Page 124 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Marta comes back in the late evening with the fifth totem, as requested. Ariella raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t question it. Selene places it under Dorian’s pillow. His sheets are soaked with sweat, so she and Ariella change them around him, rolling him onto fresh ones that are likely to be soaked through in minutes.
Ariella leaves to wash them. This is how she copes, Selene realises. She keeps useful, keeps busy. But Selene has nothing to do but watch.
She watches the rise and fall of Dorian’s chest, shallow and unsteady. Watches the fever flush his skin. Watches his fingers twitch against the sheets as though grasping for something just out of reach.
Selene doesn’t realise she’s trembling until she folds her hands in her lap and feels the tremor in them. She exhales, slow and measured. It doesn’t help.
She shifts closer, resting her hand over his. His skin is too warm, almost scorching, but she doesn’t pull away. “You’re going to wake up,” she tells him softly. “You’re going to wake up, and we’re going to start our nightly games again.” A shaky smile ghosts across her lips. “I’ll win.”
Dorian doesn’t stir.
Selene swallows against the lump in her throat. “I mean it,” she whispers. “You have to wake up. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait. I’ll be here.”
His breath catches, just for a moment, and she freezes. But then it evens out again, shallow but steady, and she lets out a breath of her own.
A quiet knock at the door startles her. Marta peeks in, expression pinched. “Shall I bring you anything, my lady?”
Selene shakes her head. “No. Thank you.”
Marta lingers. “You should rest.”
“I will.” A lie. They both know it.
Marta doesn’t press. “Call if you need anything.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and Selene is alone with Dorian once more.
She leans over him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You’re not allowed to die,” she murmurs. “Not yet. Not ever, if I have my way.”
He doesn’t answer.
Selene settles in for another long night.
The next morning brings no relief.
Dorian is still feverish, still caught in restless sleep. The room is thick with the cloying scent of sweat and sickness. Selene stirs from her place beside him, her limbs stiff and aching. She hasn’t truly slept—only drifted in and out, waking at every sound he made, every shift of his body.
The first light of dawn spills through the curtains, casting a pale glow over him. His face is gaunt, dark circles shadowing his eyes, his lips dry and cracked. His breathing is shallow, each inhale rasping against his throat.
Selene presses her hand to his forehead, but it’s a pointless exercise. The heat comes off him in waves.
Ariella enters, looking no better than Selene feels. She carries a fresh basin of water, the steam curling into the morning chill. “Any change?” she asks.
Selene shakes her head.
Ariella sighs, setting the basin down. “I’ll mix more willowbark. Try to get him to drink.”
Selene takes the cloth Ariella offers and dips it into the water, wringing it out before running it gently over Dorian’s face and neck. He stirs, his brow creasing.
“Dorian?” she tries, her voice hopeful.
His eyelids flicker. For a moment, she thinks he might wake, but then his head turns away from her touch, as though seeking something else.
Selene swallows past the knot in her throat. “Come back to me,” she whispers.
Ariella presses a cup into her hands. “Try this.”
Selene slides a hand beneath Dorian’s head, lifting him slightly. His skin is damp beneath her fingers. She tilts the cup to his lips. “Just a little,” she murmurs.
