36. Nocturne Hall
S elene writes to her grandmother and receives a reply a few days later, eager to welcome them all to her home.
Selene and the rest of her family prepare for their departure quickly.
They opt to leave Marta behind, partly to keep an eye on the house and Mistress Stripe, and partly because no one is quite sure how to explain the family dynamic to Lady Ashwyn, so pretending that three of their party are servants seems to be the best bet.
Travelling with so many is unusual—four unheard of for a mere couple.
The journey to Nocturne Hall is long and tiring, the carriage rocking steadily over the uneven roads that wind through the countryside.
Outside, autumn unfurls in russet and gold, the trees shedding their leaves in slow, lazy spirals.
The air is crisp when they stop to change horses, carrying the scent of damp earth and wood smoke from distant chimneys .
Selene expects Dorian to grow restless, to shift in his seat every few minutes, to insist on swapping places or stepping out for fresh air at every opportunity.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he spends much of the journey quiet, head tipped back against the seat, eyes closed.
At first, she assumes he’s simply resting, but as the miles stretch on, she realises he’s truly asleep—something almost unheard of for him during travel.
At one point, he shifts, slumping sideways until his head comes to rest against her lap. Selene freezes, glancing at the others, but no one fawns or teases. Soren is occupied with a book, Ariella gazes absently out the window, and Rookwood is up front with the driver.
Dorian’s warmth seeps through the layers of her skirts, and for a moment, Selene allows herself to enjoy it.
It would be easier if he looked peaceful.
Instead, his brow is pinched, a faint crease between his brows that betrays some lingering discomfort.
She wants to smooth the line away, but she knows better.
He’ll despise the fuss, especially in front of the others.
So she does nothing. Simply sits, her fingers occasionally brushing through his hair, as the carriage trundles on towards Nocturne Hall.
Nocturne Hall rises from the mist like something half-remembered from a dream. All crumbling stone and ivy-choked towers, its silhouette looms against the grey sky, weathered but unchanged. It looks exactly as Selene remembers it.
Selene lived here once, in another life. She wandered these halls as another woman, waking in a bed that was not hers beside a man who was not Dorian .
In her timeline, she lived here, utterly alone, until that feeling was something strong enough she felt like you could crack open her ribcage and see loneliness branded onto her bones. Bones that, in another timeline, might lie beside Dorian’s in a forgotten temple.
In Dorian’s timeline, this was where they fell in love, where they conceived a child.
Where she died on the lawns.
The weight of those memories settles on her as the carriage slows. Hers, his—all jumbled together. It’s the same story, now. She thinks, perhaps, that it always was.
The courtyard is swept clean, though the garden beyond has begun to run riot, autumn creeping into its bones. A figure stands waiting at the base of the grand stone steps, a cane clasped in one hand. Selene would know her anywhere.
“Grandmother.”
Lady Sylvana Ashwyn’s arms open wide in welcome as the party clambers down from the carriage. She is as regal as ever, wrapped in a velvet shawl, her silver hair pinned back with a comb set with pearls. Her eyes, sharp as flint, sweep over Selene, then flick to Dorian.
“Selene,” she greets warmly, pulling her into an embrace.
She smells of lavender and old paper, the same scent that clings to the library halls.
Selene can’t believe that she’s here, that she’s alive.
It ought to be impossible, and yet it’s her death that’s starting to feel like a dream, the other life the one that isn’t real.
“You look well,” says her grandmother, patting her back. “And your husband…” Her gaze lingers on Dorian, assessing. “Lord Nightbloom, a pleasure. I heard you were unwell?”
Dorian inclines his head politely, his face composed, though Selene can feel the way he holds himself still, bracing. The journey has been long, and he has endured it with his usual quiet resolve, but she can see the exhaustion in the tightness of his jaw, the faint unsteadiness in his stance.
“I’ve made a good recovery,” Dorian assures her, which is a lie but at least a polite one .
Selene slips her arm into his, keeping him steady. “Both my husband and I are rather tired from our journey, Grandmother. Do you mind if we retire to our rooms for a rest?”
“Of course, dear.” Sylvana gestures to the great wooden doors behind her, where a pair of servants are already moving to collect their things.
She makes no mention of the others who have travelled with them, as Selene expects.
Ariella, Rookwood, and Soren are beneath her notice, their presence assumed to be that of attendants.
Selene glances back as they step inside.
Nocturne Hall has always been more than a home—it is a museum of a life well lived, a testament to Sylvana’s many whims. Every inch of it is filled with collections.
Masks and costumes from her days in the theatre, relics from distant travels, paintings that span centuries, books in languages no one in the house can read.
Even now, stepping across the threshold, it feels like entering another world.
The Duke got rid of almost everything when they took up residence here. Never mind that he never intended to stay, that the belongings ought to have been Selene’s. A lot of the relics he didn’t even sell. He burnt anything of low value in the courtyard.
Selene had begged him to spare a few of her favourite pieces, but he laughed like she was a child upset over a broken toy made of paper.
Dorian’s hand brushes hers as they follow a servant up the staircase. She turns to him, finding his gaze steady on her.
“Are you all right?” he asks softly.
Selene exhales, squeezing his fingers in return. “I don’t know yet,” she admits.
They climb the stairs together, the echoes of their footsteps lost in the silence of Nocturne Hall.
“Lady Ashwyn said you would only require a single chamber,” says the housekeeper as she escorts them upstairs.
She’s a thin, bony woman named Mrs Grace—Selene remembers her from her past life, but she can’t remember if they have been introduced in this timeline or not.
“But do let me know if you require another room as well. ”
“I thank you,” Selene says, taking care not to accidentally use her name, “but we will not.”
Their chambers are just as Selene remembers—lavish, draped in deep blues and greys, the air faintly perfumed with old wood and faint traces of dust. If ever there was a room trapped in time, it was this one.
Mrs Grace takes their coats, makes promises of sending up tea, and closes the door behind her. Her absence is most welcome. Dorian sits down on the edge of the bed, tugs off his boots, and immediately slumps onto the mattress. Exhaustion is written in every line of his body.
Selene crosses the room and slides onto the bed beside him. She places a hand against his back, the coolness of his skin startling beneath her palm. It’s a warm day. Too warm to be this cold.
“Are you all right, my darling?”
“Headache,” he murmurs. “Cold.”
She presses a kiss to his head, then smooths his hair back. “I can do something about at least one of those things,” she says, tugging back the blankets and sliding under the covers with him.
Dorian doesn’t hesitate. He turns toward her, sinking against the pillows, and she immediately draws him close. He tucks himself against her, pressing his face into the curve of her throat with a low, contented sigh.
“Oh, that definitely works…”
Selene wraps an arm around him and moves her hand down his back in slow, soothing strokes. His body is tense at first, but gradually, bit by bit, he melts into her warmth.
“I’ll fetch something for your headache in a moment,” she murmurs.
He makes a soft, dissenting sound. “Later.”
She smiles against his temple, pressing a lingering kiss there. “Later, then.”
Nocturne Hall looms around her, taller than it should be, its spires tangled like black thorns clawing at a starless sky. The air is cold and sharp, smelling of ash and iron. The front doors creak open of their own accord, a slow, oily sound that makes her stomach tighten.
The Duke is waiting. Of course he is.
He stands at the foot of the staircase, wrapped in that long, funeral-dark coat stitched with silver thread, the one that always reminded her of veins under thin skin. His smile is cruel. Almost delighted.
“My dear girl,” he says, voice syrupy with scorn. “Back so soon? I suppose they always come crawling back in the end.”
She doesn’t answer. Her throat is tight. Her feet feel rooted to the floor, as if the marble beneath her has grown hands and wrapped them around her ankles. The Hall watches her. She can feel it—walls pulsing like lungs, windows narrowing like suspicious eyes.
“What am I back for?” she asks.
The Duke laughs. “Your funeral, of course.”
Selene freezes. But there she is—laid out on a stone dias, her throat cut, blood staining her gown, her stomach swollen—
“I remember when you used to cry at night,” the Duke says, purring in her ear. “You thought no one heard. But I did. I always did.” His breath is cold as ice against her skin. “Now look at you. Pretending to be brave.”