Chapter 14 Tamsin #2
Marienne leans in to listen, utterly unbothered. As if she hadn’t just taken off two heads with nothing but charm and a well-placed insult.
The women scurry off, casting uncertain glances my way. Like they can’t decide if I’m the baroness’s escort or her blade.
Maybe I’m both.
And maybe that’s exactly what these children need… Marienne too.
I watch the baroness with something taut and low pulling in my chest. Something… protective? But something else, too.
Gods, what a woman.
I’m beside her a breath later. Not quite touching. But close.
“I was going to handle that.”
“I did handle it,” she replies without looking at me.
She reaches for her coin purse, the slightest tremor in her fingers.
I murmur, “You handled that well.”
“Did I?” Her voice is quieter now. “I wanted to bite them.”
“Me too,” I say.
That earns me a glance, along with the ghost of a surprised smile as she hands the vendor her coins.
She gathers the flowers Yla so desperately wanted and presses them into the child’s hands.
Then she looks at me.
“I know what they think,” she says softly. “What they’ll say, and they won’t be the only ones.”
I nod. “Let them say it. Just keep your teeth sharp.”
She lets out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “That was your version of encouragement, wasn’t it?”
“Unfortunately.”
We share a look. Brief. Steady.
The kind you only share with someone who’s willing to stand next to you when the whole world starts to circle like wolves.
The whispers have already begun.
And Marienne’s smile—beautiful and brave—might not be enough to stop what’s coming.
***
The road winds slow and quiet beneath our feet. The children don’t chatter the way they did on the way out. No tugging on skirts or shouting about sugared plums.
Even Yla, clutching her ridiculous bouquet, only murmurs softly to the flowers.
Marienne walks beside me, but she doesn’t speak either.
Her parasol is closed now, limp at her side. Her skirts whisper with every step. I glance at her only once—her jaw is set, her expression smooth as always—but I know better now. I saw her hands shake.
I didn’t expect to feel so… furious.
Not just at those women.
At the fact that Marienne knew it would happen. That she’s likely always known.
She wears silk like armor. Smiles like strategy. But how many times has she done this? Walked into a town square, into a court chamber, into a room full of humans who smile to her face and call her monster behind it?
Is this what it means to be a vampire in a human court?
Even before she took the children in… How many conversations turned cold the moment she turned her back? How many invitations never came?
And yet she still walks like that. Graceful. Unflinching. As if the sting of it doesn’t get in under her skin.
We round the final bend. The gates of Bloomhill peek through the tree line.
A single horse waits out front, sleek and restless.
My stomach knots the moment I see the crest pressed into the saddle blanket. It’s the Court’s.
Marienne stops walking.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “Visitors.”
She rallies quickly, smile in place, shoulders back.
The children file up the path and Margot opens the door before we reach it, arms crossed.
“There’s a steward here. Came for Ser Tamsin,” she says, tone clipped. “Said he was sent by Lord Halveric. I set him up in the parlor with the good wine. Seemed the sort who’d complain about anything less.”
“Thank you, Margot.” Marienne’s voice is pleasant but distant.
She turns to the girls and kneels, smoothing curls and adjusting bows. “Why don’t you all go upstairs, hm? I think the music room might need inspecting. Perhaps the harp has grown lonely?”
Siven nods solemnly like this is a sacred task. Liri tugs on Callen’s sleeve. Imara glances at me before scooping Vess up and ushering the others inside.
***
We find him in the parlor, lounging with the self-satisfaction of a man who believes a steward’s pin grants him divine right.
He does not rise when we enter.
Marienne leads. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
He raises a brow. “I have.”
Then he stands, just enough to offer a bow—sharp, perfunctory, more performance than courtesy.
“Adrian Pell,” he says, smoothing his vest. “Senior steward to Lord Halveric.”
I know the name. We crossed paths during a border dispute last year. He handled logistics with all the warmth of a tax ledger. Precise. Smug. Completely convinced of his own importance.
Of course it’s him.
“Ser Tamsin,” he says. “The Court awaits a progress report.”
He glances past me—at Marienne, like she’s a ledger he means to balance.
I step forward, blocking his line of sight.
“You’ll have your report,” I say evenly. “But not today.”
He tilts his head. The smirk that follows is practiced and thin.
“Lord Halveric’s instructions were quite clear,” he says. “He would prefer it by week’s end. In writing. Signed and delivered.”
His eyes linger on Marienne again.
“And if possible, honest.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t touch my sword. But I lean forward slightly—just enough for him to feel the shift in air.
“So he will, but not today.”
His gaze flickers. Only for a breath. But it’s enough. He straightens, adjusts his coat, and mutters something about schedules.
Marienne, still behind me, says nothing. I’ve rarely heard her this quiet.
The door clicks shut behind him, and Margot sees him out.
I wait a beat, listening for retreating hoofbeats, before I let out a breath.
Behind me, I hear silk shift and the soft sound of Marienne sinking into the velvet chair.
“I’m not usually so unpopular with visitors,” she murmurs.
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s slumped against the cushions now, parasol tipped over her lap like a fallen banner. One ribbon’s come loose from her braid.
I cross the room, still standing while she sits. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I settle one on the back of the chair opposite her.
“You did well. He was baiting you,” I say, voice low. “He wanted you off balance.”
“Congratulations to him,” she says lightly, a thread of bitterness tightening her tone. “I’ve been off balance since the day I opened this manor to six traumatized bloodborn children with no plan.”
That pulls a breath out of me. Almost a laugh. Almost.
She looks up at me, then. Her expression is tired—but not defeated. There’s something steady under the weariness. Something fierce.
“I’m not stupid,” she says softly. “I know what the Court is watching. I just…” She folds her hands in her lap, fingers knotting together. “I wanted today to be… theirs. Not Eldermire’s.”
I nod slowly. “It was,” I say. “For a while.”
She presses her lips together. Then glances at me from under her lashes.
“Thank you,” she says. “For agreeing to the outing. I’m glad you were there.”
My throat tightens. “As am I.”
Her smile is small, but genuine. And I can’t look at it too long. Something about it knocks the air out of me.
“I should check the doors,” I mutter, stepping toward the hall.
Behind me, the fire crackles. She doesn’t call me back.
But I think… if she had, I might’ve stayed.
***
The manor is quiet.
Not still, Bloomhill never quite is, but quiet enough. The kind of quiet that hums. A hearth sighing low. A draft sneaking under the hall door. The faint creak of an old painting settling on its hook.
I sit at my desk, folio open, ink ready.
I stare at the page.
The steward’s voice lingers in my head: The Court awaits a progress report.
I could write what they want to read.
Chaos, softness, impracticality. An endless parade of silks and sweets and ribbons. A baroness more sugar than steel, but… somehow both. Six vampire girls raised on ghost stories and sunlight and impromptu music lessons.
It’s the truth, after all.
Observations from Bloomhill Manor
I pause.
Then write…
The children are thriving.
Despite their past trauma, they show signs of trust, initiative, and curiosity. They laugh. They test boundaries. They form bonds with each other, with their baroness, and, increasingly, with me.
I scratch it out.
Too much.
I try again.
Vampire subjects are stable. Emotional regulation improving. No further incidents of violence. Attachment behaviors consistent with recovery stage.
I hesitate. Add:
One child, Callen, experienced a nightmare. Baroness responded with appropriate care. No escalation.
My hand tightens on the pen. The word—baroness—sits there like frost. Precise. Remote. Clean.
I glance across the room, toward the window, where moonlight pools on velvet drapes. Baroness. It doesn’t fit her. Not really.
It’s what the Court calls her. But it’s not who she is.
I flip to the back of the folio, find the empty page labeled Private Notes—Not for Court. The paper resists for a moment, stiff from disuse.
I don’t think. I just write.
Marienne.
The ink pools slightly on the name. I let it, then I continue:
Marienne is… unorthodox.
She bribes children with candied fruit. She sings lullabies off-key. She wears heels while coaxing a six-year-old down from a bookshelf. She does not believe in structure, not truly. She believes in beauty. In music. In love. In children who deserve more than what the world gave them.
I breathe.
Then add:
I’ve never seen anyone try so hard to be good.
My fingers still.
The page feels too thin for what I’m holding. Like it can’t carry it. Like I shouldn’t ask it to.
I close the folio. Snap the clasp shut.
Not tonight.