Chapter 23 Marienne
Marienne
The kettle hums like a tired lullaby. Liri is curled in my lap, cradling a crust of honeyed toast she’s too sleepy to finish, and I’m trying not to yawn in her hair.
We’ve all survived breakfast.
Which is saying something, considering Imara and Yla dueled over the last egg, Callen reorganized the entire spice rack “for efficiency,” and Siven appeared in the pantry at one point like a silent wraith, holding a single apple and staring into the void.
I’m still not sure if she ate it.
Tamsin doesn’t say much during meals, she never does, but I catch her watching. Not in her usual hawk-on-the-rooftop way, but quieter. Steadier. Not just watching the children.
Watching me.
And then, just as I gather my breath to suggest the transition to lessons, she stands.
“Free time,” she says to the room.
Six heads swivel toward her. Seven, if you count mine.
Callen’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “Now?”
Tamsin nods once. “Now.”
Imara narrows her eyes like she’s certain it’s a trick. “Why?”
“You’ve earned it, just stay within the manor walls.”
Yla lets out a delighted shriek and bolts. Liri tumbles from my lap to follow her. Vess scampers after them, dragging her blanket like a cape. Callen runs after her, and Imara and Siven exchange a look before shrugging and following the others.
I stand up, hands on my hips. “Careful! No running in the halls!” I call after them.
None of them answer. Of course not.
Gods help us… I glance at Tamsin to find her suspiciously calm about the unfolding chaos.
Marienne of the Bloom, you are not the least bit curious, I tell myself.
Except I am. I am desperately curious about what the knight with the storm-grey eyes is up to.
“I have a plan,” she says.
I blink.
“Should I sit?”
“No. Walk with me.”
I fall into step beside her in the hallway. She doesn’t walk fast, not today. Almost like she’s waiting to see if I’ll keep pace. Or maybe waiting for me to fall behind.
I don’t.
“You deviated from the schedule,” I say lightly.
She hums. “I noticed.”
“Free time. That’s rather…” I tilt my head. “Chaotic of you.”
“I must be going soft.”
“You did try the cinnamon bread this morning.”
“That was an accident.”
I smile. But beneath it—beneath me—something tightens. Because it’s not just the way she’s speaking. It’s the way she’s looking at me.
Like she knows I didn’t sleep.
Like she wants to fix something she can’t name.
We step into the sitting room, the one I rarely use except for entertaining guests I don’t particularly like. Tamsin gestures for me to sit. I do.
She remains standing.
“The Moonshadow Ball is a trap,” she says plainly. “They don’t want you to impress them. They want you to prove them right.”
I exhale through my nose, folding my hands in my lap. “I gathered.”
“Then we outmaneuver them.”
My brows lift. “Oh? And how does one outmaneuver a ballroom full of smug courtiers?”
Tamsin’s eyes glint.
“We show them a household that works.”
I frown. “I thought we were already doing that.”
“Privately. Now we do it publicly. The ball isn’t just a party, it’s a stage. We put the children in front of the Court and make it impossible for them to look away. We give them no room to spin this into a scandal.”
“And if they spin it anyway?”
“Then we spin it louder.”
She says it with such steady conviction that I laugh—soft and startled. “Are you suggesting we throw a performance?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “I’m suggesting we prepare. We teach the girls proper etiquette. We show the Court model citizens.”
I want to argue. To tell her I’ve tried. That I’ve performed my whole life and it’s never been enough—not for my mother, not for the Court, not for the parts of myself I’ve tried to sand down into something more tolerable. But I see the set of her jaw. The promise in it.
And something in me quiets…
I reach forward and take her hand. Just briefly. My fingers curl around hers—light, uncertain.
She doesn’t pull away.
She lets me.
“You’re serious about this,” I say.
“I am.”
“And you’ll help me?”
Her grip is steady. “I won’t let them take your children.”
My breath catches.
Not 'the children.' Your children.
I nod, once. Then rise.
“Well,” I say with as much brightness as I can summon, “if we’re going to put on a show, I suppose we’ll need costumes. And rehearsal. And practice curtsies. Oh, and tart samples—”
“Marienne.”
“Yes?”
“One step at a time.”
I press a hand to my chest, mock-gasping. “I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me with a good dramatic flourish.”
“I don’t,” she says, but there’s a smile on her lips.
Her hand slips from mine, but something remains.
I feel it blooming between us. Quiet. Stubborn.
Something like hope.