40. Teacups and Treason
D orian seems to improve a little the next morning, which brightens everyone considerably. It helps that it’s a slow, relaxed day. They read, eat, and take things easy. They don’t find out anything more about the forgotten goddess, but Selene discovers plenty about Ashvold.
Towards the afternoon, Dorian announces his desire to take a turn about the gardens. He hasn’t been out there much to Selene’s knowledge, and she’s happy when he links his fingers into hers and asks her to accompany him.
“I was beginning to think you were avoiding the gardens,” she tells him.
Dorian’s jaw tightens. “I have been,” he admits. “Because you died in them.”
Selene goes quiet for a moment, but then releases herself from his grip and twirls ahead of him in a flurry of skirts. “I am not dead,” she reminds him. “Would a kiss help remind you of this fact?”
“I have never known a kiss of yours make anything worse,” he tells her, and he pulls her back into his arms to make sure. It takes several kisses until he’s convinced enough.
They walk on through the grounds. As they move, Dorian tells her of the things they did here together in a past timeline, of the kisses shared, jokes that were born, the night he told her the story of the moon and her lover.
The bower house stands at the very edge of the garden, half-swallowed by ivy.
Once, its latticework had been painted white, its beams polished and gleaming in the summer sun.
Now, the paint has long since peeled, the wood darkened by rain and neglect.
Roses still climb its trellises, but inside, the years have not been kind.
The door groans on its hinges as they step in.
Dust stirs beneath their feet, swirling in the light that streams through warped glass panes.
The furniture—once delicate, elegant—has faded into ghosts of itself.
The settee’s embroidery is dulled with age, its stuffing slightly collapsed.
The table in the centre of the room bears the marks of countless afternoons: wine rings, ink stains, the faint scratch of a careless knife.
Dorian walks in first, slow and cautious, like someone wading through memories he isn’t sure he wants to embrace.
His shoulders are tense, as if the air itself weighs on him.
He drifts into the centre of the room, over the faded rug.
The floorboards creak beneath him. He exhales through his nose, his fingers pressing briefly against his forehead before dropping to his side.
“I don’t remember that floorboard creaking,” he remarks, his voice quieter than usual.
Selene half laughs. Everything about this place looks like it should creak. The dust is everywhere except the rug. Her grandmother must be storing it in here. She doesn’t remember it from her previous timeline, and she always remembers interiors.
Selene pirouettes around the room, watching him from the corner of her eye. There’s something off about the way he holds himself—his breaths measured, his jaw tight. She tilts her head, smile curling. “Do you want to make love to me for old times’ sake?” she asks, her voice light and playful.
His eyes trail the edges of the room before settling on her again. His fingers twitch slightly, and he shifts his weight, like he’s testing how much discomfort his body will allow. “Not right now,” he says at last. “I don’t… I’m not feeling quite right.”
Something cold settles in her chest.
“Shall we go back to the main house?” she offers.
“Please.”
She doesn’t like that he doesn’t fight. Doesn’t pretend. There’s no charming deflection, no wry smile to brush past the moment. Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps it means he is more willing to be honest with her now, to stop masking.
She doubts it.
Selene walks him back to the house, keeping close in case he stumbles.
His steps are slower than usual, his breathing a little shallow, and she doesn’t like how quiet he’s become.
Normally, even unwell, he’d find something wry to say.
Now, though, he seems to be retreating into himself, as if conserving his energy.
Her mother is on the porch when they reach the steps. She watches them approach with a keen gaze, her arms crossed over her bodice. “Lord Nightbloom, are you all right?”
“A little headache, Mama,” Selene answers for him. “Nothing to concern yourself over.”
Lady Duskbriar studies them both for a beat longer before nodding. “Get him upstairs.”
Selene does just that, guiding Dorian inside and up to their chambers.
Once she has him sitting on the edge of the bed, she kneels to pull off his boots, her hands gentle, mindful of the tension coiled in his body.
He lets out a slow breath as he leans back against the pillows, eyes closing briefly.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, brushing strands of hair from his forehead.
He doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least. Instead, he reaches for her, tugging her into a loose embrace, his arms warm but weak around her. She stills, then lets herself sink against him, resting her head against his chest.
Hugs, not lies.
“Tell me what hurts you,” she insists, her voice softer now. “Let me help.”
“Headache, mainly.” His fingers curl slightly against her back. “Stomach… pretty bad.”
Selene pulls back just enough to meet his gaze. The shadows under his eyes are darker than they were earlier, and there’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there before. She presses a hand to his stomach, rubbing in slow, soothing circles.
“Does that help?”
“Not really,” he admits. “But I don’t think I want you to stop.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips, but it fades as a soft knock sounds at the door. Her mother steps inside, carrying a cup of steaming herbal tea.
“For your headache, Lord Nightbloom,” she says, setting it carefully on the nightstand.
Dorian shifts slightly, making an effort to sit up straighter. “Thank you, Lady Duskbriar.” His voice is weaker than usual, his usual polish dulled by exhaustion.
“You’re not the only one who suffers from aches and pains,” she tells him, brushing a stray curl from Selene’s face as she straightens. “There’s no shame in asking for help.”
Dorian lowers his gaze, fingers tightening around the cup. He hesitates, then murmurs, “Thank you.”
Lady Duskbriar inclines her head, then sweeps from the room, leaving them in silence. Dorian watches the steam rise from the cup before taking a careful sip.
“She’s really trying,” he says after a moment.
“She is,” Selene agrees.
She sits beside him on the bed, rubbing slow, reassuring strokes along his arms. His muscles are tense, as if he’s bracing for something unseen.
“Don’t be scared of being scared,” she whispers .
His lips twitch, but the exhaustion wins out. “Does that work for you?”
“No,” she admits, her fingers lacing with his. “But being with you does.” She lifts his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, lingering there for a moment. “We have options, Dorian. Don’t be afraid of them.”
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. She stays with him, watching over him as he drinks the tea, rubbing circles into his back when he shifts uncomfortably.
She stays until sleep finally claims him.
Selene watches Dorian sleep, his breathing slow, steady. She wants to lie down beside him, to fold herself into the warmth of his presence and let the afternoon drift away. But something tugs at her, a restless pull at the edges of her mind.
She presses a kiss to his forehead before slipping from the room.
The house is quiet as she moves through it, the faint murmur of servants in distant halls the only sign of life. Outside, the afternoon air swirls with mist. It sheathes the mountains from view, leaving only the trees, slicing through the fog like rusty arrows.
She returns to the bower house.
The door groans again as she steps inside, the scent of dust and aged wood filling her lungs. The space is just as they left it—ghostly remnants of another time lingering in the faded furniture, the warped glass panes casting strange shadows on the floor.
And then—
Creak.
The same floorboard as before, right in the centre of the room, on the rug she doesn’t recognise .
Dorian had said that he didn’t remember it creaking, and the truth is, she doesn’t either.
Given how tumble-down it was in her past life when she first arrived at the Hall after her grandmother’s death, it seems unlikely that anyone will fix it in the time between now and when she’s due to take possession.
Why would a creaking floorboard have changed? Why does it matter?
Her gaze drops to the rug, its fabric dulled with age but oddly out of place amidst the dust. She crouches, fingers curling into the edges, and pulls it back. Beneath, the wood is uneven, one board looser than the rest. Carefully, she works her fingers into the gap and pries it open.
Inside, the air smells stale. She reaches in, pulling out a stack of letters bound in ribbon, the parchment fresh beneath her touch. This is not some old secret she has discovered, but a new one.
The first name she sees is her mother’s. Lady Duskbriar.
She flips through, her breath catching as she recognises another name.
Duke Drakefell.
And then another. And another. Dozens of letters, but precious few of them from the men who governed the courts. These are from the women—the wives of the very lords Dorian has been investigating.
A cold realisation settles in her stomach.
She remembers Soren saying that Ashvold was better for the lower classes, and for the women. She remembers Dorian musing that he was surprised the Duke didn’t recruit more poor folk to his cause. They have more to gain and less to lose.
So did all of these women.
Selene exhales, gripping the letters tightly.
A shadow cuts across the floor. Selene’s mother stands in the doorway.
“Oh,” she says with a sigh. “I really wish you hadn’t seen those.”