Page 52 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“You don’t have to—”
“Of course I have to. Everyone needs access to their own funds. I’ll arrange one immediately.”
Selene nods towards the letter. “You won’t have to, now.”
Dorian places the letter down. “Soren, would you ready Hoovian for me? I have urgent business in town.”
He still seems annoyed, but Selene doesn’t press it. She’s too busy mentally redecorating the house in her mind. She has no idea how much certain things cost, but she finds she welcomes the work. She’ll start speaking to tradesmen this afternoon.
Dorian is gone most of the day. By the time he’s returned, Selene has already arranged for the roof to be repaired and hired two gardeners. Tomorrow, she hopes to go into town and begin ordering furniture.
Dorian arrives in the parlour red-faced, still sweaty from the ride. “Here,” he says, placing some papers in front of her.
“What are these?” she asks.
“Papers in your name to a small bank account,” he tells her. “I can’t access it, and it’s tied to one of my tenants, so I can’t directly stop funds going into the account, either.”
Selene stares at him, certain she’s misunderstanding. Men do not give their wives their own bank accounts. Access to shared funds, maybe, but their own account? Unheard of. Only widows get such freedom.
“Dorian, this is—”
“Not much,” he says. “It’s not much, but it’s yours. And with the return of your investment, it ought to be enough to start fixing up this place.”
Selene smiles so hard her cheeks hurt. “The work has already begun.”
Renovations on Ebonose Hall begin immediately. Selene soon finds that many of the villagers and even the townsfolk are prepared to offer Dorian ample discounts, in some cases supplying their labour for free and asking only that the raw materials be covered. Selene is shocked. It makes her want to repay their kindness, so she works in the kitchens with Rookwood to help prepare luncheon for them all while they work. She discovers she’s particularly good at making apple tarts, much to Soren’s chagrin.
The renovations progress swiftly, with scaffolding rising against the soot-darkened stone of Ebonrose Hall. The outer walls are scrubbed clean of years of neglect, revealing thefaint shimmer of the stone beneath. Broken windows are replaced with thick glass, their leaded lattice catching the light in strange, shifting patterns. Inside, rooms long abandoned to dust and decay are reopened, their sagging beams reinforced, their fireplaces cleared of nests and debris. The scent of fresh-cut wood and lime mortar lingers in the air, mingling with the ever-present aroma of damp earth from the gardens beyond.
Selene insists on being present for much of it. She oversees the reupholstering of furniture, ensuring the moth-eaten tapestries are replaced with new ones woven in deep, rich hues. She makes a point of listening to the workers, taking note of which families are struggling, who might need a little extra coin, and quietly arranging for it through fair wages or small gifts. The library is dusted and restored, the leather spines of old tomes polished and restacked.
Ebonrose Hall breathes again, no longer the ghost it once was.
She keeps an eye on the paper, watching the movement of trade, the slow shifts in market trends. Her knowledge of the future is limited, fragmented, but it is enough. A careful investment here, a withdrawn bid there. She never pushes too far—never makes a decision so bold it would raise suspicion—but she ensures that their coffers are replenished, that the Hall will not only stand but thrive.
Dorian takes note, of course. His sharp eyes linger on her when she sets aside an article on shipping routes or mentions a sudden intuition about the price of grain. But he does not question her. Not yet.
With the structural work complete, Selene turns her attention to the rooms. She’s desperate to renovate hers, but she prioritises the main bathing room first, knowing it will benefit the rest of the house most.
She’s completely forgotten the arrangement she made with Dorian that he use that one instead of the one she shares with him until she opens the door one evening and finds him shirtless in front of the sink.
Selene thinks she squeaks, though it’s possible she makes no noise at all. She freezes, staring at Dorian Nightbloom as he sponges water down the fine, flat panels of his chest. He might be lean, but he is certainly… well-formed. She ought not to be surprised. Twice now, he’s caught her in his arms. She knew he was strong. She’s just never seen the impressive proof of that strength before.
Dorian drops the sponge into the sink. “Sorry,” he says, looking up. “I forgot to… with the renovations in the other room—”
“No, no, it’sfine!” she insists. “This is your house, after all!” Her voice is much higher than she would like it to be.
“It’sourhouse, Selene,” he reminds her.
She likes that sound, though it seems odd to her. “Ours?”
“Yes. Yours, mine, Ariella’s, Soren’s, Rookwood’s.”
Of course it is. His real family’s. She should be happy she’s included in the number.
Dorian is still half naked. She doesn’t know why she expected his clothes to suddenly snap back on, but she wishes they would. It’s hard to look at his face.
Actually, maybe she doesn’t want his clothes to snap back on after all.
