11. The Carriage and the Cat
D orian stepped into his townhouse and shut the door behind him, exhaling slowly. The weight of what he had just done—what he had set in motion—pressed against his ribs like a vice. He peeled off his coat, tossing it onto a nearby stand before running a hand through the front of his hair.
“You’re back early,” came Soren’s voice from the armchair by the window. He was lounging back, boots crossed at the ankle, an empty glass dangling from his fingers. “Should I be concerned?”
Dorian strode past him and poured himself a drink, barely pausing before knocking it back.
“I need you to return to Ebonrose ahead of me,” he said, setting the glass down with a quiet clink.
“I need you to deliver a letter to Father Asherton immediately, and to warn Ariella and Rookwood. Things have… changed.”
Soren narrowed his eyes. “Changed how? ”
Dorian turned to face him, bracing himself. “I’m marrying Selene.”
A beat of silence.
Then, predictably—
“Are you absolutely out of your fucking mind? You’re marrying her?”
“Technically, this was your idea.”
“ My idea?” Soren’s incredulity was almost amusing.
“In one of your past lives, you suggested marrying her to keep her away from the Duke.”
“I doubt I was serious.”
“You weren’t,” Dorian admitted. “You were mostly mocking my terrible ability to flirt, but you have to admit, it makes sense. If she’s already married, the Duke can’t use her.” His voice lowered. “Or hurt her.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken understanding.
Soren leaned forward, his expression unusually somber. “We’ve never done this before,” he said eventually. “And perhaps that’s a good thing, since the rest of our plans have never worked out, but… um…” He hesitated.
Dorian sighed. “Spit it out.”
Soren made a vague gesture. “Admittedly, I know nothing about love, but I can’t imagine it’s particularly easy being so close to the woman you love when she doesn’t remember anything that you went through together.”
Dorian paused. Not easy was watching her die.
Not easy was losing the child.
Not easy was failing her, and watching her go back to the Duke, again, and again, and again.
And enduring the years of watching the light fade from her eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” Dorian said, his voice steady.
Soren groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “If you say so.”
Dorian wrote a letter to Father Asherton and sent it off with Soren.
The priest owed him a favour, and, while asking him to backdate a marriage license might go against his principles, Dorian knew the father had been swayed in the past. Besides which, despite a couple of indiscretions, the priest was, for the most part, a good man.
Dorian told him that speed was essential to save Selene from a disastrous marriage.
That done, he arranged for a carriage and a driver paid for his discretion. He wished Ariella were here. Even if the wedding was a formality, there were certain practices that were usually observed. Ariella would be able to suggest something.
The only thing he could think to do was to visit the haberdashers and purchase two silk handkerchiefs in their respective house colours.
He doubted Selene would care much about such a trivial custom—she was far more likely to miss the fancy ceremony and expensive gown—but there was nothing he could do about any of that.
The driver snuck onto Roselune Abbey and arranged for Selene’s trunks to be collected.
Dorian paced and worried and wondered. What if she changed her mind, or someone stopped her?
Would the priest still agree to forge the documents without Selene’s consent?
If he had an apparent legal claim to her—as much as he despised the term—it could prevent her from marrying the Duke. It could keep her safe.
Because Soren had been right. Getting her married to someone else had always been the best course of action. He’d just never entertained the thought of it being him.
Finally, night fell.
Dorian had always considered himself a man of calculated risks. Sneaking into an enemy’s estate? A risk. Breaking a noblewoman out of her own home? A risk. Standing beneath Selene’s window, tossing pebbles like some foolish love-struck suitor? Unbelievably reckless.
And yet, here he was.
He was mid-throw when the window above creaked open, revealing Selene’s silhouette against the dim glow of candlelight.
“Lord Nightbloom!” she called softly .
It had been many loops and many years since she had called him Dorian, but it still sounded wrong to him. He shoved it aside. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she whispered, but then hesitated. “How… how are we getting out?”
“There’s a carriage waiting outside the gates,” he replied. “Your trunks are already packed.”
Her breath caught. “How am I getting down?” she asked, her voice suddenly wary.
“You’ll have to climb,” he said.
“Climb?”
Her tone made him blink. Of course. She had never climbed out of a window before. She was a noblewoman—climbing, sneaking, running for her life—none of it should have been second nature.
“There’s a very well-situated trellis to your left,” he informed her.
Selene went silent for a moment, then exhaled slowly. “All right,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Just let me get my cat.”
Dorian stared up at her. “Your… cat? You’re bringing your cat with you?”
“If that’s all right?”
His entire body itched at the thought. But Selene was waiting for an answer, and he couldn’t very well tell her no, I’d rather not suffocate tonight, actually .
He remembered her telling him in a past life how much she missed leaving her beloved cat when she moved in with the Duke.
The Duke, he was almost certain, who was not deathly allergic to cats.
Dorian was better than the Duke. He wasn’t confident about much, but he was sure on that front.
So, with great effort, he bit down his grimace and nodded. “Yes. Of course it is.”
She disappeared from the window. He took the moment to rub a hand over his face. A cat. A gods-damned cat.
When she returned, she was wrestling a large, struggling box. It took him half a second to realise that the cat was inside it .
“Use the curtain ties,” he suggested as she hovered, clearly debating how to get the creature down without throwing it.
She fumbled, tying knots with shaking fingers. When the box began its slow descent, Dorian stepped forward to catch it. As soon as it was in his arms, something inside hissed.
Oh, hells .
He set it down with a little more force than necessary, barely resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his coat. Above, Selene giggled.
“Not afraid of cats, are you, Lord Nightbloom?” she teased.
“I am absolutely not afraid of cats,” he replied stiffly, though the tightening in his throat suggested otherwise.
From the corner of his eye, the cat watched him with narrowed eyes, its tail flicking. Dorian stepped back, just to be safe.
Above, Selene was gripping the windowsill, her shoulders stiff. He could see the hesitation in the set of her jaw, the way her breath came in short, unsteady bursts.
“You can do this,” she whispered to herself.
The trellis groaned under her weight, and Dorian’s stomach clenched. She descended slowly, uncertainly, her skirts tangling around her legs, her hands fumbling for purchase. He saw her pause, her knuckles white around the ivy.
“Easy there,” he called up, keeping his voice steady. “You’re doing well.”
She glanced down at him, and he saw the flicker of fear in her wide, moonlit eyes.
“Selene,” he said, his voice softer now. “Let yourself fall backward. I’ll catch you.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
There existed no timeline in which he would ever let her fall, but still, for a moment, he thought she wouldn’t do it. Then, she took a deep breath, her grip loosening.
And she fell.
The air rushed past as Selene tumbled toward him, but Dorian barely had time to think before she landed in his arms. The impact sent him back a step, but he steadied them both, hands tightening instinctively around her.
For a fleeting moment, he felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek. She was so close. Too close.
She let out a soft, breathless laugh, relief mingling with exhilaration. “See? Nothing to worry about,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t quite as steady as he’d like. He tried not to remember the last time he’d held her. Was it the night she’d died in front of him?
She nodded, still catching her breath. “Thank you.”
He was still holding her.
Selene shifted slightly. “You can probably put me down now.”
Dorian coughed, releasing her as quickly as he dared. “Ah, quite!”
She landed lightly on her feet, smoothing out her skirts as though trying to regain her dignity. He looked away, heat rising to his face. Selene busied herself retrieving the cat and they made their way toward the gate.
The latch clicked open without resistance. Dorian had made certain it would be left unlocked: another small bribe. Outside, a carriage waited, her trunks already secured on top. No footmen. No unnecessary witnesses. Just the driver and the two of them.
Dorian offered his hand, helping Selene up.
Her fingers brushed his as she stepped inside, and he was struck by the contrast—soft against rough.
He had never been one for gloves, at least not when riding.
A foolish habit, according to polite society, but he had always preferred to feel the reins directly in his hands.
Now, for the first time, he wondered if she noticed. If she minded.
Once she was settled, he climbed in after her. The door clicked shut, and as soon as the carriage began to move, Selene unlatched the box at her feet. The cat emerged, yowling its displeasure before settling down beside her.
Dorian eyed the creature warily. “What’s your cat’s name?”
Selene hesitated. “Missy. ”
He was quite sure that wasn’t the cat’s name at all, but he couldn’t remember what it was, or why she felt the need to lie about it.
Missy—or whatever her name truly was—flicked her tail, watching him with the same suspicion he felt toward her. He made no move to touch her, and Selene didn’t press him to. A small mercy.
She shifted, glancing out the window at the moonlit countryside. “It’s a lovely night for an elopement.”
Dorian raised a brow. “Is weather ever suited to this sort of thing?”
“Well, a thunderstorm wouldn’t bode well.”
“Good point,” he conceded with a faint smile.
When was the last time he’d conversed with her this way?
There had been a few times over the last few loops where he’d attempted to befriend her again, but he’d never gotten far.
He couldn’t stand the nothing in her eyes, the way she looked at him, unaware of all that had passed between them.
It had hurt too much to even glance at her.
A different ache settled in his chest now, but he couldn’t quite name it.
The carriage trundled on, the road stretching endlessly ahead. Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable. After nearly a mile, Selene finally spoke again.
“How are we going to get a backdated marriage certificate?”
Dorian didn’t look at her. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the dark landscape beyond the window. “I have a priest who owes me a favour.”
She blinked at this confession. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished liar.”
He almost wanted to laugh. Selene had no idea how good of a liar he truly was.
“How well do you know me, really?” he asked quietly, finally turning towards her. “By my recollection, we haven’t spoken since my father’s funeral.”
He hoped that was right. It wasn’t always easy to remember which loop he was in. Sometimes he spoke to her more .
Her expression shifted, shame flickering across her features. She looked down, her fingers tightening in her lap. “I mean from back at school,” she said quickly, as if to amend something. “You always seemed like an honest sort of fellow.”
Dorian let out a short breath—half a laugh, but without humour. “A lot can change in so many years, Selene.”
Her school days were a handful of years behind her. For him, it had been much longer. He couldn’t quite calculate how long—years here, months there—but he had at least a decade on her now.
She was still looking at him, as though seeing him anew, but whatever thoughts lingered behind her gaze, she kept them to herself.
He glanced away first. “It’s a long journey,” he said, voice turning brisk. “You should try to get some sleep.”