Chapter 30 Tamsin
Tamsin
I’ve re-fastened this button four times.
It’s a small thing, bronze with a clean edge, tucked at the cuff where it’ll hardly be seen beneath the fold of the suit coat Darra spent three full days stitching together.
But my fingers keep catching, stiff with nerves I will not name.
My shoulders itch beneath the formal shirt, and my collar is a noose made of charm and silk.
I haven’t worn official court garb in a long time.
The room is quiet. Purposefully so. No children darting underfoot, no Marienne humming like she’s keeping the sunlight company. Just me, the faint creak of the manor beams, and the stubborn silence of the mirror—shrouded beneath a dark cloth like a body laid to rest.
It’s always covered now.
I don’t need to see what’s already carved into memory: the long scar down my right cheek, pale as ash. The shadow it casts. The way it warps my smile into something crooked.
Crooked things don’t belong at court. Crooked things remind people of danger. Of failure.
There’s a knock at the door.
I freeze.
“Come in,” I say, eventually, once I’ve wrangled my voice into something firm.
The door creaks open, and Marienne enters like she always does: like the room was waiting for her. Lace at the throat, hair pinned half-loose. She’s not dressed for the ball yet. Not fully, but she’s glowing, like a lantern warming from the inside out.
My gaze only lingers a moment before I look away.
“I brought you something,” Marienne says lightly, crossing to me with something cupped in her hand. “A final touch.”
I lift a brow. “Lace?”
“Fasteners, actually,” she says, and sets one delicately into my palm. It’s shaped like a pressed flower—small, precise, with a pearl at its center. “For your sleeves. Silver, to match the stitching. Court-appropriate, but not too flashy. I thought it might... soften the severity.”
My mouth quirks. “You think I’m severe?”
“I think you wear dignity like armor. This just adds a little grace to the steel,” she says, smiling as she reaches for my sleeve. “May I?”
I let her fasten it. Her fingers brush my wrist—warm, careful, unafraid. She moves with quiet confidence, humming softly under her breath.
Her gaze shifts over my shoulder. Stillness. Then, “You’ve covered the mirror.”
I go still. My jaw tightens before I even answer. “It’s habit.”
She tilts her head, frowning, not immediately pressing, just… puzzled. “What for?”
My mouth is dry. I almost leave it there. But something about the way she’s looking at me—curious, not cruel—pulls the truth loose.
“I just don’t like how I look.”
The admission feels sharp. Unnecessary. I regret it the second it’s out.
She says nothing. But I can feel her eyes on me—and not the scar—but me. It’s worse than judgment. It’s… kindness.
And I don’t know what to do with it.
I swallow. “The scar—it isn’t just a mark. It’s a reminder. I got it on the assignment I failed. The assignment that—” I shake my head. “Besides, it isn’t flattering. I’d rather not look at it when I’m supposed to be presentable.”
She steps closer. “Tamsin…”
“Don’t,” I murmur. “I know it’s foolish. I’m not fishing for comfort.”
“But I’m offering it,” she says gently.
Her hand rises, hesitates, then cups the side of my face—not the scarred side. The other. Her thumb rests near my jaw. I don't flinch. Gods help me, I lean into it.
“I like the way you look. You look strong,” she says softly. “Noble. Like the kind of person I’d want standing at my side when everything else falls apart.”
I exhale, shaky. My pulse is loud in my ears. I can smell lavender on her skin, faint powder, ink from whatever letter she folded before coming here.
“I’m not who you think I am,” I murmur.
She doesn’t know. Not about the failures. Not about what I let happen. What I didn’t stop.
“I think,” she whispers, brushing a fold of fabric at my collar, “you’re better than you think you are.”
Her fingers linger. There’s something magnetic in the space between us—dangerous in its softness. I could reach for her now. Just a breath of movement. Just a word.
But I don’t.
Because if I do, I’ll never be able to stop… and she may undo me completely.
She straightens the edge of my lapel and steps back, slow and steady.
“There,” she says. “Now you look like you belong at Bloomhill.”
I watch her turn away. The place where her hand touched me still burns like a brand.
And for the first time in years, I wish the mirror wasn’t covered so I could see even a glimpse of what she sees.
***
We wait just inside the front hall—Margot, the children, and me.
The sconces are lit. The night wind scratches at the manor’s bones. Somewhere outside, the carriage wheels creak as they settle into place on the gravel.
Margot stands like a soldier stationed at the threshold. She’s traded her apron for a charcoal-gray coatdress—simple, well-kept, nothing flashy. Not court finery, but something cleaner, sharper. The cuffs are freshly pressed. The collar sits square.
It’s the kind of outfit you wear when someone forces you to be presentable but can’t make you decorative.
Marienne, the miracle-worker that she is, managed to convince the Court to allow Margot’s presence. Not to mingle with the silk-cloaked nobles. No, nothing so presumptuous.
Just to be there. For the children.
I respect it more than I say.
Honestly? Margot’s more useful than half the stewards at the Court.
“I should’ve packed smelling salts,” Margot mutters, adjusting Yla’s collar.
I glance down at the girls. Liri’s bouncing on her heels, white gloves a bit too big. Imara looks like she’s carved from stone. Vess has sugar around her mouth. Somehow.
“They’ll be fine,” I say.
Margot snorts.
I might’ve smiled if my collar didn’t feel like it was choking me.
And then… The stairs creak and I look up.
I’ve stared down warlords with fire behind their eyes and steel in their hands. I’ve stood before kings with judgments sharp as blades. I’ve weathered storms that cut bone-deep and worse ones that came wearing smiles.
But nothing—nothing—prepares me for the moment Marienne steps into the room.
The hallway’s dim light bends around her like it’s trying to make her brighter. Her gown catches the candlelight and throws it back in sparks—soft silvers and shifting rose hues, threaded with something that gleams when she moves. It’s not just a dress, it’s… alchemy.
And she wears it like she was born from it, stitched out of morning and lace and all the parts of the world that don’t know how to be cruel.
The children are gathered in the front parlor, buzzing with nervous energy—Callen is worrying over a cuff, Yla is fussing with a ribbon Margot has already fixed twice. And I—
I forget what I’m doing.
I forget what I’ve ever done.
Marienne glides down the stairs like a slow breath before the plunge, like something sacred and utterly, devastatingly alive. Her hair is pinned up with a scatter of pearls and something floral—I think it’s moon-vine. Her lips are the color of summer wine, and her eyes—
Gods help me, she’s looking at me.
“Darling dears,” she says lightly, “how do we look?”
The children chime in—too loud, too honest, exactly right.
Then her gaze lands on me again, sharper now. Coy.
“And you, Ser Tamsin?”
My throat is dry.
She tips her head, teasing. “Well? How do I look?”
The words are meant to be playful. They rise off her tongue like silk teasing across skin.
But something inside me breaks clean in half.
“You look…” My voice comes low. Raw. “Mesmerizing.”
She freezes.
So does the room.
The children go quiet as if someone extinguished a candle. Even Margot turns her head.
And then—because children are merciless in their wonder—Siven blinks up at me and whispers, “Oh.”
Marienne recovers first.
“Why, thank you, Ser Tamsin,” she says, brightly, falsely. “That was… gallant.”
But her blush betrays her. Pale pink rising like dawn on her cheeks. Mine must look the same.
The weight of the moment crashes over me. I should look away. I should say something drier, safer. I should make it a joke.
I don’t.
Because it’s true.
Because I meant it.
Because she is mesmerizing—too good, too radiant, too soft for a world like this, and it breaks something in me that I’m the one she’s turned to again and again.
That I’m the one she trusts.
She meets my gaze for a fraction too long. And then, like she’s afraid to drop something fragile, she turns back to the children.
“All right,” she says, a bit breathlessly, “let’s line up and make sure no one is wearing boots.”
The moment passes.
But gods help me, I don’t want it to.
***
Outside, the night is all hush and silver. Stars scatter low across the sky like something spilled from a careless god’s sleeve. The air bites—not cruelly, just enough to make you aware of your lungs, your skin, the blood thrumming beneath.
Inside, the front hall is still full of motion. Velvet swishes. Ribbons get adjusted for the fourth time. Margot clicks her tongue like she’s sharpening a blade. “Liri, straighten your sash. Callen, those gloves are inside out. Imara, for the love of all holy, don’t scowl at anyone.”
“I’m not scowling. I’m preemptively glaring.”
Margot sighs.
The children are radiant. Not in the polished court way—though Marienne’s efforts have clearly worked—but in the way firelight is radiant. Earnest. Flickering. Alive.
I check each one as they gather near the door. I do a final count, though I’ve already counted twice. Habit.
Then I usher them outside. The moon is low and bright, veiled in clouds. The carriage is there, just as promised—painted dark and gleaming, with lanterns on either side that cast halos in the mist.
I feel it then. That shift. That silent weight of what’s about to begin.
Behind me, Marienne laughs as Yla threatens to bring a pouch of candied bloodfruit to the ball “just in case there’s nothing edible.”
Marienne’s voice floats over the room like silk. “Let’s not scandalize the high court with sticky fingers, my dears.”
Then she encourages them forward. She looks both regal and utterly untamed in her gown. She doesn’t try to silence the chaos, only guides it. She moves like a woman who believes a house can be a home even if it isn’t quiet.
And they follow her. Of course they do.
I step aside, hold the door. The children file out, one by one. Ribbons straightened. Curls pinned. Teeth gleaming in nervous grins. Margot helps them into the carriage.
Then it’s just Marienne and me.
She glances at the stairs—as if something might pull her back—but then exhales slowly. Her shoulders lift, straighten. The mask is fragile tonight, but it’s still in place.
I offer my hand.
“Baroness,” I say, soft. Almost reverent.
She places her gloved fingers in mine, warm even through the silk.
She smiles, just slightly. “Careful, Ser Tamsin. If you keep saying it like that, I might start believing I’m royalty.”
I hold her gaze. “Then I should say it like that more often.”
And I don’t let go of her hand until she’s fully in the carriage.
Margot climbs in after, muttering about etiquette and how a vampire child once bit an ambassador at a similar affair.
I close the door behind us.
The lanterns sway as the wheels begin to turn.