Chapter 3
Marienne
Ser Tamsin doesn't sit.
Which is fine. Perfectly fine. Some people don’t like cushions. Or sunlight. Or tea.
I sip mine anyway and gesture delicately to the chair across from me, lace sleeve fluttering like a peace flag.
“You really are welcome to sit, Ser Tamsin. I promise it doesn’t bite.”
“I prefer to stand.”
Of course she does.
Ser Tamsin Greaves is taller than I expected, a wall of polished steel and solemn silence.
The kind of human who wears armor like a second skin, all angles and shadows, posture carved from discipline, no doubt.
Her brown hair is pulled back in a neat tail, severe as the rest of her.
A scar catches the light when she turns, a sharp mark carved straight through her right brow, dragging down toward the cheekbone.
The Iron Oak, they call her. Which is unfair to oaks, I think. Oaks give shade. She gives the impression she’d rather be buried alive than drink tea with me in the solarium.
Still, I smile. That’s the trick, isn’t it?
“I understand,” I say, “that you’ve been assigned to assist with the children. And… assess the situation. Is that the proper phrase?”
“Yes.” Short. Scripted.
I stir my tea, watching the ripples. “And will you be writing a glowing review of our drapery, or is it just the children under scrutiny?”
Her gray eyes flick to mine, flat as slate. “The Council was clear. I am to observe everything.”
“Everything,” I echo, tilting my head. “How very thorough of them.”
I lean in a little, not to intimidate—gods no—but to offer a softer landing. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not the enemy.”
She blinks. Doesn’t respond.
I try again. “I know I may not be the model of traditional guardianship. But I love them. Fiercely.”
“The Court of Eldermire isn’t concerned with love,” Ser Tamsin says flatly. “They’re concerned with stability, safety, and proper reintegration.”
I hum. “Mm. That’s exactly what I thought a knight might say. Very script. Very… upright.”
Her jaw twitches. Just a little.
“So,” I say lightly, folding my hands in my lap, “how exactly do you intend to proceed? Will there be drills? Daily reports?”
“I’ll observe the children. Then establish order. Enforce structure.”
I blink. “You… plan to enforce structure on six traumatized vampire children?”
“They need boundaries.”
“They need gentleness.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares, stiff as a statue. And that’s when it hits me—this is a woman who thinks order is safety. Which means she’ll try to march my little bats into formation whether they’re ready or not.
So I smile wider. “I think we’re going to get along famously.”
Her brow furrows, clearly unsure if I’m teasing her.
I am. But only slightly.
Just then, from inside the manor, something crashes.
Ser Tamsin’s head turns immediately, eyes narrowing toward the sound. My gaze doesn’t shift. Ser Tamsin isn’t the only one observing, after all.
Instead, I lift my teacup and take a delicate sip. “Ah. That’ll be the children.”
She stares.
I set my cup down with a soft clink. “They’re from the Garden of Selene, as you know. Though tell me… how much do you actually know?”
Her eyes flick to me, cool and gray. “Enough. That it was a vampiric cult.”
I nod. “No one likes to talk about it unless it’s in a whisper… and followed by a blessing.”
Her gaze hardens. “And the Court allowed you to take them in?”
“They did not allow it,” I say sweetly. “They didn’t know. At first. But what was I to do, hmm? They arrived silent—like little ghosts. Naera brought them. I’d met her once, years ago. She remembered, and well…” I pause. “It was not a difficult decision.”
Ser Tamsin’s frown deepens. “Six children from a defunct cult? Vampiric? And you say they were silent?”
“For days,” I murmur. “They wouldn’t eat, or rather, drink. Wouldn’t sleep unless curled together like fledglings. When I tried to play music, Siven hissed at me.”
The memory brings a smile to my lips, almost fond.
Something flickers across Ser Tamsin’s face. Not amusement—no, likely never that—but perhaps a distant cousin of curiosity.
“They’re better now,” I continue. “Siven only hisses on special occasions. Callen started brushing the others’ hair in the mornings. Even Vess only bites when she’s hungry. Or startled. Or bored.”
Ser Tamsin doesn’t smile, but her grip on the chair-back eases.
“What’s their routine?” she asks.
I blink. “Routine?”
“You know. Structure. Waking, meals, lessons.”
“Oh,” I say delicately. “Well. There’s tea. At some point. Usually. Blood midday. The rest we discover as we go.”
“Baroness.”
I hold up a hand. “Yes, yes. I know. We are working on it. But they are not soldiers, Ser Tamsin. They are children who were raised on ritual, obedience, and silence. I will not replace one form of tyranny with another. They are learning what it means to choose.”
Ser Tamsin studies me, and I let her.
I don’t shrink, even if her gaze is as sharp as a lance. Let her measure me. Let her mark every fray in my lace and every crack in my carefully arranged cheer. She won’t find a perfect baroness here.
Only me.
“Well,” I say after a beat, smoothing my skirt and rising. “Would you like to meet them?”
She straightens, tall and grim as a tombstone. “Yes.”
I smile. “Lovely. Don’t make sudden movements. And if Siven starts talking about the sugar bowl, just nod.”