Chapter 2
Tamsin
The chill of the stone floor creeps through my boots, but it’s nothing compared to the colder weight sitting in my gut.
Trouble has a way of finding me, or perhaps I’ve earned its shadow. Either way, I can’t shake the thought that this summons to Eldermire’s court is another chip carved out of my already battered reputation.
I don’t move. Not when the doors creak behind me, not when the guards shift in their gilded armor, and not when the Court's steward rounds the corner with his mouth pinched like a purse.
I keep my hands behind my back, boots braced, chin up. Despite having the day off, I’m fully armored. The Court likes its ornaments polished.
The steward stops three paces from me and holds out a scroll.
“Ser Tamsin.”
No eye contact. His fingers tremble.
I take the letter without a word.
The seal is black wax, stamped with the broken sun emblem of internal affairs. Not the royal crest. Not a formal summons, then.
I break the seal and unroll it.
The decree reads:
By Order of the Eldermire High Court, let it be entered into record:
In light of recent events and the unprecedented guardianship assumed by Baroness Marienne Solmere of Bloomhill Manor over a cohort of orphaned vampire youth formerly affiliated with the disbanded sect known as The Garden of Selene, the Court deems it necessary to ensure the continued stability, safety, and suitability of Bloomhill Manor as their residence.
To that end, Ser Tamsin Greaves is hereby reassigned to Bloomhill Manor for a period of indeterminate length, with duties as follows:
To assist in the rehabilitation and social integration of the aforementioned vampire children;
To provide ongoing support and oversight to the baroness in her capacity as guardian;
To observe and report on the viability of Bloomhill Manor as a permanent holding for vampiric minors;
To ensure that the household does not, by action or neglect, become a source of political disruption, scandal, or incident within Eldermire or its neighboring territories;
And to act, if necessary, in the defense of the Court’s interests should the situation deteriorate.
Ser Tamsin shall operate with full court sanction, and her reports shall be delivered directly to the Eldermire Court under seal.
The final line is an afterthought, but the truest one:
May order be preserved, and the interests of Eldermire upheld.
It’s a reassignment. A demotion dressed in lace. A leash disguised as duty.
I scan it twice to be sure. No end date. No specific charges. Just enough formality to mask the fact that I’ve been put out to pasture.
“Bloomhill?” I ask, glancing over the seal.
The steward nods stiffly. “The Court felt it was… a better fit.”
“Because of the parade goat.”
He clears his throat. “Because of the prince, actually. But the goat certainly didn’t help.”
I grunt. “He shouldn’t have been standing so close to the fountain.”
“He was giving a speech.”
I huff, but bite my tongue.
Of course, I remember it perfectly.
A minor royal procession…
A goat got loose. I moved to intercept. One startled pivot, a trip, and my armored shoulder sent Prince Thale sprawling into a decorative fountain. He emerged sputtering, crown askew, silk dripping. Nobles laughed. He didn’t.
So far, there have been no formal charges, but my already precarious reputation is damaged beyond repair.
The steward clears his throat. “Signature, Ser.”
I sign the acknowledgment. Neatly. No flourish.
“Will there be an escort?”
He hesitates. “That… won’t be necessary.”
Of course not. They’re not worried I’ll run. Not after the last mess, and certainly not now.
I hand him back the scroll, dip my head in acknowledgement, and turn on my heel. No words. No protest. Nothing to record.
I’ve worn silence so long it fits better than the steel on my back.
Let them send me to Bloomhill Manor.
Let them call it mercy.
***
I pack in silence.
Sword. Armor. Spare oil. Bandages. Plain shirts. The black coat with reinforced stitching.
The satchel closes with a hiss of worn leather. I tighten the straps like I’m bracing for war, though this feels more like exile.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not particularly attached to these quarters. The stone walls are the same as any other post, the bed stiff, the hearth cold. I haven’t had a home in years. Not really. Not since before the envoy. Not since before… everything.
No place has felt like home in a long time.
The mirror across the room catches movement. I make the mistake of glancing up and meet my reflection: brown hair pulled back into a low tail. Gray-blue eyes flat as winter steel. The scar over my brow, no longer raw enough to sting.
There she is. The Iron Oak.
That’s what they called me—stoic, unshakable. A good name, I suppose. Strong. Safe.
I never liked it.
It wasn’t meant to flatter. It was meant to contain. A tree doesn’t argue. A tree doesn’t bleed. A tree doesn’t ask why the diplomat was sent in unguarded through disputed territory.
I swallow.
The room is still. But the memory isn’t.
The envoy. The silence before the ambush. The way she looked back at me—like she knew. Like I should have known.
I followed the order: secure the perimeter, do not interfere. Let the talks proceed as agreed.
I followed the damn order.
She died screaming.
My hand tightens on the satchel strap until the leather creaks.
Since then? Structure, silence, discipline. Follow the next order. And the next. And the next. Don’t think. Just serve.
Because if obedience can get someone killed, then disobedience—breaking faith with command—can only be worse...
I turn from the mirror.
On the desk: a scroll with BLOOMHILL written across the top. I pick it up.
Baroness Marienne Solmere of Bloomhill Manor: eccentric disposition. Fond of flowers, fabrics, and theatricality. Recent guardian to six minor vampires recovered from unknown circumstances. Considered politically precarious. Oversight recommended.
I snort.
Unorthodox guardian to six vampire children sounds like trouble in perfume.
Frivolous. Messy. Decorative.
Exactly the kind of person I try to steer clear of. Exactly the kind of person I’ve never known what to do with.
I close the scroll and slide it into the satchel. My hand lingers on the spine longer than it should. Curiosity, maybe. Or dread.
Doesn’t matter. Orders are orders. I shoulder the weight, steel biting into my collarbone, and head for the door.
Let’s see what Bloomhill requires.
***
The fog is thick enough to chew; gray, wet, and clinging to my armor.
Briar stamps beside me, breath clouding in the cold. She’s older now, but she still moves like war—steady, unsentimental. We suit each other. Neither of us needs to be pretty. Just reliable.
I check the saddle straps, tug them hard, then swing up without ceremony. No one’s here to wave me off. Good. I prefer it that way.
The gates to Eldermire creak closed behind me, but I don’t look back. I know what’s there: marble spires and silent judgment.
The Court thinks I’m being shelved. They might be right. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do the job.
I settle my weight and nudge Briar forward. Stones turn to mud. The road twists, climbs, and disappears into denser fog as I leave Eldermire behind. Light flickers—darker in the trees, pale in the open—but always gray. Always the same.
The Bloomhill scroll presses against my side, a lump of leather and parchment, tucked deep in the satchel.
Six vampire children. One eccentric baroness. An estate with a name that sounds like a sigh.
I’m not sure what I expect, but I know what I won’t do.
I won’t fail again.
The words drop heavy in my chest. Iron, unmoving.
By midday, we crest the last ridge. Mist curls through the distant hills, and there—half-shadowed, half-blooming—rises Bloomhill Manor. Roses climb the outer walls like they’ve been waiting for someone to arrive.
Briar snorts beneath me. I can’t tell if it’s approval or a warning.
I touch her neck to ground her, then we ride.
***
Bloomhill Manor looks respectable from a distance. Grand, even. Ivy-curtained spires, tall glass windows, roses blooming out of season.
Up close, it smells like honey and iron.
An older woman waits out front. Straight-backed, sharp-eyed, and in plain dress, sleeves rolled tight for work. She seems human enough.
“Ser Tamsin Greaves, I take it.” Her voice is steady, measured.
I incline my head. “That’s right. And you are?”
“Margot Thistlewhite.” She doesn’t curtsy. If anything, she appraises me—openly, unflinching.
We take each other’s measure in silence—the lines at her mouth, the callus at her thumb, the way she stands like someone who’s had to keep too much together for too long.
She looks back at me just as hard, eyes tracing my armor, scar, posture.
A critique sharp enough that I find myself straightening in the saddle.
“You’re the steward?” I ask.
“I’m what’s needed,” she says. No more.
My gaze flicks to the quiet grounds. No servants bustling. Not even a boy to hold Briar’s reins. Here stands Bloomhill… and only one woman to meet me.
“Light staff,” I remark.
Her mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “We manage.”
It tells me nothing. Or maybe it tells me everything.
Her gaze slides to Briar, still pawing at the earth. “The stables are down the west path. Fresh hay should be waiting. After that, the front door will be open,” she says. “Let yourself in when you’re ready.”
No courtesy. No ceremony. Just instruction.
I adjust the satchel strap across my shoulder. “Simple enough.”
“Good,” she replies, already turning away.
I watch her for a moment, the way she carries herself back inside… Margot Thistlewhite is clearly a woman who’s used to fending off storms with her bare hands.
For half a breath, I wonder what storm I’ve just walked into.
I urge Briar forward again, towards the stables. She goes without fuss—reliable as ever. Inside, the air is warmer, thick with straw and horse-musk. A pair of doves clatter out of the rafters as I settle her into the stall.
Briar stamps once, testing the ground, then lowers her head to the hay. Good enough. I run a hand down her neck, feeling the steady thrum of muscle under hide.
“You’ll live,” I murmur.
She huffs in answer, as close to agreement as she ever gets.
When I step back outside, the courtyard is empty. Quiet enough that the roses seem to breathe.
No sense in delaying the inevitable.
I square my shoulders, cross the path, and walk up to the front door.
***
The moment I cross the threshold of the foyer, a child sinks their teeth into my boot.
I freeze and slowly look down.
She can’t be more than two. Pale as candle wax, eyes too large for her face. And currently gnawing on my leather with grim determination.
A woman appears in a flurry of lace and the scent of rosewater.
“Oh no, no, Vess, darling, we do not bite guests,” she says, sweeping down to scoop the child into her arms. “Especially not their feet.”
She’s… pink.
All of her. Heels, lips, the absurd ribbon in her hair. There’s jam on her sleeve and an air of disaster cloaked in charm. Yet, her smile is warm enough to melt through chainmail.
“You must be Ser Tamsin,” she says, shifting the baby to her hip. “I'm Baroness Marienne Solmere. Welcome to Bloomhill. We’re so honored—well, I’m honored, the children are… learning. Aren’t we, my little bat?”
A loud thump echoes from somewhere deeper in the manor. Followed by a shriek.
“I… yes. Learning,” she mutters, then turns on her heel.
Margot appears from a side hallway. She takes Vess from the baroness like she’s been doing it for years.
“And of course, you met Margot,” the baroness says. “Housekeeper, miracle worker, and occasional wrangler of the small and unholy.”
Margot grunts. We nod at each other. Mutual appraisal again. I like her already.
The baroness dusts her hands. “Come along, Ser Tamsin. Do you like blood tea?”
I hesitate—not just at the offer, but the word: blood tea.
Right, she’s a vampire. It had slipped my mind for a moment. There’s something about the way she moves and smiles that brings brightness instead of shadows. It’s something I’ve never associated with vampires.
But, now I look, really look. Her lips curve pleasantly, and my gaze flickers there, searching for fangs. I don’t see them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
“I’m on duty,” I say, finally, voice even. Controlled.
“Oh, then you need tea twice as much,” she says cheerfully, sweeping toward a sun-drenched corridor. “Besides, it’s not real blood. The girls just like calling it that. It’s infused with bloodfruit. Very civilized.”
I follow. Mostly because I have to.
She leads me into a solarium. I shouldn’t be surprised. Not all vampires prefer the moon. Dayborn, or those born to it, can walk in sunlight without a blister. It’s the turned ones who burn. Still… the brightness here presses against my armor.
The solarium is too warm, too floral, and smells faintly of cherries. There are teacups, sugar, and a tray of something that may or may not pass as food.
“Please,” she says, gesturing to a velvet-cushioned seat.
I remain standing. Her lips part as she pours, and it’s then that I catch the faintest glint of fang. A reminder of what she is beneath the lace and sunlight.
She sets one delicate cup within my reach, the porcelain dainty against the scarred table. An offering.
Or bait.
“Well,” she says brightly, “you’re exactly as tall and serious as I imagined.”
I say nothing.
She sips, and smiles at me over the rim.
So. This is Bloomhill.
And this… may be the death of me.