Chapter 19 Marienne
Marienne
The sun has dipped low, throwing long shadows across Bloomhill. The children are curled in the sitting room, draped over cushions and each other, lulled by the fire’s crackle.
I’m at the small table, arranging dried blooms into one of the wall sconces—violets and crow’s breath, tucked between sprigs of rosemary. Something to make the house feel gentler when the light fades. My hands move automatically, but my mind… isn’t with them.
The sound comes first: hoofbeats on the lane. Measured. Steady.
I don’t mean to hold my breath. But I do.
A few minutes later, the latch turns. The door opens.
And there she is.
Ser Tamsin Greaves, all dark armor and dusk, framed by the fading light.
She looks a little breathless, like she’s ridden hard, or like she didn’t expect to find the house still standing.
Her eyes sweep the room, guarded, searching—until they land on the girls, the cushions, the fire.
Me. Still holding a half-finished bundle of flowers in my lap.
Something in my chest unknots.
“You’re back,” I say, and it’s far too warm to be casual.
Her mouth twitches, half a smile, or maybe the shadow of one. “I said I would be.”
The children erupt then, surging toward her. Imara trying to hide her relief under gruff questions about her trip, Yla tugging at her arm, Liri wrapping herself around her leg. Even Vess toddles over and bumps into her boot like a sleepy kitten.
She doesn’t shoo them away, doesn’t scold them for crowding her. She lets them. She reaches down to pat Liri’s head, then scoops Vess up.
Her eyes meet mine across the room. Steady. Assessing. And, just for a moment, softer than I expect.
“Well,” she says, “I suppose I’ll see how badly you’ve let them slack off in my absence.”
The girls protest at once, trying to tell her about our very successful sword lesson in a storm of half-formed stories and truths:
“We didn’t slack off! Promise!”
“Imara did, she tripped me!”
“Only because you were swinging like a feral goose!”
“Mari said I looked fierce!”
“She said everyone looked fierce—”
“She didn’t say Moonblossom looked fierce!”
“I hit the dummy so hard its head fell off!”
I shake my head slightly, lips curving despite myself.
They’re all tugging at her like ribbons, and gods, the most beautiful thing of all is how quickly they missed her.
***
The manor feels calmer once the last giggles fade down the hall and the nursery door clicks shut. I move quietly through the sitting room, picking up the trail of small disasters—an abandoned ribbon here, a stuffed bat perched dramatically on the mantel like it’s guarding the hearth.
I find her in the kitchen, as if awaiting our nightly tea ritual.
The candlelight is warm against her features, catching on the pale line of her scar. She’s watching me in that way she does—unmoving, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll falter.
“We missed you today,” I tell her. “Terribly. Everyone was… miserable.”
One brow lifts, the barest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Miserable?”
“Yes. Well… we tried the swordplay without you.” I sigh dramatically, moving past her to find the tea tin. “It was chaos. Siven nearly staked herself, Yla stabbed the air so fiercely she scared Vess, and Liri…” I shake my head. “She cried.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but it’s not displeasure. I think she’s holding something back.
I set the kettle on, then glance over my shoulder. “How was the Court?”
Tamsin exhales slowly, not quite a sigh. “Predictable.”
Which could mean anything—from cold stares to sharpened words to quiet knives under polite phrases. She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.
Instead, I pour the water and bring her a cup first. She takes it mumbled thanks, and her fingers brush mine in the exchange. Just enough to make my breath stumble.
We drink. In the quiet. Together.
I set my cup down, suddenly aware of the space between us. The hush that has never felt quite like silence.
“You know,” I murmur, without looking at her. “We’re better when you’re here.”
She’s still.
Something flickers across her face.
“Maybe you are,” she says.
“Maybe?” I glance at her, half-smiling, teasing. “That’s the best I’m getting?”
Her mouth curves, barely. “Don’t push your luck.”
I raise a brow. “But I’m so good at pushing my luck.”
And yet, I don’t.
I simply sip my tea instead, letting the warmth curl through my hands and settle in my chest. Content, for once, not to ask for more.
Though, I wonder if she can hear my heart from where she sits.
***
By the time I slip into bed, the manor is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every small sound sharper.
I lie on my side, eyes on the shadowed ceiling.
I try to think of other things—lists, ribbons, the smell of tomorrow’s breakfast—but my mind drifts back to the kitchen. To the weight of her gaze over the rim of her teacup. To that small, startled curve of her mouth when I teased her.
It wasn’t even a full smile. But it was real. And it was mine for a heartbeat.
I press my hands flat against the blanket, willing myself not to feel warm about it. Not to imagine what it would be like if she looked at me that way again.
I’ve been called many things in my life. Reckless. Romantic. Foolish. I’m starting to think in trouble is the truest one yet.
Somewhere down the hall, one of the girls shifts in her sleep. I close my eyes and try to match my breathing to the quiet.
It doesn’t work. My heart keeps its own pace: stubborn and far too fast.