Chapter 22 Tamsin
Tamsin
By morning, the storm has wrung the sky dry.
I wake early—habit more than choice—and make my rounds before anyone else stirs. My dreams were strange. I don’t remember much, just flashes. Siven, wide-eyed and quiet, mouthing apologetic words.
Marienne mentioned dream-walking once, didn’t she?
But no, after last night, it’s only natural my mind would conjure such dreams. A bite doesn’t vanish from memory just because you bandage it.
When I return from my rounds, the hall still smells faintly of rain and smoke. My arm aches, but it’s the clean, steady ache of a wound that won’t slow me down. I’ve truly had far worse.
By the time the girls drift into the breakfast room, I’ve convinced myself the whole thing was ordinary. Siven had a moment. I stepped in. I bled. We move on.
Only… we don’t.
Siven approaches mid-meal. Not directly—she skirts the edge of the table, slips between chairs, and stops just short of me. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Doesn’t speak. She just places something small on the table in front of my plate.
A pressed flower. Pale blue, edges browned.
Then she’s gone, sliding back to her seat like nothing happened.
It’s not the apology itself that gets me—it’s the fact that she thought she needed to give one at all.
When I glance across the table, Marienne is watching me over her teacup. She smiles faintly, as if to say see, they trust you.
I look away first.
***
We resume our lessons that afternoon.
The harp is waiting in the music room, sunlight pooling across the polished wood.
I’ve held weapons heavier than this, but somehow it feels more precarious.
Marienne is in her element here. She’s a passionate instructor, talking with her hands, demonstrating each phrase of the music like she’s telling a story only the two of us get to hear.
When I manage to coax a clear note from the strings, she claps softly. “See? You have a delicate touch, Ser Tamsin. You just hide it under all that iron.”
I don’t dignify that with an answer, but my fingers move more carefully after that.
She leans closer, correcting my hand position, her perfume catching in the air between us. “You’ll get it.”
And the worst part is, I almost believe her.
“Oh?”
“Yes. You’re improving,” she says gently, then teasingly. “It only sounds like a dying lark half the time.”
She flashes that smile—sharp, bright, completely disarming. And it works, damn her. I almost forget to hate this lesson. Almost.
Then the door creaks open.
Margot steps into the music room with a solemn expression and a letter in hand. The envelope she holds is thick, off-white, sealed in dark wax. I know that crest before she says a word.
“Milady,” Margot says, voice brittle with restraint. “A letter. It bears Lord Halveric’s seal.”
The air goes thin.
Marienne’s fingers still against the harp’s spine. She smiles again, but wrong this time. Too quick. Too bright.
“Ah. How lovely,” she says.
She accepts the envelope and flips it once in her hand, studying the seal like it might vanish if she blinks hard enough. Then she slices it open with one pale nail and unfolds the contents.
She reads in silence.
And Margot and I are helpless but to watch.
No sound in the room except the rustle of expensive parchment trembling between her fingers. Her expression doesn't change, but her grip tightens… just a fraction. Her thumb curls inward. The tiniest tell.
I stand. Not because I’m told to. Because I can feel it already—the shift in her posture, the stillness blooming in the air like something about to shatter.
She folds the letter again. Smoothly. Carefully.
“A formal custody petition,” she says. “Lord Halveric has filed one with the rest of the Court. He believes Bloomhill is unfit for the children. Dangerous. Instability, cultural incompatibility, the usual song.”
My jaw ticks.
She doesn't look at me. Her gaze is fixed on the edge of the room, where the light hits the floor just so.
“A final decision will be made after the Moonshadow Ball. He wants to use it as proof,” she says. “A chance for me to demonstrate the ‘viability of the household.’”
I grunt. “He would.”
She hesitates. “Lord Viremont is in agreeance. It appears the ball is to be held at his estate this year.”
That name lands like a stone in my gut.
“Viremont?”
I know that name. Everyone does. The only vampire on the Council. Formerly of the Garden, if the whispers are true—walked away decades ago, traded one dogma for another...
“Named in quiet support,” Marienne adds, smiling, just barely. “Of course. Who better to weigh in on what a recovered child from the Garden should look like?”
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
My stomach knots. I glance at Margot—and find her watching me.
Not Marienne. Me.
Her arms are folded, her brow pinched, her mouth set in that tight, suspicious line that reads like a full accusation. As if I opened the door to this. As if this letter bears my seal.
Maybe she’s not wrong.
I was the one sent here to manage the chaos. To “contain the eccentricity.” I filed the first report. I named the instability in plain terms, thinking it meant something else. That it was fixable.
Now I’m watching that same word used to steal six children from the only softness they’ve ever known.
Marienne lifts the letter again, but her hands are trembling now. Just slightly.
I cross the space between us and gently take it from her. She lets it go like it’s glass. And still, she smiles…
“You don’t have to smile,” I murmur, smoothing the crease down the center. My voice is low, meant for her alone. “Not for me, not for Margot, not for anyone.”
Marienne blinks hard. The curve of her mouth falters.
Her voice, when it comes, is barely there. “It’s habit.”
“I know.” Then I add, quieter, “But even flowers bend in the wind, Marienne. It doesn’t mean they’ve broken.”
She lets out a quiet breath. “Are you calling me a flower?”
I pause. “Yes, and you don’t have to weather it alone, Flower.”
That word. Flower.
It slips out before I can call it back, and I feel it land between us like a match left too close to lace. She breathes in, shaky, and looks at me—truly looks. Not the practiced glance of a baroness, but something rawer beneath it.
I could kiss her. Gods help me, I could.
Margot crosses the room and lays one hand, light but firm, on Marienne’s arm.
"Milady," she says, the word somehow both title and tenderness. "Let’s get you some air."
Marienne blinks as if resurfacing. She drags her gaze from mine, slowly, and turns to Margot with a smile that’s almost too polished.
“I’m perfectly fine.” Her voice is breezy, practiced. “Truly, I am absolutely wonderful. I think I’ll make tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Of course,” Margot murmurs, quiet and steady.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Marienne says lightly. “Something calming. Chamomile and citrus, maybe.”
Her skirts flare like spun light, and I watch her vanish down the corridor with Margot close behind.
I stay behind.
The music room is quiet now. The harp glints in the corner, strings still humming from where she last touched them.
I stare down at the letter in my hands, a strange sort of… hollowness… settles in my chest.
I shouldn’t, but I read it.
To the Esteemed Baroness Marienne of the Bloom,
May this letter find you in fair health and clear mind.
It has come to the Court’s attention that, following the tragic dissolution of the Garden of Selene and the subsequent placement of six surviving vampiric children under your guardianship at Bloomhill Manor, questions have arisen regarding the long-term suitability and safety of this arrangement.
This correspondence serves as formal notice that a Petition for Reassessment has been filed, citing the following concerns:
Household Instability, given the manor’s recent and ongoing transition in staff, structure, and expectations;
Cultural Incompatibility, in that the children placed under your care are bloodborn from a religiously affiliated and trauma-heavy background, requiring specialized support that Bloomhill, by its current structure, may not be equipped to provide;
Perceived Danger to the Public, considering reports of erratic behavior from the wards;
In recognition of your efforts thus far and in the interest of full transparency, the Court has elected to postpone final ruling until the conclusion of the Moonshadow Ball, to be held on the last night of this quarter’s court cycle.
During this event, the household will be subject to open observation by court-appointed assessors. This will provide an opportunity to demonstrate the viability, structure, and safety of the household environment, as well as the children’s adjustment and comportment.
Please consider this letter a courtesy, though the motion is already in effect.
May the Court favor what is best for the children.
With due respect,
Lord Alric Halveric, Minister of Noble Affairs, Eldermire Court
Endorsed by: Lord Viremont, Eldermire Court
It seems the Court isn’t curious.
They’re convinced.
I clench my jaw. I know what a setup looks like. The Moonshadow Ball isn’t a test. It’s a theatre. They’re handing her a stage and waiting for her to bleed on it.
I leave the letter on the harp stool and walk the long way back to my quarters. I pass Yla in the hall, her hands covered in blue paint. She waves at me with one smeared hand, and I nod back. For once, I don’t ask where the paint came from or what she’s doing with it.
My room is quiet. My armor glints where I left it by the hearth. The folio waits on my desk, open to the next clean page.
I sit.
The quill feels heavier than usual in my hand. Or maybe it’s just my shoulders.
There, tucked just inside the seam, is a flattened sprig of pale violet. A flower. The one Siven had given me. I hadn’t planned to keep it. But I didn’t throw it away either.
I stare at the tiny thing—paper-thin now, brittle but intact. Like something meant to be broken that managed to survive anyway.
Like this manor.
Like her.
I make a decision.
No more formality. No more observation. No more standing at the edge of something good just because I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.
They don’t want her to succeed.
So I will help her succeed, anyway.