Chapter 8 Tamsin
Tamsin
The manor is still when I wake—gray light filtering through velvet drapes, dust caught in quiet shafts of sun. I dress quickly, tie back my hair, and tug on my boots with the precision of habit.
When I step into the hall, I nearly collide with her.
“Goodness,” Marienne breathes, blinking up at me like I’m out of place in her house.
Maybe I am.
She’s holding something awkwardly wrapped in a bundle of floral fabric. A ribbon flaps loose near her wrist.
“I—apologies,” she says, cheeks a little pink. “I was hoping to catch you before breakfast.”
“…You’ve caught me,” I say.
She smiles. “Excellent.”
Then she thrusts the bundle at me, proud and awkward and expectant.
I take it slowly. The cloth is soft, faintly perfumed with rose. Inside are six small wooden practice swords—lightweight, roughly carved, but solid. Not toys. Not quite tools either. Something in between.
“For the girls,” she says, lifting her chin slightly. “I wasn’t sure what kind you’d prefer, and I didn’t know the size, exactly, but… well. I thought it might help.”
I look at her. Really look.
Her hair is wind-tossed, and there’s a faint flush in her cheeks that hasn’t faded since she startled me in the hallway. Her gloves aren’t buttoned properly. Her eyes shine with pride—hopeful, maybe a little nervous.
“You went out this morning,” I say slowly.
She lifts a hand to smooth her hair and sighs. “The market opens early.”
“You went alone?”
“Well, yes. Margot kept an ear out for the children. Besides, it wasn’t far. And they have honeyed bread if you arrive early enough. I thought it might help ease the pain of swordplay drills.” She grins, then bites her lip with the tip of a fang. “Assuming these are… usable?”
I run a thumb along the hilt of one.
“They’ll do,” I say.
Her entire face lights up like a festival lantern.
Something soft and unfamiliar lodges in my throat.
“You didn’t have to,” I add.
She shrugs, almost too casually. “I know.”
And she means it. She knows I didn’t ask this of her. That I wouldn’t. But she did it anyway.
For the children.
For me.
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
She beams, and it’s blinding. “You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must ring the breakfast bell. I’ve never been so excited for sweet bread in my life.”
Then she’s gone in a flurry of pink and silk and good intentions, trailing the scent of rosewater in her wake…
I stand in the corridor for a long moment, wooden swords in hand, trying to remember the last time someone thought of something before I needed it.
***
The morning mist clings to the grass as I step onto the garden lawn, practice swords under one arm. The girls are already gathered—more or less.
Siven stands at perfect attention, as if she’s reporting for duty.
Imara slouches next to her, arms crossed, but her eyes are sharp and assessing.
Callen waves at me with both hands, nearly toppling over.
Yla is laying in the grass, communing with a daisy.
Liri clings to Marienne’s skirts like the world might end.
And Vess—well, Vess is curled up in Margot’s arms.
“Good morning,” I say.
I lower the bundle to the ground, unwrap it with deliberate care, and lay out the wooden blades in a neat row. “Each of you will take one. Today, we begin basic forms.”
Yla scrambles forward first. She picks the longest sword, holds it upside down, then twirls dramatically and bows to me.
“I christen you Moonblossom,” she declares to her sword. A beat later, she frowns. “No, wait. Gutterfang. No. Moonblossom again. Behave, or I’ll rename you.”
Siven moves forward silently and selects her blade with reverence. She grips it correctly. It’s… unsettling.
Imara doesn’t move.
“Take your pick,” I say.
“I want the same as hers,” she says, jerking her chin toward Siven. “Fair is fair.”
“They’re all the same,” I say.
“No, they’re not.”
She finally picks one that looks identical to the rest and steps beside Siven, planting her feet wide like a soldier.
Callen chooses hers next. Then holds it like a broom. Upside down.
“Like this?” she asks hopefully.
“Almost,” I say. I gently correct her grip.
She beams like I handed her a crown.
Liri hangs back, wringing her hands. Her bottom lip wobbles.
She reaches for a sword… the one Imara picked.
Imara grabs it tighter.
“It’s mine. Pick another one,” Imara says.
Liri blinks.
Then cries.
Great.
Marienne appears beside me like a summer breeze, kneeling beside Liri with open arms. “Oh, darling. It’s alright. It’s just a sword. You may have one of your own.”
“I wanted that one,” Liri sobs.
“Of course you did,” Marienne coos. “It’s very handsome. But yours will be even better, I think. Perhaps we’ll decorate it later. Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”
Liri hiccups. “With paint?”
Marienne winks at me. “Obviously.”
Liri clutches a sword, not the contested one, still sniffling. She drags it back to Marienne and plops into her lap like a very small, very armed puddle.
Yla is currently scolding Moonblossom for having “an attitude.”
Siven has already invented her first stance.
Callen has somehow tied a flower to the hilt of her sword.
I exhale.
Then I clap my hands once. “Form a line.”
The line takes time to form.
It wobbles. It talks. It argues about whose spot is sunniest.
Eventually, I get them mostly in order: Siven, Imara, Callen, Yla, and Liri. Margot and Vess have left.
I hold up my own practice blade. “We begin with stances. Feet apart. Like this.”
Siven mimics me instantly.
Imara hesitates, but follows.
Callen’s knees buckle.
Yla mutters something about “Moonblossom preferring a more dramatic stance,” then pirouettes.
Liri is... trying.
Marienne stands just behind them, hands clasped under her chin like she’s watching a dance instead of a swordplay demonstration. The sunlight hits her cheekbone, catching in the edge of her copper hair.
When I glance her way, she meets my eyes with a bright smile.
Not flirtatious. Not mocking.
Encouraging.
As if I’m the one being brave.
I blink and turn back to the children. We start simple. I take them through a few basic stances—feet planted, arms steady, grip corrected one by one.
Then it starts to fall apart.
“Now. Guard stance.”
Callen lifts her sword over her head like a flag.
I gently adjust it.
Imara nails the position.
Yla stabs the ground and scolds Moonblossom for “being rude again.”
Siven doesn’t blink. I’m not convinced she's blinked all morning.
Liri, though, watches the others. And when I crouch down beside her and show her how to place her feet, she beams at me.
It’s a mess. But it’s their mess. And—somehow—they’re trying.
I move down the row, correcting grips, adjusting feet, nodding when they get it right.
Marienne doesn’t speak, but I feel her gaze. Every time I straighten a back or guide a hand, she watches like she’s witnessing a miracle.
When I finally look at her again, she’s still smiling… soft, proud, hands clasped against her chest.
Like she believes in me.
Like I’m doing something good.
“All right,” I say. “Pair up.”
Liri pairs with Callen. Imara with Yla. Siven with me.
We practice basic strikes. Controlled. Pulled. I show them how to block without bruising.
There’s laughter. Even from Imara.
Liri giggles when Callen’s sword catches on her braid. Yla yells, “Moonblossom, duck!” and drops her own blade in surprise. Siven doesn’t laugh. But she smiles. Just a little.
It’s chaos again. But focused, vibrant chaos.
And, gods, it feels like it might work.
Eventually, I call the end.
“Good job,” I say. “We’ll train again tomorrow.”
There are groans and cheers in equal measure.
I sheath my blade and turn. Marienne is already there.
She beams. “You’re quite good with them.”
“They’re learning.”
“So are you.”
I look at her. She looks back, unflinching. Warm. Open.
I’ve stared down warlords and traitors and monsters. Marienne of the Bloom might be the most dangerous of them all.