Page 17 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
She closes her eyes, and to her surprise, the motion of the carriage lulls her to sleep almost instantly.
When the carriage finally slows to a halt, dawn is breaking along the horizon. It is a bright morning, with dewdrops glistening on the leaves. Selene isn’t sure how long she’s slept, but Mistress Stripe is pawing at the door, desperate to be let out. Attaching a ribbon to the cat’s collar, she steps outside, making some vain attempts to smooth down the creases in her dress and fix her hair. They have just arrived in Upper Thornmere, the town closest to the Nightbloom estate, Ebonrose Hall.
Dorian stretches his legs beside her as she waits for Mistress Stripe to relieve herself. He glances at her with a small, reassuring smile, though his skin looks pale and his eyes slightlyred-rimmed.
“Are you well?” she asks, watching as he gathers his composure with a calmness she finds oddly impressive.
“Just carriage sickness,” he says, waving off her concern as he straightens. But almost on cue, he stifles a small sneeze.
Selene frowns. She’s never heard of carriage sickness causing sneezing, but perhaps it’s a matter of pride. Deciding not to pry, she loads Mistress Stripe back into the carriage, and they head to a nearby inn for breakfast.
The innkeeper clearly knows Dorian, offering him a warm welcome and leading him to his usual table by the window. He introduces Selene as Lady Selene, carefully omitting her last name and identity. It’s possible he wants to avoid raising questions until they are safely married.
In her previous life, Selene’s wedding had been a splendid affair. The entire day before the ceremony was spent in pampering rituals. She was scrubbed, bathed, and perfumed. Her hair was combed through with sea-shell combs, her skin rubbed with flowers and oils. Hot stones were placed on her back, her nails filed and buffed, her feet scrubbed until they glowed. Not an inch of her was left untouched.
A priestess came to bless her gown, sewing four beads into the hem—one for each of the four gods. Music played constantly, incense burned, and poems were recited.
That night, the women of her family took her down to the bower house on the edge of the grounds—a space typically reserved for married women, a sanctuary for them away from the home—and explained to her themarital actin painstaking detail. They instructed her on what men liked, what she needed to do to keep her husband happy in the bedroom.
It was only much later that Selene wondered if the Duke was ever given a similar talk—or if what she might like was ever considered. She had never asked him, but she knows the answer.
The day of her first wedding began with a fabulous breakfast. She was perfumed again, then dressed layer by layer. Undergarments, gown, slippers, gloves, jewels, veil—each item was carefully applied. She was paraded through the streets in a golden carriage, seated upon velvet cushions.
No such luxury awaits her now. She and Dorian have a simple breakfast of toast and marmalade. No one combs her hair. She makes an appalling attempt at pinning it up herself.
Then it’s off to the temple in the same gown she slept in—crumpled, ruffled, and nothing like the beautiful one she wore for her first marriage. Amongst the nobility, it is traditional for the bride and groom to wear gold, with a splash of the household colours of the family they are marrying into.
The Drakefell colours are crimson and emerald green. Beneath Selene’s burnished gold outer layers, she wore a skirt of flame stitched with verdant leaves. She looked like a forest on fire—a burning queen.
Selene knows it’s silly to dwell on such frivolities, but she can’t help missing the dress. She misses the customs that accompany a wedding, the usual fanfare. She misses the friends who had stood behind her as she walked down the aisle. She misses Cassie.
And, foolish as it sounds, she even misses her parents.
She is very sure they don’t miss her.
They didn’t even visit her last evening. That’s probably a blessing. She imagines her father was furious. Perhaps her mother was busy trying to calm him down… or maybe both had assured themselves that the marriage was a lie and that they just needed to wait for Dorian to fail to produce any evidence of it.
Perhaps they were busy placating the Duke. Selene doesn’t envy them in that case.
Dorian leaves her in the carriage while he goes to make arrangements with the priest. He assures her that he haswritten ahead and that everything will be in order, but the fear gnaws at her all the same. What if this doesn’t work? What if the priest refuses? What if Dorian has no choice but to take her back?
He could, she supposes, take her to his estate and ruin her reputation in such a way that her parents would be forced to consent to the marriage. But she truly doesn’t want it to come to that.
Her eyes prickle with tears. She doesn’t want to be here. She isn’t even sure where she does want to be, but it isn’t here. Yet going home is impossible. Goinganywhereis impossible. She longs to run somewhere safe, but there is nowhere safe. There never has been—
A knock on the side of the carriage startles her from her spiralling thoughts.
“Everything’s in order,” Dorian says, his voice calm and steady. “Are you ready?”
She isn’t. “Yes.”
He helps her down from the carriage and then offers her a scrap of ink-blue silk. At first, she thinks he’s handing her a handkerchief, but when he taps the rose-pink one in his breast pocket, she realises he’s giving her his house colour.
“I thought we’d uphold at least one of the traditions,” he says lightly.
Her desire to cry evaporates. She has to bite back the urge to comment on how the pink doesn’t suit his hair—or his dark blue suit, for that matter. She doesn’t know him well enough to make the joke land properly, and she doesn’t want to accidentally insult him.
He offers her his arm. “Shall we?”
