Page 109 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Selene laughs, but then—
A hush spreads at the entrance.
Lord and Lady Duskbriar have arrived.
Her mother is resplendent in deep green silk, her father in sombre black. Her mother’s lips press into a thin line as she studies Selene’s gown, and she nods once, approvingly but without warmth. Her father barely spares her a glance before turning to Dorian.
“Lord Nightbloom.” His voice is as flat as ever.
“Lord Duskbriar,” Dorian replies, measured, polite.
They exchange stiff pleasantries before moving past, vanishing into the crowd.
Selene releases a breath, taking a moment to steady herself.
And then—
Duke Drakefell arrives.
His presence is like a chill in the air, creeping in through the candlelight. His mask is simple, black and edged in silver, but there is no mistaking the shape of his mouth as he smirks at her. “Lady Nightbloom,” he drawls, bowing low. “I must say, you host a magnificent ball.”
Selene forces a smile. “You honour us with your presence, Your Grace.”
He straightens, his gaze flickering between her and Dorian. Assessing. Calculating. He gives a curt nod, and vanishes into the crowd.
Selene barely breathes until he’s gone.
For now, everything is going well. The music drifts through the hall, a waltz that seems to shimmer through the air like spun glass. Laughter ripples over the clink of champagne flutes, over murmured conversation, over the rustle of silk and velvet as dancers swirl across the floor. Candles flicker in their sconces, their golden glow softening the sharp edges of masks, turning strangers into something almost dreamlike.
Selene moves through the crowd, pausing here and there, exchanging pleasantries, keeping a careful balance between charm and distance. She ensures she speaks with everyone—the nobles lingering at the wine tables, the merchants hovering near the pillars, even the young debutantes pretending not to watch her too closely. She is keenly aware that this ball has made her a curiosity. A spectacle.
But that is precisely what she intended.
Still, despite her careful attention to the room, her gaze flickers too often to find Dorian. Sometimes he is across the hall, engaged in quiet conversation with one of his marks. Other times he is laughing—laughing—with Ophelia’s husband. She tells herself she is being ridiculous, but the unease gnaws at her anyway.
She turns, and—
“Don’t worry.”
A familiar voice at her shoulder, like Dorian’s and not. She glances up to find Soren watching her through his mask, the silver embroidery catching the candlelight. He is dressed like a shadow, all black with only the faintest glint of steel at his cuffs. His mask is as dark as midnight, and for a moment, he looks like something out of a story—some nameless figure who has slipped between the veil of reality and myth.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he says.
Selene exhales, half-laughing despite herself. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to those who know you.” Soren tilts his head slightly, following her gaze across the room. “You’re worried about him.”
She doesn’t answer.
Soren hums. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t need you watching over him.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you’ll feel better if I do.”
She doesn’t want to admit how right he is.
Soren pats her arm like he’s comforting a nervous horse. “Relax, Selene. It’s a party. Enjoy yourself while you can.”
