Page 38 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S leep does not come easily.

Selene lies awake long after the house has gone quiet, her mind circling the same thoughts over and over. Dorian had hidden the truth from her—not out of malice, not to manipulate her, but because he thought it was the right thing to do. That should make it easier to accept. It doesn’t.

She doesn’t know how to reconcile the man she’s come to know with the one who has been plotting in the shadows all these years.

He’s careful and calculating in a way she didn’t expect him to be.

A man who keeps secrets as a matter of survival.

But he’s also the man who has sat across from her night after night, letting her win at chess, bringing her books, coming into her room despite his allergies.

Which version of him is real ?

Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

By morning, she’s still no closer to an answer.

Breakfast is a muted affair. The others chatter quietly, but Selene barely hears them. Dorian makes an appearance—apparently quite recovered from his ordeal. He looks well, considering the night before, though there’s a carefulness to him, a guardedness in the way he carries himself.

They don’t speak beyond the necessary courtesies.

When breakfast ends, Dorian rises first. He nods to the others, offers a polite farewell, and leaves.

Selene watches him go, her stomach twisting. A moment later, she stands as well.

She follows him up to his study, hesitating for only a second before knocking.

“Come in,” he calls.

Dorian is standing by his desk, sorting through what remains of his papers. The room still smells faintly of smoke, though much of the mess has been cleared. His eyes flick to her as she steps inside.

“Have you lost much?” she asks.

“Not too much,” he says. “I never keep all my important documents in one place.”

That makes sense. He’s always been careful. Always planning ahead.

She doesn’t know what she expected from this conversation, but standing here, she feels… adrift.

At last, she exhales. “I don’t think you’re like the Duke.”

Dorian stills, then inclines his head slightly. He does not meet her gaze. “Thank you for saying that.”

“But,” she continues, “I’m also not sure at the moment who I do think you’re like.”

Something flickers in his expression—an emotion she can’t name. “Selene—” he starts .

Selene takes a step back. Dorian recoils as if she’s slapped him. The hurt in his eyes is palpable.

She wonders if hers is too. “I’m sorry,” she mutters.

“I can’t… I want to… I want to forgive you, I do, but…

” She remembers their promise not to lie to one another, but for the first time, she isn’t sure she can hug him if she can’t be honest. All she can give him is the truth.

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” she says.

“Please don’t come to my room for a while. ”

Dorian nods once. “Understood.”

She leaves before she can second-guess herself.

Silence settles between them, thick as fog. All frost where sunlight once lay.

Selene busies herself in town. She finalises the school’s opening, ensuring everything is in place before the doors are thrown open to eager young faces.

She reads to the children like she hears Evelyn Wildrose Nightbloom used to do before her.

Their wide eyes drink in her every word.

Some sit close, watching her mouth as if they can taste the story on her breath.

Others wriggle in their seats, whispering, laughing, unable to sit still.

When the weather is good, she takes them outside and teaches them croquet using a set she found at home.

She notices something about children when they’re learning.

They often think they are brilliant at everything—until someone tells them they aren’t.

A boy proudly shows her his careful lettering, only for his older sister to snort and call it clumsy.

A girl attempts to climb onto a chair to reach a high shelf, only for a well-meaning adult to tell her she’s too small, that she might fall.

Neither try again. Their expressions fall and falter.

How old was Selene when people started telling her that?

Too loud. Too delicate. Too naive. Too simple.

She wonders if they meant well.

She wonders if it matters.

Selene also notices Alfred and Lu’s children. Unlike the others, they don’t jostle for her attention. They don’t rush to sit at the front. They linger on the edges, quiet and watchful. Their laughter is a rare, uncertain thing, as if they are waiting for permission.

She watches them, just as they watch the world, and wonders what they have learned about silence.

She tries not to think of Lu and how she might fit into this, and wonders why she cares.

She tries to work out why it hurts so much.

Dorian hasn’t betrayed her. He’s broken no promises.

She knows he meant well. But he just doesn’t quite fit into the suit she’s made for him, and the idea that he’s cunning as well as clever and thoughtful just doesn’t make sense to her. He isn’t like the Duke, but that part…

Why did you think he married you?

She misses him, misses their games and their ease. Misses the way she could make him laugh and dispel his tiredness with a simple joke.

She misses the way he made her feel, too—like nothing in the world could hurt her.

But he has. However unfair it might be to feel that way, he has hurt her. She does not know where to find the balm.

At the end of the month, they journey back to the Fairmont’s estate for Ophelia’s wedding.

Dorian opts for an inn this time, and they leave long before the revelry is over and retire to the separate chambers that he’s booked.

For once, Selene isn’t disappointed to be leaving a party early.

She has seen this wedding before, and it’s hard summoning up the delight again. Her performance is exhausting.

Elizabeth notices something amiss on one of her visits. She barely has to lay eyes on Dorian at all. She’s like a hound, sensing the stiffness in the air instead of a scent. “Did you have a quarrel?” she asks when the two of them are alone.

Selene stares down into her teacup. “Something like that.”

“Is he sorry?”

“Why do you assume he’s the one in the wrong?”

“It has been my experience that men often are.”

Selene bites her lip. “He isn’t wrong about this.”

“Then you are in the wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Selene admits. “He… I found out something about him that reminded me of someone else. It upset me. I feel what I feel, even if I know he was right to do what he did.”

“You are being very vague, dear.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I can’t really explain it any better than that without…” Without potentially endangering you. Without endangering him.

Because no matter how Dorian’s actions may have upset her, Selene doesn’t want him hurt.

He’s a good man, she reminds herself. Whatever else he may be—whatever he feels for me—he is that.

Elizabeth watches her for a long moment, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her teacup. Then, with the sharp intuition Selene has come to expect from her, she says, “You are afraid.”

Selene stiffens. “I—”

“Not of him,” Elizabeth clarifies, studying her with a knowing gaze. “No, I don’t think you fear him at all. But something has unsettled you.”

Selene exhales slowly, setting her cup down with more care than necessary. “I don’t know what to do with how I feel. ”

Elizabeth hums, considering. “And do you know what you feel?”

Selene hesitates.

Because that is the question, isn’t it? It isn’t just anger, or hurt, or even the lingering sting of betrayal—if it can even be called that. It’s something deeper, tangled with things she doesn’t fully understand, things she doesn’t have words for yet.

Elizabeth reaches out, gently covering Selene’s hand with her own. “You don’t have to decide anything today, dear. Just because you feel something doesn’t mean you must act on it. Let it settle. Let yourself settle.”

Selene exhales, tension leaking from her shoulders. “You make it sound so easy.”

Elizabeth smiles, wry and warm. “It rarely is.” She squeezes Selene’s hand. “But you will know, in time, what to do with what you feel.”

Selene nods, though she isn’t sure she believes it. She lifts her cup again, staring into the dregs of her tea as if the answer might be hidden there.

She only wishes she knew what she was hoping to find.

Dorian hands her an invitation the next morning over breakfast. It’s on crisp parchment, bearing the elaborate seal of Lord Dashridge.

Selene reads it twice before setting it aside, watching Dorian as he studies the contents with far more interest than she expects for something so ordinary. He is quiet for a moment, weighing something in his mind. Then, without looking up, he says, “We should attend.”

Selene tilts her head. “You hate balls.”

“I dislike frivolity,” he corrects, finally lifting his gaze. “This one has purpose.”

She waits. He doesn’t immediately elaborate, which means she has to drag it out of him.

“Which is?” she prompts.

Dorian sets the invitation down. “Lord Dashridge is one of the few suspects I haven’t ruled out.”

Selene inhales sharply. “You think he’s involved?”

“I think I don’t know enough to say for certain,” Dorian replies. “I haven’t been invited to one of his balls before. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

Selene considers this. She has met Lord Dashridge before, of course, although she doesn’t know him well—an unremarkable man in her eyes, neither cruel nor kind, though his wealth is the sort that came from generations of careful marriages rather than any particular cunning.

But that means nothing. There are plenty of men who play at being harmless while sharpening their knives in the dark.

He did visit Blackthorn Hall many times during their marriage… not, of course, that she can tell Dorian this.

“Will you accompany me?” Dorian asks.

The words feel oddly formal. She wonders if that’s because of the lingering tension between them, or if, for once, he is uncertain what her answer will be.

Selene straightens. “Of course.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction. “Good,” he says simply. “We leave in three days.”

Greta works her magic on an old gown of Selene’s, transforming it into something spectacular.

The original dress was fine but unremarkable—a soft dove-grey satin with a modest neckline, appropriate for the quiet life Selene had once expected to lead.

Now, under Greta’s skilled hands, it becomes something else entirely.

The bodice is reshaped, trimmed with delicate silver embroidery that catches the light like threads of moonlight.

The sleeves, once plain, now boast sheer lace that drapes elegantly to her wrists.

The skirt is fuller, the layers of silk and tulle giving it movement, a whisper of opulence without ostentation.

Selene touches the fabric, feeling its weight, its unfamiliarity. “You’ve outdone yourself,” she murmurs.

Greta beams. “It’s been a while since I had an excuse to make you look like a proper lady of the court.”

Selene huffs a soft laugh. “I hardly think anyone will be looking at me.”

“Oh, they will,” Greta says knowingly. “Especially your husband.”

Selene’s fingers still against the fabric.

Dorian has barely looked at her these past few weeks. She doubts a new gown will change that.

Still, she finds herself smoothing the folds of the skirt, her heart beating a little faster than it should.