Page 130 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“He’s awake, and he’s lucid.”
Rookwood is already reaching for his leg, strapping it on with quick, practised movements. “Well, why the hell are we still sitting here?”
Ariella shoves the blankets off her and stumbles out of bed. Selene barely has time to step aside before they’re both moving past her, practically running.
She watches them disappear down the corridor, then turns, making her way towards the kitchen. She’s unbelievably hungry. Too hungry to cook, for sure, but she slathers butter on a thick slice of bread and devours it.
It’s only when she steps outside that she realises how long it’s been since she’s breathed fresh air.
The morning is crisp and bright, the sky an endless stretch of pale blue. The scent of earth and greenery fills her lungs, sharp and clean after days of candlelit confinement.
Selene exhales slowly, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders.
Dorian is awake. He’s alive. He’s going to be fine. She loves him, and she thinks that he might love her.
He kept her handkerchief. She still needs to know why. He couldn’t possibly have been in love with her back then, but there must be a reason he’d kept it all these years, why he’d reached for it in the grips of his fever.
A reason why he kissed her. A reason why he said he wanted to stay here with her.
A reason why he did.
She decides to pick him some flowers. Perhaps she will present them with a note, a written confession of her feelings, just so there’s no turning back or losing her nerve. Maybe she’ll add an addendum to their marriage contract, or just—blurt it out in front of everyone.
Flowers sound more romantic, though.
She wanders through the garden, letting her fingers trail over leaves and vines. She picks up a few blooms that she comes across, until she reaches the field where the midnight irises grow. They haven’t bloomed in years, still and closedbeneath the sun. Sleeping. She kneels, brushing her fingertips over a closed petal. What are they waiting for?
A branch snaps behind her.
Selene stiffens. Before she can turn, movement flickers at the edges of her vision.
Men.
Five of them. Rough-looking, dressed in worn leathers and cloaks, blades at their belts.
She rises slowly, trying to school her face into something less than terror. “You’re trespassing.”
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his brow, tilts his head. “Not for long,” he says. “We’re just here to fetch you.”
A cold weight spreads across her chest.
She forces her expression to remain composed. “On whose behalf?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
One of the others, thinner, with a wiry beard, smirks. “His Grace, the Duke. Apparently, he has quite the proposal for you.”
Her stomach drops.
“You’re mistaken,” she says, keeping her voice even. “I am already married.”
“Aye,” the broad-shouldered man says, “and that’s unfortunate.”
The wiry one snorts. “Not for long.”
Selene doesn’t move. Doesn’t let them see the panic rising in her throat.
“We need to make sure her husband’s dead first,” another mutters.
She freezes.
