Page 91 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Dorian sets the invitation down. “Lord Dashridge is one of the few suspects I haven’t ruled out.”
Selene inhales sharply. “You think he’s involved?”
“I think I don’t know enough to say for certain,” Dorian replies. “I haven’t been invited to one of his balls before. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”
Selene considers this. She has met Lord Dashridge before, of course, although she doesn’t know him well—an unremarkable man in her eyes, neither cruel nor kind, though his wealth is the sort that came from generations of careful marriages rather than any particular cunning. But that means nothing. There are plenty of men who play at being harmless while sharpening their knives in the dark.
He did visit Blackthorn Hallmany times during their marriage… not, of course, that she can tell Dorian this.
“Will you accompany me?” Dorian asks.
The words feel oddly formal. She wonders if that’s because of the lingering tension between them, or if, for once, he is uncertain what her answer will be.
Selene straightens. “Of course.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction. “Good,” he says simply. “We leave in three days.”
Greta works her magic on an old gown of Selene’s, transforming it into something spectacular. The original dress was fine but unremarkable—a soft dove-grey satin with a modest neckline, appropriate for the quiet life Selene had once expected to lead. Now, under Greta’s skilled hands, it becomes something else entirely.
The bodice is reshaped, trimmed with delicate silver embroidery that catches the light like threads of moonlight. The sleeves, once plain, now boast sheer lace that drapes elegantly to her wrists. The skirt is fuller, the layers of silk and tulle giving it movement, a whisper of opulence without ostentation.
Selene touches the fabric, feeling its weight, its unfamiliarity. “You’ve outdone yourself,” she murmurs.
Greta beams. “It’s been a while since I had an excuse to make you look like a proper lady of the court.”
Selene huffs a soft laugh. “I hardly think anyone will be looking at me.”
“Oh, they will,” Greta says knowingly. “Especially your husband.”
Selene’s fingers still against the fabric.
Dorian has barely looked at her these past few weeks. She doubts a new gown will change that.
Still, she finds herself smoothing the folds of the skirt, her heart beating a little faster than it should.
The morning of the ball dawns. The driver is summoned from the village, Dorian himself readies the horses, and Marta helps Selene pack. Ariella turns up to help carry down the trunks.
“Where’s Soren?” Selene asks.
“Last minute trip to the water-closet,” Ariella replies. “Though he’s been in there a while. I hope he’s all right. He was looking a bit pale…”
Selene doesn’t ask for more details. She grabs what she can and heads outside to the carriage. Dorian and the driver—Fred—help ready the trunks.
Soren still doesn’t materialise.
“I’m going to go check on him…” Ariella says, hurrying back into the house.
She’s gone a good few minutes before she returns.
“Soren’s a little under the weather,” she tells the rest of the group.
Dorian’s face pales. “Is it serious?”
“It’ll be serious if he’s nowhere near a chamberpot.”
Selene and Dorian exchange a worried look. Dorian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”
“I suppose you’ll have to go without him,” Selene says.
