Chapter 24 Tamsin
Tamsin
The music room feels too big for us.
It’s a hushed morning with a light rain against the tall windows, and the children fan out like shadows across the polished floor. I’ve pushed the furniture back myself. Marienne offered to help, of course, flitting about in a dressing robe the color of apricots, but I waved her off.
“Stand straight,” I say now, not unkindly, as Callen shifts from foot to foot. “Chin up. Shoulders relaxed. You’re not being punished.”
“I feel like I’m being punished,” Yla whispers loudly.
“Posture isn’t a punishment. It’s protection.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “Court eyes see everything. If you look unsure, they’ll think you are. And if they think you are, they’ll treat you like you don’t belong.”
Liri’s hand shoots up like this is a lesson in the library. “But we don’t belong.”
Silence.
The words are so earnest, so small that, for a moment, I forget how to respond. Across the room, Marienne stills by the door, one hand pressed to her lips.
I kneel. Slowly. My armor is off today, but I still move like it’s there—like I’m braced for battle.
“You belong anywhere you plant your feet,” I say. “That’s what training is for. So no one can make you doubt it.”
Siven watches me with her usual quiet intensity. But her chin lifts the faintest inch, like she understands.
“Now,” I say. “Let’s go over the basics again. If someone greets you at the ball, what do you say?”
Yla throws her arms wide. “Do you want to see my bat painting?!”
“No.”
Callen tries, gentler. “We say ‘Good evening, my lord’—or lady. And we bow.”
“Curtsy,” Marienne calls lightly. “Unless they’re a duke, then you must—”
“Let’s keep it simple for now,” I say, rising. “We’ll practice titles later.”
The truth is, I don’t know half of what vampires require in their court greetings. But Eldermire, while rigid, is a mostly human court. So they’ll need to behave as a human court expects.
And that? I do know.
How to stand tall. How to bow your head without lowering your spirit. How to hold still when every part of you wants to run.
Those are lessons the Court won't teach them—but they might need most.
Imara crosses her arms. “What if they laugh at us, anyway? Like those hags in the market.”
“Imara!” Marienne chides, scandalized.
“They were hags,” Imara snaps, baring her teeth. “They were gossiping about Vess.”
Marienne looks like she wants to argue, but can’t quite find the words. Her mouth opens. Closes again. She glances at me, almost helpless.
I look at Imara. This girl with silver eyes and a spine like steel.
“If they laugh,” I say, voice even, “then they’ll regret it. Because we are sharper than their words, steadier than their stares, and stronger than they’ll ever expect.”
It slips out before I can catch it.
Across the room, Marienne raises a brow, but there’s a glint of something I don’t want to name in her eyes.
The corner of Imara’s mouth twitches—just a little.
Small victories. But they count.
We run drills after that. I show them how to walk with balance and purpose. How to stay still, even when they want to fidget. How to breathe through discomfort. Not rigid, just present. In the moment. In their bodies.
Callen’s a quick learner. Yla is not. She pirouettes halfway through a bow.
Liri tugs on my sleeve as I reset her stance. “Will you be there at the ball?”
“Yes.”
“Will you wear your armor?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She looks mildly betrayed. “But you’ll still be scary, right?”
I let the barest smile tug at my mouth. “Terrifying.”
A giggle bursts from her, startled and warm.
Marienne claps once from the doorway. “That’s enough drills for now. You’ll wear grooves into the floor with all this solemnity.”
Groans. Relief. The children scatter to the edges, already discussing their future outfits and debating whether tarts will be served.
Marienne meets me in the middle of it all.
“Well?” she asks, softly.
“They’re learning.”
“And you?” she murmurs, stepping closer, a teasing tone in her voice once more. “Are you learning anything, Ser Tamsin?”
I glance at the children. Then at her.
“Yes,” I say. “I think I am.”
***
The candle gutters low between us. One of Marienne’s—lavender-scented, pressed with rose petals. The kind of thing I’d never spare coin on, let alone imagine myself sitting beside. But here I am.
A knight with callused hands, crusted boots, and half-dried ink under my fingernails with a cup of tea and a lavender candle.
Marienne sits across the table, legs tucked under her, hair spilling like a silk curtain down her back. Her own folio is open—some flowery thing covered in painted violets—and she taps the end of her quill against her lip as she stares down at the page.
“A list,” she says, like it’s an invitation to tea.
“Of?” I grunt.
“Everything we need to survive the ball.” Her smile flickers like a dare. “With dignity.”
I snort. “Impossible.”
“Hopeful, then.”
She writes hopeful at the top of the page, like she means it. Like she always does.
“Clothing,” I say, giving in. “Formal. All of them.”
“I’ve already started inventory.” Her voice hums like a satisfied cat. “Imara needs a dress coat. And Yla may need new shoes. Those painted flower boots she loves will only take us so far.”
“Accessories?” I ask, dryly.
“Already covered.”
I sigh.
She grins.
“Next: Court etiquette?” she asks, gaze lifting to meet mine. “Which you’ve started teaching. You’ll continue?”
I nod, and I can’t help but ask, “You really trust me with this?”
Her gaze meets mine. “Yes.”
Silence blooms between us. A shared breath.
Then, she asks, “Do you think they’ll be ready in time?”
“I do.”
She raises a brow. “Really?”
I shrug. “They’re learning what matters. How to stand. How to speak. How to look danger in the eye and not flinch.”
She’s still watching me. Something careful in her eyes.
“And you don’t think I’m teaching them the wrong things?”
I lean back in my chair. Gods, she looks so… vulnerable. Something in me softens.
“No,” I say. “I think you’re teaching them to hope. That’s harder to learn, but more important.”
She stops moving as she studies me.
The silence stretches, not awkward, but heavy. Dense with the things we haven’t said. Warm.
She leans forward. Not far. Barely a shift. But I feel it like an earthquake.
Her fingers rest on the wood between us. Mine twitch.
If I moved my hand—
If I reached—
She’s close enough I can smell the tea on her breath. Jasmine and clover. Her eyes hold mine like they’re learning the shape of them.
I don’t look away.
She doesn’t either.
I forget the table. The manor. My title. I forget everything except the way her mouth curves—not like a smile, not yet, but like it’s trying to remember how. And I feel it—the pull. The ache. The wondering, breathless ache.
We move closer at the same time.
Almost.
Almost.
A knock.
We jolt apart like guilty children.
Margot stands in the doorway, arms full of linens and disapproval so sharp I can feel it on my skin.
“Forgive the intrusion,” she says. “Vess wet the bed. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Of course,” Marienne says too quickly, already rising, the back of her hand brushing her skirt like it’s trying to erase what didn’t happen. “Thank you, Margot.”
Margot’s eyes cut to me. Cold. Blaming.
I stand, muttering something about doing a quick patrol. My voice comes out rough.
Marienne doesn’t stop me.
She doesn’t call after me.
And I don’t ask her to.
But gods, I want to.
I step into the hallway, the quiet swallowing me whole, and I press my palm flat to the nearest wall just to feel something solid.
She’s getting under my armor.
And I’m not sure I want her to stop.
***
The manor’s bones creak differently at night.
Less like age. More like breath. Like something old and kind and half-asleep, grateful to have survived another day of lace and swordplay, tears and sugar. I don’t light a lantern. The moon is bright enough tonight.
The rhythm of my patrol has become second nature—silent, steady, circling Bloomhill’s edge like a promise I made and meant.
But tonight, my feet drag slower through the gravel.
My mind’s stuck in the parlor. In the warmth of candlelight and the hush between our voices.
The way Marienne leaned just close enough that I could smell the honey on her breath.
The way she tilted her head like a question and smiled like she already knew the answer.
Like she knew I wanted to kiss her and was daring me to forget the reasons I shouldn’t.
And I didn’t...
But gods, I wanted to.
Her hand was right there, resting beside mine on the parchment, ink-stained and delicate and real. Her lips parted on some half-thought, and if Margot hadn’t walked in just then—
I don’t finish the thought.
My jaw is tight. My pulse still hasn’t settled.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s worse.
I keep walking, slow and silent. The manor sighs behind me, a warm weight on the hill. And somewhere inside, she’s probably laughing again. Continuing her list. Dreaming of flowers I’ve never heard of. Marienne of the Bloom: maddening, softhearted, relentless.
Mine, for one brief second… I almost believed it.
But I know better.
Duty is easier than longing. And I’ve worn it longer.
Still, the memory lingers—too sweet, too close. The space between us humming with everything unsaid.
And just like that, the air isn’t cool enough to clear my head.
I round the corner.
A flash of pale hair catches moonlight near the edge of the herb garden. A little body perched on the stone bench like they are waiting for judgment. Or an invitation.
“Siven,” I say.
She freezes.
Then, she says, “I was being quiet.”
As if that is the problem.
“You’re supposed to be in bed.”
She nods solemnly. “I was. Then I wasn’t.”
I sigh and fold my arms as I look down at her. “And what compelled this daring midnight escape?”
She shrugs.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bench beside her. I don’t tell her to go back inside. Not yet.
Siven watches the stars like she’s trying to read something between them. After a long silence, she asks, “Do you think the moon sees everything?”
I blink and glance up at the full moon overhead.
“Probably. But I don’t think it holds anything against us.”
For a long time, we just sit. The night is cool and clear, with a breeze that smells like rosemary and wet stone. Owls mutter in the high branches. A fox barks far off.
Siven shifts beside me, tucking her feet up. “Mari’s thinking too loud.”
I glance down. “That so?”
She nods. “She always does when she’s worried. Talks with her hands more...”
That pulls the ghost of a smile from me. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I did,” they say simply. Then, after a beat, “She’s scared the ball will go wrong.”
But she’s right. I’d seen it too. And here’s Siven, carrying that knowledge like it’s hers to bear…
“We’ll make sure it goes right,” I say quietly. “All of us.”
Siven leans into my side, just enough for the weight to register.
“You promise?” she asks.
I nod. “I do.”
And for tonight, at least, that’s enough.
After a while, Siven sits up straighter and whispers, “You’re staying.”
It’s not a question. Just a quiet truth spoken aloud, and somehow, it still surprises me.
I glance toward the glowing windows of the manor—toward the light from Marienne’s room. Then down at the little one beside me, too perceptive for their own good.
“I’m trying,” I say.
They smile again. It’s barely there. A flicker. But it’s real.
And then, very quietly, “Good.”