39. The Fifth Goddess
T he next few days that follow are some of the most blissful that Selene has ever known.
It’s even better than the days following Dorian’s recovery, because the Duke is gone, and shadows no longer loom around them.
She’s half tempted to go home, back to Ebonrose, to good things and the future they’d said would be theirs, but she knows it’s unwise to leave just yet.
They still don’t know who’s working with the Duke, and how his allies will react to his demise.
News of what he’s done will surely spread soon, as the freed slaves tell their stories. Finally, the King will be forced to act. He’ll find out about Drakefell’s links with Ashvold. He won’t rest until he’s flushed out the rest of the co-conspirators.
Maybe, just maybe, they’ve finally done enough. Everything else is someone else’s problem, now .
Meanwhile, Selene’s grandmother grows frailer, and Selene knows she will regret it if she doesn’t spend this time with her. Her future with Dorian can wait a little while.
Dorian still wants to solve the mystery of the goddess. The books in the library give them little, but he isn’t surprised. Some of them he dismisses entirely, because he’s already read them—Selene stole them for him in the past. There’s still plenty to get through before he gives up.
“You spend a lot of time in the library,” Sylvana remarks over tea. It’s just the three of them, this afternoon. Lord Duskbriar is attending to business and Lady Duskbriar is complaining of a headache. Selene finds she does not miss them.
“Dorian is very academic,” Selene explains, pride edging her voice. “He’s found a couple of references in some ancient tomes to a forgotten fifth goddess. He’s trying to ascertain their validity.”
“Well, you won’t find anything in the history books,” Sylvana tells them, sipping her tea.
“No?”
“No. If she was there, she wouldn’t have been forgotten.”
That’s an astonishingly good point, and Selene can see Dorian’s sheer horror when he realises he has spent years looking in the wrong place.
“Where might we find her, then?” Selene asks, as tactfully as possible.
“Seek the fairy tales, my dear. Fairy tales are a great way to tell the truth in a way that’s often overlooked.”
“That is an excellent idea, Lady Ashwyn,” Dorian says, standing up abruptly. “Do you mind if I—”
“Please, boy, go ahead. And do call me Sylvana, dear.”
Dorian smiles, and races off to the library, where, Selene imagines, he plans to bang his head against a desk before restarting his search.
Sylvana chuckles, then rises to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane. “Come, my dear. Let us take a turn about the gardens.”
“Are you sure you’re up for—”
“Don’t worry about me, my dear. Come on.”
There’s something in the way she says me, but Selene doesn’t press it. She takes her grandma’s other arm and steps out onto the terrace with her.
The terrace opens out onto the west wing of Nocturne Hall, its stone balustrade weathered with age and climbing ivy.
The Hall itself stands proud and quiet behind them, a vast silhouette of turrets and arched windows softened by the blush of turning leaves.
Once austere, it feels gentler now, its halls no longer echoing with dread.
The gardens beyond are a sweep of amber and gold, where tall hedgerows frame winding paths, and the trees, half-bare, drop their copper cloaks onto the cool lawns. Somewhere, a fountain trickles. The whole place feels like a breath held between seasons, serene in its quiet decay.
Selene tightens her grip on Sylvana’s arm. For a moment, just a moment, the world feels entirely theirs.
“Dreaming of what it will be like when it’s all yours?” Sylvana asks.
“I was thinking more that it was very kind of you to bequeath it to me rather than my mother.”
“It was more practicality than kindness. I know I’m not going to be around for much longer—you don’t have to lie to me and say otherwise, dear, it’s fine.
I thought if I gave you something of your own, you wouldn’t feel it necessary to rush into the first marriage that came your way.
No one would try to take advantage of you. ”
“A thing can be practical and kind at the same time, Grandma.”
“I suppose so.” Sylvana glances back towards the house. “It seems like my concerns were unfounded, however. Your young lord seems to be a fine chap.”
“Dorian is the best man I have ever known,” Selene says. “And… and your concerns weren’t unfounded. The Duke… the Duke very much would have taken advantage of me. Of this place.”
Sylvana nods. “The irony is I wanted to keep this place from your mother because of her ambitions, too.”
“Mother? Ambitious? ”
“You sound surprised, my dear. Your smarts didn’t come from me alone.”
“I’m not smart,” Selene says instinctively, and then corrects herself. “I mean… I am not known for my intelligence.”
“And your mother isn’t known for hers, and yet it’s there.” Her gaze is still fixed on the house. “I ought not to care what happens to this place after I go, but I find that I do. I don’t much care for what your mother would have done. I’d be interested to know your plans.”
Selene has never once thought what to do with Nocturne Hall.
The decision had never been hers. A year ago, she probably would have kept the place out of sentimentality, visiting it every couple of years and letting it sit there the rest of the time.
Now, the entire idea of letting an old estate crumbling away, being of no use to anyone, seems wasteful.
What would Dorian do , she wonders…
It’s a silly question, of course. Dorian would never make the decision for her. But she knows he’d find a good use of it.
She hopes she can, too.
Providing, of course, they’ve managed to subvert Ashvold’s invasion. She hopes they have.
They set off back towards the house.
“Is he all right, your young lord?” Sylvana asks.
“He is committed to the mystery,” Selene responds.
“I didn’t mean like that.”
Selene knows what she means, but she doesn’t want to press it. Dorian is hiding it well from the others, but not from his wife—and not from an old woman who knows what it’s like to live with illness.
“He’s getting there,” Selene says, hoping she’s not lying.
Selene spies Soren, practising lunges in the garden. He, like Dorian, hasn’t relaxed in the last couple of days. Her grandmother catches her staring.
“He’s an odd one, that young valet.”
“He’s… he’s not really a valet, Grandma.”
She chuckles. “I figured as much. See me back into the parlour and go speak your piece to him, then.”
Selene does as she’s bid, helping her grandmother back inside, making sure she’s comfortable, and stepping out into the courtyard again where Soren moves through a series of strikes.
His rapier carves the air, shifting effortlessly from one form to the next, his footwork near soundless against the worn flagstones.
It’s mesmerising, the way he moves, the way the blade becomes an extension of him rather than a separate weapon. Selene imagines few people would stand a chance against him.
She still wishes she was watching Dorian instead.
A twinge of frustration coils in her gut.
“You’re staring,” Soren remarks without looking up, smoothly transitioning into another thrust.
Selene blinks, but doesn’t look away. “Can you teach me how to fence?”
Soren, to his credit, does not drop his rapier. He pauses, lowering the blade slightly as he turns to regard her with something between amusement and scrutiny. “Sure. Do you have around two years?”
“It takes that long?” she asks, startled.
“And then some.” He rolls his shoulders, flexing his fingers around the hilt. “Why do you want to learn how to fight, anyway?”
“I want to be able to defend myself.”
And Dorian, if it ever comes to it. She clenches her hands at her sides. She doesn’t want to be helpless, standing idle while others risk themselves. She doesn’t want to watch him walk away again, and be left behind, waiting and worrying.
Soren exhales, tapping the flat of his blade against his palm. “I could probably teach you how to disarm, if you like? Most of the time, your enemy isn’t going to approach and ask you for a duel, anyway.”
Selene tilts her head. “How long would that take?”
“In principle? An hour.” His lips quirk in a dry half-smile. “In actuality, months. ”
“No time like the present,” Selene declares, stepping forward with her chin lifted.
Soren chuckles, flicking his rapier in a lazy circle before sheathing it.
“All right, then.” He strides past her toward the weapon rack near the courtyard’s edge and selects a wooden practice sword.
He tosses it to her without warning. She barely manages to catch it, the weight of it heavier than she expected.
Soren gestures for her to follow him to a clearer space. He rolls his shoulders, shaking out his limbs. “First thing’s first. Let’s see how you stand.”
Selene shifts into what she thinks is a fighting stance—feet braced, shoulders square, sword held up.
Soren sighs. “All right, so that’s... something. But if you stand like that, you’ll be on the ground before you even take a swing.”
Selene scowls. “I was getting into position.”
“You were bracing for a storm, not a fight.” He steps behind her and, with a nudge of his boot, adjusts the positioning of her feet. “One foot slightly forward, knees loose. You don’t want to be stiff—you want to be ready to move.”
She follows his guidance, adjusting her stance until she feels more balanced.
“Good. Now, grip.” He steps in front of her and taps the hilt of her practice sword. “Firm, but not tight. You’re not strangling it.”
Selene readjusts, relaxing her hold.
Soren nods. “Better. Now, disarming—” In a blur of movement, he knocks her sword clean out of her hand. The practice blade clatters to the ground.
Selene gapes at her now-empty hand, then scowls at him. “You could’ve warned me.”
“An enemy won’t.” He smirks. “Pick it up.”