Chapter 7 Marienne
Marienne
“You are capable,” I whisper to my reflection, smoothing the front of my skirts with both hands. “You are organized. You are, at the very least, charming enough to fake both.”
The mirror does not look convinced.
A curl escapes its pin and loops down over my brow like a mocking question mark. I ignore it, painting on a soft smile. Not too bright—Tamsin doesn’t like bright. She likes plain tea and structure and silent judgment.
“You can do this,” I murmur. “You are the lady of this house, and today, for once in your life, you will appear as such.”
Behind me, my wardrobe gapes open like a crime scene. Discarded robes in every shade of failure. I’ve settled on a gown the color of peach wine and late summer. Soft enough to soothe, tailored enough to suggest competence. A compromise.
I snatch up the new bell from my side table with something bordering on glee. It’s delicate and silver with a handle carved like a rosebud. I adore it. It is my badge of authority. I sweep down the stairs with it clenched in my palm like a sword.
Last night, I’d gathered the girls together at bedtime—combed their hair, tucked them in, and explained the new system in my most persuasive voice. The bell would mean breakfast. And—I'd promised—there would be so much fun.
I place the bell on the long dining table. Centered. A statement.
Then I give it a polite little ring.
The sound is delightful. Crisp. Commanding.
I beam.
No one comes.
From the doorway, Margot peers in, drying her hands. “Shall I fetch them with threats or promises?”
I inhale through my nose, prim. “Neither. We are civilizing this household, not leading a siege.”
Margot arches one brow. I pivot, lifting my voice like the cheerful captain of a doomed ship.
“Darlings! It’s breakfast time! There are scones and bloodfruit and possibly a surprise if you hurry!”
No answer.
I glance at Margot. “Perhaps fetch them with mild bribery?”
She disappears up the stairs with a muttered, “Gods help us,” while I arrange the table.
Ten minutes later, the children appear, drifting into the room in various states of hair and dress. All six settle on the same side of the table, like some jury prepared to weigh my soul and find it lacking.
“Good morning,” I chirp, pouring juice I’m nearly certain none of them will drink.
Yla yawns. Siven blinks at me like I’ve interrupted a vision. Vess tries to climb the table.
That’s when the door clicks.
Tamsin enters. Fully dressed and polished. She takes in the scene: half-dressed children, a battle-worn table, me wearing hope like a fraying shawl.
I smile brightly, gesturing at the food like a magician presenting her final trick. “We are precisely on schedule.”
She doesn’t say a word. Just steps forward, eyes flicking to each child, the scones, me. It’s not disapproval, exactly. Just… observation. But it lands like a stone in my stomach.
Still, I lift my chin. “Shall we?”
Let her think what she likes. Today, I rang a bell. I wore a dress with buttons. I scheduled breakfast.
Surely that counts for something.
We settle. The children slowly wake more. Liri tries to feed crumbs to Vess, who looks positively offended. Imara attempts to butter a roll without stabbing it. It’s progress.
“Oh, that’s right. Siven, darling, I nearly forgot,” I say lightly, passing her a plate with purple lilacs painted on it, “you wanted this plate today, didn’t you?”
She nods solemnly. “Yes, please.”
“She told me in my dream last night,” I say, lifting a brow at Tamsin with mock formality. “Didn’t you, little bat?”
Siven beams. A rare thing, but dazzling.
Tamsin pauses, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. “She… told you. In your dream?”
“Mhm,” I say, as if this is all perfectly ordinary. “She dreamwalks. Very polite about it, most of the time.”
“Is that—possible?”
“With vampire children?” I murmur, spreading jam with casual flair. “Absolutely. Unique gifts emerge early. Mine’s my charm.” I wink.
Tamsin stares at me. I can't tell if she’s confused, impressed, or trying to decide if I’m joking.
That’s fair.
***
The music room smells faintly of old varnish and lavender polish, which I consider a victory.
Less victorious: the children, slouched in various stages of rebellion, and Ser Tamsin Greaves, arms crossed like a judgmental statue, watching from the corner as if ready to strike should I attempt treason with a tambourine.
I clap my hands once, trying for authority and sunshine in equal measure.
“Welcome to our very first lesson!” I announce.
Yla immediately lies down on the rug.
“We shall learn to dance,” I continue, undeterred. “A noble pursuit. Graceful, refined. Essential to courtly success!”
Callen makes a noise like a wounded dove.
“Why?” Imara asks, arms folded, eyes sharp.
I blink. “Well… because! What if you’re invited to a party? Or a ball! Imagine—the chandeliers, the gowns, the grand music!”
“I don’t like music,” Imara says flatly.
Callen starts humming a hymn. Loudly. Wrongly. Mostly to annoy Imara. It seems to work, if her signature glare is anything to go by.
I clap my hands once, determined not to lose momentum. “All the more reason to practice. Grace under pressure, darlings! Now—”
I gesture toward the makeshift dance floor, skirts rustling as I step back.
“Shall we learn the half-turn promenade?—Yla, darling, that’s not a pivot, that’s an exorcism—Vess, please don’t eat that.” I lunge just in time to rescue a half-mangled sheet of music from her small, vicious teeth.
Siven hasn’t moved. She stares at me from the window seat, wide-eyed and unreadable. I offer her a little bow. “Would you like to dance with me, sweetling?”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Quiet as the moon.
I turn to my last, desperate hope. “Ser Tamsin?”
She raises a single eyebrow.
“Do you know how to dance?”
“I know how to march,” she says.
I try a smile. “Well, marching is just dancing with fewer apologies.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
I offer a hand. She stares at it like it might bite her.
“Come now,” I say, brightly. “For the children.”
“I’m not a prop.”
“No,” I agree. “But you might be a very stern metronome.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t crack a smile. I drop my hand, smoothing the rejection into my skirts.
“Well then,” I say, pivoting with what I hope is grace, “perhaps something else.”
I sit cross-legged on the floor and pat the space around me. “Let’s tell a story.”
Six pairs of eyes shift toward me. Suspicious. Curious.
“I’ll start,” I say. “Once, there was a fox who lived in the walls of a crumbling palace. She’d never seen the stars, only heard the wind speak of them. One day, she met a knight with golden hair and a missing ear…”
As I speak, I reach for the lap harp. The strings sing under my fingers. Yla grabs the little bone flute. Imara, with the gravitas of an ancient queen, picks up the lute and strums a single, serious chord.
Even Vess seems interested, toddling over to collapse into me.
Callen hums, softer now. Harmonizing, not sabotaging.
The story unfolds like a scarf unraveling, thread by thread. They listen. They play. They forget to be wary.
At some point, I glance up. Tamsin hasn’t moved. But she’s watching—less like a judge, more like… a scout. Someone peering into unknown terrain.
She mutters, just loud enough for me to hear, “Better than nothing.”
I beam at her as if she’s declared my sainthood.
“Yes,” I agree softly, stroking the harp strings again. “It very nearly is.”
***
The garden hums with lazy bees and soft wind. The children scatter like petals, each drawn to something different—Imara to the sun-warmed bench, Yla to the tall flowers that droop like sleepy dancers, and Vess to Margot’s heels, which she appears determined to nip.
Lunch, if it can be called that, was bottled blood shared beneath the ivy trellis, with a side of candied bloodfruit.
Now, the manor breathes with the strange peace that only follows brief chaos. I’m just beginning to enjoy it when Tamsin steps forward and clears her throat.
“Would you like a swordplay demonstration?” she asks the children, nodding to the small clearing.
Imara looks up with interest. Callen perks.
“A demonstration?” I echo, more delighted than I probably should be.
“Basic stances,” Tamsin says. “Movement. Distance. Discipline.”
She’s already rolling her sleeves. Her voice is clipped, but I see the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“I’d love that,” I say. And mean it, to a frankly unreasonable degree.
The children gather. Well, I gather them—with only minimal coaxing, bribery, and one halfway-stern look for Callen, who was attempting to scale a tree.
Vess climbs into my arms, as she is still in a phase where sharp things draw her like a moth to flame.
Her fingers curl into my shoulder. Margot lurks a polite distance behind us with an expression of mild dread.
Tamsin steps into the center of the circle, boots crunching softly against the packed earth. She stands still for a breath. Then, for the first time, she draws her sword.
The sound alone captures them.
A soft metallic whisper, followed by awe.
The blade flashes in the sun, but her movements are not showy. There’s no flourish, no theatrical sweep, only force. Clean, economical lines that speak of repetition, of brutal necessity. She moves like someone who knows the weight of a blade in blood. Not a performance. Not a game.
For war.
The children fall silent. Even Vess stills in my arms.
They’re not frightened.
They’re enthralled.
The blade slices through air in a sharp arc. She turns her hips, shifts her stance, pivots—
—and I forget to blink.
Her shirt clings where she’s sweating beneath it, pale linen against scarred muscle. Her jaw is set, not in anger, but in focus. Absolute, unshakable focus.
Gods.
Callen gasps when she finishes with a final, slow sweep of the sword that halts an inch from the ground. Imara claps once.
And I—well.
I find myself applauding.