Page 85 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Dorian continues to cough andsplutter, so hard he doubles over.
“Get him out,” Ariella orders, already moving forward to throw up the window.
Rookwood hauls Dorian upright, Soren coming round to his other side. Dorian wheezes, trying to shoo them away, before finally giving up.
They drag him from the study, leaving Selene standing amidst the scattered, blackened papers. Her hands shake. The scent of smoke clings to her, thick in the air.
“Are you all right?” Ariella asks. “Are you hurt?”
Selene shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
“Lucky you were here! I dread to think…” Ariella glances round the room, her eyes landing on the burns on the desk. She swallows. “Gods.”
A groggy voice stirs from the hallway.
“Has anyone seen my glasses?”
Selene exhales sharply, half relief, half exasperation. She presses a hand to her forehead and lets herself breathe. She bends down to retrieve Dorian’s glasses, and stops.
One of the pieces of burnt parchment has horses doodled in the margins. A few of them do, actually—simple sketches of galloping creatures, ivy winding round pillars… and roses.
She traces the pictures. She didn’t know he could draw.
Her smile vanishes the second she sees the letter under them. She knows that handwriting. There’s no seal, but the penmanship is unmistakable.
It’s Duke Drakefell’s.
Despite promising that she would never be in Dorian’s study without his permission, Selene finds she doesn’t care right now. There’s no way she can see a letter from the Duke and nothaveto find out what it says.
Selene picks up the letter, her fingers tightening around the edges. The Duke’s handwriting is as neat and deliberate as she remembers, each stroke calculated. Her stomach twists.
She shouldn’t read it.
She reads it anyway.
The message is brief, but it chills her all the same:
I hope you won’t take the incident the other day to heart. We are both better men than that. I have a business proposition of a delicate nature I wish to discuss with you in person—something concerning the future of our country. If you’re amenable, please send word by this address…
Selene’s blood freezes.
The words are careful, polite—neutral, even—but the undertone is unmistakable. The Duke has written to Dorian. The Duke wants Dorian to join him on his quest to ally with Ashvold.
Or maybe… maybe it’s another trap? Dorian isn’t foolish enough to respond, surely?
But then her eyes fall to the other singed documents scattered around the rooms. There’s half a map of the Ashvold mountains, blueprints of various estates, lists of names… some of which she recognises. Servants of the Duke’s household. Servants of hergrandmother’s.
What is Dorian doing with all of this?
Ariella is still watching her. Selene quickly folds the letter, slipping it into her sleeve before Ariella can see the sender’s name.
“Selene?”
“I should get these to him,” she says, holding up the glasses. She doesn’t meet Ariella’s gaze as she brushes past her and steps into the hallway.
No more waiting, no more wondering, no more refusing to ask questions because she’s too afraid of the answer. Nothing Dorian says can be worse than what she’s imagining.
Dorian is propped against his pillows when she enters the room. Rookwood kneels beside him, pressing a cool clothto his temple, while Soren stands with his arms crossed, looking equal parts irritated and concerned.
