Chapter 32 Tamsin
Tamsin
The court is a hive of honeyed poison.
Velvet gowns shimmer like spilled wine. Gold drips from throats and wrists, smiles stretched too wide. Every laugh is a weapon. Every glance, a calculation. I’ve fought on battlefields less treacherous than this ballroom.
And yet, I stand in armor made of stitch and silk, not steel. Darra’s suit fits like a second skin. My sword was left at Bloomhill. Without it, I feel exposed. Vulnerable.
They watch me. All of them. Not with awe or welcome. With amusement. With memory. With malice.
The nobles of Eldermire remember… The goat. The prince. The fountain.
Worse, they remember the diplomat who died under my watch—their precious protocol honored, the wrong call obeyed, a death sealed by discipline.
So no, I do not smile here.
Marienne does.
She glides like the music was written to follow her. Light in her step, warmth in her voice. A bloom among brambles.
The children flank her like bright little stars, shined and brushed, trying their best. She touches shoulders, kisses cheeks, laughs gently at crueler barbs. Her smile is a shield with a ribbon on it.
And they whisper about her, too...
“The baroness of dolls and misfits.”
“Do they call her Mother?”
“Maybe she thinks if she plays house long enough, someone will believe it’s real.”
She catches it all. I see it. The way her smile tightens ever so slightly. But she does not bleed, not here. Her reply is soft, sweet—and just sharp enough to draw a line they’ll remember not to cross again.
The children eventually scatter as planned, gently guided by Margot toward the refreshments, the music, the mirrors and masks of the court.
And then Marienne turns to me.
“Dance with me,” she says.
It’s not a request. It’s not a plea. It’s a match struck in the dark.
“Marienne—” I start. My jaw is tight.
“I need an anchor,” she says softly, still smiling. Always smiling. “And you’re the only one who doesn’t lie with your smile.”
So, I offer her my hand.
The music changes. Court musicians shift to something stately—an older tune, meant for slow glides and lingering steps. Not too close, not too far.
We’re neither.
She steps into my space, and I forget how to breathe.
Her palm is warm in mine. Her other hand finds my shoulder. Mine settles, reluctantly, at her waist. A fraction too firm. A breath too late. She smells like roses and something warmer underneath.
We move.
It’s not graceful at first. I’ve practiced. I’ve memorized the steps. But she feels them. She breathes with the rhythm, and suddenly it’s not movement. It’s a conversation.
Her eyes meet mine.
"You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“You’re radiant,” I reply.
She blinks. I’ve said too much, but I don’t take it back.
Around us, the murmurs grow louder.
“Her knight?”
“Surely not.”
“She was always theatrical.”
“It’s only strategy.”
Only strategy. Yes. That would be smarter. That would be safe.
But I want her. In front of everyone. In a room full of enemies, I want her hand in mine, her breath on my neck, her laughter tucked somewhere I can keep it safe.
Her fingers tighten slightly.
“You’re not smiling,” she says, lips near my ear.
“I don’t know how,” I say.
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes again. “That’s all right. I like the way you look at me, anyway.”
My heart could level a city.
The music swells. Her dress brushes my shin. We turn again, just a fraction slower than proper. I feel her ribs rise and fall with each breath. I know her pulse now. I could fight to it.
When the last note fades, we stop.
We’re too close. Too still.
Her hand lingers in mine.
“Thank you,” she says, voice low and trembling with something I cannot name. “For not letting me fall.”
I want to tell her: I never would. I never will.
But the words stick, unspoken.
So I press her knuckles lightly to my lips, once, before letting go.
And the Court watches the space we leave behind.