Page 48 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
An hour later, Selene knows everything there is to know about Jon Porter. He is a quiet, steady man. He is a carpenter by trade, born and raised in Lower Thornmere, the son of a cooper, but he had no interest in barrels. Instead, he took to furniture-making. Selene makes a mental note to see him later about some new pieces for her room.
Marta tells Selene how they met—Jon was repairing a broken chair in the servants’ hall of the mayor’s house when she came storming in, muttering about someone tracking mud into the kitchen. He had looked up, grinned, and offered to make her a better mop. She had rolled her eyes, unimpressed, but somehow, that moment had lodged itself in her heart.
Their courtship was a slow thing. He would leave little things for her—a wooden spoon he’d carved when the old one in the kitchen cracked, a small box with an intricate lid for her sewing needles, a pair of hair combs shaped like leaves. At first, Marta hadn’t known what to make of him, but eventually, she realised she looked forward to his quietpresence, the way he listened more than he spoke, the way his hands were always busy.
One winter evening, he walked her home from the market, snowflakes catching in her hair, and asked if she might let him court her properly. Marta, feeling bold, had told him he’d been courting her for months already. Jon had only smiled and taken her gloved hand in his.
Now, they were saving up to marry. Jon wanted to build them a home, a place of their own. Marta had no doubts he would. He was the kind of man who finished what he started.
As Selene listens, sipping her now-cool tea, she finds herself oddly envious. Not of Marta, nor of Jon, but of the simplicity of it all—the certainty, the quiet devotion.
She wants that. She wants that, and she fears that she may never have it. The Duke hasn’t left her with much of a heart to give to anyone. And Dorian…
Well, he’s made it clear that he would like to be free one day to marry someone else. He’s kind to her, but he’s kind to everyone. She would make him a poor wife. She isn’t his match. She doesn’t want to burden him with her presence forever.
Selene is quiet for a long moment after Marta finishes, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. The room is warm, but a chill settles in her chest nonetheless.
“You’ll be very happy,” she says at last, and she means it.
Marta smiles, but her eyes are perceptive. “You will too, my lady.”
Selene doesn’t answer.
A short while later, footsteps sound outside. She looks up just as the door swings open again—Dorian enters, arms full of books.
“Adventures,” he tells her. “As requested.”
“Oh!” Selene grabs the first one from the pile. “Are these favourites of yours?”
Dorian smiles. “One of them is,” he says. “Two of them are mediocre, in my opinion, one I’ve never read before, and a third I despise. So you have no choice but to be honest with me.”
“That’sdevious,” Selene says. “I had no idea you had a wicked side, Lord Nightbloom.”
Dorian looks down. “I can be wicked,” he says, in a way that makes Selene certain that he is not. “How’s the ankle?”
“It’s fine,” she insists. “I see you’re quite recovered.”
Dorian frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“My fall,” she explains. “You seemed to take it worse than I did.”
“It was my fault. I should have—”
“How can a horse being spooked beyour fault?”
Dorian opens his mouth and shuts it again. Clearly, there is nothing he can say to that. But Selene understands this feeling, that everything is somehow down to you. Dorian seems to think he’s responsible for everyone and everything.
She shifts in her seat, setting the book aside. “You’re always like this, aren’t you?”
Dorian glances at her warily. “Like what?”
“Carrying guilt that isn’t yours.”
His expression remains carefully composed, but there’s something tight about it, something that suggests she’s struck close to the truth.
“I don’t—” He stops himself, shaking his head slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”
Selene tilts her head, studying him. He looks exhausted, the kind of weariness that sleep won’t fix. She wonders if it’s always been there, if she’s only noticing now because she’s looking properly.
