Page 43 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
She has many reasons to distrust Soren—to distrust most people—but she believes Dorian. She may be an inconvenience to him, but he wouldn’t want her dead. She doesn’t think he could ever wish anyone dead. He’s been nothing but nice to her, even though she doesn’t deserve it.
She starts to cry. The milk becomes harder to swallow.
Dorian thumbs away her tears. “Hey, it’s all right, Selene. You’re all right. You’re safe here.”
She doesn’t remember falling back asleep, but she remembers that he was there.
Selene rises late the next day. Marta eventually brings up her breakfast. “I hear you had a rough night, my lady. Are you quite all right now?”
It takes Selene a moment to realise what she’s referring to. The dream has faded now. What she remembers, more than that, is—
“Dorian,” she says. “His Lordship, did he return last night?”
Marta smiles. “Indeed he did.”
Selene lies back against the pillows. She ought to be embarrassed by her display last night. Instead, she finds herself oddly eager to see him. “I suppose he’s locked himself back up in his study again already, hasn’t he?”
“Well, he was in there this morning, but he was heading out to the stableswhen I came up,” Marta explains.
Selene sits up. “Help me dress.”
She dresses quickly in the new cornflower-blue dress that arrived just yesterday from Greta’s. Marta pins up her hair and sources her a hat. Selene wolfs down breakfast and almost runs outside. If he was heading to the stables, she’s probably missed him. He might be off again on another trip, for all she knows.
But Dorian is still there when she arrives, busily brushing down a beautiful russet-coloured gelding with a shining dark mane. There are five other horses in the stables, all ranging in colour and size. No matching sets, but of course Dorian isn’t the sort to care about that sort of thing.
“A lot of horses for a small estate,” Selene remarks.
Dorian turns and smiles. “I have a weakness for horses,” he explains.
“And who takes care of them all?” There’s no stablemaster here, not even a boy from the village to muck them out—not that she’s noticed, anyway.
“Soren and myself, mainly, although we hire a lad from the village to help out sometimes,” Dorian says. “His father is our driver when we have need of one.”
“You… muck out stables?”
“Why not? I’ve two good hands.” He glances back to the rest of the mounts. “Would you… like me to introduce you?”
Selene hesitates only for a moment before stepping forward. “Yes, I think I would.”
Dorian’s smile widens, and he sets his brush aside, gesturing for her to follow him down the row of stalls. “Well, this troublemaker here is Bramble,” he says, stopping by a dappled grey mare, who flicks her ears and huffs, as if unimpressed by the introduction.
“She’s beautiful,” Selene says, careful not to reach out just yet.
“She knows it,” Dorian replies dryly. “And she’ll take full advantage if you let her. I once caught her unlatching the gate.”
Selene arches an eyebrow. “Clever girl.”
“She’s lucky she’s charming,” he says, before moving on. “Now, this old man here is Farrow.” He gestures toward a sturdy black gelding, his muzzle dusted with grey. “He belonged to my father. I keep him mostly for sentimental reasons, but he still enjoys a light ride now and then.”
Selene raises her eyebrow carefully. She wants to tease, not offend. “I didn’t realise you were sentimental, Lord Nightbloom.”
Dorian clutches his chest. “Heart of a poet, me.”
She smiles at this, and Dorian moves onto the next stall. A tall, leggy chestnut with a white blaze tosses his head as they approach.
“And this is Foxfire,” Dorian continues, voice tinged with amusement. “A dramatic name for an even more dramatic creature.”
Foxfire snorts as if in agreement, stomping a hoof. Selene chuckles. “I take it he’s high-strung?”
