Chapter 27 Marienne #2
I smooth the edge of the fabric at her collarbone, fingertips brushing the line where skin meets steel. “It’s a deep, elegant green,” I add. “Solid. Strong. It fits you.”
Her jaw shifts, just slightly. “You mean it would make me look like I belong beside you.”
I blink. My breath catches.
I swallow.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Her breath catches.
And for one impossible second, I wonder if she might kiss me.
But then—soft footsteps outside. The creak of a floorboard. A box of buttons toppling from a shelf with a clatter and a muttered curse from somewhere in the front of the shop.
The curtain stirs slightly behind us, brushing the air like a held breath finally exhaled.
Tamsin steps back. Just a little. Just enough to let the moment fall between us like dropped silk.
“I’ll take the green,” she says gruffly.
And just like that, we return to safer ground.
But my heart?
It’s still caught in the space between us.
And the green still suits her.
More than she’ll ever admit.
***
Tamsin stands stock-straight on the tailor’s little platform, armor off, arms held out stiff as if she’s about to be knighted—or executed.
Mistress Darra hums as she circles her with a length of soft cord, muttering numbers and clucking her tongue as if Tamsin’s broad shoulders personally offend her.
I lean against the far table, cheek resting in my hand, watching the whole ordeal unfold like a private play made just for me.
Tamsin has faced down warlords and vampiric children without blinking, but put her in a room with lace and a measuring cord, and she’s suddenly all sharp discomfort and twitching muscle.
“I can’t imagine why you’re so tense,” I say sweetly. “It’s just fabric.”
Tamsin shoots me a disapproving look.
Darra ignores her and taps her bicep impatiently. “Lift your chin, dear.”
Tamsin lifts it. Her eyes find mine.
And for a breath, she holds.
There’s something in the way she looks at me now, like she’s seeing me through layers of silk and laughter and finally, finally understands that I’m not teasing. That I mean it. All of it.
I smile. Soft. Real.
Her gaze drops.
Darra moves on to her waist, marking with pins and murmuring about silhouette and structure, about building something that speaks power and precision.
“A suit,” she says, at one point, almost reverently. “But not a man’s suit. Gods, no. Something carved for your shape. Honoring the form, not hiding it.”
Tamsin grunts. “Less carving. More movement.”
“Darling,” Darra says, pinning a mark near her ribs, “you’ll move just fine. In this, you’ll glide.”
Tamsin’s ears go slightly red. I bite back a laugh.
When Darra steps away to note the numbers, I walk over and tug gently at the collar of Tamsin’s coat.
“Forest green,” I murmur. Then to Darra, I say, “Sharp lines. A high collar with silver threadwork, perhaps?”
Tamsin’s voice is low. “You’re enjoying this.”
I nod, unabashed. “Immensely.”
Her eyes flick down to my lips. Just for a moment.
Then Darra returns, clapping her hands, brisk and efficient as ever. “I’ll have the first fitting ready in three days.”
Tamsin looks like she’s already regretting enlisting my help.
But I only smile, all too genuinely. “I can’t wait to see you in it.”
***
The scent of candied almonds and summer spices clings to the folds of my dress as we meander through the village market.
I press a coin into the hand of the gray-haired sweet vendor—his stall is all velvet-padded trays of confections—and ask for two of Margot’s favorites: honey-walnut clusters and those little shortbread coins with dried lavender pressed on top.
He wraps them carefully in waxed paper and string.
I order extra, of course. One pouch for the children, tucked in my satchel like a secret I can’t wait to spoil.
They’ve earned it—Imara especially. Her posture’s finally relaxing during court curtsies.
Liri no longer forgets which spoon is which.
Yla, bless her, practices twirling in empty corridors when she thinks no one is watching.
Tamsin waits off to the side, hands behind her back, ever the sentinel. She’s still wary of the crowd, even though most of the villagers are just squinting into their baskets, bartering for carrots.
But there’s something about her presence here, standing beside me, that feels… soft. Safe.
“Your turn,” I say, swinging toward her with a grin.
She raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“You’ve been very brave,” I tell her solemnly. “You deserve a reward.”
She deadpans, “You say that like I survived a war.”
“You survived Darra measuring your inner thigh. That’s practically the same thing. What would you like?”
Her mouth twitches. But she doesn’t argue, and simply points out some marzipan. The vender hands it to her. She watches me carefully before taking a bite.
I wait.
Her lips part slightly. She chews. Pauses.
“It’s… better than I thought it’d be. Quite nice.”
“That’s practically a sonnet, coming from you.”
But before I can tease her further, thunder rumbles low across the hills—just once, distant and yawning. I tilt my head toward it, catching the faint tangle of clouds unraveling in the distance. No lightning. No rush of wind. Just a soft warning. A whisper of what’s to come.
Tamsin’s already scanning the skies. “We should head back.”
I nod, tying the packages tighter and tucking them into my satchel. “Before the market turns into a mudslide.”
We set off down the worn dirt path toward Bloomhill. The children will be restless after a quiet day. I’m already imagining the look on Margot’s face when I present the sweets—equal parts exasperation and reluctant fondness.
But halfway down the lane, the clouds thicken and the rain finds us.
Not a drizzle, not yet a storm. Just a sudden, honest downpour—the kind that forgets to knock and barrels in with open arms to soak everything within minutes.
Tamsin grabs my elbow, pulling us under the nearest tree. It’s not much of a shelter—just a wild old oak that leans like it’s tired of growing. But it’s something.
We duck beneath the branches, the leaves sighing above us, and I can’t help it.
I laugh.
I laugh—bright and sudden, like a song I forgot I knew.
My boots splash into the forming puddles.
I spin once, just to feel the water cling to my skirts and lift them like petals.
My hair is already damp, curling at the ends, streaked with silver droplets.
I look at her, and her expression stills me.
She watches me like I’m something holy.
Like I’m the moon rising after battle.
“You’ll catch cold,” she says gruffly, stepping closer, brushing a raindrop off my shoulder with the back of her hand.
“Not with you here,” I whisper.
And for a moment, we don’t move.
Her eyes fall to my lips. My fingers tremble with restraint.
But the wind picks up, breaking the moment. The rain lightens as quickly as it came.
She shifts away, clearing her throat.
“We should keep moving.”
“Of course,” I say, swallowing the ache of almost.
Still, when we walk again, it’s close. Closer than before. Our sleeves brushing, our steps aligned. The world smells like rain and marzipan.
And I think… if she ever kissed me, really kissed me, I might never breathe the same again.