Chapter 11 Marienne
Marienne
I have never claimed to be above bribery.
Bloodfruit is a perfectly valid form of currency. And ribbon, well... Ribbon is practically diplomacy when used correctly.
I hum as I tie a neat little bow around a bundle of folded linens, placing it atop a freshly made bed that definitely wasn’t made by me.
Yla had volunteered—after I promised her a ribbon in her favorite shade of green.
Imara scrubbed the foyer tiles because she wanted the shiny silver one “like a knight’s sash.
” Even Callen swept the hall when I told her the blue silk might “match her eyes in the right light.”
It’s not manipulation, I reason. It’s positive reinforcement.
And it works.
Mostly.
“Chores aren’t meant to be bartered for,” Tamsin says flatly as we cross paths in the upstairs hall. She’s carrying a bucket of soapy water and looks like she’d rather be carrying a sword.
I smile, cheerful. “Well, perhaps your way is too dreary.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And yours is too chaotic.”
“We’re both wrong,” I say, breezing past her, “but at least mine is prettier.”
She mutters something about bribery not building character, but I don’t hear the rest because Vess is screaming downstairs about a missing spoon—again—and Yla’s new sword is poking out of a vase like a misplaced flower.
Later, in the parlor, after swords are in their proper place and spoons retrieved, Siven lets me braid her hair.
She doesn’t say anything, just climbs up onto the cushion beside me and silently presents her little head, all moon-pale strands and solemn stillness. My breath catches.
“Would you like ribbon?” I ask gently, showing her a soft pink one.
She nods.
So I weave it through her braid with the reverence of a prayer.
When I glance up, Tamsin is watching from the doorway. Her arms are crossed, but there’s something… unguarded in her expression. A faint curve at the corner of her mouth.
She’s smiling.
At Siven.
At me?
Our eyes meet. For a suspended moment, neither of us looks away. The air shifts, delicate and uncertain.
Then Tamsin clears her throat and glances down. I look away too, heart fluttering strangely.
I stroke the ribbon at the end of Siven’s braid. “There,” I whisper. “Perfect.”
Siven leans her head against my arm.
Across the room, Tamsin busies herself inspecting the window latch.
And I wonder, perhaps for the first time, what it would take to make her smile like that again. Not just for the children.
But for me.