Page 66 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
It is, but Selene had not expected Dorian to get her anything. The Duke did. It was a huge sapphire the size of a baby’s fist, inlaid with diamonds. It was beautiful, and heavy as a chain.
“Since when have you ever been customary?” Selene asks.
Dorian doesn’t reply, but Marta darts out from the screen to collect a small velvet box. She opens it to reveal a tiny silver flower on a chain so delicate it’s almost invisible. At its centre is a single pearl.
The Duke would never have thought to buy her something like this. No one would. It’s far too simple.
“I don’t expect you to wear it tonight,” Dorian says. “I know it’s not the sort of thing you usually wear, I just—”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Marta helps her put it on. It rests beneath her collar bones, just above her breasts, as light as a kiss.
A few minutes later, she steps out from behind the screen.
Dorian is standing in his fine suit. It’s deep emerald, stitched with gold, the cravat a mix of pale green and golden thread. It goes well with the red of his hair.
Selene stands for a moment, fingers brushing the tiny silver flower at her throat. It is delicate in a way she is not used to—like something precious, something meant to bekept, rather than displayed.
She draws in a breath and steps fully into view.
Her gown is green, a shade richer than moss, deep as the forest after rain. The fabric catches the light, shimmering between emerald and pine. Gold embroidery swirls along the hem and the edges of the fitted sleeves, delicate patterns of vines and curling leaves, as if the dress itself were a living thing, winding around her. The bodice is structured but not severe, cinched at the waist with just enough softness to flatter. The neckline is lower than what she usually wears—not scandalous, but enough to suggest she is a woman, not just a lady of title.
Her hair is pinned in soft waves, not the elaborate styles favoured by court but something gentler, more natural. A few strands escape to frame her face, and though she had worried about it earlier, now she finds she doesn’t mind.
Dorian is silent as he takes her in.
Selene swallows. “Well?”
Marta, still fussing with a final adjustment at Selene’s sleeve, makes a small, pleased noise. “He has forgotten how to speak.”
Dorian blinks, as if recalling himself. “You—” He exhales, shaking his head slightly, then offers his arm. “You look stunning.”
The warmth in his voice settles somewhere beneath her ribs.
Selene lets herself smile, just a little, and crosses the room. She picks a flower from the vase on the dresser.
“We match,” Dorian remarks.
“Well, ‘tis customary,” she says. “And we both do look exceptional in green.”
“Customarily, we’re supposed to wear the colours of my house for our first outing as a couple.”
Selene smiles, pinning the flower to his lapel. “We don’thaveto be customary,” she tells him. “Or perhaps we shall just make our own customs.”
Dorian leans towards her, just a fraction. “I do like the sound of that…”
Soren coughs. Selene pulls away. She had forgotten that they had an audience.
Dorian offers her his arm. “Lady Nightbloom,” he says, “shall we?”
Selene places her hand lightly on Dorian’s arm as they step further into the ballroom. Every element of the occasion is exactly how she remembers it—the gleaming white banners, the cascades of pink and cream flowers, the organza ribbons. The buffet table is laid out as before, the small sequined heels clack against the marble floors, the same drinks are being offered. Even the conversation around her seems the same.
“Yes, he keeps a mistress and child in the theatre district, so I’ve heard…”
“Wordsworth’s latest play is an absolute hit…”
