Page 44 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

B y the time Soren is back on his feet, grumbling about the fuss everyone made over him, Ebonrose Hall has settled into something resembling normalcy. Or at least, as normal as things can be when there are still too many unanswered questions hanging over and between them.

Selene watches Dorian across the breakfast table, noting the faint lines of exhaustion still lingering at the edges of his expression. He hasn’t spoken of Luna again. She hasn’t asked. But it weighs on them both, an unspoken thing, shadowing their every interaction.

She sets her cup down with a decisive click. “We should host a ball.”

Dorian blinks at her. “A ball.”

“Yes.” She straightens, folding her hands in her lap. “We’re no closer to finding out who else might be allying with the Duke. If we can’t uncover the truth through subtlety, then we should gather everyone together and watch them more closely.”

Soren, who had been slathering far too much jam on a slice of bread, looks up with a smirk. “You just want an excuse to dance.”

Selene ignores him. “It’s practical. The season is almost over, but plenty of nobility are still lingering in the countryside. A gathering at Ebonrose would be unexpected. People will come purely to see why we’re hosting one.”

Dorian exhales, drumming his fingers against the table. He doesn’t dismiss the idea outright. That, at least, is promising. “You think we’ll be able to rule anyone out just by watching them?”

“I think people let their guard down at parties. Someone will slip up.”

Soren leans back in his chair, stretching. “And if they don’t?”

Selene tilts her head. “Then at least we’ll know who doesn’t have something to hide.”

Dorian studies her for a long moment. Then, finally, he nods. “All right. We’ll host a ball.”

Ariella claps her hands. “Oh, this is going to be fun! I’ve been longing to go to a ball!”

Dorian sighs, already regretting everything. “Do we invite the Duke?”

Selene flinches. “I think we have to. It will cause a scandal if we don’t, and maybe limit our invitations in future.”

“I’m not sure Dorian thinks that’s the negative that you clearly do,” Soren teases.

“I’m being purely practical! ”

“In this case, I agree with Selene,” says Dorian. “We can’t afford to cut off all social ties.”

“Yes, thank you, husband,” says Selene.

Dorian smirks into his cup at the word husband .

“We should invite the King, too,” Selene announces.

Dorian nearly drops his cup. “The King ?”

“Well, I doubt he’ll attend, but if you could catch the Duke in the act of committing treason—”

Dorian shakes his head. “I’ve tried informing him before,” he says. “It… did not go well.”

“Shall I refrain from sending him an invite, then?”

Dorian thinks for a moment. He exchanges a glance with Soren, then sighs. “No, you’re right, on the off chance we catch the Duke doing something treasonous, it would help to have the King there.”

“He won’t take against you for your previous interactions?”

“I doubt he even remembers.”

Neither he nor Soren will elaborate further, but Selene doesn’t press it; she has a ball to plan.

Selene has always known that hosting a ball required effort, but she has not quite appreciated the sheer scale of it until now. It was one thing to attend a grand event and admire the spectacle—it was, apparently, quite another to orchestrate one from the ground up.

Ebonrose Hall had not hosted such an affair in years, which meant preparations have to begin immediately.

The first task is hiring additional staff.

Ariella takes charge of that, sending word to the village and beyond for extra footmen, scullery maids, and stablehands.

The influx of guests mean an increase in everything: food, drink, oil, candles, linens, horses—Selene hadn’t even considered how many carriages would need accommodation.

“The stables will be packed,” Dorian mutters one evening, scanning the list of expected attendees.

“So we’ll expand,” Selene replies. “Soren, you and Fred can organise temporary lodgings for the coachmen and stablehands.”

“Temporary lodgings,” Soren repeats with a grin. “I do love how you phrase ‘finding somewhere to put the poor bastards who have to tend to rich people’s horses.’”

Selene rolls her eyes. “I’ll leave the phrasing to you, then.”

The gardens need pruning, a task that Rookwood leads. “The rose beds are a disaster,” he declares the next morning, hands on his hips as Selene surveys the grounds with him. “And if we’re hosting a masquerade, the hedge maze should be tidied up—it adds to the mystery.”

Selene has chosen the masquerade theme for precisely that reason. Masks grant people an illusion of freedom, make them bolder, looser with their words. If anyone at Ebonrose has secrets to spill, this will be the perfect setting for them to do so.

There is also the matter of decorations.

She and Dorian decided upon deep blue and emerald green, like a forest at night.

The grand hall will be lined with candles, chandeliers adorned with draping fabric to soften the light.

Large floral arrangements will fill the space, and the finest musicians in the region have been hired to play.

The food has to be just as exquisite. Rookwood is beside himself with excitement and stress in equal measure.

“If you want nobility to talk, my lady,” he said, “then you must give them something worth talking over.” He plans an elaborate menu—roasted game, honeyed fruits, spiced wines, and an array of delicacies that will keep conversation flowing long into the night.

And, of course, there’s the matter of attire.

Selene needs a gown suitable for the occasion, and after much deliberation, she settles on an elegant midnight-blue creation, adorned with silver embroidery that mimics constellations.

It’s striking but not ostentatious, regal without being excessive.

Her mask matches, a delicate silver piece that covers just enough of her face to lend an air of mystery.

She’s going to look spectacular.

Dorian, on the other hand, is hesitant about the whole affair. “It’s not in my nature to play the host,” he admits one evening, as Selene checks through the guest list again.

“You don’t have to,” she assures him. “You only have to watch.”

The morning of the ball dawns crisp and cool, the early light filtering through the windows of Ebonrose Hall. For a few precious hours, before the whirlwind of preparations consumes them, Selene, Dorian, Rookwood, Ariella, and Soren gather for a quiet breakfast in the sunlit dining room.

Rookwood has outdone himself, setting out fresh bread, soft butter, and a selection of jams, along with eggs, bacon, and steaming cups of tea.

Soren, already on his second helping, is halfway through slathering his toast with honey when Dorian unfolds the morning paper with a rustle and begins to read aloud .

“There’s been a disappearance,” he murmurs, scanning the page. “A group of men upped and vanished from a village outside of Haverleigh.”

Selene pauses, her fork hovering midair. “That’s strange,” she says, trying to recall the name. “I don’t remember hearing about that in—” She stops abruptly.

In her previous timeline. She doesn’t remember anything about anyone disappearing in her previous timeline, and certainly not a group of people.

All the blood rushes from Selene’s face.

Because she does remember a disappearance. Only, it wasn’t a group of people.

It was only one.

Her mind reels back to her previous timeline—to a morning much like this one, but without the warmth of Ebonrose, without Dorian at the head of the table. She remembers the Duke reading aloud nonchalantly. ‘Hmm, looks like Lord Nightbloom’s gone missing.’

Her breath catches.

Her previous self had barely registered it at the time. She had been preoccupied, distracted by other obligations. But now—now she understands.

That was why she hadn’t seen Dorian at any society events before the year’s end. He hadn’t been avoiding them. He had vanished.

I make myself invisible so nobody tries to make me disappear.

But someone had. Someone would.

She glances at Dorian, who is frowning down at the article, oblivious to the way her pulse pounds in her ears. What had happened to him? And—dear gods—was it going to happen again?

Already, this timeline has diverged in countless ways, but some things—some dangers—may remain the same .

“Selene?” Dorian’s voice cuts through her spiralling thoughts, his brow creased in concern. “Are you all right?”

She feels like she might be sick. “I forgot something,” she blurts, pushing back her chair. “Last-minute ball preparations—”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She stumbles from the room, heart pounding, the walls of Ebonrose suddenly too close. Don’t panic, she tells herself. Nothing has happened yet.

But it will. But it could.

Missing doesn’t necessarily mean dead , she tries to reason. Maybe Dorian had been off on some mission, something secret. Maybe the reason she hadn’t remembered it before was because he’d been found—

But no. She’d remember that. And if he’d been off on business, his family would have covered for him. They wouldn’t have published his name in the paper unless they couldn’t find him. Unless they were as desperate as she now feels.

Selene’s stomach drops like a stone. The reality is that they wouldn’t. They would only publicise his disappearance. They would only do that if they couldn’t find him.

Oh, gods.

Her breaths come shallow and fast as she tries to think. When had the Duke delivered the news? Autumn, she thinks. It was sunny, but they were inside, no longer enjoying breakfast on the terrace. In her fragmented memory, she remembers the crisp air, brittle leaves underfoot.

It’s nearly autumn now.

How could she not have realised? How could Dorian have ever been so unimportant to her that his disappearance hadn’t even made her blink? The thought makes her stomach turn.

A knock at the door startles her.

“Selene?” Dorian’s voice is gentler now. ““What’s wrong?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. I’m, I’m… They promised not to lie to each other. And the truth is, she isn’t all right.

She throws open the door and launches into his arms.

“Hold me,” she murmurs against his chest.

Dorian doesn’t hesitate. His arms come around her, strong and certain, anchoring her in place. She presses her face into the fabric of his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of him. He’s here, he’s here, I haven’t lost him yet.

Yet.

Yet.

Dorian’s voice rumbles low above her head. “Can I help?”

She tightens her grip, fists curling into his coat. “Just… let me stay like this a little while.”

He exhales, his chin brushing the top of her head. “The problem with holding you, Selene,” he says quietly, “is that every time I do, it gets a little harder to let go.”

Her fingers curl tighter. Then don’t go. Stay.

Stay with me.