Chapter 31 Marienne
Marienne
Viremont Estate gleams like a polished blade beneath the starlight—cold, bright, watching.
Our carriage rolls to a slow stop at the edge of the great stone circle, wheels whispering across cobblestone.
High above, balconies swell with noble silhouettes, their breath misting like smoke in the cool air.
Golden sconces flare along the archways, casting sharp light across marble, velvet, and the soft crush of anticipation.
We are announced before I’ve fully gathered my thoughts.
“Baroness Marienne Solmere of Bloomhill Manor,” the steward calls, voice clear as cut crystal, “and her wards.”
The children go still inside the carriage. I smooth my gown, my smile, my breath.
“And,” the steward adds, with only a slight pause, “Ser Tamsin Greaves, sworn blade to the Eldermire Council.”
A murmur ripples up the stairs. Of course they would notice. A baroness escorted by six unregistered vampire children and a court-appointed knight? The rumors will feed on this for weeks.
I step out first. The hem of my gown brushes the stone, pale silk catching the torchlight like water.
The children follow just as we practiced: measured, quiet, dignified.
No clinging. No fidgeting. Callen’s ribbon stays tied. Liri’s gloves stay on.
Margot dismounts behind them—unannounced, of course. Vess is carried in Margot’s arms, her head tucked neatly beneath the woman’s chin.
Margot doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. Her entire focus is the children, hands steady, presence solid. She is not dressed to impress, only to endure.
They are perfect.
And I am proud.
Tamsin dismounts last. Her boots hit the stone with quiet finality. If she notices the staring, she doesn’t show it. Her posture doesn’t waver.
We step into the estate together, escaping the cold. The air inside is warmer, perfumed with something floral and expensive, like crushed petals.
And then, the ballroom unfurls like a painted dream—wide as a grand temple, gold as spilled wine. Vaulted ceilings shimmer with alchemical starlight, chandeliers dripping with crystal. A lute plays away at something courtly and forgettable.
And into it all sweeps Bloomhill.
We do not skulk in. We arrive.
I descend first, arm tucked lightly around Liri’s as she clings, proud and trembling, in her lace.
The other children fan out behind us in perfect miraculous formation—Imara with her spine tall as truth, Siven watchful and solemn, Yla clutching her moonstone frog pin, and Callen beaming with a ribbon tied so earnestly it’s slightly sideways.
Even Vess, still tucked in Margot’s arms, wears an expression of stern resignation.
We are a barely-held breath.
And we are noticed.
The whisper begins like wind across silk.
“Is that the Bloom baroness?”
“With the orphans?”
“They say she sleeps in pink sheets and eats sugar for dinner.”
“She rescued them from a cult.”
“She collected them like trinkets.”
“The baroness brought an attendant?”
“She claims it’s for the children. How else would one contain them?”
“Is that a knight with her too?”
“Oh gods, that is her. The baroness of lost things.”
I smile. Of course I do. My smile is gentle, practiced, gracious. I tilt my head just so.
Tamsin falls into step just behind me, a quiet force dressed in deep forest green that softens her edges without dulling them. She moves like the memory of war—unapologetic and unreadable.
The court’s attention swings.
“That’s the knight who knocked Prince Thale into the rose fountain.”
“She did no such thing. The goat did.”
“She was supposed to be on parade security.”
“She was parade security.”
“And before that—didn’t she serve on the Hollow Peace Summit?”
“Yes. Guarded the envoy who was slaughtered.”
“Wasn’t her fault.”
“Still happened on her watch.”
The music lilts, distant and glassy. I feel the cold sting of their words like wine on a cut. I glance back—Tamsin’s gaze is fixed ahead, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable.
A beat.
Then a vielle wails a high, familiar note.
And I move forward again, sweeping toward the welcome dais, hand resting lightly on Liri’s shoulder. The court’s judgment trails us like frost on marble.
I glance at her over my shoulder.
“I don’t like how they look at you,” I murmur.
Tamsin’s mouth ticks. “They’ve earned worse looks back.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “But you don’t deserve theirs.”
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t need to.
We pass through the velvet-gloved crowd like an ink drop in water. I keep my posture fluid, voice warm, smile practiced. Introductions begin and blur. Courtesies flicker like candlelight.
Someone leans in, voice low and eager.
“Is that the Iron Oak at your heels?”
I turn. Of course. Baroness Theda Merrow—human, sharp-chinned, and always surrounded by the scent of lilies and fresh gossip. Her hair is pinned in flawless coils, her mouth already curving like she’s tasted scandal.
“Didn’t she lose a diplomat last spring?” she adds, not even bothering to lower her voice this time.
I don’t flinch. I simply smile, sweet as sugared wine.
“Oh, Baroness,” I say lightly, an amused edge to my voice, “court gossip is always so eager to snatch at the edges of a story and call it truth, don’t you think? Though I suppose it must be difficult to tell the difference when you only ever hear the echoes, not the facts.”
Her smile falters. Just slightly.
We move on.
We mingle.
The children perform beautifully.
Yla curtsies with just enough flair to spark delight. And Callen charms a noblewoman with her eerily accurate recall of court etiquette, earning a laugh and a handkerchief that I suspect she’ll treasure like a crown jewel.
I breathe. I perform. I dazzle. My dress flares like moonlight. My laughter rings. My hands flit, gesture, press against satin gloves and clink crystal.
But underneath it all, there’s a quiet hum in my chest—an ache threaded not with fear, but something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Because the blade at my side isn’t steel tonight.
She’s a woman.
And she came with me.