Chapter 38 Tamsin
Tamsin
The manor is too quiet.
No laughter tumbling down the halls. No clatter of boots too big for small feet. No arguing over soup or ribbons or who gets to sit on the good windowsill.
Just silence.
The ghost of their absence presses into every stone.
I walk the upstairs corridor for the third time tonight, boots muffled against the rug the children picked out. Siven liked the faded moons in the pattern, said they reminded her of stories. Yla said it looked like a rug that would come to life if you stepped on it wrong.
I’d give anything to hear them argue about it again.
Instead, my hand curls tighter around the rolled letter in my coat pocket. Still waiting. I haven’t told Marienne yet…
I should have burned it.
The Court envoy had been polite. Distant. Grim. They took the children with gloved hands and stiff smiles, wrapped in bureaucracy like shrouds.
And as they stepped through Bloomhill’s doors, I was handed a second letter—this one addressed to me:
By order of the Eldermire Court, Ser Tamsin Greaves is hereby reassigned.
Report to Eldermire Court by morning bell.
No explanation. No inquiry. No time.
Just like that, I’m being pulled away…
From the manor.
From what little family I have.
From her.
I fold the letter, careful not to crush it even though my hands want to. My jaw locks.
I should tell her. Of course, I should tell her.
But how can I, when I promised—promised—I would stay?
***
Later, I find Marienne in the nursery.
Not her room. Not the drawing room. Not the study where she could pretend to be planning a rebuttal.
She’s sitting on the rug beside a wooden chest, smoothing the creases from a forgotten sash, folding and refolding it in her lap. Like her fingers need something to do so her heart doesn’t shatter completely.
She doesn’t look up when I enter.
“Margot said you haven’t been to the cellar. Or the kitchen,” I say softly.
Which means she likely hasn’t fed, hasn’t had any real nourishment today.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
I step closer. “I can bring you something.”
“No, thank you.”
The refusal is gentle, but it lands like a closing door.
Still, I step further in. The shelves are still cluttered… half-made dolls, mismatched socks, books stacked like battlements. Marienne’s hand stills on the fabric. Her back remains straight. Too straight.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says after a long moment.
Her voice is a frayed ribbon, stretched thin and near tearing.
I hesitate, then take one more step toward her. “I can stay. If you want.”
She looks at me, not quite meeting my eyes.
“I need space tonight.”
No anger. No sharpness. Just… frost.
It lands harsher than anything she could’ve said in heat.
“Oh.” I swallow. “Of course.”
She nods. Tidy. Distant. Her mask is porcelain, and I can’t tell if it’s protecting her or holding her together. Maybe both.
“I’ll be nearby,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can offer. “If you need anything.”
She doesn’t answer.
She just folds the sash again, hands trembling.
***
Margot finds me hours later, sitting in the stairwell with my head pressed to the cold stone wall.
She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t prod. Just mutters, “I knew they’d try something,” and presses a mug of strong tea into my hands.
“It’s not your fault,” she adds as she settles beside me with a sigh. Her knees crack. Her tone doesn’t. “They were never going to be fair about this.”
I nod. Slowly. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
Silence stretches between us. Then I say it… The thing I hadn’t dared say aloud until now…
“I really thought they had a chance.”
Margot doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicks toward the stairs, toward the dark hallway above.
“Tomorrow,” she finally says, “we rally.”
I nod. Because that’s all I can do.
She stays with me for a little while. Long enough to remind me I’m not completely alone. Long enough that the tea cools in my hands, and the wall doesn’t feel quite so sharp against my spine.
Then she gets up, muttering something about locking the windows so Yla doesn’t sneak back in on a daring rescue mission for plum biscuits.
I want to laugh. I really do.
But I can’t.
Eventually, I try to sleep.
I can’t do that either.
So, I patrol instead. The grounds. The halls. I run my fingers over picture frames and curtained windows and door handles worn smooth by children’s hands.
Every room is emptier without them.
Every corridor longer.
I pass Marienne’s door more than once. Each time, I hesitate. I almost knock.
I never do.
Until—
A sound.
Not a cry. Not a shout.
A sob.
Low. Sharp. Muffled like she’s trying to swallow it down.
I don’t knock. I push the door open, heart pounding.
The room is mostly dark. Moonlight spills in from the window, pooling over the edge of the bed like liquid silver.
Marienne sits upright, knees drawn to her chest, face buried in her hands. Her shoulders quake.
“Marienne.”
She doesn’t look up.
My body moves before I can think. Three strides. That’s all it takes to cross the room, but it feels like I’m breaching a chasm.
“Marienne, talk to me.” My voice is low, urgent. “Are you hurt?”
She lifts her head.
Her cheeks are wet with tears. Her eyes—gods, her eyes—are wide and terrified, rimmed in moonlight. She looks like she’s been to war in her own mind and lost.
For a moment, it’s like she doesn’t see me. Like whatever she saw is still clinging to her, veiling the room in its shadow.
Then she blinks, focuses, and locks onto me.
“I saw her,” she whispers. “Tamsin, I saw her. I heard her.”
I place a hand to her back, steadying. “Who?”
“Siven.” Her voice is hoarse. “She came to me. In a dream. No—not a dream. A vision. I swear it.”
I hesitate.
Marienne grips my wrist like she can feel me slipping.
“She was crying. She said they were scared. That Imara—Tamsin, they took Imara.”
My chest tightens.
“Marienne—”
“She said Lord Viremont,” she gasps. “That she was given to him. By Halveric. That he’s doing something—I don’t know what—but it’s wrong. It’s so wrong.”
Her breath catches. She clutches at my shirt like it’s the only thing holding her to this world.
I force myself to stay calm. To breathe. To be the calm she needs. The one who doesn’t waver.
But I don’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense, and I can’t follow her into it.
“It was a nightmare,” I say gently. Carefully. “Your heart is grieving. Your mind—”
“It wasn’t a dream!” she snaps, and the raw pain in her voice flays something open in me. “I know her voice. I know my children.”
Her anger dissolves into another sob. She slumps forward, forehead against my collarbone.
“I know it sounds mad,” she whispers. “But I’d know if something happened to them. I’d feel it. And I do. I feel it now.”
I wrap my arms around her. I hold her like I’ll never let go. Because gods, I don’t know how to let go of her. Not anymore.
But in the back of my mind, the knight in me flinches.
Because if she’s right—if Viremont did take Imara—then something dark is moving in plain sight.
And if she’s wrong…
Then grief is unraveling her faster than I can stop it.
Eventually, she pulls away from me gently, the way someone might untangle a ribbon from a branch… careful not to break anything, but firm with purpose.
I feel the loss of her warmth like a wound.
Wordless, she stands.
Marienne walks to the wardrobe. Her nightdress floats around her ankles like a dying thing. She sheds it without pause and reaches for a folded bundle on the second shelf. Not a gown. Not a robe.
Her swordplay garb.
Trousers. A linen blouse. Minimal lace. No softness.
A chill scrapes up my spine.
“Flower,” I say quietly. “What are you doing?”
Her fingers are steady as she pulls the layers on. “Getting dressed.”
“Yes, but—”
I stop and swallow the question down. The answer is already crouched in my gut, sharp-toothed and waiting.
“You don’t know they’re there,” I try again, voice raw. “You don’t know.”
She slips the blouse into place and turns to the mirror. Her hair is wild, tangled from sleep and tears. She begins to braid it with practiced ease, as if preparing for war is something she’s done a hundred times.
“I do know. I saw it,” she says. “Siven sent it. Images. Places. Feelings. She dream-walked to me."
I step forward. “It was a dream.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, cool and bright as river-light at dawn.
“No. It wasn’t.”
My heart clenches.
Her voice lowers, full of quiet steel. “I am not a grieving mother chasing ghosts. I am not a foolish girl swept up in sentiment. And I am not a damsel waiting for rescue from some nightmare.”
She tightens the last braid and pins it into place.
“They need me.”
I want to believe her. But logic rises in my chest like bile… The voice of the Court. The codes I was trained to follow. The stories I know don’t end well.
“Is your plan to go to Lord Halveric’s?” I ask, sharper than I mean to be. “In the middle of the night? What, knock on the door and demand to see them?”
“I don’t think Halveric has them,” she says, buckling a belt at her waist. “Not all of them.”
My mouth goes dry. “Then who?”
“If Imara was given to Lord Viremont—”
“If, Marienne—”
“She was.” Her voice cracks like a whip, not loud but final. “I saw it. His estate was in the vision. The silver hall. The carved archways. I could feel her fear in my bones.”
She doesn’t stop.
“He spoke of them, Tamsin. Back at the ball. He said he wanted to get his claws into the girls. That he could shape them. Shape their power.”
My breath catches.
Marienne’s voice lowers, tight and shaking. “He fed me bottled blood that night. From one of the Garden girls… I won’t let him near Imara,” she says, fiercer now. “I won’t.”
My stomach turns. I can’t breathe.
Marienne walks to the carved cabinet in the corner where she keeps the ceremonial sword her Aunt Florencia once carried to court. The sheath is dusty. The blade is not.
She lays it across the bed and buckles on her boots.
I should stop her. I want to stop her. But she’s moving like a woman already mid-battle.
And the truth is—I’ve never loved her more than I do right now.
She turns back to the mirror. Adjusts a final strap.
Then, without preamble, she meets my gaze through the glass and asks, “Are you coming or not?”
The question slices through the silence like a drawn blade.
I followed the Court's orders before, and the diplomat died screaming. Tonight, I choose Marienne. I choose the children.
My mouth moves before fear can. “I would follow you anywhere.”
She exhales, shaky but sure. For the first time tonight, something soft glimmers at the edge of her expression. Not relief exactly. Something older. Something more dangerous.
Hope.
She fastens the sword to her hip, and we leave the room together—into the dark.