Chapter 25 Marienne
Marienne
The furniture is still pushed back from Tamsin’s last lesson, so I don’t need to move a thing.
Instead, I roll the long rug aside, light the sconces to a low, golden glow, and trace a trail of chalk lines across the wooden floor in wide, looping arcs
The music room is transformed.
“Well,” I declare, hands on hips, “it’s not the royal ballroom, but we’ll make do.”
Yla claps. The rest of the girls look either confused or bored.
Tamsin, however, stands near the doorway like a statue someone forgot to dust: arms crossed, expression carved from marble, and far too still.
I tilt my head at her and smile sweetly. “You’re not exempt, Ser.”
She blinks. “I’m on guard.”
“You’re in socks.”
A beat. She glances down at her feet, as if shocked by their betrayal. I seize the moment.
“Come along,” I say, sweeping toward the center of the room with a flourish. “We begin with the half-turn promenade.”
Imara lifts a brow. “What’s that?”
“It’s the easiest of the five court-approved dances.” I beckon her forward. “Two steps forward, pivot, then a sweep back, like a petal in the breeze.”
“Or a bat in a windstorm,” mutters Margot from the corner.
That elicits a few giggles as the children gather closer in uneven pairs. Siven stands close to Vess, both watching me like I might combust into ribbons. I suppose, in some ways, I might.
I breathe in. Set the tempo in my head.
And demonstrate the first few steps.
***
The first half hour is chaos.
Yla keeps trying to spin before the turn. Liri insists on dancing to an entirely different rhythm. Vess gets distracted by dust motes and steps on everyone’s toes indiscriminately.
But they’re smiling.
Even Imara softens, her shoulders losing that stiff, self-imposed soldiering. She takes the lead when Siven shies away, and to my utter delight, the younger girl follows with the barest ghost of a grin.
“Like this,” I say again, twirling across the floor with Callen in my arms. She is determined, tongue between her teeth, trying very hard not to step on my skirts. “One, two, pivot—good! And again!”
A laugh bubbles out of me. Real, unguarded. I forget, for a moment, the letter folded in my drawer. The petition. The looming judgment.
They’re dancing.
They’re alive.
I glance toward the doorway.
Tamsin still hasn’t moved.
I deposit Callen beside Margot, who looks ready to protest until Callen tugs her into a few steps of the dance.
Then I cross the room, skirts swirling like a challenge of their own, and stop in front of her.
I extend my hand, steady, certain, like a knight at court.
“Ser Tamsin,” I say, all warmth and invitation. “Would you do me this honor?”
She blinks once, then narrows her eyes. “I don’t know how.”
“Then it’s a perfect match. Neither do they.” I wink. “Come now. For the children.”
Callen immediately joins in, “Please, Tamsin?”
And that’s the end of her resistance.
She sighs like she’s preparing to face a siege, then takes my hand with practiced care… callused fingers warm against my palm.
***
She is terrible.
Absolutely, blessedly terrible.
Stiff as a blade and twice as stubborn. I have to guide her hips with both hands just to get her to pivot, and even then, she mutters something about “tactical disadvantage” and “exposed footing.”
But she follows.
And when I twirl, she lets me.
Our steps fall into something almost like rhythm. Not perfect. Not practiced. But real. Her gaze never leaves mine—sharp, dark, unreadable—and it pins me in place more surely than any hand ever could.
She stumbles once. Just a half-step. Mutters a curse under her breath.
I laugh—breathless, startled by how close we are—and don’t let go.
My hand lingers at her waist longer than it should. Her palm stays in mine like she’s forgotten how to let it fall away.
And somehow, I’m the one who’s out of breath.
She isn’t. She looks at me like I’m some kind of fever dream she hasn’t decided to wake from.
I let go first. Fingertips reluctant. “You’re not hopeless.”
“High praise,” she murmurs.
The children erupt in applause.
But she’s still looking at me.
***
We continue until the candles burn low and yawns begin to steal the air. Liri clings to my skirts. Siven nestles under Imara’s arm. Eventually, the room thins—children collected by Margot and guided to the nursery with gentle hands.
I linger.
Tamsin is still near the doorway, watching the floor where we danced.
I approach her slowly, voice soft as falling petals. “You didn’t hate it.”
“I didn’t.”
“And you stayed longer than you had to.”
She shrugs. “They’ll need to know how to dance properly. If they’re to convince the Court they belong.”
I touch her arm lightly. “They do belong.”
She looks at me then. “So do you.”
And for a moment, the space between us is too charged to name. There is something in her eyes… something tender and reluctant, fighting to surface.
But she only nods, steps back, and mutters something about patrol.
She leaves.
And I remain in the echo of music and moonlight, heart a little too full.
We’ll need new shoes, I realize.
And ribbons.
And gods, if I can find someone who can keep Yla’s hair pinned for more than five minutes, I’ll owe them a kingdom.
The children will shine.
Even if I don’t sleep between now and the Moonshadow Ball, they will shine.