Chapter 39 Marienne
Marienne
The night tastes like iron and roses.
Wind tugs at my sleeves as we ride, the mare’s hooves muffled by damp soil, each breath of fog-drenched air sharp in my throat.
I’ve never ridden without a saddle before, and certainly not pressed to a woman made entirely of steel.
My arms wrap tightly around Tamsin’s waist, not for balance but because I don’t know what else to cling to.
We move as one. Her horse, her command, her steady breath under my cheekbone.
But mine is the fear… mine the decision to come.
And mine, too, the note I left on the kitchen table with trembling fingers for Margot:
“If we don’t return by sunrise, tell the Court we went to Lord Viremont’s. And tell the children I love them.”
“Keep your head down,” Tamsin murmurs over her shoulder. Her voice is the low rumble of a storm that hasn’t broken. “We’re getting close.”
Viremont Estate rises in the distance. Too quiet. No music. No torchlight. A manor that doesn’t need to impress because it already owns the silence.
We dismount behind a thorny hedge, half-hidden by swaying grass. Tamsin ties the mare to a low branch with practiced hands, her fingers deft and tense.
“Stay low,” she says. “I’ll lead. Keep to the shadow of the wall.”
The plan was half-formed on our way to the stables to saddle Tamsin’s horse: find a way inside, find Imara, then decide what to do from there.
Tamsin agreed on the condition that she takes the lead.
She moves with predatory ease: silent boots, sharp glances, the flicker of her hand signaling me forward. I follow. The back of the estate is quieter, shrouded in ivy and neglect. A pair of guards patrol the southern balcony, but we slip beneath them, breath held, hearts counting in time.
One of them turns, and Tamsin yanks me deeper into the shadows. Her breath fans against my temple, her chest heaving with mine.
When they pass, she doesn’t move immediately. Neither do I.
She murmurs, “We can’t afford mistakes.”
She’s right. But I’m already here. And I won’t turn back.
We reach a narrow stone wall bordering what looks like an enclosed garden. In it’s side is a servant’s door—sealed. And the wall is a curved rise of stone, almost too high to scale without aid.
Tamsin crouches, scanning the perimeter. “We’ll need a rope. Maybe I can climb the archway, wedge a foothold. If I anchor from the—”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” I mutter.
She turns, startled, just in time to watch me adjust my trousers and grip the ivy-veined wall with both hands.
“Marienne,” she hisses. “Wait!”
But I’m already climbing.
The stone is cold, slick in places, but I move with purpose. In my younger years, I climbed balconies more treacherous than this to sneak into galas uninvited. The trick is not looking down.
And not thinking too hard about who you’re becoming.
When I reach the top, I haul myself over, legs swinging, and drop to the other side with a muffled oof. My palms sting as I catch myself on the ground.
A moment later, I unbolt the servant’s door from the inside.
Tamsin stands just beyond it, hands braced against the frame like she doesn’t know whether to scold me or kiss me. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly,” I say. “But I’m also inside. Come on.”
She enters, her hand taking mine in passing.
We step into the heart of Viremont’s garden together. The wall rises behind us. Moonflowers bloom in silver along the trellises—too perfect, too still. There’s magic here, and not the soft kind.
I press a hand to my chest to steady myself.
Tamsin’s breath is a whisper beside me. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
But I think the moonflowers do, and they’re undoubtedly watching us…
I move forward, slowly. Each step muffled by dew-slick moss and curling ivy. My boots are near silent on the stones.
Tamsin follows close behind, our hands still joined. Her sword makes a low hiss as it leaves its sheath.
“This place,” I murmur, almost to myself. “It’s too familiar.”
“You’ve been here?”
I shake my head. “Not here. Not this garden.”
I glance at her. The moon casts a soft silver glow across her cheekbones, and for a moment I’m not afraid.
“I’ve seen something like this before. Years ago. The Garden of Selene. His garden here is… eerily reminiscent of it.”
At the name, Tamsin’s expression shifts. Slight, but there. That flicker of recognition, of tension pulled taut.
“The Garden of Selene wasn’t a place for flowers,” I continue. “They grew them, yes—everything the moon could touch. But it wasn’t about beauty. It was about control masked as reverence. Everything grown in perfect rows. Everything blooming on command.”
I walk slowly along the path. The scent of the moonflowers makes my teeth ache. Sweet and wrong.
“I told you that I visited once,” I say, voice barely above the hush of leaves. “I was… younger. Shortly after becoming a baroness. The Court thought I ought to see it. Said it was good politics.”
Tamsin doesn’t speak, but I feel her gaze on me.
“My parents agreed,” I go on. “They said it would make me grateful for Bloomhill.”
“And did it?” Tamsin asks, voice low.
“No,” I say softly. “It made me afraid. And angry. And... ashamed. Because for a moment, I understood what they were trying to do. To grow perfection. To strip away the wild. To make girls bloom exactly when and how they were told…”
How many times had I wished I could do the same?
To clip the parts of myself that didn’t fit. To prune the chaos, the softness, the wanting. To become something neat. Predictable. Praiseworthy.
Ahead, the path curves.
A statue rises at the bend—Selene, robed in moonlight, arms lifted to the sky like supplication or surrender. Cracks lace through her marble fingers. Her face is eroded, a half-smile swallowed by shadow.
“Viremont’s trying to build it again here,” I whisper. “Piece by piece.”
At the base of the statue lie offerings. Wilting flowers, and—
My breath catches.
A ribbon.
Pink. Frayed at the edge.
I can’t breathe.
I tear my hand from Tamsin’s and stumble forward. The moss is slick, the cold rising up through my boots. I drop to my knees and snatch the ribbon from the stones like it might vanish if I wait too long.
“It’s Imara’s… I braided it into her hair this morning, right before breakfast. She didn’t want to wear it. She said it was too pink. I told her pink was powerful…”
Behind me, Tamsin’s voice is quiet but strained. “Then we find a way inside.”
I nod, unable to look at her. My fingers clutch the ribbon like it’s her pulse I’m holding.
Like if I just hold tight enough, Imara will know that we are coming for her.
***
I lead us through the twisting turns of Lord Viremont’s garden with a conviction I cannot name. I don’t know the way, not truly. But the images I dreamed of, the ones Siven sent me, flicker behind my eyes—stone steps, damp air, moonlight on water.
They become a thread I follow.
Tamsin moves beside me, silent but alert, her blade in her hand. Tension rolls off her in waves. Every rustle of wind in the hedges, every distant creak of stone makes her flinch.
Makes me flinch.
“We passed that arch before,” she mutters. “We’re circling.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “It’s not wrong. Just… misaligned.”
I stop. Close my eyes, and listen. Not with my ears. With whatever strange thing lives in me that lets a dream feel real…
Then we’re moving again. We turn left at the statue with broken wings, past the moss-veined wall with the climbing roses.
There.
A squat door hides in ivy. I press my hand to the old wood, heart in my throat.
Tamsin leans forward, and squints. “Cellar access?”
I nod. “I believe so.”
She crouches, checks the hinges, then the handle. “Locked. Heavy.” A beat. “Step back.”
I do. Carefully.
She kicks once—hard.
The door shudders but doesn’t give.
My eyes flick to the shadows above us. No movement. No sound. No one’s come. Yet.
She kicks again.
This time, the wood groans, splinters cracking like bone.
One more blow and it finally gives, jerking open with a wheeze.
Tamsin braces it, shoulder to the frame, pushing it wider. A curl of cold, damp air spills out—earthy, fungal, and wrong.
I hesitate. Just a second. Then I take the first step down.
Each step groans underfoot, but I don’t dare slow. At the bottom, the corridor opens into a rounded chamber carved from old stone. Torches line the walls, though only one still flickers.
And in the center—
“Imara,” I breathe.
She is bound to an iron ring embedded in the floor. Chains loop around her wrists and ankles, thin but gleaming. Her head slumps to one side, and she’s dressed in white...
Ceremonial white.
A sob catches in my throat. I run to her, and fall to my knees beside her.
She’s breathing. Shallow. Her skin is cool, but not fading. I press my palm to her cheek, then her brow.
“Imara,” I whisper. “Sweetheart. Please. Wake up, darling. I’m here.”
She doesn’t stir.
Beside me, Tamsin drops to the ground and starts on the chains. Her hands move fast—fast and angry, all precision and fury.
I glance over. She’s pulled a narrow blade from her boot, wedging it into the old locks, snapping through pins and bolts with practiced force. One clinks free, then another.
“I told you,” I say, voice shaking.
Tamsin doesn’t look up. “You did.”
Another lock yields to her blade, then she says, “I’ll never doubt you again.”
I nod, but don’t speak. I’m too afraid I’ll shatter.
I brush the hair from Imara’s forehead. “You held on. That’s my brave girl. We’re getting you out.”
“I’m afraid she’s not ready to leave.”
The voice is silk over bone.
I whip around.
Lord Viremont stands in the doorway, his silhouette framed by flickering torchlight. He is perfectly composed. Not a hair out of place. He looks like he’s arriving at the ball, not interrupting a rescue.
He smiles.
“Baroness,” he says. “You shouldn’t be here.”