Chapter 29 Marienne
Marienne
Time slips strangely in Bloomhill. One moment, the ball was a somewhat distant worry—something to fret over after tea, after sword lessons, after the next cup of blood.
Now, it’s tonight.
The Moonshadow Ball has crept up on us all at once, and the drawing room looks like the inside of a very polite storm.
Silk and linen ripple across every surface. Dresses drape over chair backs, discarded ribbons tangle like vines on the carpet, a single velvet slipper teeters on the windowsill like it’s considering escape.
Somewhere behind me, Imara is having a war with her hair, Callen is trying to pin Yla’s brooch upside down, and Siven has gone completely silent in that way that means she is either plotting a coup or moments away from tears.
And still, somehow, I am smiling.
“Turn, love,” I tell Yla, gently guiding her by the shoulders. “The other way. No, that’s a wall. There we go, face away from the candlelight so I can actually see the back of your head.”
“I can see fine,” she mutters.
“Yes, but I can’t see what I’m doing when you’re staring at the candle like it insulted your great-aunt.”
A snort from the corner—Tamsin, trying and failing to lace up Liri’s bodice with the same gravitas she uses for her sword belt. Liri, bless her, keeps turning to help, which results in one very tangled, very fidgety six-year-old and a knight who is two breaths from pulling rank on a dress.
“I’ve never fought a garment this determined,” Tamsin mutters under her breath.
“You haven’t met these shoes yet,” Margot calls from the hearth, where she’s attempting to coax Vess into her tiny party shoes while issuing steady predictions of doom. “She’s going to fall down those ballroom stairs and take three noblemen with her. Mark my words.”
“That’s not how marking works,” I call back.
“That’s exactly how bruises work.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. My hands are full of pearl-tipped pins and combs, and someone has absolutely stolen the ribbon I laid out for Imara’s hair, but—gods help me—I adore this chaos.
A flash of movement to my right. Callen is chasing after a drifting bit of lace like it’s a prized relic. Yla has climbed onto the settee to avoid getting pinned again. Siven, seated on a cushioned stool by the tall window, clutches a fistful of ribbons.
Tamsin crosses behind me to reach a comb. Her hair is pulled back already, perfectly so—too perfectly, really. Not a strand out of place. I’d suspected she might braid it, something practical and elegant. But it’s… plain. Intentional.
A brush of movement from Siven, quiet as always. She watches Tamsin with owl-wide eyes, then says, barely above a whisper, “You’re nervous too.”
Tamsin stills mid-reach. “Nonsense.”
But her mouth quirks. A breath of a smile. She taps Siven gently on the shoulder with the blunt end of the comb. “Eyes forward, soldier. We’re almost through the thick of it.”
Siven giggles. It’s the first time she’s laughed today.
My heart does something soft and startled.
“All right,” I say brightly, clapping my hands. “Hair, done. Buttons, done. Brooches, crooked but charming. Now—go and find your shoes. No boots, Yla, don’t you dare.”
“But they’re pretty!”
“They clank.”
“They’re part of my look!”
“They’re part of your muddy walks through the garden, and they are not coming to court with us.”
Yla groans but scampers off. One by one, the rest follow, trailing ribbons and good-natured complaints, but going, at least.
Vess is toddling behind Margot, who has taken her hand like it’s something sacred. Imara lingers last, standing tall and tired in her new gown. She doesn’t speak, but she nods to me. That’s enough.
And then, it’s quiet.
Just me and Tamsin and the scattered remains of the morning's war effort. A discarded sash hangs like a ribbon of victory from the mantle. My hair is falling loose from its combs.
I exhale, long and low, and let myself lean against the back of the settee.
Tamsin straightens her cuff with practiced fingers. “We’ll be late if we don’t dress soon.”
I glance at her sidelong. “We?”
Her mouth twitches again. “You’re not the only one with standards.”
I hum. “Mmm. No boots for you either.”
Her eyes flick to mine. They soften. “No. No boots.”
And something in my chest—tight and bright—unwinds, just a little.