Page 74 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Marta hesitates. “My lady?”
Selene swallows. “Please.”
Marta studies her, then nods. “I will bring it to you.”
She disappears through the door, leaving Selene alone, standing in her underclothes, cold despite the warmth of the room.
She exhales. Closes her eyes.
And waits.
Eventually, the door creaks open, and Marta steps inside, quiet as a shadow, carrying a folded bundle of dark fabric. A small wooden box is tucked under her arm.
“I brought the jacket,” she murmurs. “And a sewing kit.”
Selene exhales slowly, as if she has been holding her breath all this time. She steps forward before Marta has the chance to set it down, snatching it from her hands. It is still damp.
“They tried rinsing out the blood,” Marta says carefully. “But it’s stained. It’ll never come out entirely.”
Selene’s fingers tremble as she spreads the jacket across her lap. The fabric is torn, the edges jagged where the bolt had ripped through. It is worse than she imagined, worse than she remembers.
Her fingertips brush over the cut.
Dorian had been wearing this.Dorian had bled through this.
She coils her fingers into fists.
Then, with slow deliberation, she opens the sewing kit.
“I can do that, my lady—”
Selene shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I need to.”
If she can fix nothing else, she will fix this.
She snips the frayed edges, first, makes the tear longer so she can fold it. A clean scar. She threads a needle with steady hands—steadier than they have any right to be—and brings it to the torn fabric. Each stitch is small, precise. She weaves the pieces back together, pulling the thread tight, binding the wound of the fabric as if it is flesh she can heal with careful hands alone.
Marta does not speak, only watches as Selene works.
The room is quiet save for the whisper of thread through cloth, the soft, rhythmic pull of the needle.
Selene does not stop until the tear is closed. Until she has made it whole again.
Only then does she allow herself to breathe.
Marta leaves at Selene’s insistence. She pretends she’s going to sleep, but she knows she won’t. She can’t sleep until Dorian returns. She knows that he isn’t badly hurt, that he’s just answering questions and having his wound seen to, but she won’t be happy until he’s back. She sits by the window, sipping wine. The moon overhead taunts her.
It’s almost dawn by the time the door opens again.
Dorian enters the room and closes the door behind him. The latch clicks, and Selene is on her feet in an instant. She launches across the space between them, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him, burying her face in his shoulder. Her fingers grip the back of his shirt.
“You’re all right?” she breathes, voice trembling.
Dorian stiffens for half a second, caught off guard, before his arms finally settle around her. His touch is careful, tentative,as if unsure whether to return the embrace or hold her at a distance. But then he exhales, his grip firming, drawing her in.
“I am,” he murmurs. His voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it—relief, maybe. “You?”
Selene nods against him before pulling back just enough to look at him. Her fingers seek out his arm, skimming over the fabric until they find the bandage. Her lips part, her brows furrowing.
