Page 119 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“Have you slept at all?”
A pause.
“No.”
Rookwood sighs. “Ariella—”
“I couldn’t.” Her voice is tight, fraying at the edges.
Selene keeps her eyes shut, but she can hear the way Rookwood moves—crossing the space between them, the shift of leather and fabric as he reaches for her.
“What do you need?” he asks.
There’s no answer. Just a shuddering breath—then another. And then Ariella breaks, burying her face against his chest as she sobs.
Rookwood says nothing. He just holds her.
Selene doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound. She stays still in her seat beside Dorian, falling asleep to the sound of Ariella’s cries and the thin, rattling sound of Dorian’s breathing.
When Selene wakes again, the room is still and quiet.
Rookwood and Ariella are gone—he must have finally convinced her to rest. It’s just her and Dorian now.
She pushes herself upright, her body aching from sleeping in such a poor position, but she ignores it. Dorian needs tending to. His skin is still so hot…
She dampens a cloth and presses it to his forehead. He murmurs something. At first, it’s too quiet to make out, but then he says it again, a little louder.
“Luna…”
Selene stills.
“Luna—please—”
His hand twitches against the sheets, fingers curling as if reaching for something unseen. His face is pinched, pained.
She gives him a few drops of pain relief, carefully tipping them past his chapped lips. He swallows with difficulty, but soon his expression eases.
His fingers flex again. This time, he speaks more clearly.
“Handkerchief.”
Selene blinks. Of all things…
She hesitates only a moment before reaching for his bedside table. The drawer is neat, as she expected, though the sight of it still makes her smile faintly. He keeps everything so carefully arranged—papers, ink, a few old letters. And tucked beside them, a folded handkerchief.
She takes it and presses it into his palm.
Dorian clutches it weakly, drawing it close to his chest. His grip on it is loose, but his breathing evens out slightly, his body relaxing just a little.
Selene watches him, her heart tight.
She wonders what memory he’s chasing in his fevered dreams.
“Don’t you call him back to you, Luna,” she whispers. “Please let me have him a little longer.”
She clasps her hand over his, fingers skimming the silk. She frowns. The handkerchief looks familiar. Too familiar.
She leans in, eyes tracing the delicate embroidery along the edge—small, even stitches in pale silver thread. Her own embroidery.
