Chapter 34 Tamsin
Tamsin
Something is wrong.
A familiar prickle creeps down my spine. I’ve felt it before—too many times. Before ambushes. Before riots.
Before the diplomat died screaming.
The ballroom is beginning to fray at the edges. Music still hums from the vielle in the gallery alcove, sweet and steady, but the laughter has turned brittle and the candlelight flickers like it knows something is about to snap.
The children are across the room with Margot: Imara offering whispered reminders about posture, Liri clinging to Yla’s sleeve.
They’re safe.
But Marienne…
Marienne is not.
Our eyes meet across the room.
And I know.
She’s pale, too pale. Her lips are pressed together like she’s holding something in—something sharp and crawling just beneath her skin. Her shoulders are too still.
Something is wrong and it’s all my fault for leaving her alone.
I cross the room before I can stop myself.
“Are you all right?” I ask, voice low, meant only for her.
She waves it off with a flutter of fingers and a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
She’s not.
I touch her arm, lightly, just above the elbow. Her skin is cool through the fabric. She doesn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to smile like that for me, Flower,” I murmur, soft as breath.
She meets my gaze.
And gods… There’s something hollow in her eyes. Not broken. Not fragile. Just… shaken. Like something inside her has been rattled loose.
My chest aches.
I should have insisted on accompanying her.
I should have stood between her and whatever venom Viremont poured with that serpent’s smile.
I keep my voice steady. Low.
“What did he say?”
Marienne’s lashes flutter. “It was just a conversation.”
But her voice has that porcelain edge again. The one I’ve started hearing more and more since the first invitation arrived.
“I don’t believe you,” I murmur.
“You never do,” she replies, too brightly.
And then she turns to greet the children as they arrive, all flushed cheeks and fast steps.
Margot eyes her like she’s a cracked teacup pretending to hold water.
“Everything alright?” she mutters.
“Everything is wonderful,” Marienne chirps.
“Look at them.” She gestures at the little parade of children in court regalia.
“Imara hasn’t tripped once, Callen’s hair stayed combed for a full hour, and Liri hasn’t cried all evening.
” She lowers her voice conspiratorially.
“I gave her a sugar-dusted peach to bribe her. Entirely unethical. Highly effective.”
Margot does not smile.
Yla snatches a sugared treat from a passing tray and bolts behind one of the columns before Imara can stop her. The older girl rolls her eyes toward the ceiling and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like an insult.
Callen and Siven dart away with polite bows to retrieve a treat of their own from the long refreshment table.
I don’t see what happens. But I hear it.
The first voice is distant, dismissive, adult.
“Playing governess doesn’t make her a mother. She’s a baroness with delusions.”
A low, mocking laugh, then a different voice, says, “More like a madwoman collecting strays.”
Then Siven’s voice, high and all too clear.
“Take it back.”
I’m already moving.
Another adult, somewhere between amused and alarmed: “Oh dear, one of hers.”
“Take it back!” Siven shouts again, and then I hear the sharp clatter of a plate smashing, and a cry—someone gasping. The crack of contact.
By the time I reach them, Siven has lunged at a woman in emerald silk and is pounding her tiny fists against the startled noble’s skirts, all while possibly trying to bite her. Callen is trying to pull her back, wide-eyed and panicked.
Marienne is only a step behind me.
“Oh, Siven—” Her voice breaks in that gentle, horrified way that means she understands none of this is going to end quietly. “Darling, no, come here, please, come to me—”
The room is still. Music falters. Conversations dissolve into cold silence.
All eyes turn. The Court of Eldermire watches with the careful interest of jackals at a fresh wound.
And Lord Halveric smiles.
Marienne drops to her knees in her gleaming gown, arms wide.
Siven freezes mid-swing, then stumbles back into her arms with a breathless sob. “She said you were pretending. That you don’t love us for real.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Marienne breathes. “Of course I do. Of course I do. You’re my little bats.”
Her voice is trembling. Her hands shake against the fine silk of Siven’s back as she comforts her.
But it isn’t enough. The room hums with venom and judgment. Murmurs bloom like rot.
“…unfit…”
“…can’t manage them…”
“…spectacle…”
Marienne’s face pales. Her lips part, and for the first time since I met her, she has no words.
So I speak.
I take one long step forward. I raise my voice—not to shout, but to slice through the thick, cloying murmurs like a whetted blade.
“Enough.”
Heads turn. I ignore them all.
My body shifts between Marienne and the Court, shielding her without subtlety. Her arms are still wrapped around Siven. My voice doesn’t shake.
“Baroness Marienne is one of the kindest and most capable hearts I have ever known.”
I feel her flinch behind me. I don’t stop.
“She’s given those children safety, tenderness, discipline, and joy. Things I’ve watched many nobles fail to give their own heirs.”
A few nobles blink. One even has the grace to look chastised.
I scan the crowd until I meet Lord Halveric’s smug expression and pin him with a stare sharp enough to bleed.
“You may write your petitions. You may whisper your gossip. But you will not insult her where I can hear it. And you will not dismiss what she’s built because it doesn’t fit your vision of control.”
For a moment, silence holds.
And then, from behind me, a soft intake of breath. A hand brushes mine.
I turn slightly. Marienne is standing and looking up at me with something that might be awe. Something shining and vulnerable.
“Ready to leave?” I ask quietly.
She nods. Her fingers slide into mine.
We leave the ballroom together—the children trailing like moonlight behind her. The whispers follow. But they sound like wind, and I am no longer afraid of storms.