Chapter 12 Tamsin
Tamsin
It’s been a few days. Just enough time for routine to pretend at permanence—measured breakfasts, muddy lessons, structure carved from chaos.
The blade is too light in Imara’s hands, but she compensates with sheer force of will. She moves like someone who wants to be feared. It’s a poor foundation, but not an uncommon one.
“Again,” I say, watching her reset her stance. Her footwork is wrong, but her eyes are sharp. She’ll learn.
Callen, on the other hand, is all softness and worry. She apologizes every time she swings. The practice dummy we’ve erected has suffered no real injuries, unless you count emotional damage from being repeatedly bowed to.
“Stop apologizing,” I mutter, adjusting her grip. “The blade doesn’t care if you’re sorry. The dummy cares even less.”
She nods, determined, then upon swinging immediately apologizes again. I sigh.
Vess attempts to bite the practice dummy, misses, and headbutts it instead. I retrieve her gently by the collar of her dress and set her back on a soft patch of grass like a particularly aggressive kitten.
“Observation only for you today.”
She snarls. I ignore it.
The drills resume, halting, clumsy, but still drills, and I almost start to believe this is working when a flash of parasol catches the corner of my vision.
Baroness Marienne, of course.
She arrives mid-lesson like some ethereal storm of lace and light, floating across the flagstones with a basket looped over one arm and half a dozen parasols tucked under the other.
“For sun and bad moods,” she declares brightly, holding one aloft like a banner. “Also possibly swordplay injuries. I’m told fainting is common?”
I blink at her.
It begins to drizzle.
I scowl.
She beams and unfurls a parasol—pale lavender, embroidered with tiny golden moons—and without asking, holds it over my head.
“You’ll get wet,” she says, like it’s a fact and not an invasion.
I mean to step away. I do. But the rain hisses softly on silk, and the shade is warm, and… I don’t.
If anything, I lean in before I realize I’ve done it.
The children are still flailing with wooden blades. Vess is gnawing a pebble now. Marienne stands beside me like she belongs here, like she’s always been here, smelling faintly of rosewater and ink.
“This lesson is going well,” she says, tone gentle and pointed.
I glance at the mess in front of me. Callen has tripped. Imara is dueling Yla. The practice dummy is askew somehow.
I grunt. “Better than last time.”
She grins, pleased. “Progress, then.”
The parasol shifts as she steadies it over both of us. Her shoulder brushes mine.
I don’t move.
Later, I’ll blame the rain.
But right now, I just stand there. And let myself feel, for one breath, that this place—this manor, this madness—might be tolerable.
The rain thickens, misting the courtyard in silver.
Yla tosses her wooden sword into the air and shrieks with delight, arms wide as if welcoming the sky.
Callen follows her, slipping on wet stone and laughing anyway.
Imara, ever the responsible one—even in rebellion—picks up a soggy, snarling Vess and tucks her against her side like a particularly volatile satchel.
My order collapses in seconds.
“Drills are over,” I mutter.
“I gathered,” Marienne replies, still holding the parasol, still entirely too pleased as we watch the children.
The children scatter like petals on the breeze, trailing wet footprints and laughter. They’re soaked. They’re untrained. They’re wild.
They’re… happy.
I feel the smile tugging at my mouth and kill it before it forms.
Marienne turns to me. “So,” she says lightly, “when’s our first lesson?”
I glance at her, genuinely confused for a half second. “What lesson?”
Her eyes sparkle with the kind of mischief that should not be allowed before noon.
“Swordplay, Ser Tamsin,” she says, voice lilting with mock innocence and teasing in equal measure. “You promised me an exchange. A harp lesson… for a sword lesson.”
I frown. “I didn’t promise.”
“You said—and I quote—‘I’ll learn to play the harp when you learn swordplay.’” She lifts the parasol an inch higher like it gives her leverage. “That sounds suspiciously like a promise.”
“It was sarcasm.”
“It was an offer,” she counters sweetly. “And I, Marienne of the Bloom, formally accepted.”
She’s grinning now, all dimples and delight, the parasol trembling slightly with her enthusiasm.
“You’re going to be terrible at it,” I say.
“Oh, I know,” she replies, with far too much cheer. “But imagine how charming I’ll look failing.”
I snort. Actually snort. I disguise it as a cough and adjust my collar.
“Tomorrow,” I say, before I can think better of it.
Her smile softens—not the teasing one, not the court one. The real one. Gentle. Grateful.
She dips her head in a mock bow, rain catching in her curls. “I look forward to it, Ser.”
Ser.
She seems to call me that when she’s feeling particularly playful, when her eyes glint like mischief wrapped in lace, and her voice is all honey and challenge.
And gods help me, it does something to me every time.
A flicker low in my stomach. A tightening behind my ribs. Like I’ve been knighted all over again, but this time by someone who sees all the parts of me I try to hide.
The children shriek behind us, their joy echoing off stone and roses. For a moment, everything feels fragile and perfect.
I grip the parasol’s handle just before she lets go. Our fingers brush.
And the worst part?
I don’t mind.
***
Later that night, the scream wakes me like a blade drawn too close to the throat.
I’m out of bed and halfway to the nursery with my sword in hand before thought catches up to instinct. The manor is dark—shadowed portraits, flickering sconces. Quiet but for the faint echoes of crying.
Footsteps ahead. I nearly collide with a blur of pink and white.
Marienne.
She’s barefoot in the hallway, nightgown askew, curls half-pinned and haloed by sleep. For a moment, she looks at me like I’m the nightmare.
“Nursery?” I ask.
She nods, clutching a candleholder. “Callen.”
We don’t speak again. The door is already cracked open. I push it with the flat of my hand and step inside first, blade raised—habit, always.
Inside, I don’t find a threat. Only tears.
Callen is on the floor, tangled in blankets and panic. She’s not screaming anymore—just those quiet, hiccuping sobs that sound like they’re shaking her apart from the inside.
Liri is under the bed, wide-eyed and silent. The others stay in their beds, watching.
I lower my sword.
And then Marienne sweeps forward, nightgown trailing like mist, and kneels beside her with the kind of gentleness that never startles, only steadies.
“Darling?” she murmurs, touching Callen’s shoulder. “I’m here.”
Callen blinks up at her, trembling, and then she crumples forward, flinging herself into Marienne’s arms with a broken cry.
Marienne catches her without hesitation. Rocks her slowly, rhythmically, her hand cradling the back of Callen’s head like she was made for this. Like it’s instinct.
“Was it the altar again?” she asks softly.
Callen nods against her collarbone, fingers twisted in the fabric of her gown.
“Do you want to talk about it, my bat?”
Callen wipes her face on Marienne’s shoulder, then shakes her head.
Something tightens in my chest. There’s a tug on my leg. I glance down.
Liri.
She doesn’t speak, just presses her face against my calf like I’m a tree she’s decided to claim.
I freeze. Her fingers grip my trousers.
Marienne catches my eye. She’s still humming something under her breath, rocking Callen with her cheek pressed to the girl’s temple.
“Would you like me to sing?” she asks the room, voice just above a whisper.
Callen nods. Liri doesn’t move.
“I remember a lullaby,” Marienne says. “It’s strange, but hopeful.”
She begins to hum, then sing—soft and unsteady, like she’s remembering it as she goes. It’s an old lullaby about a forest path and a gentle wind. No monsters or fates. Just a soft voice and the promise that someone will be waiting when you wake.
Carefully, I bend and scoop Liri into my arms. She lets me, wordless and drowsy, her cheek tucked against my shoulder. I carry her to one of the beds and set her gently down among the others. Her hand flutters toward a blanket. I help her pull it up.
She blinks at me. I tousle her hair. She smiles, just barely.
I back away as Marienne’s voice fills the nursery.
The door shuts behind me with a quiet click.
I don’t go far.
Just the hallway. Just outside the nursery door, where Marienne’s voice slips through the cracks like incense—warm and haunted.
I lean back against the wall, one boot braced behind the other, sword still in hand. The stone is cool. My pulse is not.
The lullaby ends. A few rustles. A hush.
The door opens with a soft creak.
Marienne steps out, pulling it shut behind her with the kind of reverence you offer a temple. Her nightgown is wrinkled, and for once she is not smiling.
She spots me instantly.
There’s no startle, no comment on my looming presence.
Just one word, quiet and kind:
“Tea?”
I nod.
***
The kitchen is hushed at this hour. Only the occasional sigh of wood settling in the beams above.
Marienne moves without her usual flair. Still barefoot. Her sleeves pushed up. She sets the kettle, opens cupboards.
No humming. No dramatics.
Just a woman going through practiced motions.
It’s unsettling to watch. Unnerving, even. Because for all her theatrics, all her lace and laughter, Marienne is rarely still. And never silent. But now… no song. No smile.
I stand by the counter, arms folded. Watching.
She pulls down a tin of dried leaves with a shaky hand. Doesn’t even try to hide it.
And gods, something tightens in my chest.
I wait. Then I say, “The altar?”
She pauses.
Fingers curl around the tin tighter. A long breath. Then, finally, a nod.
“Yes.”
The kettle hisses. She doesn’t meet my gaze.
“They were going to sacrifice them. To Selene.” Her voice is thin. “The Garden believed it was sacred. They called them chosen. But they are children...”
Marienne pours water over the leaves. The scent of chamomile and something darker—licorice root, maybe—rises with the steam.
“Selene is… revered. Especially among old blood lines. The Moonmother. The first mother. Most vampires pray to her. Light candles. Whisper blessings.”
Her hands move carefully, but her shoulders are tight. Too tight. When she places the cups on the table, she aligns them with surgical precision, as if the right angle might hold something steady inside her.
“Not like that, though,” she adds, more to the steam than to me. “Not with blood. Not with altars and knives… I visited the Garden once. Long ago, before it fell apart… Can you imagine? Those beautiful children, offered up like lambs?”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t.”
Marienne sits down slowly across from me, cradling her cup in both hands.
“They’ve come so far,” she whispers. “When I first got them, they barely spoke. Callen had those nightmares frequently. Vess would bite for no reason at all. Siven…” Her throat works. “Siven didn’t speak for days. Then one day, she told me she dreamt Selene was angry.”
The silence between us stretches, heavy as lead.
“They’re healing,” she says, almost to herself. “I think they are.”
“They are,” I say.
She looks up. Surprise flickers across her face. Then warmth.
“You think so?”
I nod. “I see it.”
Marienne swallows. Her hands are steadier now.
I wrap both palms around my own cup, letting the heat ground me.
She offers me a small smile. The first since we woke.
And gods, it knocks something loose in me—quiet and aching. Like a sunrise after a storm.
It’s not for show. It’s not armor.
It’s just hers.
And it’s mine to witness…
We drink.
In silence, but together.
Then, softly, Marienne says, “Perhaps you could put that in your report.”
I glance up.
She’s not quite looking at me—gaze tipped toward the firelight flickering in the hearth—but there’s a softness in her profile.
“Put what?” I ask, voice low.
Her eyes meet mine then, steady and shining.
“That they’re healing,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That it isn’t all chaos and bloodfruit bribes. That some of this… is working.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver, but I can feel the uncertainty beneath it like a pulse.
I study her for a long beat.
Finally, I say, “Perhaps I will. If it’s true.”
Marienne exhales. A small sound of amusement escapes her, barely there, but soft around the edges. “Fair enough.”
She lifts her cup again, cradles it close, and murmurs, “I know I’m not what Eldermire would have wanted for the children, but I meant it,” she adds. “When I said yes. I meant it.”
I nod once. “I believe you.”
A beat. The words gather before I can stop them.
“They adore you,” I say. Not softly, exactly, just plainly. The way facts are spoken. “All six of them. Even the one who bit my boot.”
That earns the smallest laugh from her, tired, but genuine.
And somehow, we sit like that until the tea is gone. Steam faded. Night stretching long and quiet around us.
Eventually, we rinse the cups. She hums absently while she dries them, something lilting and old, with no real melody. Just sound for the silence, then she bids me goodnight at the stairs with a soft smile and a brush of her fingers over her own wrist, like she’s containing the impulse to touch me.
I retreat to my room.
The manor is still. The children are hopefully asleep. No more nightmares. No more midnight screams.
I sit at the small desk beneath the window and open my folio. Quill in hand, but the ink doesn't move. The usual order of observations—discipline notes, structure failures, behavioral assessments—refuses to come.
My thoughts feel... unsorted.
The children are healing.
Marienne is trying.
I stare at the page, then shut the folio.
And for the first time since arriving at this manor, I don’t feel guilty for leaving it blank.
Tomorrow is another day.