Page 103 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
In truth, Selene would love to take a walk with Dorian. She would love to slip her hand in his and stroll until night descends, watching the colours crisp and darken. She wouldlove to admire the flowers and kiss him underneath the boughs of the trees.
He might do all of that with her.
He might be thinking of Luna the entire time.
You cannot be jealous of a dead girl,she tells herself.
Her heart doesn’t listen.
So, she strolls through the grounds alone instead.
“I’ve loved someone before,”Dorian had told her. Did that mean that he loved Selene, now? Why couldn’t he just be honest with his feelings?
Why can’t you be honest with yours?
Because the truth is that Selene is afraid. She barely had a heart left to break after all the Duke had done to it. It seemed unfair he should still have such a hold on her, even now, but he slunk his talons into her chest so hard she can still feel the scars.
And yet, somehow, Selene has grown another heart and given half of it away. She doesn’t know if she can survive the removal of the rest of it.
Dorian probably feels the exact same way.
Dejected, and as confused as ever, Selene wanders back to the house. She hears Soren moan as she passes by his door, and sticks her head around it.
The room is dimly lit, the single candle on the bedside table casting flickering shadows against the bare stone walls. It’s sparse, almost painfully so—no rich fabrics or personal embellishments, just the basics: a well-worn desk, a chair, a neatly made bed that Soren currently occupies, sheets pulled up to his chin. The air smells faintly of medicinal herbs, and a damp cloth sits abandoned in a bowl of water beside him.
Soren looks truly miserable. His hair is stuck to his forehead, his face pale save for the high flush of fever on hischeeks. He groans again, shifting restlessly under the blankets before cracking open one eye.
“Oh. It’s you,” he rasps.
“Who were you hoping for?” Selene steps into the room, arms folding as she takes in the scene before her.
“No one.” He shuts his eyes again, as if keeping them open is too much effort. “Just hoping I’d be dead, maybe.”
Selene snorts. “You’re not that lucky.”
Soren grunts but doesn’t argue. She takes a moment to glance around properly. Everything is meticulously tidy, his boots placed precisely side by side, his meagre belongings stacked in perfect order. And then, on a single narrow shelf above the desk, something catches her eye—a line of small wooden figurines, carefully carved and smoothed, displayed with almost childlike reverence.
Selene steps closer. “You collect these?”
Soren cracks open one eye again, frowning as he follows her gaze. “…I make them.”
The admission surprises her. She wouldn’t have expected it, not from the sharp, deadly Soren. But here, arranged in a careful row, are tiny animals, knights, and even a few misshapen attempts at people. The skill varies—some are rough, others delicate and detailed. Some look like the ones Dorian keeps.
“You never struck me as the sentimental type.”
Soren shifts, groaning at the effort. “I’m not.”
Selene traces a finger over a particularly intricate carving of a wyvern. It’s beautifully done, wings spread in mid-flight, every scale carefully notched. It suddenly strikes her how young Soren really is.
She exhales softly. “You should rest.”
“Can’t,” Soren mutters. “Hurts too much.”
She hesitates before crossing the room, picking up the damp cloth in the bowl by his bedside, and pressing it gentlyto his forehead. His whole body stills for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do with the action.
“You’ll be fine,” she says, softer now.
Soren sighs, letting his eyes drift closed again. “If I die, burn my things.”
