Chapter 2

Two

Q uinnevere Ashelle tiptoed through the studio door twenty minutes late with no tights and a ruffled tutu. She sucked in a deep breath as mortification rattled her bones. The tardiness hadn't escaped the attention of the Queen's Royalle Ballet director or her close friend and ballet mistress, Jane Whitfield-Wryte. Quinn wilted under their scrutiny and mouthed her apologies as she ran to the side of the room and dropped her pack before quickly slipping into her pointe shoes and rushing to the barre.

Quinn took the spot beside Constance DeWinter, another one of her best friends and the best dancer in the room. Quinn knew all the other dancers there, and Constance was a shoo-in for an apprentice position.

"What happened? You're never late." Constance whispered while performing a plié.

"A titanic pain in my—" A glare from the ballet director cut Quinn off.

The last thing Quinn wanted to do after walking in late with no tights and a stained tutu was to anger the director further. So, with her mouth in a tight line, Quinn joined the rhythm of exercises, ensuring that her feet moved through first, second, and fourth positions with elegance and precision. Her calf burned in the first position and ached in the second position, and by the fifth position, she could ignore the pain and focus on other things, like the curl of cinnamon escaping her bun and clinging to the back of her neck. And how, as she warmed up, she smelled more and more like blood and street grime.

The music changed tempo as excited whispers twirled through the room. The ballerinas gossiped about the arrival of the prince and the Festival of Blood, a ten-day holiday celebrating the Blood Rebellion—the war that ended the tyrannical rule of all vampires seven hundred years ago. The holiday festivities culminated on Winter's Eve with the Royalle Suitor Ball. All eligible girls in New Swansea had received their invitations in the morning. When Quinn found hers in the mailbox, she tore it to pieces and threw it in the rubbish bin. No force in all the world would get her to attend a ball with Emrys Avalon.

"Prince Charming is back," Constance whispered out of the corner of her mouth, her deep olive skin shining with sweat.

"I saw. No one could've missed his colossal grand entrance," Quinn said, kicking her foot high into the air above her head, starting her last exercise, the grand battement.

"Funny," Constance said with a low, husky voice while maintaining a perfect arm position. "He will be hosting a ball to find a suitable wife on Winter's Eve."

"Yes, it's positively medieval." Quinn groaned, spinning and shifting onto her left leg.

Constance flashed a dimple with a devilish glint in her chestnut eyes. "I thought you would love that bit."

Quinn shrugged off the jest, but the idea still unsettled her. The mere thought of a suitor ball gave her the urge to gag. No self-respecting girl wanted to marry a man after only spending a night with him. At least that was Quinn's view, but according to the obnoxious whispers permeating the room, many did not share her opinion.

"I don't envy the poor girl who marries him," Quinn said. "I bet he stares at himself in a normal mirror for at least two hours every morning."

"Indeed." Constance's tone was low and brooding. She was always moody when she danced.

The ballet director cleared his throat and clapped. "Great warm-up. Let's begin today at the corps' first entrance. Remember, this is the Ball of Diamonds. It is a show filled with intrigue and romance. Make me feel the tension and excitement!"

The dancers split apart and moved into position—the girls on one side of the room and the boys on the other. They were to perform the Waltz of Roses.

"Girls, remember to act coy yet excited when your partners enter." The director walked to the front of the room and motioned to the piano. "From the top, please, Andrews."

The piano played a three-four tempo—the waltz tempo.

The dance began with bourrée steps to the center. The quick movements created the effect of floating atop the clouds, the magic of it erupting through Quinn's core and tingling on her skin as she glided across the floor like a fairy hovering above a lily pad, her steps light, delicate, and beautiful.

A fairytale come to life.

"One, two, three, not too fast. Watching your arms . . . Left shoulder back and squeeze," the ballet director commanded like a drill sergeant. "Two, three into the passé, four lifting the knee, five arrive, six, hold . . ."

Quinn let the music flow, breathe, and live inside her body. Dance was a form of enchantment, and the movement, precision, and skill all filled Quinn's soul.

But a bead of sweat dripped down Quinn's temple as her legs moved in quick succession. Exhaustion gripped its claws into her side, and the intense fire radiating from her wound was all-consuming. Dancing on pointe forced her calf into a constantly flexed position that pricked her stitches and possibly loosened them. But she begged her body to continue—to fight. Her breaths became tight and restricted as they approached the boys' entrance.

"Gentlemen, find your partner, one; Quinn, feel that passion. You're stiff . . . You need to seduce your partner . . ."

Quinn's heart twisted, pounding like an untamable beast. She sucked in a breath and tried to calm down. She also tried to flash a seductive smile at her partner, Arthur. It came out far more like an uncomfortable grimace than anything sensual.

"That's not passion, Quinn," the director yelled. "You look repulsed by him."

Dammit. Quinn didn't understand passion. She didn't know how to look at a man with lust. Lust wasn't quantifiable. It wasn't science.

A sharp pain jolted through her calf as she spun into a promenade on attitude. A trickle of liquid rolled down her leg.

Shit, shit, shit, dirty mirrors, please only be sweat instead of blood, she begged.

"Alright, your final pirouette and a hold . . . five, six, seven, arrive."

The director clapped while the dancers stopped, the boys letting go of the girls' waists. Everyone tried to catch their breath. Exhaustion poured over Quinn as she clutched her stomach, trying to calm her nerves and heart.

"That wasn't bad. But girls, I want to see that sparkle in your eye when the gents come toward you."

Constance and Quinn shared a glance. Neither girl would have a sparkle in their eyes upon seeing a boy. But for different reasons. Constance preferred the company of ladies, and Quinn preferred . . . well, not a prince. Or a lord or a duke—but especially not a prince.

Princes were for looking, not touch—

Her thoughts were interrupted as the director said, "Especially you, Quinn. I need you to find your passion if you're going to make it into the company."

Her core solidified into unmoving, unyielding stone. She needed to impress the director, so he'd choose her. The last thing she needed was to be singled out as the worst dancer in the room. This wasn't true because Quinn was a brilliant dancer, but she was adequate compared to the competition.

But not the worst.

Never the worst.

"Arthur, as usual, great work! Your lifts are seamless, and Mariam," the director continued his notes. "You have to control your constant mumbling. Your dancing is brilliant, but no one wants to hear your nonsense while you dance."

Quinn winced. Mariam was notorious for her bad deal with one of New Swansea's wicked mirrors. The deal's unintended consequence caused her to mumble, whisper, and never cease speaking.

Hundreds of mirrors known as the Bargainers lined the city, and the godlike souls inside of them traded for information, wealth, prestige, and magic at terrible costs. People negotiated to better their lives, but the bigger the ask, the bigger the cost and unintended consequence. And some people—the desperate people—bartered away their autonomy for a chance at a better life, and others promised a piece of their soul for magical abilities. Poor Mariam traded for magic shoes that allowed her to dance perfectly, but the cost was never to be silenced. The unintended consequence was that she could never stop talking. Ever.

Far too great a cost.

It was clear she deeply regretted her decision because her eyes grew red, and she looked like she wanted to cry, but Mariam simply said, "Yessir, I'll do better." But her voice cracked on the last word.

Quinn shuddered, her upcoming Mirror-Rite clawing at the back of her mind.

"Quinnevere, can I speak with you for a moment?" Jane asked.

"Yes, of course." Quinn swallowed, and her palms were suddenly sweaty. Nothing good ever came from that question .

Jane motioned to a corner, where they settled into a private nook. Fear stroked the insides of Quinn's stomach. It was never good to be pulled aside privately—even by a close friend. But Quinn greatly admired the other redhead and would take any correction she'd give.

"Quinny, you have wonderful technique, but you lack passion. I can see it, and the director can see it. You need to move the audience with artistry." Jane laid it out bluntly. It was her way, never pulling punches. But despite the harshness of her words, she flashed an empathetic half-smile. "We've talked about this many times, but now it matters. You have to impress the Royalle Ballet, and I fear that if you cannot show passion this week, you won't make the cut this year."

Quinn's throat felt as dry as the Kaldan desert.

It was not a new critique, yet it hurt as much as it did the first time—possibly because she'd spent the last four years trying to work on her acting and learning emotion. Quinn was precise and technical, rarely missing a beat. Her artistry resembled a steamship engine chugging away, working to a brilliant yet dull rhythm. And like her dancing, the machine was predictable and plain because it lacked all semblance of passion.

Unfortunately, Quinn didn't understand passion, nor did she know where to begin learning it. Long ago, to seek control in a chaotic and cruel world, she'd locked up her emotions in an impenetrable prison, and she no longer had the key.

"I know. I don't know how to change it." Quinn said as her heart was encased in ice.

"Try to feel something, and you will do fine."

That was easier said than done.

Pain soaked into the corners of Quinn's eyes, a stinging sensation pulsing through them, but she refused to let out a tear. Not for this. She would be strong and get through it. So Quinn merely nodded, not wanting to speak, not wanting anyone to see her upset.

What she needed was to get away .

"I can help you tonight if you would like." Jane's lips slid into a soft smile. "Maybe we could practice at the Viridian after your Mirror-Rite."

Quinn's stomach plummeted, and her hands shook at the reminder.

In New Swansea, on a person's twenty-third birthday, they reached the age of majority and were legally allowed to bargain with the mirrors, and over time, it became a tradition to challenge a mirror with a small, innocuous deal the night one turned of age. Urban legend said that if somebody refused to do the ritual, they would have seven years of bad luck. So, while Quinn hated the idea of the rite, and it was the last thing she wanted to do, she couldn't risk bad luck. Not with her week long auditions.

Jane placed a hand on her friend's cheek. "You look like you might be sick."

Of course, Quinn looked sick. People lost their souls to bad bargains. "Deals are scary, I mean you—" lost your ability to dance to one . Quinn cut herself off before she could finish. Jane's bad experience was never openly acknowledged. She'd been the brightest dancing star in the city until one day, mysteriously, she couldn't dance anymore. As far as Quinn could tell, Jane didn't have anything physically wrong with her; she just couldn't dance. Everyone knew it had to be a mirror, but no one ever mentioned or asked about it. It wasn't kind to ask about mirror deals gone wrong. But Quinn desperately wanted to know if her inability to dance was the cost of Jane's deal or the unintended consequence.

Did Jane know what she was giving up before she made the deal? Or was it a surprise?

Quinn sucked in a breath. She didn't want to become like her friend. She didn't want to regret her rite for the rest of her life—because after her rite, she never intended to make another mirror bargain ever again. The world was full of bad mirror deals, and Quinn had no intention of becoming yet another victim.

She shivered and clutched her necklace tight. "I'm fine."

Jane examined Quinn, and it was clear that she didn't believe it, but she decided not to push it. Instead, she changed the subject. "There is one more thing . . ." Jane's voice trailed off, and she glanced around the room hesitantly—nervously. In a whisper, she continued, "I was wondering if you might know anything about a Blood Mirror?"

Quinn's eyebrows crinkled. She knew about most bargainers, but she'd never heard of a Blood Mirror. But the name made it sound like something she'd prefer never to meet. Mirrors could not be trusted.

"I've never heard . . ." Quinn began, confusion twisting her words. "Why would you ask me?"

Jane ran her fingers through her hair, her eyes darting around the room as if she were afraid someone would overhear them. "It's just that your necklace—" She stopped mid-sentence when she caught Constance's eye. "Never mind, you wouldn't know."

Jane's red locks bounced as she shot one more hectic glance at Constance before turning on her heel and walking into a crowd of dancers.

"What was that about?" Constance asked, walking up to Quinn, her eyes following their mutual friend as she vanished into the bathroom.

"I have no idea." Quinn rolled her shoulders, trying to release both tension and confusion. "She asked me about a Blood Mirror."

"I've never heard of it, but it sounds like something to be avoided like the plague."

"Very true."