Chapter 18 Tamsin
Tamsin
Lord Halveric doesn’t look up when I’m shown in.
He’s seated behind a long table strewn with correspondence and cut fruit he won’t eat. Lord Telfair sits beside him, half-buried in his own stack of parchment, scribbling notes in a lazy, looping hand. He barely glances up—content, it seems, to let Halveric do the talking.
The windows behind them let in light, but none of it touches Halveric’s face.
“Ser Tamsin,” he says, without warmth.
“My lord.” I bow. Crisp. Clean.
He holds out his hand. I place the report in it and wait while he breaks the seal with a gold-handled blade. It’s meant to be symbolic. Sharp words, sharp steel.
He reads in silence.
I count his breaths as the minutes pass.
Then: “So. Marienne of the Bloom has not, in fact, set the manor on fire.”
“No, my lord.”
“She’s only taken in six unstable vampires, lost most of her staff, and enlisted you to host swordplay lessons in the garden.”
I don’t answer.
He hands the report off to Lord Telfair, who doesn’t even pretend to read it. Lord Halveric, meanwhile, pins me with a look.
“You describe improvement.”
“I do.”
“You use the word ‘progressing.’”
“I do.”
He taps the report. “And what would you call this ‘progress,’ exactly?”
I take a breath. “The children attend lessons. They no longer hide under beds. They laugh. They behave. The youngest reaches for Marienne’s hand without hesitation. I would call that progress.”
“Ah. So we are measuring smiles now, are we?”
“If it means they’re adjusted, yes.”
He narrows his eyes.
I hold his gaze.
“Do you believe Baroness Marienne Solmere is a capable guardian?”
The question slams into the hollow of my chest like a weight. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I do.
“Yes,” I say.
“Even with her reputation?”
“Yes.”
“Her eccentricities?”
“Yes.”
“According to your report, she sings to them, Ser Tamsin. Buys them parasols and sweets. Plays harp and lets them dictate the activities.”
“She believes in choice. She also wakes in the middle of the night when they scream,” I say. “She holds them until they stop. She listens. She sees them.”
“Does she discipline them?”
I hesitate. “I keep order.”
He chuckles. “So you’re the hammer. She’s the songbird.”
I stiffen.
He’s not wrong. I just hate hearing it from his mouth.
Lord Halveric leans back. “Tell me, then… how do you explain your own shift in tone? You were once Eldermire’s finest blade. Precise. Loyal. Practical. And now you…” A pause. “You teach vampire girls to swing wooden swords and seem to enjoy doing so.”
His tone is mocking.
“I’m doing my job,” I say. “Which is to protect the Bloomhill household.”
He looks at me. Long. Measuring. The kind of look that doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch—just files you down to parts.
“Your job,” he says, voice smooth as polished stone, “is to observe. To report.”
The correction lands sharp, precise. A reminder wrapped in civility.
Then, lightly, “Perhaps you’ve gone soft.”
I say nothing.
Because if I speak, I might confirm it. Maybe softness is what’s leaking into my hands when I steady Siven’s stance. Into my voice when I call Imara a natural. Into my chest when Marienne’s smile catches the light like it was made to warm things.
Soft, and something else…
Dangerous.
He sets the report down.
“We’ll need time to consider this,” he says, gaze unreadable. “Dismissed.”
I bow again. Sharp. Controlled. Armor bending where it’s supposed to.
Then I turn on my heel and walk out before Lord Halveric sees any more softness where steel should be.
***
I leave without speaking to anyone. Briar is already saddled. The sky has darkened slightly—clouds in the direction of Bloomhill.
I ride.
Fast.
Because I need to get home.
To the house that smells like candied bloodfruit and spilled ink. To six children who have started to look at me like I belong there. To the baroness who called me a hearth and meant it as something kind.
To the one place I’m terrified of wanting.
And want anyway.