Page 29 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Yours in shock,
Cecily
The second is from Isabel Grenville.
Dear Selene,
I nearly dropped my tea reading the announcement. Selene Nightbloom, really? Why on earth would you not return to Duke Drakefell’s proposal, when everyone knows how steadfast he’s been in his devotion? The idea of you with Dorian Nightbloom—well, frankly, it seems a jest in poor taste! Whatever possessed you?
I know you’d never do anything rash, and yet I can scarcely believe this news. Have you lost your senses? Or is there something about the Duke that I don’t know?
Forever bewildered,
Isabel
Ophelia Fairmont’scame next.
Dearest Selene,
I do not know whether to be furious or laugh myself silly! Dorian Nightbloom of all people! No dowry, no fortune—and that reputation! Oh, and let’s not forget, he’s hardly the Duke. Selene, how could you be so impractical? We all know that love is rarely in these matters, but surely there was some advantage to be gained?
Yet here you are, throwing it all to the wind! Are you certain you know what you’re doing? I demand a full explanation. I hope there is some reasonable explanation for this shocking turn of events.
Your forever loyal (and forever perplexed) friend,
Ophelia
Selene reads through half a dozen more before setting them aside. She knew her friends would be confused, but she didn’t expect… this. Not a single one asked after her, inquired about details of her married life, made any inquiry about her wellbeing at all. Isabel was the one to ask if there was a reason that the Duke was no longer a good option, but Selene imagines her question is more to do with the desire for courtly gossip.
Then again, how would she react if the positions were reversed? A week ago, if any of them had run off with Dorian Nightbloom out of the blue, she would surely have the samequestions. She likes to think she would have been more empathetic, but would she?
If she believed they were in love, she might have been.
Or perhaps she would have been envious.
She finds herself once more sorting through her feelings for the Duke. Had she really loved him once? Perhaps she had loved the person she thought he was, but that wasn’t the same. Her heartbreak had been a slow thing, a death by poison. Had he even really broken her heart, or had she not even had one left by the end of it?
She hugs her arms, feeling cold. Her gaze falls to another letter. She recognises the handwriting, but she can’t believe it’s there.
Her grandmother.
Selene never thought she’d read her letters again. It still seems preposterous that she’s alive. She’s almost afraid to read it, like it will be the end of her dream.
With a slow, careful breath, Selene unfolds the letter. The ink is darker than she remembers, the strokes of her grandmother’s pen as elegant and precise as ever.
My dear Selene,
Well. I must say, I did not expect to read your name in the newspapers in such a fashion, and certainly not attached to a scandal of your own making. But what a delightful thing it is to be surprised! The Duskbriars are long overdue for a bit of upheaval. I cannot say I know much about your new husband, but if he has managed to unseat the Duke as your preferred suitor, I suspect he must be far more interesting than society gives him credit for. I never much cared for the Duke anyway.
I can imagine your friends are having quite a fit. And your mother—oh, I do hope she did not faint too dramatically. If she did, I trust you stepped over her and continued on your way. As for myself, I shall be keeping an ear to the ground for news. I expect a proper letter soon, my dear. None of this silence—I’ve been patient enough. Tell me what on earth you are up to, and whether you are at least having a bit of fun in the process.
With great affection,
Granny
Selene breathes out, realising only then how tightly she had been gripping the edges of the paper. She reads it again, and then a third time, allowing the words to settle in her chest like warmth on a winter morning.
No lectures. No scolding. Not even a whisper of disappointment—just curiosity, wry amusement, and an almost impossible thing: approval.
