Page 10 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

D awn filters through the thick, faded curtains of Selene’s room, casting a pale wash over the walls.

Selene’s head is heavy, her eyes swollen from the previous night’s tears.

She can’t remember the last time she cried like that.

Even her grandmother’s death hadn’t elicited such a response from her.

She had expected her grandmother to die.

Nothing could ever have prepared her for… this.

If she were a stronger person, she reasons, she’d be able to convince herself that she’s all right now, that that future is in the past. This is her situation now, and she shall make the most of it.

But she doesn’t have that kind of strength. The events of the day before settle in her mind with a strange, hollow weight. Her new home, her new husband… everything feels im possibly distant, like a story she has been told rather than the reality she now inhabits.

She disentangles herself from the nest of blankets she’s cocooned herself inside, and waits for the quiet footsteps of a maid or the gentle clink of breakfast dishes.

Minutes pass—perhaps an hour—but no one comes.

She sits up, glancing around the room, taking in the worn furnishings, the cold grate, the lace of shadows the morning sun throws onto the floor.

Her eyes land on the small bell pull near the bed, and she reaches for it with cautious hope, tugging lightly.

But after several more minutes with no response, she realises it doesn’t work.

No one is coming.

Confused and still a little foggy with sleep, she wraps a shawl around herself and begins to pace. Just as she decides to venture out in search of anyone who might help, a knock sounds at the door, and Dorian appears, slightly out of breath, as if he has rushed to find her.

“Good morning,” he says, looking briefly to the ground before meeting her gaze.

“Good morning,” she replies, clutching her shawl more tightly.

She has only ever been in a state of undress around one man before, and while Dorian is legally her husband, that doesn’t make the situation any less awkward.

It might even make it more so. He is entitled to see her, but she doesn’t want his gaze.

“I… I wasn’t certain what to do,” she continues. “There was no one…”

A flicker of something crosses his face. “Yes, of course. My apologies. We don’t… we don’t have the staff to bring breakfast up to rooms,” he says, almost sheepishly. “We tend to have breakfast in the drawing room downstairs.”

We? Who else lives here, except for Dorian and his servants? He surely doesn’t mean they all eat together, does he? It wouldn’t be proper for a lord to dine with his servants outside of childhood.

She doesn’t say any of this, of course. Partly because she doesn’t want to be wrong, and partly because she can’t think of a way to phrase her question in a manner that wouldn’t insult him. If Dorian does eat with his servants, it would be rude of her to criticise him.

Still, it’s an unusual arrangement. “I understand. I’ll come down in just a moment,” she says.

He hesitates, glancing at her attire, and a slight blush colours his cheeks. “As you are, if you’d like,” he offers gently. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony here.”

It’s quite customary for breakfast to be eaten in one’s nightgown, but that usually occurs in one’s bedroom. She doesn’t think she has ever been outside of her room in her nightclothes since she was a child.

“What curious customs you have here, Lord Nightbloom,” she remarks.

“If you aren’t comfortable—”

What she is, is hungry and impatient and very keen to eat as soon as possible. She smiles at him and strides toward the door, reminding herself that her nightclothes cover everything a dress would. It makes her feel a little less self-conscious as they stroll toward the dining room.

It is a very pleasant morning, so breakfast for two is laid out on the terrace instead. Strange as it is to be outside in a nightgown, it is actually rather pleasant. A faint, warm breeze ruffles her clothes, turning the world soft.

Dorian pulls back her chair for her and sits down. Mr Rookwood and Mrs Everfrost serve them before retreating into the house, staying within easy distance. Soren is nowhere to be seen, but the two older staff members keep an eye on them from the window .

It is completely customary for staff to wait around as they eat in case they need anything, but there is something in their covert smiles that makes it difficult for her to relax.

“Why do they keep looking at us?” she asks Dorian.

“I think they’re trying to work out why exactly I, er…”

“Married me?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Quite.”

“What did you tell them yesterday?”

“A version of the truth. That you were an old school friend of mine and in need of a husband. They wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told them it was a whirlwind romance.”

“I see.”

“I hope that was all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

They lapse into silence again. Mrs Everfrost hurries out with a fresh pot of tea. “This is a strawberry and raspberry tea,” she says. “I hope you find it to your liking.”

Selene confesses she’s never tried fruit tea before but accepts the cup Mrs Everfrost pours. Dorian pushes the honey toward her. “I recall you have a sweet tooth,” he murmurs.

She is shocked that Dorian remembers anything about her from their school days, but perhaps she shouldn’t be. She still remembers he was good at fencing, was quiet, and liked to read.

She remembers that, even though he was good at fencing, he never fought back when the other nobles teased him—when they made unkind remarks about his appearance, his father, or his social standing.

She remembers she said nothing when they bullied him.

Why, by The Four, would he agree to marry her?

She sips the tea, ashamed of her past self. The tea is good, but he is right; it does need honey.

“What will you tell your friends?” he asks. “About why you married me? ”

Selene hasn’t really thought that far ahead. She is sure the news of her elopement has spread by now. Many will have questions. She will likely be receiving letters in the next few days.

“I’m not sure,” she admits.

“We should definitely get our stories straight.”

“I suppose we should go along with what you told my parents. How we reconnected at your father’s funeral, married in secret on the night of the ball…”

“Won’t your friends think that’s odd?”

She hesitates. Yes, they will find it odd.

They will find it scandalous. They might even find it romantic.

But unlike Dorian’s servants, she doesn’t think they will find it unbelievable.

She thinks they will find it thoroughly believable that she wouldn’t tell them she has fallen for someone of poor social standing, and that she has pretended to like the Duke, afraid of her parents’ ire.

“I’m sure I can find a way to convince them.”

Dorian nods. “All right, then.”

They finish the rest of the meal in relative silence. Selene remarks upon the fine weather; Dorian reads her the news. After breakfast is whisked away, Mrs Everfrost escorts her back to her room to dress.

“I hope the room is satisfactory,” she remarks. “I had very little time to get anything ready. We can change anything you like.”

A complete renovation is in order, but Selene isn’t sure what leeway she has to redecorate or what budget she has. These ought to have been things they discussed while drawing up the marriage contract with her parents, but of course, they skipped a few steps.

“Everything is quite comfortable,” she tells her, which isn’t a lie but isn’t exactly the truth either .

“I’m sure you’re used to finer things,” Mrs Everfrost says, taking in the silk of Selene’s dress and brushing it down.

Selene’s rooms in the Duke’s house had been second only to the Queen of Haverland’s, but she would still pick these ones and the kindness she has been shown thus far over the luxury of her old life. It’s just… going to take some getting used to.

She doesn’t know how to explain any of this to Mrs Everfrost, though she worries her silence will be taken as an agreement.

“There are some things more important than fine things,” Selene manages.

Mrs Everfrost beams. Selene thinks she is doing well so far.

The importance of forming a good relationship with one’s housekeeper has been stressed on her quite a lot growing up.

She never did quite see eye-to-eye with Mrs Forthwing, Duke Drakefell’s housekeeper, though she was much beloved by the rest of the household.

“Right you are, my lady.” Mrs Everfrost finishes arranging the lace on Selene’s sleeves. “Now, are you ready for that tour?”

“Indeed, Mrs Everfrost.” Selene has never turned down a tour in her life, and there is something exciting about knowing that she can go anywhere here—not a room is barred to her except for Dorian’s study. Abandoned or not, she wants to see it all.

“Please,” Mrs Everfrost says, an almost conspiratorial glint in her eye, “call me Ariella, if it pleases you. No one calls me Mrs Everfrost unless they want something from me.”

It is another impropriety. Housekeepers are always styled as Mrs. But Selene finds she doesn’t mind very much. She has no other friends here. Improper or not, she welcomes the mere suggestion of one.

“Ariella,” she says, practising the sound. “It’s a lovely name. ”

“Yours too, my lady.”

It occurs to Selene then that she is Selene Nightbloom now. Women always take on the names of their husbands unless their husbands are marrying far above their station. Dorian might be a social outcast, but he is still a Lord.

The name sounds strange to her, though. Not quite hers.

She thinks she prefers it to Drakefell, though.

Ariella’s footsteps echo as she leads Selene down a long corridor, the walls lined with portraits in heavy gilt frames. The Nightbloom line, Selene thinks, taking in their stern expressions, each one bearing the hallmarks of nobility and an unmistakable resemblance to Dorian.