis. Which meant she barely had to stitch anything.

She clumsily stood up, and a man with a mirror-blessed tattoo reached out to steady her. The tattoo reminded her of the terrifying Mirror-Rite. The rite she had to make tonight on her twenty-third birthday or suffer severe consequences . . .

But she couldn't think about that now because she had bigger problems to deal with.

Like her shattered ambitions.

"Thank you," Quinn said, hopping to a storefront stoop as rivulets of blood soaked her tights and the street.

The man mumbled his reply and disappeared back into the crowd.

Once she sat down, Quinn reached into her pack and pulled out a small first aid kit. Making quick work of it, she threaded a needle before placing it between her teeth and ripping her tights off. The red staining her tutu nearly blended in with the maroon fabric, but her tights were as pale as her moon-white skin. Except, now, they were destroyed, caked with crimson streaks, and that would not do. It was better to go without tights than bloody ones.

Biting down tightly, Quinn sucked in a deep breath before pouring saline onto her left calf and lacing the needle into her dermis. She worked quickly through the pain as salty tears coated her cheeks. And Quinn hated herself for those tears. If it were up to her, she would never cry. She saw it as a sign of weakness. Showing emotion, showing how the world's cruelty affected her, only made her feel frail and out of control, like prey—like a victim. And she never wanted to be that. She needed to control her own destiny. So, she stifled her feelings and allowed no one to see them.

But it was impossible to hold in tears caused by excruciating pain, and sewing your wound on the side of a dirty street without morphine was, at the very least, painful.

Halfway through her stitches, the voice of a devil echoed through the chaos. "Hello, Ginger."

Quinn glanced up, and her eyes fixed on Emrys Avalon, Prince of New Swansea, her eternal adversary and the second in line to the throne. Her stomach coiled. The prince loved to make her life miserable and always showed up at the most inopportune moments. The needle in her fingers quivered as her heart turned into jagged icicles. Emrys was bad news incarnate, like nightmares made manifest. With his midnight hair and fiendish smile, he was way, way too attractive for his own good.

Disgustingly attractive.

She allowed her eyes to focus on him for a minuscule second before dismissively returning her gaze to her leg. But that moment was long enough to notice that he wore formal attire.

Formal attire at 6:30 in the morning.

He was dressed in a double-breasted pinstriped suit with a purple vest and silk cravat, which complemented his smooth, dark olive complexion. Topping the ostentatious outfit off was a gilded cane and a shiny black top hat with a grosgrain ribbon and a purple peacock feather. An outfit that screamed, look at me with my expendable wealth and deep-rooted narcissism .

No decent gentleman wore formal attire this early in the morning. But Quinn shouldn't be surprised. Emrys, the notorious rogue, only cared about wasting money, fucking, having a good time, and being surrounded by courtesans and booze. He was probably on his way to the Viridian or Starling nightclubs to continue his constant stream of partying.

Quinn sighed.

Focusing on her task, she felt his irritation in the shifting of his stance. No one ignored the Playboy Prince.

"What are you doing?" he asked the question in the sort of pompous way an aristocrat would ask a servant who had overstayed their welcome—like she had no right to be where she was and doing what she was doing.

Many untoward answers gathered in her mind, but she was suddenly aware of the crowd and cameras surrounding them. "I am suturing my leg."

"Would you like help?"

Her eyebrows crinkled. Emrys Avalon was not chivalrous. He only did things that suited him and his needs, and as he reached out a hand to help her, an echo of flashbulbs ignited behind him. Oh, that was the reason. He wasn't chivalrous, but he wanted to appear to be. In a society based on celebrity, it wasn't the truth that mattered. Appearances and gossip ruled the day.

"Have you ever sutured a wound before?" She turned her chin up to catch his gaze but nearly sprained her neck doing so.

Emrys towered above. He always towered over her, but the difference was stark when she was on the ground. She was a short, petite little thing, and he was, well . . . the ridiculous stereotype of a tall, dark, and handsome actor in a silent picture show.

"Would it surprise you if I said yes?" A devilish grin danced on his lips.

Yes. It would. But that was not what she said. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her surprise. "I am sure you've had many occasions to learn."

His smile widened further. "I am sure I have. Danger is a beautiful bedmate."

He moved closer as if to show his various skills, but she held out her hand to stop him. "Thank you for your offer, but I am perfectly capable of suturing a wound." With that, she turned her focus completely back to her task.

"Yes, clearly," he said. "I was merely suggesting that you allow someone to help you . . . in various ways."

Quinn gulped. What the fuck did that even mean?

Ignoring him and the question, she looped her final stitch, tied a knot, and wrapped her leg in gauze.

"Quinnevere, why are you wearing a tutu at the docking of the Colossal ?" he asked as she returned her tools to her medical kit and placed them back in her pack.

She wanted to say, why do you think I am wearing a fucking tutu? Obviously, I am going to dance. He brought out the worst in her. But instead, she smiled through her teeth and said, "Queen's Royalle Ballet auditions."

"How is a junior medical examiner going to make it into the Royalle Ballet? Even if you had the talent, you wouldn't have the time to perform."

Did he realize how condescending he was? "I wouldn't do them both."

"But you're one of the brightest minds in the city. I assume you do more autopsies now than your uncle. Why would you waste that?" A baffled expression sparked on his bronze cheeks.

She wanted to say, and how would you know ? You never show up to the murder briefings, and when you do, you destroy evidence, mess with my investigations, and get me in trouble with all the physicians at University Square. But she said nothing. Again, struck by the audience, hanging off their every word.

Castle Hill oversaw both the police and the Mirror-Blessed investigations. Murder briefings were the prince's responsibility—which was why Quinn had to interact with him so much—but Emrys only showed up to a handful of them. The last time the prince came to one of her autopsies, he burned all her notes and tampered with the lab results. It was so egregious that the entire investigation had to be dropped, and Quinn was blamed for allowing it to happen. He made her look like an idiot in front of her peers—and worse, the medical students. But the most egregious part was that even though the senior physicians knew Emrys was responsible, he never got reprimanded. Emrys could get away with murder, and no one would even bat an eye.

Perhaps Emrys was responsible for that case's murder. Why else tamper with the evidence? Unless it was to protect one of his lovers, like Harlowe Merriwether. Either way, it was infuriating.

Quinn hated to look dumb. She hated that he made her look dumb. While she didn't want to be a medical examiner, she never wanted to be bad at something, which is why she only slept three to four hours a night. She needed to perform her assistant duties while also training for the ballet. Her body and mind suffered, while Emrys wasted away his privilege, having absolutely no understanding or concern for the suffering of others. Her fingernails bit into her palms, her stomach broiling.

So she ignored him.

She set her jaw and tried to calm her thoughts. He was getting under her skin again, and that never led to good places.

And only dance mattered.

Quickly standing, she attempted to balance on her good leg. It did not go well, and she toppled sideways. But Emrys's hands were like quicksilver, sliding around her waist and steadying her like a partner in a dance. He flinched at the touch, and Quinn sucked in a breath and held it. The feeling of his firm grip soaked through the tulle of her tutu, making it feel like his fingers were stroking her naked body.

She shuddered.

"Here, let me help you," Emrys said, the heat from his words caressing her neck.

Tilting her chin up, she caught his chestnut gaze—which sometimes had a hint of azure blue in them. Temptation and dark promises lingered there. Promises like those hands stroking a different part of her body intimately. Quinn gulped, smashing down her traitorous thoughts. She'd never had a lover and never wanted one—she had no time for that—but she was starting to see why Emrys was so coveted in the bedroom.

Emrys released his hands from her waist, and Quinn stifled a protesting sigh at the loss of stability. Get yourself together. You do not need him to steady you. Moreover, you do not want him to touch you.

"I don't need your help." Her words were all wanton and breathy, and she pinched her eyes shut for a moment as shame stirred in her stomach.

Dammit. Quinn was better than this. Pretty men are to look at, not to touch . A great motto. She swallowed hard and brushed him off again. He wouldn't stand in the way of her dreams. Placing weight onto her bad leg, she tested her strength.

As she moved to leave, Emrys clutched her upper arm. "Let me walk you to auditions." A chorus of camera lightbulbs flashed, reminding her of how public and documented their interaction was becoming.

"No," she whispered, a little too weakly for her tastes. "No, I can do it myself." Quinn wrenched out of his hold and sidestepped him before making her way through the multitude.

Her tights were ruined, and her calf pulsed with pain, but none of that mattered. Rain or shine, hell or high water, Quinnevere Ashelle would make it to auditions, and if she had to dance with an injured leg, so be it.