Chapter 13 Marienne
Marienne
Today is the day we trade lessons.
Margot gave me a look when I asked her to keep an eye on the girls.
“I always do,” she said.
I took that as a yes.
The children are scheduled for “free time” at the moment—which, if I’m honest, means Yla is somewhere in the garden, Imara is in the library reading dreadful war epics, and Siven is likely practicing her guard stances again.
Liri and Callen were last seen dragging several parasols up the stairs.
And Vess is with Margot. May the gods protect her.
I take a breath and face my mirror.
I am not wearing a gown at the moment. I repeat it like a mantra. Not a gown. Not a dress. Not even lace.
Well. Some lace.
I’ve opted for trousers—soft, high-waisted, the color of plum skin—and a flowing blouse in cream, ruffled at the cuffs and neck. Practical but… me. Or as close as I can get without feeling like I’m impersonating someone else. Over it, a corset-style vest I had made for a costume party years ago.
My hair is braided off my face, pinned in loops, and my boots are sensible.
It’s still me.
Just… with better balance.
I grab my parasol out of habit, then abandon it halfway down the stairs.
Tamsin is waiting in the courtyard. Of course she is. Early. As always.
I try not to let my nerves show as I cross to her.
She turns when she hears my steps, eyes scanning me like I’m a battlefield.
“You’re on time,” she says.
“Is that a hint of surprise? I do try, you know,” I say lightly, folding my hands. “I asked Margot to supervise my little bats during our lesson. I’ve promised them they can watch the next one, if I survive.”
Tamsin’s eyebrow twitches. “You’ll survive.”
“That’s generous of you.”
She gestures toward the open lawn where the girls usually train. “We’ll start with stance.”
“Not even a warm-up?” I tease.
That earns me a very flat look.
I step forward, chin up, and plant my boots where she indicates. The grass is slightly damp, and the sun peeks through the clouds in lazy intervals. A breeze stirs my blouse. I wonder, absurdly, if I’ll sweat.
Tamsin positions herself behind me.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” she says.
“Whose shoulders?”
She doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just nudges my boot with her own.
I correct my stance, glancing at her over my shoulder. She nods once.
“Now bend your knees.”
I do.
“Keep your spine straight.”
“It is straight,” I say, though I shift anyway.
I feel ridiculous. Like lace pretending to be a shield.
Tamsin sighs. Not unkindly, but with the weight of someone who’s taught stubborn nobles before. She steps around to face me, and holds out a wooden sword.
It’s one of the girls’—smaller than hers, but still solid, still serious. The handle is worn smooth from tiny, determined hands. It looks absurd in mine.
But when I wrap my fingers around the hilt and lift it, the weight surprises me.
“Oh,” I murmur, brows lifting. “It’s heavy.”
“It’s not,” she says. “You’re just not used to holding anything that isn’t porcelain.”
I blink. Then smile slowly. “That was almost a joke.”
“It was not.”
“Mm. Of course not.”
We begin.
Sort of.
Tamsin demonstrates a simple guard position, and I mirror it. Badly.
My wrist bends too far. My shoulders tilt, uneven.
She steps in without a word.
Her hand finds my elbow—cool and steady, her grip both precise and patient. Her other hand rests briefly at my hip, guiding me back into alignment. I feel the brush of her fingers through the fabric, the heat of her presence closing in around me.
Time does something strange.
It slows, folds inward.
Her voice is low. “Keep your weight even.”
I nod, though I’m no longer sure I remember how to breathe.
She smells like pine smoke and old steel—clean and sharp and grounding. I catch the faintest trace of something wilder beneath it.
My pulse stutters.
Focus, Marienne.
Her hand lingers another beat before slipping away. I miss it absurdly.
But I square my shoulders.
And try again.
“Good,” she says, “Now try a swing.”
I do.
It’s not elegant. It is, however, enthusiastic.
“Less wrist,” she says.
I adjust. Swing again.
“Better.”
We repeat it. Again. And again.
A rhythm begins to take shape… not graceful, but steady.
My breath evens out. My body starts to find its center, the old muscle memory of posture and poise slotting into place.
Not from swordplay, no. But from years of holding court, of navigating ballroom floors and expectations.
Balance. Frame. Presentation. All of it lives somewhere in my spine.
“I’m not completely hopeless,” I say between breaths.
Tamsin’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“You’re determined,” she says. “That helps.”
I raise my wooden sword in a mock salute. “To structure and sore arms.”
She taps the tip of her blade against mine. “To not stabbing yourself.”
I laugh.
It’s easier than I thought, this lesson.
Harder, too.
Because now I know what it’s like to stand across from her, blades drawn, the space between us taut with effort and breath and something that might not be tension at all.
We finish just as the wind picks up again, tugging at my braid.
I lower my sword.
Tamsin watches me for a beat longer than she should.
Then she clears her throat and says, “Same time tomorrow?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll even bring snacks.”
“… No bloodfruit.”
I grin. “No promises.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes now—subtle, hard-won, and wholly worth the effort.
“Oh,” I add lightly, lowering my wooden sword. “Don’t forget, it’s my lesson later today. Try to look thrilled.”
Tamsin exhales like she’s already regretting every choice that led her here. “I survived sword drills. How bad can strings be?”
I smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
And that’s how we part—her walking back toward the manor, and me standing in the wind, watching her go, already counting the hours.
***
Hours later, the sun has dipped low, and the air has taken on that late-afternoon hush that feels like an invitation.
I’ve changed since our sword lessons.
The sleeves of my gown fall like rosewater down my arms—light and familiar. I’ve missed this dress. The silk is patterned with trailing vines in pale blush and moss, a pattern I once wore to a garden party in spring. I run a hand down my skirts and step into the music room.
It’s peaceful here, or as peaceful as Bloomhill ever gets. The chandelier shimmers softly. Sunlight trickles through the lace-curtained windows. The harp waits in the corner—golden, polished, its strings humming faintly in the stillness, like it knows.
Poor Margot has taken the girls to the east wing to “teach them embroidery,” which likely means she’s teaching them not to sword fight in the hallway. Again.
I light a rose candle on the windowsill.
Then I wait.
Tamsin arrives precisely on time.
She steps through the doorway, jaw tight as if she’s reporting for battle. Her eyes flick across the room and land on the harp, then on me.
I rise from the stool.
“You came,” I say, too warmly.
She lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t give me much choice.”
I smile sweetly. “What kind of baroness would I be if I didn’t return the favor of lessons?”
Tamsin exhales through her nose. Possibly a laugh, before her gaze turns towards the harp again, suspicious.
I gesture toward it. “She doesn’t bite.”
“She?” One brow arches. “You named your harp?”
“She’s not named. She’s gendered. It’s different.”
Another sigh, this one quieter. But she steps closer.
I sit first, smoothing my skirts and settling before the strings. Then I pat the extra stool beside me. “It’s easier to learn from this angle.”
Tamsin hesitates, tension still clinging to her shoulders like a cloak. But then she lowers herself, careful and deliberate, and the space between us vanishes. Elbow to elbow. Knee to knee. I catch the faint scent of pine again. Woodsmoke. Iron. The sharpness of discipline.
“First,” I say, “you don’t need to know every note. We’re just going to feel today.”
“Feel?” she repeats, as if I’ve suggested a duel with soup spoons.
“Yes.”
She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. I lift her hand anyway—gently, slowly, as if she might spook—and guide her fingers toward the lowest string.
It sings under the touch. A warm, mellow thrum.
Tamsin stills. Her breath catches like she’s not sure if she’s done something wrong or not.
“See?” I murmur. “That’s your first note.”
She pulls back slightly. “It’s louder than I thought.”
“She has opinions.”
She shoots me a look. Half warning, half disbelief.
“I can tell,” she says, almost playful herself.
But there’s something about her expression that makes me soften. She doesn’t trust this yet—this closeness. This quiet. And somehow, that makes me want to protect it even more.
We try again. And again. I demonstrate a glissando, slow and shimmering. The kind of sound that doesn’t just echo—it brushes the soul. Then I guide her to try. Her fingers are blunt, calloused. Made for hilts and shields, not silk strings. But they move with surprising care.
They learn.
Slowly, she begins to coax out sound.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” she mutters after a while.
“I can,” I say.
She glances at me.
“You’re a woman of your word,” I add, softer now. “Even when the word is nonsense.”
That earns me another look. But it lingers longer this time, her gaze searching mine. Then, faintly, her lips twitch.
It might be a smile.
We keep playing. One string. Then another. We do not play a song, not really, but the music becomes a living thing between us. A thread. A small magic.
Her shoulder brushes mine. I pretend not to notice.
She shifts. So do I.
We fall into silence, filled only by the sounds of harp strings and distant laughter from the corridor.
And for one rare, sweet moment, we’re not knight and baroness, nor opposites at war.
We’re just… two women learning something new.
Together.
Tamsin plucks another string—tentative, careful. The sound quivers, a little sharp. She frowns.