Chapter 10 Tamsin
Tamsin
I find myself lingering in the hallway longer than necessary, boots soft on the worn floor, sword belted loosely at my hip.
The manor has quieted. The girls have gone to bed—or at least, they've stopped making noise loud enough to warrant interference. Still, I patrol like it's muscle memory. Like if I walk the same halls long enough, I’ll find something familiar.
I don’t expect to find Margot.
She emerges from the shadows near the stairwell, holding a silver tray with a half-drunk cup of something too dark to be tea. Her eyes narrow when she sees me: less surprise, more suspicion, like she expected to catch me skulking.
We stop a few paces apart.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, her voice low and dry.
“I don’t sleep much,” I answer honestly.
She hums. “Figures.”
I should keep walking. But something about her tone, about the way she doesn’t smile, roots me here.
“You don’t trust me,” I say, not as a question.
“Should I?”
I don’t flinch. “No. Not yet.”
She tilts her head. Her gaze lingers on my armor, my boots, my stillness. “At least you’re honest.”
“I’m not here to hurt them.”
“Intentions don’t matter when orders run against them.”
She moves past me then, slow and deliberate. The silver tray reflects a sliver of candlelight. I speak before I can stop myself.
“She’s lucky to have you.”
Margot pauses. Turns just enough to glance at me from the corner of her eye.
“You think I’m here for her?” she asks.
“I think you’d burn the place down for her.”
She studies me a beat longer than I’m comfortable with, then gives the smallest, most begrudging nod I’ve ever seen.
And then she’s gone, disappearing down the hallway without another word.
It’s only then that I return to my room.
The mirror waits like it always does, untouched. I ignore it and sit at the desk instead, lighting a fresh candle and pulling my folio toward me. I begin to write.
Baroness Marienne remains inconsistent. Overly affectionate. Lacks practical knowledge in all aspects of discipline and routine.
I pause.
But the children adore her, and she tries.
Margot is protective. Loyal. I believe her presence is a stabilizing force, if an acerbic one. Worth noting.
I tap the quill against the page. My thoughts wander back to the sound of Marienne’s voice—low and lyrical. That lullaby still echoes in the quiet parts of me.
I add one final note.
Recommendation: Continue observation. Continue integration of structure with minimal disruption to existing bonds.
I cap the ink, close the folio, and extinguish the candle.
Tomorrow will be harder.
And I’m still not sleeping.
***
I wake before the sun. I always do.
Discipline is a form of devotion, my old mentor used to say. Not to any god, but to survival.
The manor is still asleep as I dress. Shirt, trousers, armor. I pull my hair back tightly and slide the band around it. Then I lace my boots, buckle my sword, and set the ink to dry on the week’s schedule.
It’s a simple chart that consists of breakfast, lessons, free time, nourishment, chores, supper, quiet time, and bedtime.
The ink pools at the edge of the page, sharp and final. Structure carved out of chaos. I feel calmer just looking at it. Maybe this place can be shaped into something stable. Predictable.
I head to the breakfast room with something approaching optimism. But the room is empty.
I blink.
Where are the children and Marienne?
I find them in the nursery.
Marienne is kneeling beside Yla, helping her adjust an absurdly large sunhat with a veil like spider silk. Callen is carefully tying lace gloves around Marienne’s elbows, tongue peeking out in concentration.
Marienne coos. “Oh, darling, that’s exquisite.”
It is well past breakfast.
My jaw ticks. I take a breath.
“Marienne.” My voice slices through the scene like a blade.
She looks up, startled. “Oh, good morning, Tamsin! Doesn’t Yla look splendid? She found this hat in the chest—”
“We’re late to breakfast.” I hold out the paper.
“Oh.” She blinks at it. “I must’ve… lost track of time. We were enacting a coronation scene. Very important for confidence building.”
I stare. She fidgets.
“I—apologize,” she says, smoothing the skirt of her gown. “It won’t happen again.”
Callen, still holding one of Marienne’s gloves, looks up at me with wide, mischievous eyes. “Do you want to play the Royal Sword? That’s the one who stands next to the throne.”
Before I can answer—no, probably—Marienne speaks again.
“Oh, I have the perfect prop for you!”
She hesitates, then reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a narrow strip of fabric. A dark hair ribbon.
“For your hair,” she insists. “It would match the ink on the schedule.”
Her smile is hopeful. Too hopeful.
I’m on duty. I’m trying to establish structure, not spiral deeper into this strange little theatre of chaos. But the ribbon is already in her hand, held out like an olive branch. Or a dare.
I stare at it. Then at her.
“I’ll pass,” I say, quiet but firm. “The Royal Sword doesn’t wear ribbons.”
Marienne’s hand falters only slightly before she tucks the ribbon away with a graceful shrug. “Of course,” she murmurs. “Perhaps another time.”
Callen sighs dramatically. “But the ribbon would’ve made you majestic.”
“I’m already plenty majestic,” I mutter, folding my arms.
That earns me a grin—from Marienne and the children both.
Shortly after, we all head downstairs to have breakfast, and I tuck the moment away in the back of my mind.
***
Later that day, we’re in the back garden for drills.
I run through the basics. Guard positions. Grip. Stance.
Imara resists instruction until I correct her footwork with a touch to her ankle. She grumbles, but adjusts.
She’s quick. Strong. A natural.
“Try again,” I say. “This time, lead with your offhand.”
She obeys, lips pressed tight in focus.
That’s when I feel it.
Eyes on my back.
I turn.
Marienne stands on the balcony above, hands resting on the rail. She’s watching me. Not smiling. Not judging. Just… watching.
I straighten instinctively. Square my shoulders.
I tell myself it’s to set a better example. For the children.
But I know that’s not the only reason.
I run the girls through one more round. Correct Callen’s grip. Duck when Yla swings wild. Praise Siven for her steadiness.
I don’t look up again.
But I know she’s still there.
***
The manor is unusually still.
Quiet Time, as dictated by the schedule, is meant to be just that. And for once, the children are... complying. Mostly. I caught Siven whispering to the sugar bowl earlier, but she looked so serious I couldn’t bring myself to stop her.
I take a moment to breathe and patrol the halls.
Then I pass the music room and pause.
Soft notes flutter through the air—delicate, careful plucks that curl like petals down the corridor. I step closer and peek inside.
Marienne sits at the harp, back straight, hands drifting across the strings with a grace I’ve never seen from her when she’s tripping over a tea tray or bribing someone with sweets.
The sound is... haunting. Not perfect, but tender.
I clear my throat. “I thought this was quiet time.”
She glances up.
“It is.” Her smile is slow, a little smug. “This is very quiet.”
I hover in the doorway, uncertain. She nods to the divan near the window.
“Well, Ser Tamsin? You’ve earned a rest, haven’t you?”
I shouldn’t. I don’t rest in the middle of the day. But my legs betray me, carrying me to the seat before I decide. I sit stiffly, arms crossed.
She plays for a few more moments, then stills her fingers.
“Do you like music?” she asks gently.
I consider the question. “I like silence.”
Marienne hums. “Fair. But sometimes music is a kind of silence, don’t you think? It holds things words can’t.”
I don’t reply.
She brushes a hand over the strings again, a low chord. “I’m looking into hiring a tutor,” she says. “A proper one. For the girls.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A tutor. For music.”
“Yes.”
“Before hiring another maid? Or a cook? Or—dare I suggest—a governess?”
Her fingers pause. Then she gives me a look I can’t quite decipher. “I believe most people thrive with love and music,” she says. “The rest... We’ll manage.”
I want to argue. I want to say discipline matters more. That structure feeds the soul in ways melodies can’t.
But I remember Imara’s hands on the lute. Siven humming to herself with a finger on each key of the little flute. Callen tapping rhythm on the windowsill.
And I remember Marienne, singing softly to children who used to flinch at touch. Children who now, slowly, drift toward her.
“You don’t believe in doing things in order, do you?” I mutter.
“Oh, I do. Of course I do. But perhaps my order is simply different than yours,” she says.
The harp sings again. Marienne plucks another shimmering note, lets it linger in the air between us, then glances sideways with a smile too casual to be innocent.
“Would you like to learn?” she asks.
I blink. “Learn what?”
She pats the polished curve of the harp. “To play.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “I’m fairly sure I’m missing the prerequisite lace.”
“You’d look lovely in lace,” she says sweetly.
I narrow my eyes. “Is that how you bait all your knights? With compliments and string instruments?”
“Only the exceptionally broody ones.”
I shake my head, biting back a smile. “I’ll learn to play the harp,” I say dryly, “when you agree to sword training.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Oh,” Marienne says, sitting straighter, eyes bright. “Gladly.”
I blink. “That wasn’t a real offer.”
“Too late. I accept. We’ll trade lessons.” She’s already grinning at me like she’s won a duel. “It’ll be interesting.”
I groan, sinking a little deeper into the chair. “What have I done?”
Marienne hums a cheerful scale. “Something wonderful, I suspect.”