Chapter 26 Tamsin
Tamsin
The days bleed forward.
A week to the ball, give or take. The children now know how to curtsy without wobbling. Yla’s stopped trying to bow like a swan mid-flight. Callen has learned to keep her hands clean for more than ten minutes. And Liri has somehow weaponized her “yes, madam” into an act of political disobedience.
Marienne calls it “charm.” I call it strategic warfare.
They dance every night now.
It began as a lesson, a necessary tool to survive the judgment of noble eyes. But it’s become something else… ritual, reward, release. Vess falls asleep on the floor most evenings, cradled by the lull of swaying bodies and the soft hush of humming.
Marienne leads the music. I keep time.
And sometimes—just sometimes—she pulls me into the center of it all. No audience. No instruction. Just her, warm and laughing, eyes lit like lanterns, and me, moving without thought, letting myself enjoy it.
It’s… nice.
Dangerously nice.
So I ration it. Limit it to one dance a night. Two, if she smiles just so.
I can survive two.
Maybe.
***
It’s past midnight when the knock comes.
Not a tap. Not a scratch. A full-fisted strike: sharp and urgent enough to jolt me upright before I’m even fully awake.
I’m at the door in seconds, half-dressed, already reaching for my sword.
Marienne stands there, pale in the candlelight. Her robe’s slipped off one shoulder. She’s barefoot. Breath ragged.
That’s all it takes. I know something’s wrong.
And gods help whoever put that look on her face, because I’m ready to gut them for it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice low. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, breath catching. “Imara,” she gasps. “She’s gone.”
My heart stops. “Gone where?”
“I—I just went to check on them, and her bed’s still warm, but she’s gone—none of the girls know where she went, and I’ve searched the whole manor. I think… I think she’s outside.”
“Get Margot to watch the children. I’ll sweep the grounds.”
She nods, wide-eyed, and vanishes down the hall.
I don’t bother with boots.
***
The gardens are heavy with fog, low to the ground like smoke. My breath comes out in quick plumes as I jog the perimeter. I find the hedge gate ajar.
Dread coils like a whip in my gut.
I step through, and stop.
Imara is there.
Barefoot in the dewy grass, nightdress limp with damp. Her eyes are open, but wrong—unfocused, glassy. She’s walking slowly, steadily, arms held out as if reaching for something just ahead.
Relief hits me first. Sharp and sudden, knocking the air from my lungs.
She’s alive.
And then—I note the way she walks. The stillness in her face. The eerie, unnatural quiet.
Sleepwalking.
I slow my approach, voice low. “Imara. It’s Tamsin. You’re safe. You’re at Bloomhill.”
No flicker. No blink.
She keeps moving, straight toward the grove at the back of the estate, the one with the twisted vines and old stones that the younger ones refuse to play near.
“Imara,” I say again, louder now.
Nothing.
I reach out—slow, careful—and touch her shoulder.
She jolts. Not awake. Not screaming. Just—different. Her body goes rigid. Her mouth opens. Teeth bare. Fangs elongated.
And for a split second, her face isn’t hers.
It’s… other.
Wrong in a way I can’t name. Like someone wearing her skin from the inside out.
Every instinct I have flares at once—shield, strike, protect—but I hold still. Because it’s her. It has to be her.
My heart’s in my throat. Muscles locked.
And then Marienne is behind me, breath ragged like she sprinted the whole way. “Is she—?”
“She’s… sleepwalking.”
Marienne exhales hard and steps around me without hesitation. She touches Imara’s face with shaking fingers.
“Sweetheart,” she whispers. “It’s all right. We’ve got you now.”
Imara doesn’t speak. But her jaw slackens, just slightly. The tension fades from her brow. Her arms lower a fraction. Her face softens… enough that it looks like her again.
“Come on,” Marienne murmurs, looping an arm gently around Imara’s back. “We’ll guide her back.”
But I don’t move. My eyes stay on Imara’s face. The way it doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t blink. The way she moves like she’s done this before.
“She could’ve hurt herself.”
“She didn’t,” Marienne answers quickly.
Her arm is still around Imara’s back, but her eyes cut to me.
“She might next time,” I say.
Marienne’s shoulders go taut. She turns, not fully, but enough that I feel the heat behind her words before they land.
“What do you want me to say, Tamsin?” Her voice sharpens, brittle with fear. “That I’m terrified? That I thought she’d been taken? That I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m afraid every night that I’m missing something—some sign, some crack, something that will break this whole fragile house apart?”
I hold her gaze, steady and quiet.
“Yes,” I say. Quietly. Honestly. “I want you to tell me the truth.”
She presses her lips together.
The wind picks up, rustling the leaves like restless sheets. Imara still hasn’t woken.
“I’ll carry her,” I say, my voice softer now.
Marienne nods and gently passes her over. I lift Imara into my arms, careful not to jostle her. She’s warmer than I expect. Lighter, too. Like she’s been carrying more in her mind than in her body.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marienne fold her arms tight across her chest. Not from the cold.
From something deeper. Something caving in behind her ribs.
And I want to tell her it’s all right to say it aloud. But for now, I just hold Imara closer and start walking.
She trails beside me as we walk back.
When we reach the nursery, Margot is already waiting. Her sleeves are rolled, her face pale. She doesn’t ask questions—just opens the door wider, her eyes darting straight to Imara.
Inside, most of the girls are asleep, curled under blankets and dreams. But Callen stirs as we enter, eyes blinking open in the low candlelight.
“Is Imara okay?” she whispers, voice small and hoarse with sleep.
Marienne moves toward her at once, crouching beside the bed with that same practiced ease she uses for bruised fruit and bruised hearts alike.
“She’s just sleepwalking, darling,” she says with a soft smile, brushing Callen’s curls back. “We’ve brought her back safe. All is well.”
Callen nods, already drifting again under the weight of Marienne’s voice.
I cross to Imara’s bed and lay her down gently, tucking the blankets close around her like armor.
We leave the nursery in silence.
Margot trails behind us, face pale, sleeves still rolled to her elbows. She lingers only a moment once the door is shut.
“Thank you,” Marienne says softly, almost without breath.
Margot nods. “I’ll refresh the lavender sachets in the morning,” she mutters. “Can’t hurt.”
Without waiting for a reply, Margot turns down the hall and disappears into the shadows, already muttering about restless dreams.
Now it’s just the two of us. The silence stretches, weighted.
Marienne exhales, rubbing her arms as if suddenly aware of the hour.
“Well,” she says, forcing a lightness that doesn’t quite land, “I suppose that’s our nightly terror sorted. I should—”
She half-turns, like she’s about to slip away into the dark.
I reach out—just two fingers to her arm, light enough that she could keep walking if she really wanted to.
“Marienne,” I say, quiet but firm. “You can’t ignore this.”
Marienne stiffens, fingers curling in the fabric of her sleeve. “I’m not ignoring it.”
I exhale sharply. “Has it happened before?”
She doesn’t flinch, but her voice goes softer as she turns towards me. “Yes. When she first arrived.”
My jaw tightens. “And I’m just hearing about it now?”
“I handled it,” she says, too quickly. “She hadn’t done it for weeks now. Not until tonight.”
“That’s not the point.” My voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it. “You knew this could happen, and you didn’t think I should know?”
Her eyes flash. “What was I supposed to say, Tamsin? That one of the girls wanders halls in the middle of the night? That I can’t always reach her when she goes under?”
“Yes.” I step closer, keeping her gaze. “Exactly that.”
She looks away. Her voice, when it comes, is thin. “If I admit it’s happening… then I have to admit I can’t stop it.”
“You don’t have to stop it alone.”
She blinks. And something in her posture eases, the line of her shoulders loosening just a little. The frustration drains, leaving only exhaustion and the faintest tremor beneath her skin. Goosebumps rise along her arms. She rubs them absently, as if remembering the cold only now.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The quiet feels heavy, but not hostile. Just tired.
Then I murmur, “Come on. Let’s sit. I’ll make some tea.”
Her eyes flick to mine—less defensive now, more uncertain. But her mouth curves, just barely.
“You’ll make tea?” she asks. “I didn’t know you knew how.”
I huff. “I know how.”
It’s grumbled, low and unconvincing—but it makes her smile.
A real one this time. Small, but there.
And it’s enough to get us moving. Side by side, into the quiet.
***
The fog has lifted from the moors, but not from the air between us.
I made the tea without incident. Marienne didn’t tease me. Not once. She just watched. Quiet. Still.
Now she sits across from me, still in her nightdress, a shawl thrown around her shoulders like armor spun from silk. The candlelight brushes against her cheek, painting her in shadow and softness both.
She nurses her tea with careful, deliberate sips, like if she goes too fast, something in her might crack. But her hands are trembling.
Neither of us has spoken in several minutes.
Finally, I break the silence.
“We need to inform the Court,” I say, voice low, steady.
“No.”
Her answer is immediate. Flat. Final.
I breathe in through my nose. “Marienne. She was outside the gates. Alone. Sleepwalking toward something… What if she hadn’t been found in time? What if there’s a pattern? What if she’s—”
“They’ll take it as proof,” she says, eyes snapping to mine. “Proof that I’m negligent. That the children aren’t safe here. That I can’t take care of them.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I feel it in my chest like a blade.
“They’re already watching me,” she whispers. “Waiting for me to fail. Do you really think Lord Halveric wouldn’t twist this into a court declaration of incompetence?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “that hiding it is worse.”
Her hands tighten around the teacup. “I’m not hiding it. I’m… managing it. You said yourself—she’s sleepwalking. Children do that.”
“Not like this,” I say. “Not with that look in her eyes.”
She frowns. “What look?”
I hesitate. Then, quietly: “There was something in her. Something… dark. Just for a moment. But it wasn’t her.”
Marienne shakes her head, shoulders stiffening. “She’s a child, Tamsin. A frightened one. That doesn’t make her dangerous.”
“I didn’t say she was,” I murmur. “I said something was wrong. You told me they came from a cult. Maybe Lord Viremont would know something? He was from the Garden of Selene, wasn’t he?”
Her head snaps up at that. “Absolutely not.”
Her voice cuts through the air, sharp and certain.
“He’s not setting foot near this house,” she adds. “Not him. Not his blood-soaked insight. I don’t care what his past was. I don’t trust him.”
I hold her gaze. “I’m not suggesting we invite him to tea. Just that we ask questions. Quietly. Discreetly.”
“And if I say no?” she asks. “If I say I don’t want his name in this house, not even whispered—what then? Will you respect that, or will you inform the Court anyway?”
I don’t answer right away.
That’s enough.
Her expression shifts. Her mouth pulls tight—tighter than I’ve seen it, the kind of hurt she usually hides behind silk and sweetness. And for a moment, the expression looks wrong on her.
Then she quiets. Softens. But not kindly.
“Right. Of course,” she murmurs. “I forget sometimes.”
I blink. “Forget what?”
She meets my eyes, steady now. Resigned. “Why you’re here.”
Her words slice more than they should. Not because they’re cruel. But because they’re not wrong.
And just like that, the space between us fills with something colder than fog.
I hate it.
Gods, I hate it—this distance, this doubt in her voice when she looks at me. I want to tell her I’m here for the children. For her.
I want that to be true.
But wanting doesn’t make it so.
So instead, I try again—quieter this time. Gentler.
“Marienne. I’m not your enemy.”
“No,” she says, quietly. “But the Court is.”
We’re both right. That’s the problem.
I cross my arms. “We need a record of it... At the very least.”
She flinches like I’ve struck her. “A record?”
“Not for them,” I say. “For us. Only us.”
A beat.
She lowers her head, shielding her face behind a curtain of pale copper hair. “And if there’s another incident?”
“Then we document it. We protect her. And if needed, we show the Court that this household isn’t a failure—it’s a fortress. A soft one, maybe. But strong.”
She looks up at me then. “You really think softness and strength can coexist?”
“I’m looking at proof that they can,” I murmur.
And for one breathless second, she doesn’t look away.
Then her lips press into a small smile. “Just don’t write this instance in your report. Please.”
“I won’t.”
When I return to my quarters that night, I don’t reach for my folio.
Instead, I reach for the flower—pressed between yesterday’s pages, dry but still clinging to its shape.
Siven had given it to me all those days ago. A shy, silent offering. No words, just a trust placed gently in my palm.
That trust deserves better than a bureaucratic line item. The children deserve better. Marienne deserves better.
So I leave the folio untouched.
Tonight, we bend but do not break.
And tomorrow… we try again.