25. The Ache of Almost
I t was Selene now who kept her distance, Selene’s eyes that no longer met his, Selene’s body that carefully positioned itself away from his and was careful never to linger too long in the spaces he would inhabit.
Dorian had expected distance. Had prepared himself for it, and yet, it unsettled him in ways he had not anticipated.
He told himself that it was better this way, that it would hurt less when the cycle inevitably ended again, but he didn’t quite believe it. Life was never better without Selene in it.
She kept herself busy in town, throwing her energy into the opening of the new school. She was thriving, as she should be. As he wanted her to be.
And yet.
He missed her.
It was a dull, persistent ache, something he could not shake no matter how often he told himself he had done the right thing, that there had been no right time to tell her.
He’d only been trying to protect her, to shield her from the weight of the knowledge that had sat so heavily on his own shoulders for years.
But now, instead of safety, all he had done was build a wall between them. A wall that loomed taller each day.
At night, he barely slept. When he did, his body woke at odd intervals, expecting him to rise and make his way to her room, to invite her to sit down with him and resume their games. But he did not.
She had asked him to stay away.
He did.
He caught glimpses of her, here and there.
Always from a distance. Sometimes in the marketplace, head bent over a list as she bartered with a vendor.
Sometimes at the schoolhouse, laughter in her eyes as the children scrambled about her, their little hands reaching for hers.
And sometimes, when neither of them could avoid it, at dinner, where they sat across from each other in aching silence, their words offered freely to everyone else but never to each other.
He wondered if she missed him, too.
They left for Ophelia’s wedding at the end of the month. Dorian did not ask if she wanted to stay with the Fairmonts this time; he simply booked an inn. Separate chambers. The distance between them was now something physical, and he could feel it pressing down on him with every passing mile.
The wedding was beautiful. Dorian barely saw any of it.
Selene played her part well, smiling where she should, laughing at the appropriate moments, but he saw through it. She was weary. He understood the feeling. It was exhausting, keeping up appearances, pretending to be at ease when everything between them had fractured.
They left before the revelry ended. Selene did not argue .
The carriage ride back to the inn was quiet, save for the steady clatter of hooves on the road. Dorian did not look at her or even think of reaching for her hand as he once might have.
It was better this way.
He told himself that over and over.
It did not make him feel any less sick.
He’d told the rest of the household what had transpired between the two of them, and that Selene had requested space.
Ariella insisted she’d soon be back to adoring him once the shock wore off, and Dorian didn’t have the heart to tell her that Selene couldn’t go back to something that had never existed.
Ariella seemed to have forgotten the whole thing was pretend.
For a moment, Dorian had too.
One day, an invitation arrived, inviting them to a ball being held at the Dashridge residence. Dorian was keen to go—Dashridge was a suspect he hadn’t yet ruled out. Despite the awkwardness between him and Selene, he asked her to accompany him. It would look far too suspicious if he went alone.
Selene immediately accepted.
It surprised him, but he didn’t press it. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. She knew what his true plans were—there seemed no point in keeping it secret any longer—and he imagined she just wanted to assist with the possible downfall of the Duke. It had nothing to do with him.
Two days before the ball, Soren came to his study.
“One of my contacts said the Duke has just received a shipment from Ashvold,” he announced. “I’d like to go and investigate it.”
“Which residence?”
“The country one. ”
Dorian did a quick calculation in his head. It was possible to get there, back again, and to the capital again before the ball, but it was a stretch and relied on nothing going wrong. “Can you do it alone?” he asked him.
Soren nodded. “It’ll be faster, too. I should still be back in time for the Dashridge ball.”
“Don’t push yourself.”
Soren fixed him with an incredulous stare. “Should I find you a dictionary to look up the word ‘hypocrite’?”
Dorian snorted. “Look, I can care about my family more than I care about myself, that doesn’t make me a hypocrite.”
Soren smiled. “No. Just an idiot.” He rose from his spot. “I’ll set off at first light.”
Despite Soren’s assurances that he could make it back before the ball, it was very late at night before Dorian finally heard the sound of hooves on the gravel.
He peered into the darkness as Soren disappeared into the stables, and then slowly made his way back to the house. He greeted him at the door.
“How was it?” he asked, taking his coat.
Soren sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Tiring,” he admitted.
“The shipment—”
“I found it, but I couldn’t tie it to Ashvold.”
“What was it?”
Soren hesitated. “Poison,” he admitted. “I couldn’t stay long enough to ascertain its purpose.”
Dorian’s stomach dropped. Whatever its purpose, it couldn’t be good.
“We’ll look into it after the ball,” he assured him.
Soren yawned, running a hand down his face .
“Can I get you anything?” Dorian offered. “Food, perhaps?”
“I’m really not hungry,” Soren said. “I just want sleep.”
Dorian nodded. He looked like he needed it. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
Morning came, but Soren didn’t meet them at breakfast. Dorian let him sleep in—he was back so late, after all—but he still hadn’t materialised by the time they needed to leave.
Ariella went to check on him, returning with the news that he was feeling unwell and ought not to be separated from a chamberpot.
Dorian remembered him not being hungry the night before. He hoped he was all right. He’d have to be laid up pretty badly to not try to force himself to come.
Ariella seemed unworried, though, and she was usually one to fuss if there was a problem.
Still, things would be difficult at the ball without his lookout.
“I’ll do it,” said Selene.
Dorian was almost surprised to hear her speak to him. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ll just be keeping watch, won’t I?” She folded 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 hesitated. “It’s dangerous.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “It’ll be more dangerous without someone, won’t it?”
His jaw tightened. He wanted to refuse her, but with Soren indisposed, there wasn’t really anyone else. “Fine,” he said. “But stay close to me at all times. If anything feels wrong, we’re leaving. Understood?”