Page 8 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

W hen the carriage finally slows to a halt, dawn is breaking along the horizon.

It is a bright morning, with dewdrops glistening on the leaves.

Selene isn’t sure how long she’s slept, but Mistress Stripe is pawing at the door, desperate to be let out.

Attaching a ribbon to the cat’s collar, she steps outside, making some vain attempts to smooth down the creases in her dress and fix her hair.

They have just arrived in Upper Thornmere, the town closest to the Nightbloom estate, Ebonrose Hall.

Dorian stretches his legs beside her as she waits for Mistress Stripe to relieve herself. He glances at her with a small, reassuring smile, though his skin looks pale and his eyes slightly red-rimmed.

“Are you well?” she asks, watching as he gathers his composure with a calmness she finds oddly impressive.

“Just carriage sickness,” he says, waving off her concern as he straightens. But almost on cue, he stifles a small sneeze.

Selene frowns. She’s never heard of carriage sickness causing sneezing, but perhaps it’s a matter of pride. Deciding not to pry, she loads Mistress Stripe back into the carriage, and they head to a nearby inn for breakfast.

The innkeeper clearly knows Dorian, offering him a warm welcome and leading him to his usual table by the window. He introduces Selene as Lady Selene, carefully omitting her last name and identity. It’s possible he wants to avoid raising questions until they are safely married.

In her previous life, Selene’s wedding had been a splendid affair.

The entire day before the ceremony was spent in pampering rituals.

She was scrubbed, bathed, and perfumed. Her hair was combed through with sea-shell combs, her skin rubbed with flowers and oils.

Hot stones were placed on her back, her nails filed and buffed, her feet scrubbed until they glowed. Not an inch of her was left untouched.

A priestess came to bless her gown, sewing four beads into the hem—one for each of the four gods. Music played constantly, incense burned, and poems were recited.

That night, the women of her family took her down to the bower house on the edge of the grounds—a space typically reserved for married women, a sanctuary for them away from the home—and explained to her the marital act in painstaking detail.

They instructed her on what men liked, what she needed to do to keep her husband happy in the bedroom.

It was only much later that Selene wondered if the Duke was ever given a similar talk—or if what she might like was ever considered. She had never asked him, but she knows the answer .

The day of her first wedding began with a fabulous breakfast. She was perfumed again, then dressed layer by layer. Undergarments, gown, slippers, gloves, jewels, veil—each item was carefully applied. She was paraded through the streets in a golden carriage, seated upon velvet cushions.

No such luxury awaits her now. She and Dorian have a simple breakfast of toast and marmalade. No one combs her hair. She makes an appalling attempt at pinning it up herself.

Then it’s off to the temple in the same gown she slept in—crumpled, ruffled, and nothing like the beautiful one she wore for her first marriage. Amongst the nobility, it is traditional for the bride and groom to wear gold, with a splash of the household colours of the family they are marrying into.

The Drakefell colours are crimson and emerald green. Beneath Selene’s burnished gold outer layers, she wore a skirt of flame stitched with verdant leaves. She looked like a forest on fire—a burning queen.

Selene knows it’s silly to dwell on such frivolities, but she can’t help missing the dress. She misses the customs that accompany a wedding, the usual fanfare. She misses the friends who had stood behind her as she walked down the aisle. She misses Cassie.

And, foolish as it sounds, she even misses her parents.

She is very sure they don’t miss her.

They didn’t even visit her last evening.

That’s probably a blessing. She imagines her father was furious.

Perhaps her mother was busy trying to calm him down…

or maybe both had assured themselves that the marriage was a lie and that they just needed to wait for Dorian to fail to produce any evidence of it.

Perhaps they were busy placating the Duke. Selene doesn’t envy them in that case.

Dorian leaves her in the carriage while he goes to make arrangements with the priest. He assures her that he has written ahead and that everything will be in order, but the fear gnaws at her all the same.

What if this doesn’t work? What if the priest refuses?

What if Dorian has no choice but to take her back?

He could, she supposes, take her to his estate and ruin her reputation in such a way that her parents would be forced to consent to the marriage. But she truly doesn’t want it to come to that.

Her eyes prickle with tears. She doesn’t want to be here. She isn’t even sure where she does want to be, but it isn’t here. Yet going home is impossible. Going anywhere is impossible. She longs to run somewhere safe, but there is nowhere safe. There never has been—

A knock on the side of the carriage startles her from her spiralling thoughts.

“Everything’s in order,” Dorian says, his voice calm and steady. “Are you ready?”

She isn’t. “Yes.”

He helps her down from the carriage and then offers her a scrap of ink-blue silk. At first, she thinks he’s handing her a handkerchief, but when he taps the rose-pink one in his breast pocket, she realises he’s giving her his house colour.

“I thought we’d uphold at least one of the traditions,” he says lightly.

Her desire to cry evaporates. She has to bite back the urge to comment on how the pink doesn’t suit his hair—or his dark blue suit, for that matter. She doesn’t know him well enough to make the joke land properly, and she doesn’t want to accidentally insult him.

He offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

Selene clings to Dorian’s steady arm as they ascend the temple steps.

She glances at the building—a modest, ivy-covered chapel tucked between Thornmere’s narrow, cobbled streets.

Its walls are old, weathered stone, with tendrils of ivy clinging like threads of green lace.

The stained-glass windows are simple, their muted greens and blues barely catching the dawn light.

Inside, the temple is hushed, a few small candles flickering and casting soft shadows over rows of plain wooden pews.

It is a world away from her first wedding, where every inch of the grand hall was bathed in golds and reds.

Chandeliers scattered dazzling light across hundreds of faces, and the air buzzed with murmurs and anticipation, an endless sea of guests watching her every step.

Here, the silence feels vast.

Selene thinks of the other temple she glimpsed in the darkness when she was close to death—the one shrouded in shadows, its stone walls etched with symbols she couldn’t decipher. Which god was it meant for?

It can’t have been Aurelis, the Silver Star.

She saw no stars or owls, the symbols typically associated with him.

Nor was there any water, so it can’t have been Liriel, the Keeper of Waters.

Vannor, the Flameforger, is out of the question entirely.

Perhaps it was some version of the Green Mother, Veridia, the goddess of harvest and fertility, though it seems strange to have found her temple in such a cold, remote place.

Or perhaps it was some ancient, forgotten goddess from a long-ago time.

Selene shudders at the thought. Does she really want to know? Does she truly want to revisit that night?

She brought you back to life. Don’t you want to know why?

The voice inside her is relentless, and she wants nothing more than to silence it. She has been given a second chance. She doesn’t want to think about that night—or about the past at all.

At the altar, the priest waits. He is a short, balding man with a warm yet slightly puzzled smile.

His simple robe is meticulously clean and adorned with a modest silver star—the symbol of Aurelis.

He gives them both a kind nod and a curious glance, his gaze lingering on Selene for a moment longer.

His expression softens as he studies her.

“Lady Selene, this union is of your own will?” he asks gently, his low voice echoing in the quiet space.

“Yes,” Selene replies, striving to keep the tremor from her voice. Her hand tightens on Dorian’s arm as she speaks. He gives her arm a reassuring squeeze in return.

The priest nods in understanding and begins the marriage rites.

His voice is soft and unwavering, but Selene’s mind flits back to her former life, standing in Roselune Abbey’s vast, gilded hall.

She had been a showpiece then. Every gaze had carried expectation; every movement had been weighed with meaning.

Now, as the priest recites the vows, she is suddenly thrown back to that day. The words come unbidden—ones she has spoken once before: What the Gods bring together, no mortal may temper. Let you be true and steadfast in your devotion, until death tears you apart.

A wave of panic rises in her chest, and her breath catches as she fights to keep her focus on the present. She tries to ground herself in Dorian’s presence.

He’s not the Duke, she tells herself. He’s not the Duke, not the Duke, not the Duke—

But she doesn’t know him and so much is uncertain and why is she doing this in the first place—

Until death, death, death—

She has died once already. This marriage is to save her from meeting the same fate, but what if it doesn’t?

Dorian’s arm shifts slightly, enough to break her spiralling thoughts. She clings to it, managing to steady her breathing.