Page 35 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

T he Strawberry Festival arrives at the height of summer, when the air is thick with warmth and the fields glow gold beneath the midday sun.

The village square is alive with laughter, the scent of ripe strawberries and sugared pastries filling the air.

Banners of red and white flutter from the eaves of shops and houses, and garlands of wildflowers and berry vines are strung between wooden stalls.

Selene and the household make the journey down from Ebonrose Hall together, the anticipation of the day settling like warmth in her chest. The festival is in full swing when they arrive—children darting between booths, faces sticky with strawberry syrup, farmers boasting of their finest harvests, and villagers gathered around tables laden with confectionary, jams, and fresh fruit .

Selene takes her place as a judge for the strawberry dish competition, seated at a long wooden table in the town square.

Before her, an array of creations awaits—flaky tarts glistening with glazed fruit, spiced preserves in glass jars, delicate cakes dusted with sugar.

She takes her time, savouring each bite, offering quiet praise and thoughtful consideration.

The villagers watch her expectantly, their pride evident, and when she finally announces the winner—a young baker with a particularly exquisite strawberry custard—cheers erupt, and the girl beams with delight.

The day drifts into evening, and the festival shifts with it. Lanterns are lit, their golden glow casting flickering patterns over the square. Music rises from the musicians stationed near the tavern, a lively, rustic melody that sets feet tapping and hands clapping.

Selene watches as Rookwood pulls Ariella onto the dancefloor, spinning her with ease until her cheeks crease with laughter.

He can’t move as freely as she does on his prosthetic, but he seems content to watch her flurry around him.

She looks younger today. Her hair is down, flowers are woven into a plaited crown at her temple, and she’s wearing a sage green frock that makes Selene think of meadows.

They look happy—truly happy, laughter caught in the space between them. They’ve probably been dancing at this festival every year since they were children.

Even Soren is not spared. A group of village girls, bold and laughing, manage to drag him into the throng. He scowls, stiff as a board as they attempt to twirl him, but their enthusiasm is relentless. Selene hides a smile behind her cup of wine.

Then Dorian is before her, offering his hand.

“It’s nothing like a courtly dance,” he says, almost wryly, as if anticipating her hesitation.

Selene doesn’t hesitate. She takes his hand.

It’s the closest they’ve been in weeks.

The dance is fast-paced and lively, a far cry from the measured, practised steps of the court.

The rhythm demands movement, not precision, and to her surprise, she loves it.

They move together through the steps, his grip steady at her waist, hers firm in his hand.

The laughter comes easily, the awkwardness that had settled between them in the past weeks melting away like mist beneath the summer sun.

For a moment, there is only this—the music, the movement, the warmth of his hand in hers.

Then something shifts.

Dorian’s eyes drift past her, over her shoulder, and whatever lightness had settled between them vanishes.

His expression changes, cools.

He releases her hand. “Excuse me,” he says, and then he is gone.

Selene stands in the middle of the dancefloor, her breath still uneven, the music still playing, but the moment has already slipped through her fingers.

Dorian has walked behind one of the booths.

A woman stands beneath the shadow of a tree.

Selene recognises her from sight but she doesn’t know her name.

She’s delicate-looking, with warm brown eyes and dark hair pinned into something practical.

She tilts her head towards him, and for a moment, Selene thinks they might only be exchanging quiet words.

Then Dorian lifts a hand, brushes his fingers over her cheek. It is not a casual touch. It is deliberate—like he is memorising the curve of her face.

A deep weight lands in Selene’s chest. She forces herself to look away, nodding absently at whatever the conversation is next to her. It all sounds distant, muffled, like she is hearing it through water .

“Who is that woman?” she asks Ariella after Dorian has moved away, trying to sound as nonchalant as she can.

Ariella stiffens for a moment, not meeting Selene’s gaze. “Lu Dawson,” she says. “Alfred’s wife.”

Lu. Could that be short for Luna? Selene isn’t sure she wants to know.

“You don’t like her?” Selene asks instead.

“What? No. Lu’s delightful.”

“Then—”

“Come on!” Ariella links her arm into hers, smiling brightly. “I love this dance!”

“Perhaps you better dance it with Rookwood, then…”

“Why?” says Ariella, frowning. “He can’t keep up.”

“That isn’t what I meant…”

If Ariella grasps her meaning, she ignores it, just as she ignores the way Rookwood’s eyes follow her over the dancefloor.

He laughs and claps and taps his good leg along with the music, but his eyes remain on her the entire time.

Selene is willing to bet he’s been looking at her that way for a long, long time.

After, they go to find something to drink. There’s a sweet berry wine that’s very popular here, and Selene drinks far more than she ought.

“Have you and Rookwood ever…” she starts, unsure of how to put this delicately.

Ariella snorts. “Rookwood and I have known each other for over fifteen years,” she tells her. “Ever since Lord Gideon gave him a job at the house. We may have had a moment in our youth, but that was a long time ago. We’re old friends now.”

Selene wonders if she should tell her that she suspects Rookwood has never left that moment, or, if he has, he’s found his way back to it in a way she’s quite sure he won’t find his way back out of. She doesn’t want to make things awkward for either of them. What if Ariella doesn’t feel the same?

She thinks back to Dorian and Lu, and how powerless she feels to ask or to interfere.

Perhaps, when Soren said that Dorian lost someone, he hadn’t meant to death.

Perhaps he had meant this. A marriage. Perhaps Lu had chosen someone else.

Perhaps Dorian had, once, in a rare moment of weakness, thought a simple village girl beneath him.

Perhaps he had learnt from it.

Perhaps this was why he was the way he was.

She will never know unless she asks, but she is not a creature of courage. To spare them both pain, she will shoulder hers alone. She is well practised in that art, after all.