Chapter 4 Tamsin
Tamsin
The baroness talks as we walk.
Correction: she glides, lace whispering at her ankles, pink heels tapping cheerfully over flagstones as if she’s not leading me into a situation that’s already spiraling off every chart of standard protocol. Her voice is warm. Musical. Too much.
She points out rooms as we pass.
“That’s the library. And oh, the music room is just through there. We have a lovely harp and assortment of instruments.”
I follow. Silent. Watching.
There are too many velvet chairs, too many flowers, too many smells—lavender, lemon balm, rosewater, something coppery underneath it all. No straight lines. No sense.
This place is a maze that’s lost its map.
She gestures to a crooked staircase. “Callen frequents the tower room. She likes the air and the view, I imagine.”
“You’re letting a child play in the tower unsupervised?” I ask flatly.
The baroness stops, turns, and tilts her head, one brow lifting.
“She’s twelve,” she says, as if I’ve asked whether a fish should be allowed to swim. “I think it’s very healthy.”
She continues her tour with an unbothered hum.
Every corridor is worse than the last—in one, I spot curtains sewn from three different fabrics… in another, there’s a painting that’s either a priceless heirloom or the furious scribbles of feral children. Likely both.
And yet…
There’s laughter in the walls. Light, somehow, even here.
“I know this must be… unconventional,” she says as we approach another room. “But they are safe. They are loved. And they’re beginning to bloom.”
She glances at me again. Not proud. Not defensive. Just… hopeful.
Dangerous emotion, that.
We round the corner.
A small girl crouches on a wide windowsill, eyes bright and unreadable. Another brushes a doll’s hair with what might be a stolen fork. I count four. No, five. Vess must still be with Margot. They are all quiet now, watching.
“Ser Tamsin,” says Baroness Marienne gently, “meet the children.”
She kneels then, and opens her arms.
“Darlings, come meet Ser Tamsin, the knight I told you so much about. Come, come. She doesn’t bite, I promise.”
And they come.
I stand still as little bodies wrap themselves around her skirts, as small hands cling to lace, as quiet voices murmur names I struggle to catch.
The baroness introduces them to me: Imara. Callen. Siven. Liri. Yla.
I realize… I don’t know how to do this, but I nod anyway.
And I keep watching the baroness, wondering how someone so messy, so soft, could be the strongest person in the room.
Later that night, Margot shows me to my room.
“Guest wing’s all yours,” she says, handing me a candle.
I nod, and she gives me a look that says I’ll be watching, then disappears down the corridor.
The room is... extravagant.
All soft velvet and carved wood, polished mirror and towering bedposts. There's a faint floral scent, something pressed between the linens. Lavender, maybe.
I set the candle on the side table and start unbuckling my armor. My joints ache. I’d been bracing all day.
The mirror looms across from the bed. I avoid it on instinct.
Not tonight.
Instead, I retrieve the small folio from my satchel, the one the court provided, stamped with Eldermire’s seal. Tucked inside is my reassignment. The pages of the actual folio are still blank with space for observations, assessments, and strategizing.
I flip to the first blank page and begin writing by candlelight.
Day One
Arrival uneventful. No apparent security risks en route.
Bloomhill Manor appears structurally sound.
Baroness Marienne Solmere is cordial, overly familiar, and concerningly disorganized.
House staff minimal. Only one confirmed employee: Margot Thistlewhite.
Children are quiet, not outwardly violent despite the initial biting incident.
Routines unclear. Educational structure nonexistent. Boundaries loose. Recommend observation over several days before intervening directly.
Initial impressions:
— Potential for stabilization.
— Significant lack of order.
— Baroness unlikely to adhere to standard protocol.
I stop there.
Reread it once. Then again.
It's not unkind, but it’s not generous either. Just the truth, filed down to bone. I wonder if she’ll see it when the Court reviews these. If she’ll smile at me anyway.
Not that it matters.
I close the folio and slide it beneath my folded shirt on the nightstand. Tomorrow will be full: observation, questions, likely disagreements.
I’m used to that.
I lie back against the pillows, stiff in a bed that feels like it belongs to someone else. Lace curtains rustle in the breeze.
Somewhere down the hall, a woman hums an old hymn off-key. The baroness? I listen until the sound fades.
Then I close my eyes.
I won’t fail this time.
***
I rise before the sun. Old habit. The kind that burrows into bone.
Fog still clings to the manor windows, and the hallways briefly hum with silence. I dress and make my first rounds.
The corridors wind like veins, too ornate for sense. I count: four candelabras knocked askew. One cracked window in the east hall, open despite the chill. A teacup abandoned on the third stair up from the cellar, rim stained red with something I suspect is not tea...
I crouch to examine it. It’s the same cup she gave me yesterday… Lovely.
There’s a portrait near the library, just slightly crooked. I fix it. A woman in silver robes and a high collar stares back. She looks like Baroness Marienne… same cheekbones, same eyes, but more severe. Less lace, more judgment. I stare a moment too long.
Then something thuds. I turn.
The corridor is empty, but the sound of little feet and a stray giggle float back to me.
I don’t intervene. Not yet.
Assessment first. Then correction. That’s the order.
***
The day unfolds in a series of seemingly chaotic events…
Siven whispers secrets to the sugar bowl, Baroness Marienne bribes one of the girls with a cube of candied bloodfruit, then turns and sweetly offers me one like this is perfectly normal protocol.
Outside, Yla is crouched in the garden, counting how many flowers are too pale a shade of yellow, her lips moving with the numbers, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.
“Too many,” she says at last. “Come look, Mari.”
And Baroness Marienne, without hesitation, stoops down to help her and points out some other own. All while smiling like this is the most natural thing in the world.
I recalibrate. Again.
Throughout the day, there are only a few moments of structure. One of which is what the baroness fondly calls “blood time," the other is tea.
***
Blood Time
The parlor smells of rosewood and copper. Baroness Marienne pours blood from a dark bottle into one of the same rose-printed teacups used for chamomile and lemon balm…
Yla giggles with blood smeared on her chin. Imara watches me—no, glares at me—from a window seat like she’s waiting for me to say something she can hate.
All the while, my stomach turns. Those teacups are the same she uses for actual tea.
She notices my look of disgust. Of course she does.
“It’s cleaned between uses,” she says gently, as if that’s the issue.
I blink. That… is unsanitary.
***
Tea Time
The kitchen is a battlefield of sugar and floral china.
Vess is already crying. Loud and high-pitched. The baroness sweeps her into her arms without missing a step and begins humming something tuneless but soft. It works. The child hiccups once, curls into her shoulder, and sniffles.
Then Baroness Marienne knocks the sugar canister off the counter.
“Oh no,” she says, utterly unbothered.
Granules scatter like glass across the tile. She presses a kiss to Vess’s forehead and spins away to fetch a cloth, skirts trailing through the mess like she’s dancing through disaster.
Liri takes the opportunity to lick sugar off the table.
Margot barks a single, sharp command. The room freezes.
Three seconds of silence.
Then the noise resumes—chatter, giggles, clinks of porcelain, the small thud of someone bumping a cabinet.
I stand near the door, arms crossed, watching it all unfold like a scene from some chaos-drenched play
***
I retreat to my quarters just after dusk.
The manor has quieted, though faint footsteps still echo upstairs. Margot passes me in the hall. She nods once.
In my room, the mirror looms above the washbasin. I avoid it. Again.
By candlelight, I open my folio. The ink smells safe… like structure, sanity, the illusion of control.
Assessment: Bloomhill Manor, Day Two
Pros:
Children housed, fed, physically unharmed.
Margot.
Cons:
No formal schedules.
Irregular meals.
Lack of hygiene standards.
Inconsistent discipline.
Emotional dependence on the baroness.
No real authority figure.
I underline that last one. Twice.
Then, at the bottom, in smaller script:
To discuss with the baroness: lessons, bedtimes, basic rules. Formal expectations. Possible external aid.
I close the folio and set it beside the oil lamp.
It’s worse than I thought.
Tomorrow, I speak with her.