Page 92 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
Dorian hums in thought. “It’s always best to have a lookout—maybe I should take Rookwood instead.”
At that, Rookwood lets out a bark of laughter. “I mean, it’s almost sweet that you think I could squeeze into his uniform… Also, I’m not exactly light on my feet.”
Selene shifts slightly, feeling the weight of an idea settle over her. “I’ll do it,” she says.
Dorian frowns. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ll just be keeping watch, won’t I?” She folds her arms. “You don’t need me to fight, just to warn you if someone’s coming. And I can do that perfectly well.”
Dorian hesitates. “It’s dangerous.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “It’ll be more dangerous without someone, won’t it?”
His jaw tightens. He wants to refuse her, she can tell—but Soren is indisposed, Rookwood is hardly a subtle presence, and there’s no one else. In the end, he exhales sharply. “Fine,” he says, clearly unhappy about it. “But stay close to me at all times. If anything feels wrong, we’re leaving. Understood?”
Selene nods.
There’s a delay on the journey when the carriage throws a wheel, costing them a few hours of good daylight. Dorian takes one of the horses and rides into the next village in search of a replacement, and it isn’t much longer after that they are able to get back on the road.
The ball is already in full swing when they arrive. The grand hall is bathed in warm candlelight, glittering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the dancers. Silk and velvet swirl in a riot of colour, and the scent of wine and perfume lingers in the air.
Dorian steps into the throng. Selene follows, keeping a keen eye on the crowd, her heart pounding beneath her carefully altered gown.
Their target, Lord Dashridge, is surrounded by guests, laughing and drinking as if he has nothing to hide. A tall man with greying hair and a broad-shouldered presence, he holds court with ease, his voice carrying just a little louder than those around him. His smile is easy, his posture relaxed—too relaxed, given what Dorian suspects of him.
They weave through the ballroom, offering polite nods and murmured greetings until they reach Dashridge’s circle.
Dorian inclines his head. “Lord Dashridge.”
The man turns, and his smile sharpens as his gaze lands on Dorian. “Lord Nightbloom. A pleasure. It has been too long.”
Dorian returns the smile, though Selene can see the calculation behind his eyes. “I thought it was time to be more sociable. Allow me to introduce the new Lady Nightbloom.”
Selene curtsies, offering her own measured smile. “A pleasure, my lord.”
Dashridge takes her hand briefly, his grip firm but not overly familiar. “Ah, Lady Nightbloom. So lovely to see you again.”
“Thank you so much for the invitation.”
“You are both very welcome.”
More guests arrive behind them, and two slip off to gather drinks.
“How does this work, exactly?” Selene asks. “What happens now?”
“I’ll go and find his study,” Dorian explains, voice hushed. “Once I have its location, I’ll come back for you. Can you—”
“Mingle and act natural until then? Of course.”
Dorian nods once, then slips away into the crowd.
Selene takes a steadying breath and does what she does best—smiles, converses, and plays the part of the charming Lady Nightbloom. Conversation is easy. It always is at these sorts of things. She listens to Lady Ashcombe prattle on about her new summer estate, commiserates with Lord Fairchild about the latest taxation laws, and laughs—politely, never too much—at Sir Harold’s dull anecdotes.
She’s had half of these talks before. It’s almost comfortable.
Until she turns, and all the air leaves her lungs.
Her parents stand before her.
