Chapter 33 Marienne
Marienne
The ballroom still hums like a hive, golden and dizzying with music, silk, and too many eyes.
My head swims with the remnants of our dance—Tamsin’s hand still warm in mine, the press of her palm like something remembered, not just touched. I can still smell her: smoke and green things and the iron tang of restraint.
But as soon as we step from the floor, the room shifts.
Tamsin is still at my side when Lord Halveric approaches, the sleeves of his formal coat glinting with gold thread, each button an echo of some long-forgotten crest. He smiles as if he’s a perfect gentleman—benevolent, refined, so very reasonable.
Something inside of me immediately tenses, bracing.
“Ser Tamsin,” he acknowledges her, then turns his gaze to me. “Baroness,” he murmurs, bowing as if he respects me. “A pleasure to see you again. What a radiant showing. You’ve done… remarkably well, considering.”
Considering. The word settles on my skin like cold ash.
I school my smile into something bright and unbothered, curtsying in turn. “Lord Halveric. How kind of you to notice.”
Tamsin shifts beside me, not saying a word, but I feel her tension like an unsheathed blade. I almost reach for her. Almost.
Halveric steps in closer. “I mean no insult. Truly. I only worry for the children and you. The Court does too. We know how much you’ve invested. But there are—” he hesitates just long enough for cruelty to bloom “—better suited environments for recovery. For safety. For order.”
My spine stiffens.
He places a hand over his heart as if he carries mine there. “Truly. It’s not about failure, Baroness. You’ve done your best, and it is remarkable, but they need structure. Consistency. Someone credible. They need a house that’s stable, not sentimental.”
Behind me, I feel Tamsin inhale.
I don’t blink. “They need love.”
His smile falters, just for a breath. “Love,” he says softly, “is a lovely thing, but not always… sufficient. I’ve petitioned only because I care.”
“And because you’ve always wanted a legacy.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Before I can respond further, another voice slices in like chilled silk.
“Baroness of the Bloom.” Lord Viremont’s voice is colder than Halveric’s and far more dangerous for it. “We finally meet.”
I turn—and there he is. Polished. White-haired. A vampire noble of ancient line, his court robes embroidered with motifs I half-recognize from old temple etchings. The kind once carved on the altars of the Garden. His signet bears a serpent wound around a dying flower.
I’ve never met him in person before. I know of him, of course. Everyone does. The vampire with Garden roots who somehow still dances in the Eldermire Court. Who acquired a respectable position in said human court.
I curtsy. He bows, one hand splayed theatrically across his chest, a performer too aware of his audience. But his eyes are not on me.
They flicker past my shoulder—toward the children and Margot.
When his gaze returns to mine, it’s soft. “I’ve heard so much of your household. I confess, I was curious to how one makes a family out of ashes.”
My voice is honey-dipped steel. “Some of us were born in fire. Ash is only the beginning.”
He laughs, gentle and false. “Would you join me, Baroness? I have a vintage you’ll find… enlightening. My private parlor off the west alcove. Just a few minutes. A diplomatic gesture.”
I nod before I think better of it. The storm is already breaking over my head—I may as well taste the rain.
Tamsin moves to follow, but Halveric’s hand brushes her arm, lightly.
“Ser Tamsin,” he says with mild finality. “I believe your presence might alarm Lord Viremont. He’s very traditional. You understand.”
Tamsin’s jaw ticks. She doesn’t move.
I glance back, just long enough to catch the way she’s standing. Rigid. As if leaving me alone with Viremont is against every instinct she owns.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, softly. Too softly. I don’t quite believe it myself.
As I follow Viremont from the ballroom, a passing courtier leans in towards her companion, whispering. I catch every word.
“How bold,” she whispers, her smile full of thorns. “Pretending love will be enough.”
It lands like a pin through silk.
My steps falter.
What if she’s right?
What if this whole home I’ve made is nothing more than a child’s fantasy—a tower of sugar in the rain?
I hear the children’s laughter echo across the hall. I remember Siven’s fingers curled in mine. Tamsin’s hand on my back when the storm came. Imara’s defiance.
I lift my chin.
If love isn’t enough, I’ll make it enough. Or I’ll tear down this whole cursed court trying.
***
Lord Viremont's private parlor is all firelight and shadow—gilded trim, too many mirrors, a hush that feels like silk drawn taut over something buried.
He gestures for me to enter with a courteous nod, ever the picture of a nobleman. I step in, spine high, mask fixed. Behind me, I hear the click of the door as Halveric remains behind with Tamsin.
That was deliberate, no doubt, but I can fend for myself.
Lord Viremont pours blood from a dark bottle, one-handed and unhurried. The deep crimson catches the firelight as it falls into etched crystal.
“A quieter corner,” he says. “Some things deserve to be heard without the echo of hungry eyes.”
He hands me a glass. Our fingers don’t touch, but I feel the cold of him anyway.
“I remember,” he begins, “when the Garden children still sang at sunset.” He doesn’t sit. He watches the way the fire moves in the glass, the way I don’t quite drink. “Do the children ever sing for you?”
“I sing lullabies to them,” I say evenly, voice soft as a drape.
Viremont hums, a sound halfway between nostalgia and regret.
“There was a time when they all sang. Every dusk. Hands clasped, heads bowed. We taught them that song was a form of prayer. A form of power.”
He finally sits, legs crossing with the practiced grace of someone who’s used to being listened to.
I tilt my head slightly. “You left the Garden, didn’t you?”
His eyes meet mine. There is something amused in them. Something... old.
“Yes. The Garden was extreme,” he admits. “A necessary beginning. Not a sustainable end.”
So he had believed in it. Still does, maybe. He didn’t escape. He evolved…
A chill unfurls low in my stomach. His voice is calm, his words aren’t completely unreasonable, but it feels like speaking with a relic that remembers being worshipped. Like something cold watching the world warm around it.
I carefully keep my smile where it belongs, and he continues.
“I turned away when the rituals grew... desperate. When faith turned to frenzy. But I never lost belief in the children.” He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink yet. “They are a gift to this world, Baroness. When guided properly. When protected from… missteps.”
I hear what he doesn’t say.
From me.
He sighs. A practiced, patient sound. Like a teacher disappointed in someone he once admired.
“You must be tired, Baroness,” he says, voice low. “Everyone clawing at you. Lord Halveric flailing in his righteousness. The Court hungry for scandal.”
I smile tightly. “My corset pinched more viciously than any of them.”
He chuckles. “Spoken like your Aunt Florencia. I knew her, you know. She was a remarkable woman.”
I set my glass down. My fingers are too cold to keep holding it.
Viremont leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze gentle in the way an open casket is gentle.
“I could help temper things,” he offers. “Lord Halveric respects me. He listens… most of the time.”
I do not answer. I simply watch and wait.
“And the Court trusts me,” he adds, almost absently.
“If I were to assure them that the children are in capable hands—stable, secure, progressing well—then I could… adjust the narrative. If a minor incident occurred tonight… something small. Something that reminded the Court how unstable Halveric’s grip can be.
.. it could change the narrative. Drastically. And then...”
He spreads his hands in a gesture of possibility, palms open, as if I should be grateful for the offer.
“Perhaps his petition loses traction. Perhaps the Court begins to see you not as a reckless guardian, but a clever one.”
I blink, slowly. Let it sink in. Let him think I’m weighing it.
“And in return?” I ask, though I have a horrible feeling that I already know.
“A little guidance,” he says smoothly. “Nothing unreasonable. Allow me to advise you—on the children’s progress. Cultivate their gifts. Their place in the Court.”
My spine doesn’t stiffen. I don’t let it. But inside, something tightens.
Cultivate. That word again. Pretty on the outside. Pruned, controlled. The Garden used it too.
My silence must read as hesitation, because he softens his voice. Almost fatherly. Almost kind.
“I'm not asking you to give them up, Marienne. I simply want to... shape them. The way your parents shaped you.”
The warmth in the room vanishes. I pick up my glass only to set it down again, then fold my hands carefully in my lap.
“You mistake me for someone more easily carved, my lord.”
My smile is bright—dazzling, even. My aunt would be proud.
“I know how to survive people like you,” I add. “I was raised by them.”
Viremont lifts a brow, curious.
I let the silk in my tone fall away, let the edge show.
“The children are not offerings. They are not relics. They are not yours.”
He tilts his head. “No,” he agrees. “But they’re not truly yours, either. Not yet, possibly not ever.”
The quiet lands like a drop of blood in snow.
I take a sip of the blood in my glass to steady myself. It’s smoother than I expect. Warm. Invigorating.
Too invigorating.
My fangs beg for more, but I lower the cup and frown faintly. “What is this?”
Viremont’s smile is all ivory and nostalgia. “Vampire blood. Garden lineage. Bottled nearly a century ago.”
The realization lands like a knife, twisting beneath the ribs.
A girl. One of the Garden’s daughters. Bled out beneath moonlight, beneath doctrine, beneath the same songs Siven still mumbles in her sleep.
“The Garden always preserves its roots,” he adds.
My throat closes. I swallow the panic, and bury the bile.
I set the glass down slowly, precisely, like it’s turned to ash in my hand. I don’t let it tremble.
I do not speak.
Not until I rise.
At least my knees don’t shake. That is something.
“My thanks for the conversation, my lord,” I say. “And the history lesson.”
Viremont only nods, as if we’ve shared poetry. As if something has been decided.
I force myself to turn slowly. Not to run. To walk. One foot, then the next. Silken steps over stone. I open the door and step out of the parlor.
The corridor is cool. Brighter. I can breathe again. And gods, I hadn’t realized how much I couldn’t in there.
I don’t make it far. Just a few steps, enough to slip out of sight, before I press one hand to the wall and lean against it.
The nausea comes in waves. Cold, metallic, crawling up the back of my throat. I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale again.
And when I open them…
Tamsin is there.
Silent. Watching. And already on her way to me.