Chapter 43 Marienne
Marienne
The next morning arrives gentler than I expect.
The light through the curtains is pale and forgiving. Tamsin is still warm beside me, one arm slung protectively across my waist. I let myself watch her a moment longer than I should—lids fluttering in sleep, lips slightly parted, that ever-present crease between her brows softened.
Eventually, we rise. Dress. Prepare.
Margot meets us at the manor doors, the children gathered behind her like a slowly rousing tide. Imara stands at the front, chin high.
“Mind your tone and your temper,” Margot murmurs to her, adjusting her collar with the practiced care of someone who’s done it a thousand times. “You are not a fire to be tamed. But you are in a house full of kindling.”
Imara nods, solemn. My heart aches.
Then Margot turns to us. “You both know what you’re doing,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “But should the Court forget who you are… remind them.”
Tamsin lifts a brow. “With words, or steel?”
Margot merely presses a satchel into my hands, eyes twinkling. “Whichever suits.”
It isn’t long until we stand in the Eldermire Court Tribunal Chamber.
I never liked this chamber.
The domed ceiling echoes too much. Every whisper ricochets like accusation. Every heartbeat feels like it could be counted against you.
We stand before the Edler Tribunal of Eldermire’s Court now—an arc of thrones carved from old yew, each draped in the sigils of noble bloodlines. Lord Telfair and Lady Elsin occupy two of the seats. The others are filled with the remaining nobles who make up Eldermire’s Court.
Behind them, high glass windows spill golden morning light across the marble floor like a divine verdict.
I do not tremble.
I do not bow.
I stand with my hands folded before me, chin high, Tamsin at my side—her shoulder bandaged beneath her armor, her presence solid and unwavering. A silent anchor in a sea of sharpened gazes.
Just beside me, Imara.
She wears clean clothes, her boots polished, her hair swept back from her face. There’s no trace of fear in her now. She stands with her arms loose at her sides, not relaxed, but ready and her gaze sweeps the chamber with quiet, unmistakable disdain.
Not a child to be pitied. A girl who has survived fire and dares anyone here to question it.
Her siblings are not present, thank the gods, but the Court insisted Imara attend as well. For appearances. For proof.
As if standing here wasn't already more than any child should be asked to bear.
Across the chamber, Lord Viremont stands in chains. Even now, he tries to look untouched by it all, his hair smoothed, his eyes hooded. But the mask is crumbling.
The Court saw him.
They heard the words—bloodlines, potential—and they saw Imara, limp and unconscious. They saw what he tried so hard to keep hidden.
Even now, as the questioning begins, Viremont insists it was all a misunderstanding. A personal belief. Harmless tradition, he calls it, as though ritual and power and cruelty can be dusted off as ceremony.
But the most damning blow is still to come.
When asked how he came to possess Imara in the first place, he doesn’t flinch. “She was given to me,” he says simply. “By Lord Halveric himself.”
Halveric, seated stiffly across the chamber, immediately denies it. Cool as ice. His mouth a perfect line of control. “I never authorized such a thing.”
And then the Court produces the letter.
I don’t know who gave it to them. I don’t know how it surfaced. But there it is.
Deliver the girl into Viremont’s custody, it reads, He believes she may be of value. We will decide her placement afterward.
Signed.
Sealed.
Lord Halveric’s crest pressed into the broken wax like a wound that won’t close.
Halveric rises in protest, tries to say the words were taken out of context, but no one is listening.
Upon Lady Elsin’s command, the chamber guards step forward. Viremont is seized. And after a unanimous vote, Lord Halveric stands in silence as his title is rescinded. His authority, his holdings, his future—all peeled from him like a second skin.
It should feel like triumph. But all I feel is exhaustion.
Until they call my name… Until it is time to decide what will happen with the children...
“There are… lingering concerns,” Lord Telfair says carefully, “regarding your suitability as guardian. The unusual composition of your household. The lack of precedent. There were, after all, whispers of instability. Of… eccentricity. Not to mention, the events of last night.”
I step forward. My voice, when it comes, is steady.
“I acted when the Court did not,” I say, letting my gaze sweep the room—one face, then another, lingering on those who once turned their backs. “And I loved them when the Court refused to see them. You called them dangerous. I called them children.”
A low murmur stirs through the chamber like wind in tall grass.
But I do not waver.
“I did not come to beg. Only to speak truth. Bloomhill has become a home to them. Not perfect. But safe. I ask only that we be allowed to keep it that way.”
For a moment, there is only silence. The kind that stretches too long. The kind that dares you to tremble.
“Baroness Marienne Solmere,” Lady Elsin speaks up, “you carry the legacy of Bloomhill with grace. You remind me of your Aunt Florencia—soft-hearted, yes. But steel beneath. We failed you. And them. On behalf of this Court, I offer our apology.”
The statement falls like a gavel.
Lady Elsin lifts her hand.
“Let it be decided by vote,” she says. “Those in favor of granting Baroness Solmere permanent guardianship over the Bloomhill children, raise your seal.”
Gold glints. Crest rings lift across the chamber.
Unanimous.
I exhale. Quietly. Tamsin’s hand brushes mine. A tether. A reminder: not alone. Not anymore.
I step forward again, only slightly, but it’s enough to draw every eye back to me. My voice is calm, certain.
“There is one more matter,” I say. “Regarding Ser Tamsin Greaves.”
Across the chamber, a few brows lift. Curious. Some skeptical. But Lady Elsin gestures for me to continue.
“I would like to request her permanent reassignment,” I say, and glance toward Tamsin. “To Bloomhill. As our sworn protector. If she’s willing.”
The room stills. Even the rustle of silks and papers hushes.
“We are better with her. The children trust her. I trust her.”
A pause.
“And… if Bloomhill is to be safe, it must have a knight who doesn’t just guard it—” I look to her again, “—but belongs to it.”
Lady Elsin’s mouth twitches, the faintest ghost of a smile.
“Ser Tamsin,” she says, turning to her now, “do you accept?”
Tamsin’s voice is low, rough. “I do.”
Later, a final decree is read aloud:
"Let it be known that:
Custody of the six minor vampires shall be formally restored to Baroness Marienne Solmere.
Bloomhill Manor is hereby recognized as a restorative household with unique merits.
The children shall be treated as autonomous future citizens of Eldermire.
Ser Tamsin Greaves is officially reassigned and appointed Steward of Bloomhill.
The Court of Eldermire extends a formal apology to Baroness Solmere, Ser Tamsin, and the children now under their care."
I do not cry.
But I do glance at Imara.
She stands straighter now. Her hands no longer twist in nervous knots. Her gaze meets mine like a promise.
We walk out together.
And this time, I don’t feel small in the shadow of the Court.