9:10 Dragon
Gwaren Castle

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An autumn chill was in the air, but the sky was clear and blue, and the sun shone brightly, so Celia Mac Tir was out in the rose garden, determined to make the most of what might be the last fine day of this year. She'd set up her easel and chair, and was working on a painting she'd started over the summer: the garden, rosebushes in full bloom, with the castle's north tower in the background. Beside her, she'd set up a small table and a little stool, so seven-year-old Anora could paint with a brush and canvas of her own.

"What are you going to paint today, my love?"

"I'm going to paint roses, too, Mummy. We'll both paint roses."

And so she did. The girl's face was determined, her eyes narrow and a slight frown on her lips, as she made careful, deliberate strokes with the brush she held pinched between her fingers. Her hair was done up in pigtails, and she wore a frock of pale blue linen. The slight breeze had blown a wisp of hair free, and it fluttered at her forehead. Celia resisted the urge to tuck it back into place; she didn't want to disturb Anora's concentration.

Celia went back to painting. She dipped just the tip of her brush in a light, watery yellow that she hoped would be the right color to show the way the sun lit the stones of the tower.

"Oh no!" Anora sounded distressed; Celia turned to find the girl standing with her arms held out in front of her as she looked down at her gown.

"Anora? What is it darling? What's wrong?"

Anora turned toward her mother. "Paint!" She pointed at her stomach. "I've gotten paint on my gown. Please get it off. Please get it off now!"

"Come here and let me see." Yes, there was a small spot of blue on the fabric, from the paint Anora was using for the sky. It almost matched the color of her dress. "That's nothing to worry about, love," she soothed. "It's just a tiny spot. It will wash out."

Celia dipped a corner of her handkerchief in the water she kept handy for cleaning her brushes, and rubbed at the paint. Some of it lifted, although now there was a larger dark spot where the fabric had been dampened by the water.

"No, no, no! Mummy! Stop it! Stop! It's worse than before!"

"It's all right. It's just a spot of paint, and some water. It will wash out."

"But what if it doesn't?" Her voice was high and thin, and shook slightly.

This was odd. Anora had rarely been this unhappy, this adamant about something so insignificant.

"If it doesn't wash out, that's all right, too. It's just a tiny spot. No one will ever even notice it."

"But I can't have a spot on my dress! I can't! Not ever!" Anora burst into tears.

Celia pulled her daughter close, and took the girl's face between her hands.

"Anora, darling, don't cry. What's this about?"

"I can't go around with spots on my dress! What will everyone think? Everyone will hate me. They'll call me a barbarian and a peasant, and they'll make fun of you and father."

Celia's breath caught in her throat, and her stomach lurched. A barbarian and a peasant? The girl hadn't come up with those words on her own. "Anora, who said those things to you? Someone here in the castle? Or in the village?"

"No, not here in Gwaren."

"Then where?"

"In Denerim. When I visited Father for Summerday." She sniffed, and scrubbed at the tears that stained her cheeks.

Careful to keep the anger from her voice, Celia asked, "Who? Who said this to you?"

A fresh tear appeared on one of Anora's lower lashes, and her lips pinched into a tight frown. "Vaughan. And Morag and Liza. Some of the others, as well. Cailan told them to shut up, but they still do it when he's not around. They say I'm dirty and common and not a real noble lady at all."

Celia blinked back tears of her own as rage bubbled up in her chest. "Did you tell your father about this? Did you tell him what they said?"

The girl's eyes grew wide. "No! I can't tell Father. Please don't tell Father!"

"Why ever not?"

"I don't want him to be disappointed with me. To think I'm a baby, or a coward." The girl's lower lip trembled. "I don't want to make him angry again." A tear slipped from her eye, and began to crawl down her cheek, and something inside of Celia shattered.

"Again? What are you talking about, darling? You're not going to make your father angry. I don't think you've ever made him angry before. Not really. About little things, perhaps, but not truly angry."

She sniffled. "If he isn't angry with me, why doesn't he live here anymore?"

"Oh, Norrie." The handkerchief fluttered to the ground as Celia pulled her daughter up into her lap. "Norrie, listen to me. Your father isn't angry with you. I promise. He loves you." She paused. "He . . . he loves us both. Very much."

"Then why doesn't he come home?"

"Because . . ." She took a ragged breath, and looked out over the garden. "Because being here makes him sad." A tear escaped her eye, and she wiped it away before Anora could see. "Because he misses your little sister so very much."

"Deirdre?"

"Yes, Deirdre." Celia was half surprised Anora remembered the name. "Do you remember her at all?"

"No. Not her. I just remember the pyre Father built, how the smoke swirled up into the sky. And there were dark clouds, like the Maker was sad, too. And there were birds that flew overhead and made a lot of noise."

Another tear. Maker, Anora remembered all that? "Yes. There were geese. They were flying north, for the winter." She closed her eyes, not wanting to remember that day, but at the same time desperate to remember. To remember the way Deirde felt for those few hours she spent in Celia's arms. The downy softness of her dark hair. Her perfect, tiny fingers. The rise and fall of her chest with breaths that were too shallow, and the tiny, thin sound when she cried. Celia wanted to never, ever forget her little daughter who hadn't lived even a whole day, even though it still hurt so much to remember.

Celia sobbed once, as another tear fell. Had she lived, Deirdre would have been three years old just a few short months from now.

"That's why your Father left," Celia murmured, as much to herself as to Anora. "Because he misses your sister so much."

She shook her head, to clear it. In a firm voice, she added, "So I promise, he isn't angry at you. He isn't angry at me, either." Even though it felt like anger, the absence of him, the empty space beside her every night she spent alone in the bed they had once shared. "He isn't angry with us at all. You can talk to him, Anora, about anything. Your father would do anything for you, darling. Anything at all."

Anything, that is, except come home and be a father to her again, all the time.

"You promise he won't be angry?"

"I promise. You should talk to him if something like this happens again."

Although, really, what could Loghain do about it? If the Kendells boy and his friends wanted to torment Anora, what could Loghain do? Speak with their parents? Chances are that's where the children had gotten their ideas about the Mac Tirs being "peasants" in the first place. Celia should have expected this, especially in Denerim. The Fereldan "nobles" were little better than a gaggle of geese in the barnyard, willing to gossip and peck, with few exceptions. Maric, of course, and the Couslands, and Leonas Bryland. But, most everyone else in Denerim could barely be bothered to hide their distain for the farmer's son and the cabinet maker's daughter. But that they would spew their hatred on Anora? An innocent child? And how stupid were they to torment the girl who would one day be their queen?

She grasped Anora's chin, and lifted the girl's face. "Anora? I want you to look at me. Look at me and listen."

"All right."

"Do you know why they say those things? It's because they're jealous of you. Jealous, because you're smart, and lovely, and because they know you're a better person than any of them could ever be. So they say cruel things to try and hurt you. But nothing any of them says matters. None of it is true, and none of it matters. The only thing that matters is what you know, in here . . ." Celia pressed her hand to Anora's chest, "in your heart. That you know who you are, and where you've come from, and where you are going. You're a good person, beautiful and smart and noble, and no amount of paint splatters on your gown or dirt under your fingernails will change that. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"Good. You don't have to listen to what anyone else says about you. Not unless it is something you want to hear. You are a bright and shining star," Celia said. "And nothing, and no one will ever dim your light." She paused. "Do you believe me?"

Anora didn't answer, but the girl's eyes shone as though she were barely holding back fresh tears.

"Anora." Celia leaned closer, her voice gentle, but firm. "Do you doubt that I am telling you the truth?"

"No, Mummy."

"Then say it. Please."

Anora took a quick breath, and Celia thought she was about to burst into tears again. But then she sniffed, and sat up straighter. "I am a bright and shining star, and nothing, and no one will ever dim my light." Then, she smiled. A beautiful, bright, happy smile that lit up her eyes. For now, at least, the specter of those cruel words had been banished.

Finally, Celia felt her own lips curve into a smile. "That's right, my love. That's exactly right."

She pulled Anora close, and Celia thought her heart would burst with pride and love for her precious, gorgeous, brave daughter. Damn everyone in Denerim. Anora was better than any of them. A thousand times better, and Celia had no doubt her daughter would prove that, time and time again.

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