Page 7 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

Selene nods, trying to stifle her reluctance.

“Yes, and that one,” she adds, gesturing to a plain ivory dress with sleeves that tie at the wrists.

Practical, but unremarkable. Her thoughts stray to the Duke’s lavish gifts, so many of them wasted because he bought what he thought she should want instead of what she truly loved.

Cassie seems to catch on to her thoughts, raising her brows as she gently closes the lid on one of the trunks. “Won’t be quite the same, will it?” she says, sounding oddly wistful.

“No,” Selene answers softly, feeling an unexpected pang of longing for the familiar—even if it had been stifling.

She decides to take nearly all of her jewellery, reasoning that it will serve well as a form of currency. Cassie watches her choices with a nod of approval, carefully wrapping the jewellery in velvet cloth.

“I’ve packed two trunks,” Cassie says finally. “If that seems right?”

“Yes. No more than that.”

Selene retrieves the remains of her jewellery box and presses it into Cassie’s hands. Cassie looks at her oddly, waiting for an explanation.

“You should take these,” Selene tells her.

Cassie’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “I… I can’t possibly— ”

“Cassie, my parents may well try to dismiss you once they realise you’ve helped me escape. This is the least I can do. Hide it away somewhere until all of this has blown over, then pawn it off, a little at a time—”

“I’m sure I’m much more familiar with pawning things off than you are,” Cassie says, holding a ring up to the light.

“Right. Yes.”

Cassie studies Selene for a long moment. It’s clear she’s wondering if Selene will manage this transition alone. Selene isn’t entirely sure she will. But anything is better than the Duke. Anything is better than what he has planned.

“Thank you, Cassie. For everything,” Selene says softly.

Cassie only nods, but Selene catches the glint of tears in her eyes. They both understand the depth of that gratitude. As Cassie picks up the cat with gentle hands, Selene takes a final look around the room she will never see again, steeling herself for whatever comes next.

Cassie takes away the trunks and leaves Selene alone with Mistress Stripe, the cat’s box, and a suffocating weight of uncertainty.

She doesn’t bother attending her parents’ soirée, nor is she summoned.

It is unthinkably rude not to meet their guests, but she can’t bring herself to face the Duke, her parents, or the inevitable gossip.

So much for the revenge she once dreamed of in moments of desperation. She can’t even be in the same room as the Duke, let alone confront him .

Revenge isn’t necessary, she tells herself. All that matters is staying out of his reach. If he can’t control her or gain access to Nocturne, then nothing else matters.

Still, she hopes he’s miserable. Misery, after all, is safer than anger.

Cassie brings up food for her, but Selene barely touches it. Her stomach churns with dread, waiting for everything to fall apart. Dorian’s bold lie about their marriage can’t possibly hold. Surely, he will come to his senses and realise she isn’t worth the trouble.

If he abandons her, she won’t blame him. But she doesn’t know what she will do.

There’s always Montelune, a small voice whispers, but it offers no solutions.

That voice doesn’t know the way to the nearest port, how much coin is needed to secure passage, or how to navigate the dangers of the road.

The louder, more practical voice in her mind shudders at the thought of sleeping in a ditch.

Mistress Stripe curls in her lap. Selene focuses on the cat’s warmth, trying to anchor herself as night falls. Footsteps in the corridor send her nerves sparking with every sound.

The hours drag. Her dread deepens. She imagines Dorian reconsidering his impulsive decision, overwhelmed by the complications of his lie. In her mind’s eye, he turns away, leaving her to face the Duke and her parents alone.

Mistress Stripe grumbles as Selene hugs her too tightly, wriggling free to curl up at a distance and eye her reproachfully.

“Sorry, darling,” Selene murmurs, scratching behind the cat’s ear in apology. Mistress Stripe’s tail flicks in mild annoyance before she settles.

The night presses against the windows. He’s not coming, she thinks, hugging herself. You’re on your own.

What’s she going to do ?

A faint tap against the glass breaks the silence. Selene freezes, straining to hear. Another tap.

A pebble.

Her heart leaps as she rushes to the window, peering into the shadowed garden below.

Dorian stands beneath her window, his head tilted up as he prepares to throw another small stone.

She fumbles with the latch, her hands trembling, and pushes the window open.

“Lord Nightbloom!” she calls softly.

He looks up, his face shadowed. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she whispers, her heart pounding. “But how… how are we getting out?”

“There’s a carriage waiting outside the gates,” he replies. “Your trunks are already packed.”

“How am I getting down?”

“You’ll have to climb,” he tells her.

“Climb?” Selene’s voice wavers.

“There’s a very well-situated trellis to your left,” Dorian says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.

She has never climbed out of a window in her life. Why is he saying it as though it’s as natural as descending a staircase? Does he have any idea how many layers she’s wearing? She imagines it must be much easier to climb in boots and breeches.

Yesterday, you were running for your life, a voice reminds her. You can climb down a trellis.

“All right,” she says, though her tone betrays her nerves. “Just let me get my cat.”

“Your… cat?” Now he is the one sounding as though he’s been asked to climb out of a window in a dress. “You’re bringing your cat with you?”

“If that’s all right?”

Dorian hesitates, then nods. “Yes. Of course it is.”

Her brief panic ebbs. She turns back into the room, rushing to collect Mistress Stripe. Getting the cat into her box takes longer than expected, and when she returns to the window, she’s faced with a new dilemma: how to get Mistress Stripe down. Throwing the box to Dorian seems far too cruel.

“Use the curtain ties,” Dorian suggests, watching her linger uncertainly at the window.

Knots aren’t her strong suit, but after some fumbling, she manages to loop the ties together and secure them around the box’s handle.

Slowly, she lowers Mistress Stripe into Dorian’s waiting arms. He frees the ties quickly, setting the box down with a force that makes her suspect the cat has taken a swipe at him.

“Not afraid of cats, are you, Lord Nightbloom?” she calls down, trying to mask her nervousness.

“I am absolutely not afraid of cats,” he replies, though the hesitation in his voice suggests otherwise.

Oh heavens, she thinks. I don’t know this man at all. This is absolute madness.

Madness would be staying here and marrying the Duke, the voice inside her counters.

There can be more than two mad things, she retorts silently.

Taking a deep breath, she eyes the trellis. The wall is coated in thick ivy, twisting and gnarled. Below, Dorian shifts his gaze between her and what she assumes is their carriage waiting just beyond the estate’s walls.

“You can do this,” she whispers to herself, gripping the windowsill.

With a tentative step, she places her weight on the trellis and begins to climb. Every movement feels precarious. Her skirts snag, her shoes scrape against the wooden lattice, and her breath comes in shallow gasps .

“Easy there,” Dorian calls softly from below, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’re doing well.”

Selene pauses, daring to glance down. Her heart lurches.

She isn’t far from the ground, but the distance feels like miles, and her fingers have already gone numb from gripping the vines.

Her mind whirls with what-ifs, spinning out terrible possibilities.

What if she loses her footing? What if the trellis snaps? What if someone—

“Selene,” Dorian calls, catching her gaze. “Let yourself fall backward. I’ll catch you.”

“Are you sure?” she calls back, her voice more tremulous than she intends.

“Absolutely,” he promises, his arms outstretched, steady and certain.

Her pulse races as she clings to the trellis one last time, eyeing him with a mix of trust and fear. Then, with a deep breath, she closes her eyes, releases her grip, and tips backward.

The air rushes around her in a heady blur, but it’s less than a second before his arms close around her, solid and strong, breaking her fall.

For a dizzying moment, they are so close she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

He has caught her, just as he promised, and she can’t suppress a soft laugh, exhilaration and relief spilling over.

“See? Nothing to worry about,” he murmurs, though there’s a faint tremor in his voice.

She nods, trying to steady her breathing. “Thank you.”

He’s surprisingly strong for such a lean-looking gentleman. The Duke is nearly twice his width. She hadn’t expected Dorian to be able to withstand her weight, slight as it is, and certainly not for so long.

So long. He is still holding her.

“You can probably put me down now,” she murmurs.

Dorian coughs. “Ah, quite! ”

He sets her down carefully, his eyes averted, as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Selene fetches Mistress Stripe, and together they make their way to the gate. It has been left unlocked despite the late hour. Dorian must have bribed someone to keep it open.

Her trunks are, as promised, already loaded. There is no footman, just a single driver. Dorian helps her into the carriage himself, their fingers brushing briefly. His hands are more calloused than a gentleman’s ought to be, perhaps from riding without gloves.

Settling into the seat, she releases Mistress Stripe as soon as the door closes. The cat yowls her displeasure, growling as the carriage rumbles away. After a while, though, she gives up and settles into the seat beside her.

Dorian eyes the cat warily. “What’s your cat’s name?”

Selene hesitates, embarrassed to admit the name she chose as a child. “Missy,” she says instead.

He makes no move to pet the cat, which doesn’t bode well. Selene isn’t sure she trusts people who don’t like cats.

To ease the tension, she says, “It’s a lovely night for an elopement.” She stares out of the window. The moon is bright, the stars as clear as diamonds.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Is weather ever suited to this sort of thing?”

“Well, a thunderstorm wouldn’t bode well.”

“Good point,” he says with a faint smile.

The carriage trundles on for nearly a mile before Selene finds her voice again. “How are we going to get a back-dated marriage certificate?”

Dorian is still staring out of the window, though it’s pitch-black under the shadow of the trees, and she doubts he can see a thing. “I have a priest who owes me a favour.”

She blinks, startled. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished liar.” She isn’t sure if she’s impressed or uneasy. She was married to a liar before, and dishonesty has never seemed like a skill to be proud of. But tonight, his lies have spared her a great deal of trouble.

Dorian glances toward her, briefly. “How well do you know me, really? By my recollection, we haven’t spoken since my father’s funeral.”

A flush creeps into her cheeks, and shame heats her skin. He’s right. She has barely offered him more than a polite nod since that day—and now here he is, marrying her to save her from a trouble he doesn’t even understand the extent of.

“I mean from back at school,” she says hastily, eager to change the subject. “You always seemed like an honest sort of fellow.”

His smile is faint, weak, and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “A lot can change in so many years, Selene.”

Selene. The way he says her name catches her off guard.

There is no honorific, no disdain—just a quiet familiarity that disarms her.

It’s how he must have said it when they were children, but now it carries the weight of his adult voice.

It isn’t proper, of course. He should still be calling her My Lady or Lady Selene.

But then, she reminds herself, they are to be married. This will be the first of many intimacies they will be expected to share.

“It’s a long journey,” he says, his tone shifting, becoming more brisk. “You should try to get some sleep.”

She wants to tell him she’s afraid to sleep—that the last time she closed her eyes, she’s fairly certain she died.

The fear of falling asleep again, of being thrown back to face the Duke or reliving this day, sits heavy in her chest. Worse still is the fear of going back even further—to Roselune Abbey, to the life she has already outgrown.

She can’t imagine returning to the person she once was.

How could she go back to light-hearted conversations with friends, knowing what the future holds?

How could she find joy in things that once delighted her, now that she has changed?

However uncertain the future might be, it’s the past that terrifies her more, now that it’s a liquidious creature that doesn’t stay where it should.

“All right,” she says softly, sensing that the conversation is over.

She would have preferred to talk with him longer, to get to know this man she has tied herself to, but she knows better than to push him now. He could still change his mind.

She closes her eyes, and to her surprise, the motion of the carriage lulls her to sleep almost instantly.