Page 4 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

S elene slips through the door and into the corridor, the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation drifting from the foyer.

The buzz of guests grows louder as she nears the staircase.

She can almost feel the weight of their expectations pressing on her, anticipating a grand announcement, a new title, her future bound in gold and silk—and yet, she plans to make none of them happy. Not today. Not if she can help it.

“They’ll make such a fine pair—”

“Will King Alden be here for the party, do you think?”

“No, not tonight, the King of Ashvold is here for one more day—”

Selene freezes. She’d forgotten that King Eirik was staying at the palace. His last visit to Haverland before he would invade it in a year’s time.

She hadn’t thought to hear his name here amongst the gossip.

“He’ll come for the wedding, surely? The Duke is his cousin, after all—”

“Have you seen King Eirik? He’s awfully handsome—”

There is no question of Selene going the main route that would lead her through the heart of the party.

Instead, she ducks into one of the concealed servants’ staircases, keeping her head down as she navigates through their corridors and out into the garden, where fresh air fills her lungs and the noise of the house fades into a distant murmur.

Walking slowly, she drifts down the winding paths of the garden, moving past manicured hedges and towering rose bushes toward the wilder areas of the grounds.

It is so strange to be here—to be anywhere at all.

Ignoring the whole going-back-in-time element, people don’t close their eyes in one location and wake in another.

She has been back to her parents’ house only once since her marriage.

The journey takes days to prepare and is a full day’s ride in the high season.

Laughter from inside drifts faintly through the garden, punctuated by the occasional clip of heels on the gravel path nearby.

This can’t be real, she thinks. The earth beneath her feet, the cool dampness of mid-morning dew on the leaves—it all feels like a dream she might wake from at any moment.

She keeps expecting it: to blink and find herself back in a cold, silent room with only memories of a lost life for company.

Perhaps she really is dead, lying on the floor of that temple.

Perhaps all of this is her mind in the last few seconds of life, desperately trying to carve her a new story .

But it is vivid enough that she believes it. And even if a few seconds of life is all she has left… she will make the most of them.

Hmm, she thinks. Perhaps I should run away and become a dancer after all . The idea is absurd, but she resolves to consider it again if she can’t find a better suitor by the day’s end.

She walks on, following forgotten paths to the wild parts of the garden, away from guests, away from any prying eyes.

Soon, the garden changes, the carefully pruned hedges giving way to wilder growth, where thick vines twist over stone and clusters of delicate purple flowers nestle among tangled leaves.

An hour must have passed since she left the house, maybe longer, and a faint flicker of dread surfaces as she realises that by now, Duke Drakefell might have arrived.

She pictures him striding confidently into the grand hall, and that familiar knot of resentment coils in her stomach.

He will be searching for her. The thought sends a shiver down her spine.

She can see his face, fixed in that practised smile, his gaze too sharp as it follows her like a shadow.

How had she ever mistaken control for love?

She tries to push the Duke from her mind. She knows she will have to face him eventually, but she will never again allow herself to be alone with him. She is not his wife here. He can’t hurt her.

Her fingers begin to tremble, and she clenches them into fists, taking a deep breath.

She moves deeper into the garden until she reaches the area where the hedges completely taper off into dense foliage and wildflowers.

The roses dwindle here, overtaken by clusters of dark green leaves and small, delicate purple blossoms with streaks of white along their edges—the violas she has always adored, that only she knows to look for.

Her parents have always insisted her favourite flower is the rose, in the colours of the Duskbriar emblem—light red, deep sunset pink, a flash of yellow or gold.

But it has always been the violets—tenacious, wild, and overlooked—that hold her heart.

Movement by the flowerbed catches her eye, and she freezes.

There, half-hidden among the foliage, stands Dorian Nightbloom, stooped over one of the violas as if examining it closely.

He doesn’t notice her at first, his hand brushing one of the flowers with surprising gentleness, as though he is tracing the veins of each petal.

Selene takes a careful step closer, and a twig snaps beneath her shoe. He straightens immediately, turning to face her, his expression a mixture of surprise and—just for a moment—something else entirely unreadable.

“Lady Selene,” Dorian murmurs, dipping his head in a slight bow. His hazel eyes flicker with mild amusement as they settle on her flushed cheeks. “Apologies, I didn’t expect company here.”

His voice is quiet, even-tempered, as though this secret corner of the garden is as much his domain as it is hers. Selene feels a strange, prickling awareness in his presence, as if he can sense more than she intends to reveal.

Her fingers reach out instinctively, brushing the petals of a violet.

“No one usually does,” she replies. “Though it seems we both have an appreciation for the overlooked.”

His gaze shifts back to the violets, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “They don’t beg for admiration the way roses do, do they?”

“Exactly,” she murmurs, surprised by his insight. For a moment, they stand there in companionable silence, surrounded by wildflowers and tangled hedges .

In that instant, an idea takes root in Selene’s mind, bold and audacious as the violets sprouting from the shadowed earth.

Dorian Nightbloom. Dorian Nightbloom is perfect.

He looks almost out of place among the pomp of the other guests, his simple, dark attire a stark contrast to their embroidered coats and feathered hats.

He is tall and slim, with an easy posture and an air of unassuming calm.

Perhaps he isn’t the most handsome of men—there is a bookish, untidy quality to him.

His clothes are well-worn, he has a pair of small spectacles perched on his nose, and his auburn locks are unfashionably long for a man.

He wears his hair tied back at the nape of his neck, shoulder length, she thinks, the sort of length men’s hair quickly reaches if they don’t cut it often.

Despite this, he is clean-shaven and smells faintly of horse, suggesting he has foregone a carriage and ridden here himself.

None of that matters. He is unmarried and unattached, and the same age as she is. A quiet, scholarly man, not known to be cruel. As a child, he attended the same aristocratic academy she did, though he left when he was fourteen. Rekindling that connection wouldn’t be unthinkable.

Best of all, it is entirely plausible that Selene would have kept their supposed romance a secret.

The Nightblooms are deeply unpopular at court.

Dorian’s father, Lord Gideon, was a proud socialist—a scandalous affiliation that forced Dorian to leave the academy.

Though Lord Gideon has been dead for two years and Dorian does not outwardly share his father’s views, the stain of his name remains.

No one would marry into that family for anything less than love.

Selene considers this carefully. Lord Nightbloom could do with a wife.

He has no heir, no immediate family, and little fortune to his name.

She, by contrast, brings an estate, excellent social standing, and an agreeable reputation.

She might not be renowned for her intellect or domestic skills, but she is attractive and well-liked at court.

By all accounts, she is quite the catch.

And yet, Selene suddenly finds herself incredibly nervous.

Lord Embry would say yes without hesitation. Lord Greyton would barely need to deliberate. But standing before Dorian, she is painfully aware of how little she truly knows him. She has no idea which angle to play to secure his agreement. Seduction? Bribery? Flattery?

Something tells her none of these will work on Dorian. Honesty might, but she can hardly tell him why she desperately needs him to agree.

Can she?

“Lord Nightbloom,” she begins carefully, “I need your help.”

Dorian’s eyes widen—a subtle shift, but enough to notice—before his expression settles back into that placid, almost bored mask. “With what, My Lady?”

“Duke Drakefell is going to ask for my hand in marriage,” she explains. “And I really, really don’t want to marry him.”

Again, his eyes widen. Selene waits for the inevitable questions—why she wouldn’t want to marry such a gentleman, or even an attempt to sing the Duke’s praises. Many others would.

But Dorian doesn’t. “And how may I be of assistance in this matter?” he asks instead. “Do you wish me to cause a distraction? Provide you with more time to find another suitor—”

“I want you to marry me.”

Dorian stiffens. This time, his eyes don’t narrow again—they remain wide, fixed on her. For a brief moment, Selene feels as though she has become Lady Serpent from the old tales, the woman whose glance could immobilise men entirely .

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says at last, his voice careful. “Did you say… you want me to marry you?”

“Yes,” she confirms, trying to sound more confident than she feels. “Please. If you wouldn’t mind.”

She hesitates, aware she isn’t renowned for her wit or wisdom—qualities she imagines he might value. “I have a fine social standing,” she adds quickly, “and I’m heir to the—”

“Why me?” he interrupts.