Chapter 5 Marienne
Marienne
The room smells like roses and cinnamon.
I’ve opened all the curtains, letting sunlight spill across the floors in golden stripes. Bright, warm, welcoming. After all, a baroness shouldn’t lurk in the shadows. A baroness should offer tea, lace, and cheerful confidence… even when she’s bracing for a scolding.
Margot took the children outside. I didn’t ask. She simply looked at me, looked at Ser Tamsin’s furrowed brow over breakfast, and announced she was taking “the little ones out for air.” She didn’t wait for approval. She never does.
I smooth the hem of my skirt and glance at the tea tray. The cups are delicate. None of them have ever held blood. I triple-checked.
Ser Tamsin enters. Her armor is gone, but her posture remains rigid, imposing, and impenetrable. Someone might have carved her from ash wood.
“I hope you’ll join me,” I say, gesturing to the loveseat and tea tray with a gentle smile. “It’s plain today. Just tea. I promise.”
She hesitates. Her gaze lands on the tray. I swear I see her calculating.
Finally, she sits. Not next to me, naturally, but on the hard-backed chair opposite.
“I like tea,” she says. Then, after a beat: “I don’t like surprises.”
Ah.
I flush a little. “Right. The blood. I… didn’t think. The teacups—well, I’m terribly sorry. You’ll have your own set from now on. If you wish.”
She inclines her head, not quite a nod. “Thank you.”
I pour carefully, handing her the cup with both hands. The porcelain clinks faintly against the saucer. For one perfect moment, it feels like we might talk about the garden, or scones, or whether she likes lilacs.
But then she produces a parchment. Neatly folded. Precisely penned.
Of course.
“I made some notes,” she says, her voice as flat as the page.
I set my tea down. “Naturally.”
“Bedtimes.”
I blink. “They’re not infants.”
“They’re children.”
“Children with deeply personal rhythms,” I counter. “Siven likes the moonlight. Liri only sleeps when I sing. And Imara is surprisingly the first to fall asleep.”
“A consistent routine promotes stability.”
“So does being loved,” I say, a bit sharper than intended. “And they are. Very much.”
Ser Tamsin doesn’t flinch. “Love and structure are not mutually exclusive.”
I smile. It does not reach my eyes. “You sound like my fourth governess.”
She doesn’t respond. Just taps the list.
“And lessons?”
“I provide creative enrichment.”
“Such as?”
“Tea,” I reply primly. “Culinary experimentation. And ‘discovery of the day.’”
“Discovery.”
“It’s very educational,” I assure her.
Her brow lifts a fraction. I wonder if she’s trying not to laugh or if I’ve just been dismissed entirely in her mind.
She notes something on the parchment. I sip my tea to avoid asking what.
“And what of meals?”
“They nibble,” I say, waving a hand as if that explains everything. “They don’t actually need food to survive—it’s more for comfort than anything. They drink blood daily, of course. That’s where they get their strength.”
Ser Tamsin gives me a look. Somehow, it manages to be deeply unimpressed.
I flounder. “Food is joy, not necessity. Who doesn’t like scones?”
“I watched one of them eat a raw onion.”
“Callen likes the crunch.”
“The youngest licked a candlestick.”
“She’s exploring texture.”
Another mark on the parchment.
I cross my ankles and say, more quietly, “When they first arrived, they barely spoke. They flinched when I moved too fast. They were suspicious of everything. I know I’m not doing this by the book, Ser Tamsin. But there wasn’t a book for this.”
She’s silent.
I glance at her: stoic, sharp, eyes unreadable. And yet… listening.
“They’re healing,” I whisper. “Not quickly. Not perfectly. But they are. I think that counts for something.”
The parchment remains between us. A wall I cannot scale.
Ser Tamsin’s silence settles between us like a second spine to the chair: rigid, braced, unyielding. I study her fingers instead. How neatly they fold over the edge of her list. How still they are. I’ve never seen anyone so still unless they were pretending not to feel.
I swallow.
“I never planned for this,” I say quietly.
Her eyes flick up.
“I never wanted children.” I let the truth unfurl, soft and warm and trembling at the edges. “I used to imagine myself at court. Maybe a clever affair or two. Not... jam in my hair.”
Ser Tamsin’s mouth twitches. Almost imperceptibly. I take it as encouragement.
“I didn’t say yes because I was ready,” I tell her. “I said yes because they had no one.”
The words land between us. Unpolished. Uneven. But honest.
Ser Tamsin looks at me then—really looks. Like she’s assessing something deeper than posture or schedule.
“You care for them,” she says at last.
Not a question. An observation. Maybe even an acknowledgment.
“I do.” My voice thickens. “Hopelessly.”
She’s quiet again. Then: “Intentions are good. But structure keeps people alive.”
A colder truth. A necessary one.
I nod. Slowly. “Then perhaps we try… both?”
Her expression doesn’t change. But she doesn’t say no.
And for now, that feels like hope.
Ser Tamsin sets down her teacup and folds her hands once more atop the parchment list. It’s still there between us, neatly bulleted like a battle plan.
Her gaze sharpens. “Will you allow me to do my job, Baroness?”
I flinch a little at the title. She uses it like a shield. Or a sword.
Still, I sit up straighter, smoothing my skirt with both hands. “Of course,” I say. And I mean it. “I want them safe. If that means help… structure… then yes.”
Ser Tamsin nods once, like she’s just received a tactical confirmation.
She glances at her list again. “I’d like to begin with a schedule. Nothing rigid, but predictable. Breakfast together. Then lessons, just an hour or two. Something they can engage with.”
I nod along.
“Afterward, they can have free time. And in the afternoon, we’ll rotate chores or more lessons. Simple responsibilities.” She pauses, then adds, “Bedtimes should be consistent. Even vampires need rhythms.”
“I suppose I’ll need to find some books,” I murmur. “And... an actual bell for breakfast!”
Her mouth tilts. Almost a smile. “You could just call them.”
“Oh, I’ve tried. They’re feral little bats. You’ll see.”
She levels me with a look. “I already have.”
I laugh. She doesn’t, but something in her posture softens.
“Very well,” I say, pushing myself up from the velvet chair. “Breakfast, lessons, chores, free time, bedtime. Structure and affection.”
Ser Tamsin rises as well.
I offer my hand, fingers light, palm open.
She hesitates. Just for a beat. Then clasps it—firm, warm, anchoring.
“Then let’s begin, baroness,” Ser Tamsin says.
I tilt my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
“Marienne,” I correct gently. “Just Marienne will do. For the children’s sake. They’re already intimidated enough.”
Her brow lifts—slightly amused, slightly wary. Then she nods. “If that’s the case… then it’s Tamsin.”
We stand like that a moment longer, hands still clasped.
Strangely, for the first time since Ser Tamsin—Tamsin—arrived... I don’t feel entirely at odds with her.