Page 39 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

T he morning of the ball dawns. The driver is summoned from the village, Dorian himself readies the horses, and Marta helps Selene pack. Ariella turns up to help carry down the trunks.

“Where’s Soren?” Selene asks.

“Last minute trip to the water-closet,” Ariella replies. “Though he’s been in there a while. I hope he’s all right. He was looking a bit pale…”

Selene doesn’t ask for more details. She grabs what she can and heads outside to the carriage. Dorian and the driver—Fred—help ready the trunks.

Soren still doesn’t materialise.

“I’m going to go check on him…” Ariella says, hu rrying back into the house.

She’s gone a good few minutes before she returns.

“Soren’s a little under the weather,” she tells the rest of the group.

Dorian’s face pales. “Is it serious?”

“It’ll be serious if he’s nowhere near a chamberpot.”

Selene and Dorian exchange a worried look. Dorian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

“I suppose you’ll have to go without him,” Selene says.

Dorian hums in thought. “It’s always best to have a lookout—maybe I should take Rookwood instead.”

At that, Rookwood lets out a bark of laughter. “I mean, it’s almost sweet that you think I could squeeze into his uniform… Also, I’m not exactly light on my feet.”

Selene shifts slightly, feeling the weight of an idea settle over her. “I’ll do it,” she says.

Dorian frowns. “Absolutely not.”

“I’ll just be keeping watch, won’t I?” She folds her arms. “You don’t need me to fight, just to warn you if someone’s coming. And I can do that perfectly well.”

Dorian hesitates. “It’s dangerous.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “It’ll be more dangerous without someone, won’t it?”

His jaw tightens. He wants to refuse her, she can tell—but Soren is indisposed, Rookwood is hardly a subtle presence, and there’s no one else.

In the end, he exhales sharply. “Fine,” he says, clearly unhappy about it.

“But stay close to me at all times. If anything feels wrong, we’re leaving. Understood?”

Selene nods.

There’s a delay on the journey when the carriage throws a wheel, costing them a few hours of good daylight. Dorian takes one of the horses and rides into the next village in search of a replacement, and it isn’t much longer after that they are able to get back on the road.

The ball is already in full swing when they arrive. The grand hall is bathed in warm candlelight, glittering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the dancers. Silk and velvet swirl in a riot of colour, and the scent of wine and perfume lingers in the air.

Dorian steps into the throng. Selene follows, keeping a keen eye on the crowd, her heart pounding beneath her carefully altered gown.

Their target, Lord Dashridge, is surrounded by guests, laughing and drinking as if he has nothing to hide.

A tall man with greying hair and a broad-shouldered presence, he holds court with ease, his voice carrying just a little louder than those around him.

His smile is easy, his posture relaxed—too relaxed, given what Dorian suspects of him.

They weave through the ballroom, offering polite nods and murmured greetings until they reach Dashridge’s circle.

Dorian inclines his head. “Lord Dashridge.”

The man turns, and his smile sharpens as his gaze lands on Dorian. “Lord Nightbloom. A pleasure. It has been too long.”

Dorian returns the smile, though Selene can see the calculation behind his eyes. “I thought it was time to be more sociable. Allow me to introduce the new Lady Nightbloom.”

Selene curtsies, offering her own measured smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”

Dashridge takes her hand briefly, his grip firm but not overly familiar. “Ah, Lady Nightbloom. So lovely to see you again.”

“Thank you so much for the invitation. ”

“You are both very welcome.”

More guests arrive behind them, and two slip off to gather drinks.

“How does this work, exactly?” Selene asks. “What happens now?”

“I’ll go and find his study,” Dorian explains, voice hushed. “Once I have its location, I’ll come back for you. Can you—”

“Mingle and act natural until then? Of course.”

Dorian nods once, then slips away into the crowd.

Selene takes a steadying breath and does what she does best—smiles, converses, and plays the part of the charming Lady Nightbloom.

Conversation is easy. It always is at these sorts of things.

She listens to Lady Ashcombe prattle on about her new summer estate, commiserates with Lord Fairchild about the latest taxation laws, and laughs—politely, never too much—at Sir Harold’s dull anecdotes.

She’s had half of these talks before. It’s almost comfortable.

Until she turns, and all the air leaves her lungs.

Her parents stand before her.

Her mother is as poised as ever, her gown a deep violet that makes her look impossibly regal. Her father, tall and stern, regards her with the same sharp eyes she grew up under.

Selene gulps.

This—this she has not rehearsed. This is a conversation she has never had before, in either of her timelines. Selene learned young never to disappoint her parents. She has no idea how to act towards them now.

For a moment, they only stare at one another, the swell of the ballroom fading into nothing. The music, the laughter, the conversation—it all dulls beneath the weight of the unspoken words between them.

It’s Lady Duskbriar who gathers the courage to speak first. “Selene.”

It’s not a question, nor an accusation. Just her name .

Selene’s mouth is dry. “Mother. Father.” She dips into a curtsy before she even thinks about it. Some things are too ingrained to shake.

Her father’s expression remains unreadable. “You look well.”

The words are neutral, but something about them feels heavy. As if he expected otherwise. As if he wanted otherwise. Because if Selene is miserable… it’s her own fault. He can stand there and say ‘I told you so’ and shame her for her disobedience.

“As do you,” Selene manages.

Her mother’s eyes flick over her, searching. Selene wonders if she’s trying to find something to criticise. She looks impeccable. She’s confident about that if nothing else.

“Where’s your husband?” her father asks.

“Seeking the water-closet,” Selene responds. “We had quite the journey. Our carriage threw a wheel—”

“That’s nice. I beg you will excuse me.”

He turns his back and walks away, stalking towards a group that includes the Duke, Lord Fairmont, and Lord Dashridge. The Duke’s piercing gaze washes over her, but doesn’t linger long.

Selene remains rooted to the spot.

“How have you been?” Lady Duskbriar asks. “Truly—no pleasantries. No standing on ceremony.”

“I’ve been well,” Selene assures her. “Ebonrose Hall was a little provincial at first, but I’ve renovated the place beautifully.

The staff have been ever-so-helpful—” It seems wrong to call Rookwood, Ariella and Soren staff when they’re Dorian’s family, but there will be no explaining that to her mother.

She would never understand. And despite everything—despite how much she shouldn’t —Selene still finds herself wanting her mother’s approval .

“I’m glad to hear it,” her mother says placidly, but then her face hardens. “No, actually, I’m not. You made a terrible mistake marrying that man, Selene. I don’t understand it. And whilst I am obviously glad you’ve not been hurt—”

“Are you?” says Selene.

“What’s that?”

“Are you glad I’ve not been hurt? Or would you have been perfectly fine with that, so long as the Duke was my husband?”

“The Duke would never dare to—”

But he did, Selene wants to scream. He did hurt me. Maybe not with fists or feet, but with lies and words and promises that meant nothing.

She died because of him long before she bled out in that temple.

“He is a gentleman, Selene,” her mother insists. “But Lord Nightbloom… we know nothing about him.”

“ You know nothing,” Selene spits, not caring that her tone was far from ladylike. “Dorian Nightbloom is the best man I’ve ever met—”

“Then you have clearly not met enough men.”

“And whose fault would that be?” Selene hissed. “If you wanted me to know more about men, perhaps you should have told me more about them before trying to marry me off to one!”

Lady Duskbriar’s fingers tighten around her glass, knuckles paling.

“Come home, Selene,” she says wearily, like this is an argument they’ve been having for years rather than minutes.

“If you say he forced you… Your father and the King are friends. We could petition for an annulment. It’s not too late to undo this mistake.

You’re not yet with child, you could pretend the marriage went unconsummated—”

Selene stares at her mother in disbelief. “A mistake?” she echoes. “Is that all I am to you? A problem to be fixed? ”

“Do not be dramatic.”

“Forgive me if I find it difficult to remain composed when you’re asking me to lie—to ruin Dorian—to go crawling back to you, and, presumably, the Duke.”

“It would not be a lie,” Lady Duskbriar insists. “You eloped, Selene. You are not the sort of girl to do that sort of thing, and no one can work out why. He must have forced you, manipulated you in some way…”

Nothing that Dorian has ever done to her or could ever do to her would come anywhere close to what the Duke has done, what her parents have done, and Selene knows it now better than ever before.

How could she possibly have said that he was like the Duke?

She had fled with Dorian out of desperation, out of necessity. But if given the choice again… she would make the same one. No matter how many loops, how many lives.

She meets her mother’s gaze. “Mother, I love my husband.”

Lady Duskbriar could not have looked more shocked if her daughter had slapped her.

Selene is just as shocked. She’s surprised at how easily the lie came.

Except… is it really a lie?

It has to be a lie, she tells herself. It has to.