Chapter 21 Marienne
Marienne
The next day is uneventful, but nothing ever stays that way, does it?
We’re halfway through shepherding them to bed when the storm breaks. Not the gentle sort of rain that makes Bloomhill smell like wet roses, but a downpour so sudden it swallows the air—thunder rolling close enough to shake the windows.
The younger ones startle. Liri clings to my skirts. Vess buries her face in Callen’s side. Poor things. They’ve always hated thunder.
I hum something low and warm, the way you’d soothe a baby bird, ushering them toward the nursery. We’ve weathered storms before. This will pass.
They climb into bed, Liri with some convincing and a kiss to the crown of her head, and I place Vess in her crib.
The next rumble is louder, closer. Callen flinches. Siven’s ribbon falls from her hair. I reach for it and she jerks back. Her little chest heaves. Her eyes, usually so solemn, go wild. She hisses under her breath. The sound is wrong. Not frightened… almost feral.
She’s not seeing me. She’s back in that place, I can tell... the Garden of Selene.
“Hush, little bat,” I say, kneeling so we’re level. My hands hover in the space between us—too careful, too afraid to startle her further. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re—”
Another crack of thunder shatters the air.
Siven snarls.
“Siven, darling, hush. You’re safe. I’m here.”
My heart breaks for her.
This was more common that first week. She hadn’t had an episode in so long.
I try to hum something soft. A lullaby they enjoy—half-remembered from somewhere far away, before all this.
The words come in pieces, steady but soft:
“Hush now, little shadow-bird,
The stars will keep you warm tonight…”
Siven’s eyes flash.
She scratches—nails raking across my forearm, fast and sharp. Pain blooms. I flinch, but I don’t stop.
“Close your wings and rest your head,
Safe within the candlelight….”
My voice shakes, but I keep it gentle. Coaxing. Though, my heart is pounding, far louder than any of the thunder outside.
Then her teeth flash.
I don’t have time to move.
Tamsin is there in an instant, stepping between us.
Siven’s teeth sink deeply into her forearm.
I gasp—panic flooding me hotter than the storm outside. “No—Siven—!”
Tamsin doesn’t flinch.
“It’s okay,” Tamsin says, voice steady as a hearthstone. She cups the back of Siven’s head, the other hand braced against her shoulder. “Easy. You’re not there. You’re here. Just breathe.”
Her tone doesn’t change, even when Siven’s jaw clenches harder, though I see her tense.
I can’t seem to breathe myself.
The scent of her blood is thick in the air, curling into my lungs, tangling with the panic clawing at my ribs.
“Look at me,” Tamsin says gently, and somehow Siven does. “That’s it. Just here. Just now.”
It works. Slowly, her mouth loosens. She sags against Tamsin like the fight’s gone out of her entirely. She blinks, dazed, and Tamsin eases her toward the bed, tucking her in as if the bite never happened.
The smell of blood is everywhere now.
I’m at Tamsin’s side before she’s even straightened. The first thing my hands find is a folded silk from my pocket—a handkerchief I’d brought to tie my hair. Not meant for this. My fingers shake as I press it to her arm.
“Hold still,” I manage, but it comes out thinner than I intend, not sharp, just shaken. Crimson spreads across the pale silk, blooming warm under my touch.
“You’ll ruin it,” Tamsin murmurs.
“It’s just linens.” I’m too close now, her scent thick in the air—iron and something steadier beneath it. My fangs ache. My voice drops to a whisper, meant for her alone. “You shouldn’t have stepped between us.”
Her eyes meet mine, calm despite everything. “Yes, I should have. She needed stillness.”
Siven is already half-asleep, curled small as if she might fold herself away completely.
I swallow, knot the silk tighter. “And what about me?”
That earns me a small, tired smile. “You’re all right too.”
It’s not fair, how she says it—like she’s just checked the door, lit the fire, and settled me into safety with a single glance. I want to tell her she’s wrong. That I am not all right. That the sight of her blood on my hands will keep me awake long after the storm has passed.
But I don’t.
Instead, I smooth a hand over Liri’s hair, tucking the quilt up to her chin. The little ones are settling, the storm outside ebbing. If the scent of Tamsin’s blood bothers them, they hardly show it.
“All right, my bats,” I whisper, keeping my voice light. “The rain will sing you to sleep. Dream something soft for me.”
I smile until I’m certain they’ve all closed their eyes. Only then do I straighten and follow Tamsin out into the hall.
She’s cradling her arm like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another mark on a map of older battles. But the silk is soaked, and the faint scent of her blood clings to me like heat.
“Let me see,” I say, before she can argue.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s bleeding through my handkerchief,” I counter, tugging her gently toward the sitting room. “That’s not fine.”
She sighs, but lets me steer her.
By the firelight, the wound looks angrier than she’ll admit—punctures low on her forearm, blood smeared and beginning to dry.
Part of me wants to screech for Margot, to pace and panic and let someone more qualified assist.
Another part of me—darker, older—wants to slit my own wrist and press my vampiric blood to her mouth, to heal her the fast way. But humans are often opposed to that sort of thing.
So, I swallow that irrationality down hard.
Instead, I fetch the kit we keep in pristine condition. It’s intended for the human staff, of course, not for knights bitten by tiny vampires.
When I return to her side, my hands are steady. I will them to be.
“I’ve had far worse,” she says, watching me as I dab the blood away.
“That’s not comforting,” I murmur, and it comes out softer than I mean.
She’s quiet for a beat. Then, she says, “You don’t have to fuss over me.”
I glance up. Her gaze is steady, unreadable.
“I won’t put it in the report,” she adds. “It was my own fault. Not Siven’s.”
I lift a brow. “I’m not doing this because of your report.”
Her eyes flicker. The silence stretches.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m not… used to this.”
That softens something in me. Just a little. Just enough.
“Well, you don’t have to be used to it.” A bittersweet smile curls at the edges of my mouth. “You just have to sit still and let me fuss. Think you can manage that, Ser?”
At her nod, I clean the bite as gently as I can, my fingers brushing her skin more than they should. The room is quiet except for the storm’s distant rumble. It feels like the world has pulled in close, holding its breath with us.
When I wrap the linen snug around her arm, she exhales. Not relief exactly—something quieter.
“That’s much better now, isn’t it?” I ask softly.
She nods.
But I don’t step back. Not yet.
My hands linger, just a breath longer than they should—hovering at the edge of her skin, memorizing the heat, the shape, the weight of her before I let go.
Outside, the rain begins to ease, softening against the windows.
Inside, it feels like the storm has only just begun.
Tamsin shifts. Her voice is low, almost grudging. “Thank you.”
Then she’s gone—slipping into the hallway, boots quiet on the stone.
I stand there in the dim firelight long after she’s disappeared, the bandages packed away, the silence stretching.
My fingers still smell faintly of iron and storm.
When I return to my own room, it’s not the blood that keeps me awake. It’s the way she looked at me when I pressed the linen into place. Like she’d been braced for pain and didn’t quite know what to do with gentleness instead.
Hours later, I’m still lying here, staring at the ceiling beams.
The rain has softened to a quiet patter, but it drums just enough to keep the memory sharp: Siven’s wild eyes, the flash of teeth, Tamsin stepping in without hesitation. My panic. Her calm. That tired smile meant for me, even with blood running down her arm.
I roll onto my side, and tangle my fingers in the sheets. The house is too still without her shadow in the hall, without her measured voice keeping the night in check.
It was easier, before her. Lonelier, yes, but easier.
Now there’s this constant hum beneath my ribs, a knowing that if I close my eyes, I’ll see her sitting by the fire again, arm bare to my hands, trusting me to tend her.
It’s ridiculous. And it’s not going away.