Page 81 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
“I see.” Aunt Elizabeth smiles, sipping her cup. “You think you are lacking in this regard?”
Selene is worried that any more words will send her sobbing. She sips her tea and says nothing. It’s easier than admitting aloud that she thinks she lacks all of those things.
Dorian is back in his study by the time Selene finishes tea with Elizabeth. She eats her supper with Ariella and Rookwood. It feels like it’s been weeks since she’s eaten with them, and not just yesterday morning. So much has happened since then.
If either of them reads into her silence, they say nothing about it. Ariella is not as perceptive as her mother, or perhaps she senses that Selene doesn’t wish to talk at all. They swap niceties about the weather, discuss the renovations, a festival the village is planning for the summer.
“They want you to judge the strawberry competition,” Ariella tells her.
“Thestrawberry competition?”
Ariella nods, even though Selene has never heard of such a thing before. “I wager most villages have a summer festival, but in Thornmere we celebrate the strawberries. The locals compete to make the best strawberry dish. Dorian usually judges it, but he hates the fanfare. It’s been a long time since they’ve had a Lady Nightbloom to judge the competition.”
Selene smiles. “It sounds delightful. Do you ever compete, Rookwood?”
“He had to stand down,” Ariella says, beaming. “He kept winning, even when it was blind competition. The locals said he had an unfair advantage because anything he cooked would taste familiar to Dorian.”
“I can’t help it if I’m exceptional,” says Rookwood, placing a steaming syrup pudding in front of Selene.
“Can you help being humble?” snips Ariella.
Rookwood ignores her. “I hope this suits, Selene. I know you like things sweet, but I fear the honey may betoosweet.”
Selene takes a bite. It’s sweet enough to make her teeth ache, but she says nothing, smiling instead. “It was nice of your mother to come and greet us,” she remarks, turning to Ariella.
Ariella grumbles. “Mother doesn’t donice.”
“Not to you,” Rookwood corrects.
Ariella throws her dishtowel at him.
“She likes interfering,” she continues. “Far too involved with our lives.”
“She likes the boy,” Rookwood insists. He’s probably only fifteen years older than Dorian, but Selene imagines that Dorian will still bethe boyto him when he’s seventy.
“Well, obviously, who wouldn’t?”
Who indeed, Selene wonders, before remembering.
The Duke. The Duke doesn’t likeDorian. The Duke tried to kill him.
“I’m tired,” she announces, standing up. “I think I’ll retire for the night.”
“I’ve put some new flowers on your dresser,” Ariella tells her. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Selene nods, and heads upstairs. She hovers at the door to Dorian’s study.
And quietly passes it by.
Dorian does not turn up for their nightly game. Selene half expected this. He’s probably fallen asleep at his desk again. She thinks about going to check on him, but decides against it. She doesn’t want to watch him sleeping, not tonight. His face feels like a taunt.
She tosses and turns for a while, upsetting Mistress Stripe, who eventually gives up trying to sleep on the bed and curls up on the window seat instead. Selene sighs in frustration. She’s exhausted. Her limbs feel heavy. Her eyes don’t want to open.
But her mind resists.
Eventually, she decides to get up and source herself something to drink. She knows enough about the kitchen now that she can warm herself some milk. She tiptoes down, avoiding Dorian’s study, and stops at the kitchen door. Ariella and Rookwood are still awake. Rookwood is busy measuring out flour into a bowl, muttering loudly.
“Iknewthat honey was too sweet!” he says. “I should have used hawthorn honey. The rapeseed is always far too sweet—”
