Dear Master Tethras,

Your Satinalia gifts have arrived! Just in time for the holiday. I cannot thank you enough for the lovely pen and ink set. It's an incredible piece of machinery – even better than the original you lent to me. It has yet to leak, and I look forward to a worktable not covered in black dots at the end of the day.

I'm glad that your cufflinks made it to Kirkwall. Dagna and I worked hard on the design, she more than I of course, though Cole was the one who carved the original mold, if you'd believe it. I suppose Blackwall's determination to make a connection with Cole through woodworking was successful. He claims he made the little crossbows look like "how Varric sees Bianca in his mind." You'll have to let me know if he succeeded in his effort.

All continues to be well at Skyhold. Dignitaries are in and out, and there have been a few puzzles for the archivists, but nothing truly terrible is at our gate. I suppose when the world's end no longer feels as if it's right around the corner, Tevinter rattling its sword at Nevarra is like watching two children squabble on a square. But as you said, even a spirit-possessed dragon seems like a minor to do when the sky is being torn apart. I wonder if this is what Fereldens who stayed in country throughout the Blight felt like when the archdemon was felled.

Skyhold is busier than ever, but I've noticed that the Inquisitor is subdued as of late. Her circle is a bit smaller, I suppose – Blackwall off with the Wardens, Lady Cassandra – that is, Divine Victoria – with the Chantry, the Lady Vivienne with her Circle mages at the White Spire, Solas doing Maker knows what, and you back in Kirkwall trying to right that upended city. Be careful! They may force a council position on you if you keep spreading your wealth.

There are many who still miss your presence, sir. Master Pavus says there's no one to balance Sera's wit and the Iron Bull's innuendo (though I'm not privy to either, and for the former I believe he was joking). Cole, of course, misses you terribly. He asked me not to say so, but he sighed and said 'nevermind' because he knew I'd say so anyway. I know you worry for him, but you were right – he is doing well without you or Solas on his shoulders telling him how he must be. He is still himself, only more. And he becomes more every day. That he did want me to write to you.

I suppose I should end this letter. I can hear the musicians in the Great Hall tuning their instruments, which means Lady Montilyet will be looking for me soon. More's the pity. I'm to wear a mask and play the part of a wounded swan. She's told me the nobility will find it quite charming. The dress I'm in currently is a white, ruffled nightmare. You'd find it hilarious.

Have a most wonderful Satinalia. And please return soon, though I know you've only promised your services for the direst of reasons. Please don't make me start a war to see you again within the next year.

Yours,

Sinead

Sinead sighed, set down her pen and stretched. The dull rumbling of voices in the Great Hall beckoned her to do her proper duty as one of the upper ranks of the Skyhold staff and make nice with the visiting nobility. Josephine had indeed trussed her up like a stuffed bird in a gown of Orlesian style, though without the glorious colors or the hat. Her hair was uncharacteristically down and had been curled in ringlets, and a white feather mask had been tied tightly to her head while her dead arm was hidden under a small feather cape to complete the look. It was all quite itchy.

"Absolutely stunning," Josephine said when Sinead's preparation was complete, delighted in her waiting lady's work. "The Inquisitor will be the masterpiece of the masquerade, of course, but you have to be one of the interesting diversions." She was already dressed herself, wearing a fennec mask and a long, gold tunic.

"I'm not sure how diverting I am, my lady." Sinead pushed a few ringlets away from her cheeks – they kept sneaking up on her from the sides of her head. "Unless the nobles don't mind a long conversation about the deviations in ancient Tevinter dialects."

"You'd be surprised at the strange and varied hobbies of nobility." Josephine smiled. "Now remember, we'll begin promptly at eight. Do be on time tonight, or at least a reasonable fashionable lateness. It'll be difficult enough to keep some of our more…interesting members in line without wondering where my head archivist is."

Sinead checked the candle clock on the library wall. She was cutting it close – already a few moments before the music would begin to play and the guest introductions would be made. But she was loath to leave the comfortable quiet of the library stacks. She had locked the library doors for the days long Satinalia festivities, giving everyone some well-deserved time off. But she snuck in with regularity to hide away from the preparations and the revelry for as long as she could.

The soft click of one of the door locks startled her. She stood and peeked around the stacks. The door leading to the battlements eased open, and Cole slipped inside.

"I need to ask for better locks," Sinead said, smiling as she rustled over to him. "Or would that be useless?"

"I think so." He held up the picks he'd use to open the door before pocketing them. "They're very good tools. Leliana gave them to me."

He wasn't dressed for a masquerade, though he was also not in the old leathers he used to wear – before he left for Kirkwall, Varric convinced Cole that a simple shirt, tunic and trousers would help people feel easier when he offered them help. And, surprised to find that advice to be true, Cole took to wearing the same clothes as the Skyhold servants. Aside from, of course, his hat, and a thick, blue, cotton scarf wrapped around his neck for warmth.

He cocked his head and examined her outfit. "I don't think you look like a swan either," he said with a shake of his head. "But you also don't look like a lace pillow. You look like a lady wearing a dress. A…fluffy dress."

"If you're going to dig in my head, you need to get better at recognizing metaphors," Sinead grumped playfully. "And I thought you were helping in the kitchens tonight. They must be in a tizzy right now!"

"They are, and I am, and I will. I thought you were going to dance with the masks within masks?"

"Unfortunately." She brushed her hand over her skirt. "Who knew being the head of a library would require so much dancing."

"Josephine," Cole said automatically. "…Sorry. That was a rhetorical question?"

Sinead laughed. "Someday it will stick, I promise. Now why, pray tell, did you come all the way up here? Certainly not just to tell me I don't look like a water bird?"

"No." He fidgeted a bit. "So many people have given me gifts today – the Inquisitor, Dorian, the Iron Bull, Varric, Leliana, Cullen, the surgeon, the cook, Lily from the kitchens –"

"Oh, my, so many Satinalia gifts!" Sinead's eyes danced. "Such a popular person you've become now that people have the chance to get to know you."

"- and you." Cole finished, pointedly ignoring her comment. "If I find something someone will like, I don't wait for a special day, because it gives them a moment with a memory, a meditation, an emotion. Why wait for that moment?"

"To celebrate the day."

"Why?"

"Because it's – there's a history behind – see, when the Old Gods – " The first bell rang in the Great Hall, signaling the beginning of the masquerade. "Drat. You've asked a question that will take hours to answer when I've only minutes."

"But you will answer it? It's been whirling around in my mind all day, but all anyone says when I ask is 'because that's how it's done,' which isn't an answer, it's a closed door."

"Oh, now you understand metaphor." She grinned, thinking you understand more than you let on, you cheeky rogue.

He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it with a small smile.

"Of course I'll answer it, as soon as I'm able." She stood on tip toe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Now I must be off or Josephine will tell me she is most disappointed."

"Wait." He quickly took her hand, keeping her from turning away. "I have to give you your gift."

"But I thought you had no gifts to give for Satinalia?"

"Not for Satinalia, no." He carefully removed a dagger in a red leather scabbard from his belt that she had not noticed before, given his propensity to wander Skyhold armed with daggers and knives at all times, and held it out to her.

She gave him a quizzical look, then took the dagger by its hilt and pulled it from the scabbard. She walked over to her worktable and held it up to the candlelight. The blade gleamed silver-blue, its double edges winnowing down to a long, sharp point. The hilt was made of sylvan wood, its cross guard thick, rounded, and slanting toward the hand, its pommel spherical, its grip wrappen in the same red leather as its scabbard. Intricate lines were carved into the pommel and cross guard, swirls within swirls, geometric shapes that intersected each other. As Sinead studied the carvings, her excitement grew until she was smiling in wonder. The second bell rang for the masquerade – she barely heard it through her cascade of thoughts.

"These lines – I've seen these before," she said, her words tumbling from her mouth, trying to keep up with her thoughts. "These match ancient – positively ancient – murals found in elven ruins. The speculation of their importance is rampant and scattered aside from the agreement that they are important, and – this is incredible!" She looked up from the dagger at Cole, who stood outside the light of the candle. "Did you carve these?"

"Yes." He was pleased, almost bashful. "It's what I see in the wood's memories."

"I can't even begin to – this is from the sylvan you killed a few months ago in the Emerald Graves, then? Of course it is, you told me – I don't even know what to say, how can I – " She firmly held the dagger out to him, hilt first. "There is no possible way I can accept this. It's a work of art, Cole. You should carry it."

"Oh, no, I can't!" He scrambled forward and pushed it back to her. "The sylvan wood reminds me of you, not me. It has to be for you."

"Not a good enough reason," she said, shaking her head. "I'm deaf to woody memories."

He paused, then tried again. "Harritt helped me with the blade, and when I said it was a gift he made it much sooner than he should have because he thought it was for Satinalia. He'd be angry if he saw me carrying it around."

"No, still not good enough. Harritt made his choice. Besides, when am I ever going to make use of a dagger, much less a masterwork like this? It would be wasted in my hands. Or, hand, as it were."

Cole brightened. "But you will have use for it." He took the dagger from her and sheathed it. "Every time you use blood magic, you have to ask someone else to cut you because you never have something sharp with you. Or you bite yourself, which hurts and leaves tooth marks, even after you heal yourself. You need this dagger." He leaned down and buckled the dagger to the thin belt that cinched in the acres of white fabric draped over her body, then rose and smiled with satisfaction. "Now you have no reason not to keep it."

She was still a moment, wavering between refusal and acceptance. "Your point is difficult to argue against. Though don't tell Cullen, please – he'd have an apoplectic fit if he knew I was carrying around anything for use with blood magic." She took his hand. "Thank you. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever held." She ducked her head, embarrassed. "Rather more lovely than what I gave you."

He arched his brows in surprise. "But…it's Storvacker!" He grinned and held up one end of his scarf, displaying the bear that Sinead had embroidered on it over the last few months. "It even has her stripes of paint! I'm going to show her next time I see her – I think she'll like it, too."

The third bell rang from the Great Hall.

"Oh, I'm officially late now. I must go," Sinead said frantically. She hugged him, then turned and ran to the stairs, pausing at the top step and looking back. "But – why a dagger? Why not a carving of a griffin, or a bracelet, or some other trinket?"

"Because the wood wants blood," Cole answered matter of factly. "It won't get what it wants as a griffin."

"Oh. Of course." She descended the stairs, not thinking of druffaloes as hard as she could so he could not hear her bemused thoughts about that ominous answer.