28. The Nightbloom Ball
O ne morning around a week later at the breakfast table, Selene set her cup down with a decisive click. “We should host a ball.”
Dorian blinked at her. “A ball.”
“Yes.” She straightened, folding her hands in her lap. “We’re no closer to finding out who else might be allying with the Duke. If we can’t uncover the truth through subtlety, then we should gather everyone together and watch them more closely.”
Across the table, Soren paused mid-swipe, a truly excessive amount of jam poised on his knife. He smirked. “You just want an excuse to dance.”
Selene ignored him. “It’s practical. The season is almost over, but plenty of nobility are still lingering in the countryside. A gathering at Ebonrose would be unexpected. People will come purely to see why we’re hosting one. ”
Dorian exhaled, fingers drumming against the table. He didn’t dismiss the idea outright, which surprised even him. “You think we’ll be able to rule anyone out just by watching them?”
“I think people let their guard down at parties. Someone will slip up.”
Soren leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily. “And if they don’t?”
Selene tilted her head. “Then at least we’ll know who doesn’t have something to hide.”
Dorian studied her for a long moment. It was a good idea—and not something they had tried before. Finally, he nodded. “All right. We’ll host a ball.”
Ariella clapped her hands. “Oh, this is going to be fun! I’ve been longing to go to a ball!”
Dorian sighed, already regretting everything. “Do we invite the Duke?”
Selene flinched. “I think we have to. It will cause a scandal if we don’t, and maybe limit our invitations in future.”
“I’m not sure Dorian thinks that’s the negative that you clearly do,” Soren said, amusement lacing his voice.
Selene scoffed. “I’m being purely practical!”
“In this case, I agree with Selene,” says Dorian. “We can’t afford to cut off all social ties.”
“Yes, thank you, husband,” she said primly.
Dorian smirked into his cup at the word husband . It warmed him in dangerous ways.
“We should invite the King, too,” Selene announced.
Dorian nearly dropped his cup. “The King ?”
“Well, I doubt he’ll attend, but if you could catch the Duke in the act of committing treason—”
He shook his head. “I’ve tried informing him before,” he said. “It… did not go well.”
Selene paused. “Shall I refrain from sending him an invite, then?”
Dorian exchanged a glance with Soren. Neither of them spoke, but they both knew the risks. He sighed. “No, you’re right. On the off chance we catch the Duke doing something treasonous, it would help to have the King there.”
“He won’t take against you for your previous interactions?”
Dorian laughed. “I doubt he even remembers,” he told her.
Given that it happened in a different timeline.
The truly, truly desperate last one, where he had demanded an audience with the King after multiple lifetimes of merely presenting anonymous (and meagre) evidence.
He’d been arrested and Soren had had to break him out so that they could reset things.
They’d barely made it six months into the year.
Selene hesitated, clearly curious, but didn’t press the matter. She had a ball to plan.
The morning of the ball dawned crisp and cool, the early light filtering through the windows of Ebonrose Hall. For a few precious hours, before the whirlwind of preparations consumed them, Dorian, Selene, Rookwood, Ariella, and Soren gathered for a quiet breakfast in the sunlit dining room.
Rookwood had outdone himself, setting out fresh bread, soft butter, and a selection of jams, along with eggs, bacon, and steaming cups of tea. Soren, already on his second helping, was halfway through slathering his toast with honey when Dorian unfolded the morning paper with a rustle and froze.
In his various different timelines, Dorian had committed most of the headlines to memory. He was fastidious about checking the paper, searching for any deviance.
There was one now.
“There’s been a disappearance,” he murmured, scanning the page. “A group of men upped and vanished from a village outside of Haverleigh. ”
Selene paused, her fork hovering midair. “That’s strange,” she said slowly, frowning as if trying to recall something. “I don’t remember hearing about that in—” She stopped abruptly.
Dorian glanced up at her, noting the way all colour drained from her face.
She sat frozen, her eyes unfocused. Whatever she had been about to say, she was no longer thinking about it. Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork, her knuckles paling.
Dorian frowned, lowering the paper. “Selene?”
She flinched, ever so slightly, before her eyes darted to him.
Her reaction set him on edge. She looked truly shaken. Not the kind of concern one might have over a troubling piece of news, but something deeper, something bordering on fear.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She looked like she might be sick. “I forgot something,” she blurted, pushing back her chair. “Last-minute ball preparations—”
Dorian didn’t believe that for a second. Whatever had just gone through her mind, whatever had put that look on her face, it had nothing to do with the ball.
He set the paper down, watching her closely as she all but fled the room.
He went after her, arriving at her bedroom door seconds after she closed it. He knocked carefully.
“Selene?” Dorian’s voice was gentler now. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she threw open the door and launched herself into his arms. “Hold me,” she murmured against his chest.
Dorian didn’t hesitate. His arms came around her, anchoring her in place. She pressed her face into his shirt, her breath hitching. Whatever had unsettled her, whatever fear had taken hold, it wasn’t small.
He held her closer.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket as if letting go was not an option. You don’t have to, he wanted to tell her. You can stay right there forever, if you wish it .
His voice rumbled low above her head. “Can I help?”
She only tightened her grip. “Just… let me stay like this a little while.”
He exhaled, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head. His hold on her didn’t loosen. If anything, it only grew more certain.
“The problem with holding you, Selene,” he said quietly, “is that every time I do, it gets a little harder to let go.”
Her fingers curled tighter, as if she had no intention of ever being parted from him again.
As promised in their marriage contract, Dorian didn’t pry into whatever was bothering Selene.
In any case, he didn’t have much time to.
The whole house was swept up in readying things for the ball.
Dorian had never seen one at Ebonrose Hall before.
His father hadn’t hosted any after his mother’s death, and any that might have happened in the narrow time between Dorian’s birth and her departure from the world were poorly-formed in his memory. He had been too young.
Ariella had seen balls. She sighed wistfully in memory as she instructed the hired staff with the positioning of the banners.
Dorian had no doubt she’d be donning a fine dress at some point in the evening and slipping into the festivities.
He didn’t blame her in the slightest, even if he himself wanted to run away.
Ariella was just as much a grandchild of Ambrose Nightbloom as he was.
She had every right to attend the ball as far as he was concerned, and Gods knew she’d enjoy it a great deal more than he would.
Still, as the hour approached and the finishing touches were laid, he found himself glancing towards Selene more often than he meant to.
He didn’t ask what was on her mind, but he watched the way she folded her hands too tightly in her lap, or how she flinched slightly at innocent questions.
He thought of all the things he might have said—gentle, useless things—and kept them to himself. She would tell him when she was ready.
Like you’ll tell her when you’re ready?
Dorian waved away his thoughts. That was different. Whatever Selene’s secrets were, they weren’t like his. Hers would be believable.
A shimmering waltz played as the ball began.
Candles flickered from chandeliers overhead, casting golden light across the polished marble floor.
Every surface gleamed; every corner was adorned with fresh flowers, their perfume mingling with the scent of spiced wine and honeyed cakes.
The guests swept in, masks hiding their faces but not their intrigue.
At the foot of the staircase, Dorian turned to Selene. His gaze swept over her gown—deep indigo velvet, embroidered with delicate silver stars. The mask she wore was edged in obsidian, matching the dark satin of her gloves.
“You look like the night sky,” he murmured.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Then try not to get lost in me.”
His lips quirked in a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “That’s a dangerous thing to ask.”
They received Lord Fairmont first and the rest of his household. He greeted Dorian with the warmth of an old friend, clasping his shoulder before turning to Selene with an extravagant bow. “Lady Nightbloom, you are a vision.”
She curtsied. “You flatter me, my lord.”
“Ah, but it’s not flattery if it’s the truth, is it?”
Dorian didn’t think that was true, but he also didn’t think that it was best to point that out.
More guests followed. Ophelia arrived with her husband, her gown a flowing cascade of blush-pink, her mask adorned with delicate pearls. She embraced Selene tightly. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered .
Selene squeezed her hand. “You’ve only been married a month, and already you tire of wedded bliss?”
“Hardly,” Ophelia said with a sly smile. “But I miss having you to gossip with.”
Selene laughed, but then—
A hush spread at the entrance.
Lord and Lady Duskbriar had arrived.