Page 9 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

The priest’s voice lulls as he reaches the conclusion of the ceremony. Selene catches his question just in time. “I will,” she whispers, the words feeling like a promise not only to Dorian but to herself. She will try to put the past behind her. She will try to be grateful for this second chance—

She will try not to be afraid.

“May the Divine Four bless you,” the priest finishes.

There are no cheers, no ringing bells, only the quiet smile of the priest and the firm warmth of Dorian’s hand closing around hers.

“There,” says Dorian. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Selene doesn’t know what to say to that. They are supposed to seal the union with a kiss. She leans across, just a fraction, but Dorian is quicker. He plants a chaste kiss on her cheek instead.

Selene feels grateful for that, though not much else.

The hour-long drive towards Ebonrose Hall is a quiet one, marked only by the rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional jostle of the carriage.

Morning sunlight bathes the rolling hills and dense woods lining the path, casting everything in a soft golden glow.

Mist clings to the dew-covered grass, hanging in wispy tendrils over the landscape as if reluctant to release the night entirely.

Dorian sits across from Selene, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. The pale light filtering through the window only accentuates the ghostly pallor of his face.

“You’ve never been to Ebonrose Hall, have you?” he asks, breaking the silence.

Selene shakes her head, managing a small smile that does little to conceal her unease .

He sighs, turning his attention back to the window. “It’s a little… provincial,” he admits. “Compared to Roselune Abbey. It may take some getting used to.”

“I’m prepared,” she replies, her tone steadier than she feels.

As the carriage turns onto the long, winding drive, Ebonrose Hall comes into view, emerging from behind a screen of ancient trees.

The house is larger than Selene had expected.

It rises against the landscape with an understated grandeur.

Though far simpler than Roselune Abbey, there’s a certain quiet dignity in its muted elegance.

Stone walls and ivy-draped towers reach skyward, their grey edges softened by time.

For a brief moment, Selene feels a sense of relief.

Despite its subdued appearance, it feels as though it could be a home.

But as they draw closer, her initial impression shifts.

Signs of age and neglect become increasingly apparent.

Shutters hang askew, ivy creeps unchecked across the walls, and patches of bare masonry peek through where paint has long since faded.

The once-proud lawns are overgrown with weeds and scattered wildflowers, while the crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels seems unnaturally loud in the surrounding stillness.

When the carriage finally comes to a stop, Dorian steps out first and offers his hand, his expression apologetic, as though bracing for judgement. Selene allows him to help her down, pausing to take in the hall from this closer angle.

It doesn’t improve her impression. Provincial isn’t the right word. She might have thought it abandoned if she didn’t know any better.

Dorian glances towards the manor. “Well,” he says, “here we are.”

Three figures hurry out of the doorway and arrange themselves on the steps. They are late, of course, but without a footman to run ahead and announce their imminent arrival, it is to be expected.

Selene glances around, waiting for the rest of the servants to emerge and greet them. An estate this size should have at least twenty staff members, possibly as many as fifty during the busy seasons. But apart from the three figures now standing before them, there is no sign of anyone else.

One of the figures, a towering man who leans heavily on a cane, bows to them first. He has the look of someone better suited to soldering than serving, though his practical, slightly worn clothing doesn’t match the strict uniform Selene would have expected.

His face is rough-hewn, like weathered stone, softened only by the warm smile that reaches his eyes.

“Welcome, Lady Selene,” he says with a slight bow. “I’m Roan Rookwood. I serve as the butler and, er… cook here.”

Cook? The word startles her. One cook for a house this size—and a man, at that? The position of cook is almost always held by a woman. Not that the ability is beyond men, but it is… unconventional.

Rookwood’s grin widens as he catches her expression, as if he’s read her mind and can’t help but find her shock amusing.

Next to him, a woman of similar age steps forward, her dark auburn hair twisted into an elaborate bun. Her sharp green eyes meet Selene’s with a glint of curiosity.

“Ariella Everfrost, housekeeper,” Dorian introduces her.

She bobs a quick curtsey. “My Lady.” She smiles at Selene the way Rookwood does, but her gaze shifts quickly to Dorian, as if she were his mother and Selene is a stray cat he’s brought back from the woods. She waits for him to explain himself.

Dorian doesn’t. Instead, he turns to the last member of the party, a slim young man with pale hair and even paler skin. “And this is Soren, my valet. ”

Soren is the only one in the group who doesn’t smile.

His face seems fixed in a solemn, severe expression, far too serious for his age.

He looks like he could be anywhere between thirteen and twenty-three, though something about his awkward stance suggests he’s younger than Selene.

His hair catches the light like morning mist.

The three of them stand before her, all expressions tinged with disbelief. For a moment, Selene is at a loss—both for words and for what to make of this unusual household.

“Welcome to Ebonrose Hall, My Lady,” Mrs. Everfrost says. “We are delighted to serve you.”

Dorian’s smile falters, as if the farce has gone on long enough. “Let’s get inside,” he says. “Soren, there’s a cat inside the carriage. Please see that she’s fed and brought up to Lady Selene’s chambers.”

“A cat?” Soren asks, as if Dorian has just announced he’s brought home a tiger instead.

“Yes, a cat.”

“But—”

Dorian gives him a swift, curt look, and Soren immediately falls silent. He heads straight for the carriage without another word.

They proceed inside.

Selene is struck immediately by an atmosphere of faded grandeur.

The entryway is spacious, with high ceilings and dark wood panelling lining the walls, but it is dimly lit, with only a few sconces casting faint halos on the walls.

The grand foyer has clearly seen better days; the floor is scuffed in places, and an almost invisible layer of dust clings to the edges of the carved mouldings.

A faint smell of old wood and stone lingers in the air.

Before them, a set of dual staircases rises, their railings adorned with intricate carvings of roses and thorned vines.

They sweep upward to a shadowy landing, where they meet beneath an emblem embedded in the stone: a black iris entwined with a crescent moon and scattered stars.

Beneath it, the original family motto has been scrubbed away, leaving only faint etchings that speak to a once-proud lineage now softened by time.

Mrs Everfrost, standing close by, clasps her hands as if to give a welcoming address. “Ebonrose Hall was completed in—”

“Ariella,” Dorian interrupts gently, forgetting all propriety, “I think Lady Selene would prefer to rest for now. We can discuss the history of the hall another time.”

Selene notes that he doesn’t call her Lady Nightbloom as he ought to, but she’s too relieved to be granted a rest to think much of it. Of course he isn’t going to call her Lady Nightbloom. Legally, she is his wife, but he did not ask for her. She isn’t his wife in the ways that really matter.

If Mrs Everfrost is disappointed, she hides it well.

“Yes, of course, My Lord,” she murmurs, stepping back with a slight bow. There’s something in the way she says ‘my lord’ , as if Dorian isn’t really a lord at all, but some kind of imposter. At least, Selene thinks that’s it. She isn’t sure.

She’s very, very tired.

Dorian doesn’t seem to register her tone, or mind it if he does.

Instead of reprimanding her, he leads Selene through dimly lit corridors, each turn revealing another shadowy hallway cloaked in quiet abandonment.

The air is thick, the only sound their footsteps against the timeworn floorboards.

Most of the windows are shut, their curtains drawn, allowing only slivers of light that barely illuminate the portraits lining the walls.

The faces of Dorian’s ancestors peer out of their frames, dignified yet sombre, each one seeming to carry the weight of Ebonrose Hall’s history in their painted eyes.

Busts of long-passed family members sit upon marble pedestals, their stone gazes following them as they pass.

Selene pauses now and again, unable to resist admiring these remnants of the past. Though the house is unkempt, these artefacts give it a strange sense of timelessness—a dignity that neglect can’t quite erase.

It is only once they slow in front of a door that she begins to panic.

Oh, ladies and lords, what if he doesn’t realise that married nobles aren’t supposed to share a bedroom? It is common for them to have a suite between them, two rooms at either end, or at least a door between the two at a smaller estate.

He must know, surely? Things may be different here, removed from society, but he can’t be that unaware of how things are done.

The door swings open, and she steps into the space.

It is nothing like the gilded chamber of her mother’s, but the room has a quiet charm, though it is clear it hasn’t been updated in quite some time.

Thick velvet curtains hang from tall windows, framing views of the tangled garden below, and the faint scent of lavender drifts from a small satchel tied to the bedpost. Selene suspects that the walls were once deep blue, but they’ve faded now to a muted grey-green.

A heavy, intricately carved wardrobe stands against one wall, and a faded but well-made rug softens the creaking wooden floorboards.

The four-poster bed, draped in worn, embroidered fabric, sits in the centre of the room, its headboard adorned with a delicate rose motif.

Someone—Mrs Everfrost, no doubt—has taken the time to set out fresh linens and plump pillows.

A small vase of wildflowers rests on the nightstand, their colour softening the austerity of the room.

Despite the limitations of the household and the short notice, she has clearly made an effort to make this place welcoming.

And there is absolutely nothing in the room to suggest that it is Dorian’s, too .

“These are the official chambers of the lady of the house,” he explains. “The door here connects to what I think is supposed to be a shared dressing area. I’ve never used it. There’s a shared bathing room, but I’m happy to use other facilities—”

“That’s… that’s so very kind of you, thank you.”

“I did think of offering you one of the guest rooms,” he says. “But they aren’t in a good state of repair. Nevertheless, if you want one of them—”

“No, this will do nicely. Thank you.”

Dorian hesitates, clearly unsure of what is supposed to happen next. “Ariella—Mrs Everfrost—will give you a tour later. Ebonrose Hall is your home now. You can do whatever you like here, go wherever you like. However, I kindly request that you stay out of my study at the end of the hall.”

That isn’t unexpected. She had been forbidden from going into the Duke’s study, too.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice very light, like it could float away from her at any moment.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in.”

The door closes quietly behind him. A short while later, Mrs Everfrost appears with a tray of refreshments.

Soren brings up her cat and lets her loose, shooting her a stony look.

After he departs, Selene has Mrs Everfrost assist with the removal of her clothes.

Dorian is right. She absolutely needs a rest. Exhaustion crawls in her bones.

It is only after Mrs Everfrost leaves the room, and when she finally lies down, that it all hits her at once.

She has run away from home. She has left behind everything.

Her friends might speak to her again, but she has a year of memories they do not.

She has a year of memories that no one else has.

For better or worse, a portion of her life has been erased.

She is free of the Duke, but she is not free of the memories .

And she can’t tell anyone.

She gathers her pillow in her arms, and sobs herself to sleep.