Chapter 20 Tamsin
Tamsin
The next day, everything is back to normal.
Marienne is on time with breakfast. The tea is hot, the toast is over-buttered, and she’s humming while plating bloodfruit compote like it’s a banquet. The girls are mostly behaved. Model citizens, really.
Afterward, Imara corners me in the hall, wooden practice sword already in hand.
“Can we train longer today?” she asks, breathless, like she’s been rehearsing the question all morning.
Before I can answer, Yla comes careening in from the opposite direction, trailing bits of ribbon and—gods help me—something that looks like paint already smudged across her cheek.
“I want to paint a mural,” she announces, as though I’m the one she needs permission from.
Marienne drifts into view behind her, looking far too pleased with herself for this to be a coincidence.
“We were thinking the bedroom wall,” she says.
I stop walking. “My bedroom wall?”
“Mhm,” she hums, like she’s offering me tea.
“That’s—” I start. Then stop. There’s no word polite enough for madness.
She only tilts her head, that infuriating softness in her eyes. “Yla has a vision.”
Of chaos, I think. But I bite it back.
From there, the day unravels. The afternoon dissolves into sword drills for Imara and a full-scale invasion of my room for Yla and some of the others.
Hours pass, and I’m wiping down practice swords when Yla appears beside me, absolutely coated in paint. Fingers, elbows, cheekbone—bright streaks of violet and silver like she’s ready for war.
She tugs insistently at my sleeve.
“Come look,” she says, breathless. “Liri ruined the rabbit’s face again but it’s okay, I fixed it and now it looks like a mythical rabbit. You’ll see.”
I have no idea what that means.
But I let her drag me inside.
By the time I step inside to assess the damage, the mural is finished.
A tangled forest climbs the wall: silver trees with twisting branches, violet shadows beneath them, and pinprick stars dotting the space above. In the low light, it glows.
Yla is bouncing beside me, practically vibrating. “Do you see the stars? I used Mari’s special shimmer paint! And that one was Siven’s idea—look, it’s a wolf, if you squint—what do you think?”
I stand there longer than I mean to.
“It’s…” The word sticks. I clear my throat. “It’s impressive. Detailed.”
Yla beams. And Marienne beams even wider. Like I’ve just knighted them all.
“You’re warming up to us,” she says.
Heat climbs up the back of my neck.
“But you like it,” Yla insists, tugging again. “Right?”
I exhale. “Yeah,” I mutter. “‘Course, I do. It’s great. You did good.”
Yla looks like I handed her the moon.
Marienne steps in then, ushering the children off to wash up. And just like that, I’m alone.
Except, not really.
A rabbit and a wolf stare at me from the mural.
I look back at the wall, at the way the silver catches like moonlight on steel. They’re everywhere in this place. Lace in the halls. Paint on the walls. Too much heart in every corner.
And gods help me, I don’t want to leave.
***
Later, after the manor has gone quiet, I sit at my desk with my folio open.
The candlelight pools across the page. My quill hovers.
The day’s report should be simple: training drills, basic upkeep, household progress. But every line I start turns crooked.
Yla’s fine motor skills improving—
No, that’s not the point.
The baroness allowed indoor painting—
That sounds like a crime report.
Marienne continues to—
I stop.
The ink beads at the nib. My hand tightens.
I’m not supposed to write about her. Not like this. Not about the way she tilts her head when she’s pretending not to win an argument, or how the children orbit her like she’s the only sun they’ve ever known.
I draw a line through the page. Start again.
Three sentences in, I realize I’m smiling.
That’s when I shut the folio, harder than I mean to. The sound echoes in the quiet. I lean back in my chair, looking at the closed cover like it’s the problem.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ll write about it tomorrow.