Page 8 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Except, of course, he won’t. He needs her. He needs her birthright.
It is common knowledge among society that Selene’s grandmother plans to bequeath Nocturne Hall to her upon her death. While the Duskbriar residence is entailed to the nearest male heir—her cousin Henry—Nocturne Hall belongs solely to her grandmother, who can give it to whomever she sees fit. It is a remote estate on the country’s border, adecent size for a dowry. Yet, no young society woman would want to live there, and no man of significance would see it as much of a temptation.
The Duke didn’t see it that way. He saw it as an opportunity.
Selene is not about to let him use her again.
Selene slips through the door and into the corridor, the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation drifting from the foyer. The buzz of guests grows louder as she nears the staircase. She can almost feel the weight of their expectations pressing on her, anticipating a grand announcement, a new title, her future bound in gold and silk—and yet, she plans to make none of them happy. Not today. Not if she can help it.
“They’ll make such a fine pair—”
“Will King Alden be here for the party, do you think?”
“No, not tonight, the King of Ashvold is here for onemore day—”
Selene freezes. She’d forgotten that King Eirik was staying at the palace. His last visit to Haverland before he would invade it in a year’s time.
She hadn’t thought to hear his name here amongst the gossip.
“He’ll come for the wedding, surely? The Duke is his cousin, after all—”
“Have you seen King Eirik? He’s awfully handsome—”
There is no question of Selene going the main route that would lead her through the heart of the party. Instead, she ducks into one of the concealed servants’ staircases, keeping her head down as she navigates through their corridors and out into the garden, where fresh air fills her lungs and the noise of the house fades into a distant murmur. Walking slowly, she drifts down the winding paths of the garden, moving past manicured hedges and towering rose bushes toward the wilder areas of the grounds.
It is so strange to be here—to be anywhere at all. Ignoring the whole going-back-in-time element, people don’t close their eyes in one location and wake in another. She has been back to her parents’ house only once since her marriage. The journey takes days to prepare and is a full day’s ride in the high season.
Laughter from inside drifts faintly through the garden, punctuated by the occasional clip of heels on the gravel path nearby.
This can’t be real,she thinks. The earth beneath her feet, the cool dampness of mid-morning dew on the leaves—it all feels like a dream she might wake from at any moment. She keeps expecting it: to blink and find herself back in a cold, silent room with only memories of a lost life for company. Perhaps she really is dead, lying on the floor of that temple. Perhaps all of this is her mind in the last few seconds of life, desperately trying to carve her a new story.
But it is vivid enough that she believes it. And even if a few seconds of life is all she has left… she will make the most of them.
Hmm,she thinks.Perhaps I should run away and become a dancer after all. The idea is absurd, but she resolves to consider it again if she can’t find a better suitor by the day’s end.
She walks on, following forgotten paths to the wild parts of the garden, away from guests, away from any prying eyes. Soon, the garden changes, the carefully pruned hedges giving way to wilder growth, where thick vines twist over stone and clusters of delicate purple flowers nestle among tangled leaves.
An hour must have passed since she left the house, maybe longer, and a faint flicker of dread surfaces as she realises that by now, Duke Drakefell might have arrived. She pictures him striding confidently into the grand hall, and that familiar knot of resentment coils in her stomach. He will be searching for her. The thought sends a shiver down her spine. She can see his face, fixed in that practised smile, his gaze too sharp as it follows her like a shadow.
How had she ever mistaken control for love?
She tries to push the Duke from her mind. She knows she will have to face him eventually, but she will never again allow herself to be alone with him. She is not his wife here. He can’t hurt her.
Her fingers begin to tremble, and she clenches them into fists, taking a deep breath.
She moves deeper into the garden until she reaches the area where the hedges completely taper off into dense foliage and wildflowers. The roses dwindle here, overtaken by clusters of dark green leaves and small, delicate purple blossoms with streaks of white along their edges—the violas she has always adored, that only she knows to look for. Her parents have always insisted her favourite flower is the rose,in the colours of the Duskbriar emblem—light red, deep sunset pink, a flash of yellow or gold. But it has always been the violets—tenacious, wild, and overlooked—that hold her heart.
Movement by the flowerbed catches her eye, and she freezes. There, half-hidden among the foliage, stands Dorian Nightbloom, stooped over one of the violas as if examining it closely. He doesn’t notice her at first, his hand brushing one of the flowers with surprising gentleness, as though he is tracing the veins of each petal.
Selene takes a careful step closer, and a twig snaps beneath her shoe. He straightens immediately, turning to face her, his expression a mixture of surprise and—just for a moment—something else entirely unreadable.
“Lady Selene,” Dorian murmurs, dipping his head in a slight bow. His hazel eyes flicker with mild amusement as they settle on her flushed cheeks. “Apologies, I didn’t expect company here.”
His voice is quiet, even-tempered, as though this secret corner of the garden is as much his domain as it is hers. Selene feels a strange, prickling awareness in his presence, as if he can sense more than she intends to reveal.
Her fingers reach out instinctively, brushing the petals of a violet.
“No one usually does,” she replies. “Though it seems we both have an appreciation for the overlooked.”
