Page 20 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“Ariella,” Dorian interrupts gently, forgetting all propriety, “I think Lady Selene would prefer to rest for now. We can discuss the history of the hall another time.”
Selene notes that he doesn’t call herLady Nightbloomas he ought to, but she’s too relieved to be granted a rest to think much of it. Of course he isn’t going to call her Lady Nightbloom. Legally, she is his wife, but he did not ask for her. She isn’t his wife in the ways that really matter.
If Mrs Everfrost is disappointed, she hides it well.
“Yes, of course, My Lord,” she murmurs, stepping back with a slight bow. There’s something in the way she says‘my lord’, as if Dorian isn’t really a lord at all, but some kind of imposter. At least, Selene thinks that’s it. She isn’t sure.
She’s very, very tired.
Dorian doesn’t seem to register her tone, or mind it if he does. Instead of reprimanding her, he leads Selene through dimly lit corridors, each turn revealing another shadowy hallway cloaked in quiet abandonment. The air is thick, the only sound their footsteps against the timeworn floorboards. Most of the windows are shut, their curtains drawn, allowing only slivers of light that barely illuminate the portraits lining the walls. The faces of Dorian’s ancestors peer out of their frames, dignified yet sombre, each one seeming to carry the weight of Ebonrose Hall’s history in their painted eyes.
Busts of long-passed family members sit upon marble pedestals, their stone gazes following them as they pass.Selene pauses now and again, unable to resist admiring these remnants of the past. Though the house is unkempt, these artefacts give it a strange sense of timelessness—a dignity that neglect can’t quite erase.
It is only once they slow in front of a door that she begins to panic.
Oh, ladies and lords, what if he doesn’t realise that married nobles aren’t supposed to share a bedroom? It is common for them to have a suite between them, two rooms at either end, or at least a door between the two at a smaller estate.
He must know, surely? Things may be different here, removed from society, but he can’t bethatunaware of how things are done.
The door swings open, and she steps into the space. It is nothing like the gilded chamber of her mother’s, but the room has a quiet charm, though it is clear it hasn’t been updated in quite some time. Thick velvet curtains hang from tall windows, framing views of the tangled garden below, and the faint scent of lavender drifts from a small satchel tied to the bedpost. Selene suspects that the walls were once deep blue, but they’ve faded now to a muted grey-green. A heavy, intricately carved wardrobe stands against one wall, and a faded but well-made rug softens the creaking wooden floorboards. The four-poster bed, draped in worn, embroidered fabric, sits in the centre of the room, its headboard adorned with a delicate rose motif.
Someone—Mrs Everfrost, no doubt—has taken the time to set out fresh linens and plump pillows. A small vase of wildflowers rests on the nightstand, their colour softening the austerity of the room. Despite the limitations of the household and the short notice, she has clearly made an effort to make this place welcoming.
And there is absolutely nothing in the room to suggest that it is Dorian’s, too.
“These are the official chambers of the lady of the house,” he explains. “The door here connects to what I think is supposed to be a shared dressing area. I’ve never used it. There’s a shared bathing room, but I’m happy to use other facilities—”
“That’s… that’s so very kind of you, thank you.”
“I did think of offering you one of the guest rooms,” he says. “But they aren’t in a good state of repair. Nevertheless, if you want one of them—”
“No, this will do nicely. Thank you.”
Dorian hesitates, clearly unsure of what is supposed to happen next. “Ariella—Mrs Everfrost—will give you a tour later. Ebonrose Hall is your home now. You can do whatever you like here, go wherever you like. However, I kindly request that you stay out of my study at the end of the hall.”
That isn’t unexpected. She had been forbidden from going into the Duke’s study, too.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice very light, like it could float away from her at any moment.
“I’ll leave you to get settled in.”
The door closes quietly behind him. A short while later, Mrs Everfrost appears with a tray of refreshments. Soren brings up her cat and lets her loose, shooting her a stony look. After he departs, Selene has Mrs Everfrost assist with the removal of her clothes. Dorian is right. She absolutely needs a rest. Exhaustion crawls in her bones.
It is only after Mrs Everfrost leaves the room, and when she finally lies down, that it all hits her at once.
She has run away from home. She has left behind everything. Her friends might speak to her again, but she has a year of memories they do not. She has a year of memories that no one else has. For better or worse, a portion of her life has been erased. She is free of the Duke, but she is not free of the memories.
And she can’t tell anyone.
She gathers her pillow in her arms, and sobs herself to sleep.
Dawn filters through the thick, faded curtains of Selene’s room, casting a pale wash over the walls. Selene’s head is heavy, her eyes swollen from the previous night’s tears. She can’t remember the last time she cried like that. Even her grandmother’s death hadn’t elicited such a response from her. She had expected her grandmother to die. Nothing could ever have prepared her for…this.
If she were a stronger person, she reasons, she’d be able to convince herself that she’s all right now, that that future is in the past. This is her situation now, and she shall make the most of it.
But she doesn’t have that kind of strength. The events of the day before settle in her mind with a strange, hollow weight. Her new home, her new husband… everything feels impossibly distant, like a story she has been told rather than the reality she now inhabits.
She disentangles herself from the nest of blankets she’s cocooned herself inside, and waits for the quiet footsteps of a maid or the gentle clink of breakfast dishes. Minutes pass—perhaps an hour—but no one comes. She sits up, glancing around the room, taking in the worn furnishings, the cold grate, the lace of shadows the morning sun throws onto the floor. Her eyes land on the small bell pull near the bed, and she reaches for it with cautious hope, tugging lightly. But after several more minutes with no response, she realises it doesn’t work.
