Page 19 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

“I’m… I’m particularly fond of strawberries,” she says, like it’s some great secret. “I prefer white wine over red. I like soft colours, and cats, and sweet stories with happy endings.”

These things all probably make her sound silly and vapid and girlish, but she doesn’t care.

She rattles on. “My favourite time of day is the morning, if I’m up early enough to see the sunrise.

I like the look of the sunlight behind a veil of mist. I like hot baths with petals in them, and I prefer wildflowers over roses. ”

Ariella smiles. “Lord Gideon was much the same.”

“I remember,” she says quietly. She thinks about telling them that she made a bouquet of wildflowers to bring to his funeral, but she thinks that may sound boastful, and talking about Gideon’s funeral may cause some upset.

“I also like… at least, I think I’d like it if maybe… you could all call me Selene rather than ‘my lady’? ”

Ariella’s smile could not get any bigger. Rookwood looks like he might cry. Selene doesn’t dare check on Soren.

“Right you are!” Ariella says. “Selene, then. A name that pretty deserves to be used.”

Things feel less lonely now that she has asked the servants to call her by her name.

It feels wrong to call them servants somehow, although that is technically what they are, and there’s no shame in service.

She finds she wants to help them with their daily tasks.

She is hopeless at most things, and Ariella immediately dismisses the idea, but Rookwood is happy to have her in the kitchens. He has the patience of a saint.

The days pass quickly this way, but Dorian does not return on the fourth day, as they all hoped. Or the fifth.

Selene doesn’t know him well enough to miss him, but the house does not feel whole without him there.

She hopes he’s safe.

By the sixth day, Selene wakes to a sky thick with grey, the kind that presses close and smothers the land beneath it.

A fine drizzle beads against the windows, slipping in slow rivulets down the glass.

The house is quiet, save for the occasional murmur of voices in the corridor or the steady rhythm of rain against the roof.

Dorian has not written. No one expects him to, but still, she finds herself glancing towards the letters each morning.

She busies herself in the kitchens again, where Rookwood lets her peel apples for a pie. It’s a simple enough task, but she’s slow, careful. Her hands aren’t used to this kind of work. The knife slips, just a little, and she hisses as a bead of blood wells on her fingertip.

Rookwood sighs, taking her hand in his broad, flour-dusted one. “You’re trying too hard,” he says, wrapping a clean cloth around her finger. His touch is gentle, his voice unhurried. “Let the knife do the work.”

“I thought I was,” she murmurs.

He chuckles, shaking his head, then turns away to check the pot bubbling on the stove. She watches him for a moment, watches the way he moves with easy confidence, before turning back to her apples. This time, she follows his advice.

The days continue like this, slipping through her fingers as softly as the flour Rookwood sifts for bread.

She learns small things—how to tell when onions are caramelised, how to knead dough without exhausting herself.

Marta hums when she works and is shockingly quick with a needle, altering one of Selene’s old gowns to fit more comfortably.

Ariella still refuses to let her do much of anything, but the woman is beginning to soften, at least.

But the nights—those are harder.

She dreams of the Duke. Of his hands at her waist, guiding her through a dance she doesn’t want. Of his voice, sharp and mocking, whispering things she cannot bear to hear. Of waking in his bed, of finding herself bound to him, with no way out.

“Silly, foolish wife…”

“At least you’re beautiful to look at…”

“Can’t you do anything right?”

“Look at me when I speak to you!”

She’s Duchess of Drakefell again, and her brief life with Dorian at Ebronrose was the dream. This is her reality. Her past. Her future. It’s inescapable .

Then she’s at her grandmother’s house, only it’s hers, now, hers and not hers, because she owns nothing. Everything is the Duke’s. Everything is always his.

And there are soldiers at the door, and she’s running, and hurt, and there’s blood, so much blood…

She wakes up screaming.

Someone is grasping her arms, shaking her roughly.

“No!” she cries. “Don’t touch me!”

The hands spring away. The candle at her bedside flickers to life.

It’s Dorian.

“Selene,” he whispers. “It’s all right. It’s just a dream.”

The nightmare still has its claws in her. Is she still dreaming? Perhaps she is just making up Dorian coming to her rescue, like she made up finding him in the garden when she needed to escape the Duke. Because she didn’t escape. She’s still there—

But then she notices where she is, and reality slides back to her. Her gaze fixes on the man hovering by her side, a man as unlike the Duke as anyone could be.

“You’re all right,” Dorian repeats.

A strangled sob escapes her, and she launches into his arms. Her fingers coil into his clothes. He smells of horse and sweat, but she doesn’t care. He’s here, he’s here, he’s real, she’s safe.

Dorian stands stunned for a moment, before his arms slowly circle her back, and he lowers them both back down to the bed. His heart is thundering. She clings onto the sound. She needs it. Needs him.

“It was only a dream.”

He strokes her hair. She likes the grinding pull of his touch, needs more of it to convince her that she’s fine. Because it wasn’t a dream. Everything happened. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s safe .

“You’re here,” she whispers into his clothes.

Dorian squeezes her tightly. “I’m here.”

The door bangs open, and Soren bursts in. Dorian unlatches from Selene and turns around to glare at him. “You took your time.”

Soren doesn’t blink. “I heard screaming.”

“Lady Selene was having a nightmare. Could you see about going to get her something warm to drink?”

Soren glares at Dorian, like a petulant child being given an order, but he doesn’t complain out loud. He turns on his heels.

Dorian turns back to Selene. Her hands are still gripping his wrists, so hard she’s surprised he doesn’t say anything. He frees himself only to rub her arms, murmuring more soft, silky words that don’t quite reach her.

“How was your trip?” she asks him finally.

A faint, sad smile dusts Dorian’s face. “It was… fine.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

He strokes her hair. “I’m glad I’m back, too.”

She doesn’t know how long they stay that way, Dorian beside her, brushing her back, holding her arms, telling her that all is well when she feels like the world is spinning beneath her, but eventually Soren returns with a cup of milk. Herbs swirl inside it.

“Is it poisoned?” she asks, half serious.

Dorian purses his lips. She can’t tell if it’s in annoyance or amusement. “They’re to help you sleep.”

She has many reasons to distrust Soren—to distrust most people—but she believes Dorian. She may be an inconvenience to him, but he wouldn’t want her dead. She doesn’t think he could ever wish anyone dead. He’s been nothing but nice to her, even though she doesn’t deserve it.

She starts to cry. The milk becomes harder to swallow .

Dorian thumbs away her tears. “Hey, it’s all right, Selene. You’re all right. You’re safe here.”

She doesn’t remember falling back asleep, but she remembers that he was there.