Chapter 15 Marienne
Marienne
The days are beginning to blur.
Tamsin and I have fallen into a kind of rhythm. A crooked dance neither of us meant to learn, but here we are. Trading lessons like bartered secrets. Brushing shoulders in passing. Drifting ever so slightly into each other’s orbit.
In the early afternoons, once the children are occupied, I meet her in the back courtyard with my practice sword and a healthy dose of delusion.
This time, she corrects my grip for the third time in as many minutes.
“No, no, you’re strangling it,” she says, eyes sharp with amusement. “You want to hold it like a lover. Firm, but not unkind.”
“Oh, well,” I reply, huffing. “That depends greatly on the lover.”
Her lips twitch. Just a little.
In the late afternoons, we sit at the harp.
“Your fingers are too stiff,” I tell her, reaching out to gently guide them. “She isn’t a blade. She wants coaxing, not command.”
“It’s an instrument made of wood and string,” she grumbles. “It doesn’t want anything.”
“She wants to sing,” I insist. “Let her.”
She scowls. The harp sings anyway.
Evenings settle into tea. Sometimes Margot joins us. But tonight, it’s just the two of us.
The manor is quiet. The steam from our cups curls upwards, towards the ceiling. I’ve steeped a blend of bloodfruit peel and dried honey petals. It’s a little too sweet, but Tamsin drinks it anyway.
She’s rolled her sleeves up tonight. Her forearms rest against the table—strong, steady. There’s ink smudged faintly near one wrist. She’s been writing during our tea times all week. A page here, a paragraph there. The Court’s report, I imagine.
She writes between sips, her neat script unfurling across parchment in precise, deliberate strokes.
She doesn’t fidget like I do. She simply… is.
“You’ve been writing more,” I say softly, watching her over the rim of my cup.
She hums. “The Court expects a report.”
“Will it be a good one?”
“That depends,” she says, glancing up. “Have you set the manor on fire yet?”
“Not this week,” I reply, mock-prim.
That earns it.
A laugh. Short, surprised. Real.
I freeze.
It slips out of her like an unguarded breath, like she forgot to keep the walls up for a moment. And stars above, it’s beautiful.
Not just the sound, but the shape of it. The crinkle around her eyes. The way her mouth softens, like it’s not used to such expressions and is trying them on for size.
I stare.
I shouldn’t stare.
But I do.
Gods. I’m in trouble.
I look down at my tea like it holds the answers, but it just tastes like honey and hope.
“Did I say something funny?” I ask lightly, attempting to recover.
Tamsin shrugs one shoulder. “I suppose I wasn’t expecting you to admit to the fire.”
“Oh, but I always admit things once the danger has passed. It’s part of my charm.”
She smirks. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Mm, that’s what it is.”
She shakes her head, but her eyes are softer now. Her gaze lingers.
The fire pops.
And for a breath, the whole world narrows to this table. This room. This moment.
Me. Her. Two cups cooling in our hands.
She doesn’t look away, and I don’t dare.
I swirl the tea in my cup, pretending to think of something clever, when really I’m just stalling. Savoring. Because this quiet warmth feels like something rare. Something tender and raw.
And because I want to push my luck. Just a little.
“So tell me, Iron Oak,” I say, voice lilting with mischief, “is that smile of yours a seasonal bloom, or will I be lucky enough to see it again?”
The change is instant. Subtle but unmistakable. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes flick away.
The moment frays.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she lifts her tea to sip, before saying. “I just… don’t like that name.”
I blink. “Oh. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not your fault.” Her voice is quieter now. “It just… stuck. Like moss.” A breath. “People think it’s flattering. Unshakable. Dependable. But really, it’s just… wooden.”
I set my cup down.
“I suppose ‘unshakable’ can be a little lonely,” I murmur.
Her fingers twitch slightly on the porcelain.
Silence hums between us. I breathe into it.
“Well,” I say, gentler now, “I think it’s a poor name anyway. You’re not an oak.”
She raises a brow, guarded. “No?”
I shake my head. “No. Oaks don’t come when children scream in the dark. Oaks don’t learn the harp just because someone asked sweetly. And oaks most certainly don’t drink honey-blood tea when it’s much too sweet for them.”
A faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“Then what am I?” she asks. Careful. Curious.
I lean back in my chair, letting my eyes trace her silhouette. The shadows along her collarbone. The faint smudge of ink at her wrist that she didn’t bother to wipe away.
I smile.
“You’re a hearth.”
She blinks.
“A hearth?”
“Mm.” I tuck one leg under myself. “Steady. Protective. Warm, but only when tended to. Dangerous, if not. And, I like to imagine, full of old stories I haven’t heard yet.”
For a second—just a second—something flickers behind her eyes. Like maybe she feels what I feel. The humming tension. The way the world has narrowed to just her and me and the breath between.
I want to kiss her.
Gods help me, I want to kiss her…
…but I don’t.
Instead, I lift my cup and let the steam rise between us—warm, fragrant, mercifully ordinary—until the moment cools, and the world widens again.
***
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the candle long since burned out.
My heart is pounding.
Stupidly. Loudly. Like it’s trying to get out.
I press a hand to my chest.
You’re a hearth.
What was I thinking?
She didn’t say anything. Not really. Just looked at me in that unreadable way of hers. And then she wished me goodnight with a nod, all crisp and knightly again, as though none of it had mattered.
But it did. It does.
It’s not just tea anymore. Not just lessons. Not just shared responsibilities.
I’m falling.
And worse… I think she’s catching me.