Page 120 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
This isn’t Luna’s. It’s hers.
A strange shiver runs through her. When had she ever given Dorian a handkerchief?
Her fingers brush against the fabric, and then the memory surfaces.
His father’s funeral.
She sees it as if she were standing there again. She hadn’t known what to say to him then. They hadn’t been close. Not yet. But she’d seen the way his hands had trembled at his sides, how his eyes glistened. She’d given him the handkerchief without thinking, pressing it into his palm and curling his fingers around it.
She had never expected him to keep it.
Yet here it is, years later, clutched in his fevered grip like it’s something precious. Selene swallows hard. Slowly, gently, she reaches out and covers his hand with hers again. He doesn’t tremble at her touch anymore, but she doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she tells him, “but I want to be your wife. Truly and completely. I want to share my bed and my life with you. I want to grow old beside you. I don’t need children—but I do need you. So if your heart is too weak to bear this all alone, take mine. It’s only ever been yours.”
Marta arrives late the next morning, already informed of events. Her eyes dart to Dorian’s motionless form, then to Selene, who must look as tired as she feels.
“My lady,” Marta murmurs. “Is there anything I can do?”
Selene glances around. The room is clean. The water basin is full. Ariella has taken the laundry. There is nothing for Marta to do here.
She shakes her head. “No. Take the day, Marta. There’s just… one thing.”
Marta tilts her head. “Anything.”
Selene hesitates, fingers tightening in her lap. She knows that her next request is going to sound bizarre.
“Could you ask Jon to carve another totem?” shesays. “A fifth one.”
Marta’s brows lift in surprise. “A fifth?”
Selene nods. “A faceless goddess. I don’t… I don’t have any more details than that.”
For a moment, Marta just studies her, as if searching for something in her face. She nods slowly. “I’ll ask him.”
“And Marta?”
“Yes?”
“Please ask him to hurry.”
Marta doesn’t question it, doesn’t press. She simply bobs her head before slipping away.
Selene exhales, the room falling quiet again.
Five totems.
Five gods.
One of them must be listening.
Dorian stirs, a low groan escaping his lips. Selene jerks upright, heart hammering as his eyelids flutter.
“Dorian?” she whispers, leaning in.
His breathing is shallow, uneven. His gaze, when it meets hers, is unfocused, but there’s a flicker of awareness there—a terrible, exhausted awareness.
Then his body seizes. A violent shudder racks his frame, his fingers twitching uncontrollably against hers. His chest jerks with a desperate, ragged gasp, and his eyes widen, wild with sudden fear.
