Page 107 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
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 hadvanished.
I make myself invisible so nobody tries to make me disappear.
But someone had. Someonewould.
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 itcould.
Missingdoesn’t necessarily meandead, 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.
