Two days later

The first forty-eight hours after Max's promotion sped by in a rush that left him vaguely dizzy. Cassandra Pentaghast brought a small army of investigators with her to untangle the events at the Denerim Circle. Some of them were Agent Pentaghast's fellow Seekers; others did not seem to be part of the Templar hierarchy at all. A red-haired Orlesian named Leliana asked particularly pressing questions, many of them about what he'd noticed before the crisis and why he'd apparently noticed so little. Max got the impression that she did not entirely approve of his elevation to Knight-Captain.

"I am an independent counsel," she told Max when he asked about her own rank and affiliation.

"Which means?"

"I offer counsel. Independently." She gave him a vague, lovely smile that made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He reminded himself to ask his father and uncles if they knew anything about an Orlesian named Leliana.

Not all of Agent Pentaghast's companions were terrifying, however. One afternoon, Max found himself standing in front of a dwarven scientist named Dagna who had called him in to discuss Uldred's machine. Most people would have taken one look at the destroyed laboratory and insisted on a better workspace. Dagna had the entire thing tented over and worked right there in the wreckage, cold be damned.

"It was the only way to preserve the evidence," she explained to Max as he pulled his hat down over his ears. Dagna herself was wrapped in warm knits and furs; he could not even tell the color of her hair. Her hazel eyes were bright and intelligent in her freckled face, and Max could tell that despite her apparent youth, he was dealing with an extraordinary mind.

"I can't believe they smashed this thing up." She shook her head with something close to regret. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I think I agree with the vandals," Max said dryly. "This thing was a monstrosity."

"OK, OK, yes, it's a monstrosity. But it's an interesting monstrosity." Dagna reached for a plastic bag, neatly tagged and labeled and sitting on a cleared lab bench. "In this condition I don't think I'll be able to figure out exactly how it worked or where it came from. But look here. Runes—some elven, some Tevene."

Max took the bag gingerly, as if its contents might burn him. Sure enough, the glass was etched all over with symbols.

"I've seen these used before on magical artifacts, but never in combination." Dagna's eyes were alight. "This machine represents a new development in magical technology. And I don't think it was built at the Circle."

Max looked up from the shard. "What?"

"I mean, look at it. Or what's left of it. It's just too big. Where could Uldred have been hiding something like this?" Dagna shook her head. "My working theory is that someone delivered its parts to the Circle after Uldred took control."

"Tevinter magisters?" Max asked, his eyebrows climbing half his forehead in shock.

"Maybe. Or ambitious local apostates," Dagna theorized. "Agent Pentaghast tells me that the security tapes were wiped beyond recovery. We may never know, unless we catch some of Uldred's accomplices."

"Or unless they make another attempt." Max ran a hand over his face. "So you're saying that hostile outside agents have had contact with mages in this Circle. Um. Shit."

His first instinct was to limit field assignments, to keep the mages in the Circle grounds and away from compromising influences. But then he remembered Mei—the most rule-abiding mage he knew—lighting into him, her eyes filled with repressed fury as she explained what it was like to be a prisoner in this place. The surviving Circle residents, furthermore, were unlikely to be Uldred's allies, or to know anything about who had brought the machine to this Circle. Restricting them further might just create more Uldreds.

"Dagna," he said seriously. "I know you'll need to report that information to Agent Pentaghast. But beyond that, I'd like it kept between us." I'm going to need to investigate this.

Dagna gave him a sharp little nod. "Understood, Knight-Captain. I'll report back when and if I know more."


Mei touched tentative fingertips to the mirror in her room. She was almost surprised when she saw her hand reflected, saw her motions reversed and shown back to her, because she barely recognized her own face.

Her eyes were puffy from crying, the flesh around them red and tender. The swelling changed the proportions of her face and made her jaw and chin seem comically narrow. More than once in the past two days she had felt as if she might die.

But I am still here. I am still standing.

Defiantly, she turned away from the stranger in the mirror and turned her attention to the duffel bag on the bed—a deflated little canvas sack about as long as her pillow. There hadn't been much to pack. When a mage left, the Circle issued them a winter coat, three t-shirts—one with long sleeves—and two pairs of grey sweatpants. Since Mei was wearing the long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants and was holding the coat, that left only two shirts and one pair of paints in the bag, along with miscellaneous undershirts, bras, underwear, and socks.

Just to give herself something to do, she checked to make sure she'd remembered her toothbrush and her second pair of shoes, though she knew she had. There hadn't been many personal items to pack away. She'd given Guarded Hearts to a teenaged apprentice, figuring she could buy a copy freely once she was out of the Circle.

If I find a job.

One thing at a time.

A soft knock on her door startled her out of her thoughts. "Come in?" she called quietly.

For a moment, one stupid moment, she hoped it would be Cullen. But of course it was Max, because it was time.

"I'm here to drive you into town," he said. He did his best to conceal a wince when he looked at her swollen face, but didn't entirely succeed.

Mei shook her head. "You don't need to do that. There's a bus …"

"I'm here to drive you into town," he repeated stubbornly. "Any town. Any destination you want. I hear Highever's nice."

In spite of everything, Mei laughed. "I—thanks, Max."

He looked at her thin little bag, then back at her. "Mei. Are you sure this is what you want? I know—I know Cullen's in a bad place. But this is your home too."

Mei drew in a deep breath. "It's not, Max," she said softly. "I don't know what home feels like, exactly. But this isn't it. Not for me."


Mei gave Max the address she'd looked up in the phone book. Max navigated expertly, even in the alienage. Perhaps that should not have been a surprise; Denerim's poorest district was a popular refuge for apostates looking to evade Templars. Mei wondered if other apostates had taken the same step she would or if they mostly headed to the apostate bar, the center of Denerim's mage underground.

She might go there one day, once she was settled, once the idea of running into other former Circle mages didn't fill her with dread. Right now she just needed to be … away. Anonymous.

"Max?" she asked suddenly, turning away from the view of Denerim outside the passenger window. "Why didn't you turn Hawke in?"

Max raised his eyebrows. "That brain of yours never turns off, does it?" He frowned thoughtfully. "I—well, for one thing, I didn't want to rat you out as a liar."

Mei grimaced. "I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that in front of Meredith. Sorry."

"Nah, I'm glad you did. I wouldn't have come up with a cover story as quickly as you. Hawke—I mean, wow. All of them risked their lives to help us, but she took the biggest risk of all." He took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about what you said, about the Circle feeling like a prison to the mages. Dragging her into the Circle seemed like a crappy way to repay her."

Mei smiled faintly. "I'm glad they made you Knight-Captain." She knew the Circles needed more drastic change than one Knight-Captain who thought there might be room in the world for magic-using apostates, but it couldn't hurt as a start.

"That makes one of us. Maybe just one person, period." Max grimaced. "Did their independent counsel visit you, by the way?"

"Who, Leliana?" Mei asked, surprised by his tone. "She did. She made me tea when she saw I'd been crying. She was very nice."

"Maker, are you serious? She's so terrifying I thought I might faint dead on the floor of my new office," Max spluttered.

Mei chuckled at the image. "And Dagna? Did she frighten you as well?" she teased.

Max drew a breath. "No. But that reminds me. She thinks Uldred may have had allies on the outside—people who helped bring that machine into the Circle. My money's on magisters, not local apostates, but … it seems like something you should know out here."

Uldred's allies. Mei's fingers tightened into fists. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll watch my back."

A sign down the block drew her attention. "There. That's it. Helping Hands Shelter."

Max slowed the car, preparing to stop by the curb. He gave the little shelter a skeptical look. It was a three-story house, older and prettily gabled, sitting amidst gas stations and cinder-block commercial buildings; next door was a laundromat, steam rising from its roof in fluffy white columns. The shelter itself was clean and looked welcoming, its yellow paint bright in the winter light, but Mei could see that one of its windows had recently been broken and boarded up.

"Are you sure about this neighborhood?"

Mei decided to evade the question. "This place gives elves somewhere to stay. I won't be here long. Just—just until I find my feet."

"Right. About that." Max turned off the engine and looked like he was wrestling with a decision. Finally, without meeting her eyes, he pulled an envelope from his pocket, a thick one stretched to its limits with the contents. "I know this is kind of weird. But please don't tell me you can't take this. We owe you way more than what's in there."

Mei felt a lump form in her throat as she accepted the envelope. "I won't. Thanks, Max."

Impulsively, she leaned over to give him a hug. It was an awkward one, since she had to lean over the gear shift, but sincere, and Max returned it in kind.

"Call me when you're settled. I'll bring you a house plant," he said as she closed the car door.

She leaned down to smile back at him. "I'll hold you to that."

The stairs to Helping Hands creaked a bit as Mei climbed them. Inside, she could hear shouts—children, probably, running around the ground floor. Maker. What if they don't have any beds?

She hitched her sad little bag higher on her shoulder and forced herself to keep going. Then I'll find someplace that does. One thing at a time.

She rang the bell and waited, listening to the shouts of the children inside. She heard someone step to the door, and sensed that they were looking through the peephole; then, it opened.

A cream-skinned, red-haired elf with full lips and a no-nonsense expression looked her up and down. Mei licked her lips; they suddenly felt dry. "Um. Hi. I need a place to stay?"

"You're in the right place, then," the woman said with a little smile as she stuck out her hand. "I'm Shianni. We've got some beds, if you're OK with a ten o'clock curfew and a few other house rules."

The mention of rules made Mei cringe silently; it seemed too much like the Circle. But she supposed it was necessary. "I'll obey whatever you need."

"Then come on in." Shianni stepped back, pulling the door with her. Mei got a good view of a main floor covered in toys and battered furniture; one elven child, barefoot despite the cold, ran shrieking down the hallway towards them, only to turn and run back when she saw Shianni.

"I'm not running!" the little girl yelled as she sprinted away.

Shianni laughed affectionately. "Oh. I hope you're all right with a rousing game of Tag being played at all hours."

Mei smiled a little at that. "That … sounds just fine, actually."

She clutched her bag tight and stepped inside.


Naia was filling out a new invoice when she heard Juliet shout, "Enough!"

Instinctively, Naia spring from her office chair and ran to find out what was wrong. She found Juliet on the phone, her expression furious. She was clutching the receiver in one hand and had pulled it away from her ear, making sure she could not hear what the other person was saying. "I am not going to argue with you about this petty shit any more," she snapped, enunciating each word as if she were biting it off at the end. "Pay or don't pay. But if you don't, you'll be hearing from our lawyer, and I'll make sure no other agency in town takes one of your moronic, batshit cases again." To punctuate the threat, she slammed the received down hard enough to make the phone shake and ring.

Naia winced. "Mrs. McClusky still doesn't want to pay up?"

"No," Juliet spat, dropping her head into her hands. "Andraste's ass. She'll probably never pay now. I just—I've had it with that woman. I've had it." She snorted. "At least I didn't threaten to burn her alive, since I can't even do that any more."

Naia chewed her lip a bit. She'd seen Juliet mad before, but unlike Naia, she was usually good at keeping her cool about the petty stuff. "Your magic isn't getting better, is it."

Juliet dropped her hands and glared at her. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Juliet, you need …"

"You don't know what I need," her friend snapped. "If you happen to know someone who can fix me, by all means, bring them in. But otherwise would you keep your unsolicited advice to yourself, just for once?"

Naia raised her hands in surrender, trying to hide the fact that the words stung. Juliet could tell anyway, though. She grimaced and shook her head. "Sorry. It's just—it's a lousy day."

"It's fine." Naia tried to look cheerful. "Hey, Alistair asked if we could come to the Dockside tonight around eight. He said to tell you Fenris was welcome, and that he'd unplugged the karaoke machine." She punctuated this with a pout.

Juliet forced a laugh. "Sounds great. Hopefully Fenris will think so too."

"All right. I'm going to go drop off our nice fat Guard payout at the bank so that we can forget Mrs. McClusky ever existed."

That idea actually made Juliet perk up a bit. "Bring me back a printout of our new balance?"

"Absolutely," Naia promised.

But first I'm calling for backup. And then we'll have one more stop to make.


After depositing the Guard's check and getting printouts of their bank balance—pleasantly large between Alistair's payment and the Guard consulting fees—Naia met Zevran outside her bank.

The former assassin gave her a cheeky smile as she approached. "So. Varric was busy?"

"He's doing something for his family's business. Besides, this is a two-elf job," Naia told him.

Twenty minutes later, the pair stepped up to the door of Denerim's secret apostate bar. Naia knocked firmly, trying not to be nervous. She had wondered if the bar would look more welcoming up close. It did not.

The narrow steel window opened slowly, with an unpleasant little screech. A pair of cloudy eyes glared out at them. "Members only."

"Last time you asked for a password," Zevran said helpfully.

He rolled his eyes. "Password."

"Can't give you one. We're not mages," Naia told him. "But we don't need to come in. We need to see Anders. He still here?"

"We don't talk about our members," the voice on the other side of the door informed her.

"That's fine." Naia flashed him her most cheerful smile. "You can just give him a message: Naia Tabris is here and needs to see him."

"Do I sound like a messenger, elf?" the man sneered.

Zevran's eyes grew cold; the expression on his face made the doorman blink nervously. Maker, he's scary when he wants to be.

Naia let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. Don't be a messenger. But until you tell us how to find him, we're just going to sit right there on those steps." She pointed to the icy, crooked row of stairs leading down to this basement door. "Now, one of two things will happen. You'll point us to Anders and we'll go away, or we'll wait there until someone—probably the Guard—takes an interest in two loitering elves, and by extension, an interest in the rat trap where they're loitering." She shrugged. "In my experience that takes about an hour. Thirty minutes if the Guard is bored."

The viewing window snapped shut. With a shrug, Naia sat down on the steps to wait. Zevran stood in front of her, his arms crossed and his eyes firmly on the street behind them.

"Do you think he is still in the city?" the Antivan asked quietly.

"The Templars have been watching the bus stations and major roads. If it were me, I'd lay low until they gave up," Naia murmured back.

It took only fifteen minutes before the door opened, revealing not the mysterious doorman, but Anders himself. "Andraste's knickers. What is wrong with you?" the blonde mage hissed, his eyes darting around the street.

Naia met his eyes calmly as she stood. "Hawke needs your help."


Marcus watched from the window of his room as Anders left with the pair of elves. He and his fellow apostate had left the Circle together, but the other mage had given him a wide berth ever since. At first Marcus resented the implied judgment. Now, however, he was coming to see Anders' hostility as a benefit. A selfish bastard like him probably wouldn't understand what had to come next.

With Anders evicted from his usual perch at the bar, Marcus descended into the basement to order a drink. Greta, a pretty blonde regular, was sitting there alone for once, reading a newspaper and scowling.

"You read this?" she asked him as he sat down.

Marcus looked over at the headline. Councilwoman Stannard calls for new restrictions on mages. It was accompanied by a picture of Agent Max Trevelyan, being billed as the hero of the Circle crisis. Marcus glared at it, as if the real Max Trevelyan might feel the weight of his disgust.

"Not yet," he said. "Looks … revolting."

"Those fuckin' idiots," Greta snarled. "Why did they have to go and kill the Grand Enchanter? She was on our side!"

"That's not how it happened," Marcus said immediately. "I was there. Believe me. The Templars killed the Grand Enchanter. All of this abomination stuff—it's their cover-up for her murder." He'd been testing this story out on bar patrons whenever Anders was out of earshot. Some people rolled their eyes and found a reason to end the conversation, but so far, most mages seemed ready to believe this slightly altered version of events.

Greta was certainly interested; she leaned forward, her eyes widened and her mouth rounded in a little 'o.' "Really?"

"Really," Marcus assured her, taking a seat next to hers. "I'll tell you what happened from the beginning."

Maybe something good can come out of this mess after all.


One look at Hawke's face told Anders that finding him had not been her idea. Her eyes widened in surprise when he entered the office and she glared across her desk at Naia.

The elf just shrugged and turned her palms up sheepishly. "You said if I knew anyone …"

Anders thought Hawke might throw him out on his ear. But then she met his eyes, and her face was filled with worry.

The expression was unexpected and unsettling. The last time he'd seen Hawke she had seemed like magic incarnate—a goddess raining vengeance and destruction down on the Circle's abominations. It felt almost wrong to see her in her ordinary little office, clearly sleepless and stressed, looking at him as if he might be her only hope. He'd come with Naia largely unwillingly—given what he knew about the elf, it had seemed like the path of least resistance—but Hawke was the reason he was free. Whatever was wrong, he owed it to her to at least try to help.

"So," he said, breaking the silence. "Your friend was a little vague, but she said you need a healer's consult?"

Hawke nodded. "Come on in. Close the door behind you."

As Hawke explained the problem, Anders rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them before he examined her. He thought he had a good sense of what had happened, but it was hard to tell just how bad it was without delving deeper. Hawke struck him as the kind of person who under-sold her injuries.

"Hold still. This is going to feel a little strange." Anders pressed the first two fingers of each hand to Hawke's temples. He closed his eyes and let his magic wash into her, seeking out the network of chakras where she held and manipulated mana. What he found made him wince. He was reminded of a Templar he'd treated once; the man had jumped out of a moving car to avoid a fireball and scraped half the skin off his body rolling against the pavement. His skin was a bloody, stiff, scabbed mess by the time Anders saw him—not unlike Hawke's chakras now.

"That bad, huh?"

Hawke's voice was even, almost casual, but the way her heartbeat sped up told Anders that the calm was fake. "Give me a minute," he said quietly.

Tentatively, he pushed a little tendril of magic into one of the chakras. He felt it shiver, resisting him, but as he worked, it responded. The raw, scraped spots smoothed and began to heal. Good. That's good.

He opened his eyes and stepped back. "You'll be able to use your magic again," he said first, since he knew that was what she wanted most to know. "But you've got some serious damage. I've seen things like this before, usually among apprentices who get stupid with sharing their magic. This is by far the worst case I've ever seen, though. I think you'll have full use of your magic again in six months."

"Six months?" Hawke gasped.

Anders nodded. It might be sooner, but he thought it was usually best to give the worst-case scenario. "And that's if you refrain from casting entirely. And if you see a good healer once a week."

"Know anyone?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Sure, sure. I do you a favor and this is how you repay me, by slighting my skills." Anders lay a hand over his heart. "I am wounded. Deeply."

"I could pay."

That brought Anders up short. "I—wow." He stepped back and crossed his arms. "I won't lie, I could use work. But … I don't know. It feels wrong. You're the reason I got to break my phylactery and wasn't eaten by abominations."

"I don't think they were eating people, if that makes a difference." Hawke leaned back in her chair. "Six months, huh?" She still looked a little thrown by the timeline. "Were you planning to stay in town long?"

Anders shrugged. "Denerim's got a nice, low-key apostate scene that's mostly people trying to drink beer and stay out of trouble. I don't see why not."

"All right. You've got yourself a patient." She stuck out her hand. "What do I owe you for today?"

"We'll call it a free consultation," Anders said wryly as they shook. "Let's talk rates next week. Same time, same place?"

"Works for me." She paused and looked at him consideringly. "Naia and I are headed out for drinks in a bit. Want to join us?"

"I would. But Naia mentioned you're dating that scary elven Detective." He couldn't help an indignant little thought at the idea of an apostate dating Detective Fenris Leto. He could still see the expression on the Detective's face as he'd offered his card all those weeks ago—like he was looking at his worst enemy, though he'd barely known Anders a minute. What does she see in him? "So I think I'll take my Circle-escapee self back home."

Hawke grimaced, but didn't argue with him. "Maybe some other night, then."

"Maybe," Anders agreed. "Otherwise, see you next week."


Varric was the first to arrive at the Dockside that night—except for Alistair, of course. It was a weekend, but not a karaoke night; the bar was busier than usual but far from crowded. Varric claimed his whiskey from their friend and went to stake out a pair of tables. As he waited, he read the newspaper he'd brought with him. He soon wished he'd left the thing at home. The day's news was not relaxing reading.

To his surprise, Naia was the next to arrive, walking through the door at just seven minutes after eight. Zevran trailed in her wake, his expression mischievous as he finished telling her a joke. Varric couldn't hear the punch line, but it made Naia laugh.

He shook his head and took a sip of his single-malt. Guess the assassin is going to be sticking around for a while. He still hadn't quite put his finger on how Naia did it—how she found allies and friends in the most unlikely people she met.

Naia sat down with a thump, shrugging her coat onto the back of the chair . "Fenris called. He's running late but he's going to pick up Hawke on his way. She told us to go ahead."

"It seems they have finally succumbed to each others' charms, then?" Zevran asked as he hung his own coat over a chair.

"Yeah. About that." Varric looked over at Naia seriously. "Are we sure it's a good idea for Hawke to date that guy? Brooding, hates magic, accurately described by a certain talented author as an angsty porcupine?"

There was a cocktail napkin lying on one of the tables. Naia pulled it towards her and began running her fingers over its edges. "I've been thinking about that too," she admitted.
"Come to any conclusions?"

She shrugged. "They're crazy about each other. What else are they supposed to do?"

Varric rested his elbows on the table and stared down at his drink. "Crazy about each other doesn't always mean happily-ever-after, Sparks."

Across the table, Zevran's expression sobered, but he said nothing.

Naia sighed. "Yeah. I know. But I think maybe they've got to try."


Juliet and Fenris walked through the door of the Dockside at about twenty minutes past eight. The walk over had been a pleasant sort of torture. She was at that stage in a new relationship where she was profoundly aware of exactly where he was at all times. She kept glancing over, almost sure that he would be gone, that their kiss had been some sort of strange hallucination. But he was always right where she sensed him, and he was usually looking at her too.

"You don't have to hold the door for me," she said as he pushed it open.

"I enjoy the view," he murmured back.

Maker, that voice. She arched an eyebrow at him playfully. "You're trying to make this take-it-slow thing hard, aren't you?"

The left side of his mouth curved up. "Perish the thought."

Naia was the first to spot them; she gave an enthusiastic wave, calling them over to a pair of round tables that they'd awkwardly pulled together. Juliet waved back and started to head to the bar to order drinks—but stopped short when she saw Alistair emerge from behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey and several glasses in his hands.

Juliet and Fenris joined the table as Alistair set the items down. "I hope you're all honored to witness this historic moment. My last, final, and best drink poured as a bartender," he announced, pulling off his black apron with a flourish. "I. Um. The Guard accepted my application. I start tomorrow."

"Alistair!" Naia exclaimed, delighted. "You didn't tell us you wanted to be a Guardsman."

"To be honest I thought they might reject me. And then point and laugh at me. Seemed safer not to say anything until I'd heard." He glanced somewhat sheepishly over at Fenris.

The Detective poured himself a shot of whiskey and raised it in a toast. "Welcome. I will be glad to see an almost-Templar among our ranks after the events at the Circle."

"I'm guessing they won't assign me to illegal magic right away. Probably stolen bicycles and missing kittens first," Alistair said wryly. "But thanks."

"That's great, Alistair," Juliet said sincerely. Being a Guardswoman hadn't been for her, but Alistair reminded her of Donnic in all of the best ways. The Guard would be lucky to have him, and so would Denerim.

"Good for you, kid," Varric added, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. His gaze fell to the newspaper at his elbow as he sat back. Despite herself, Juliet couldn't resist reading over his shoulder.

Councilwoman Stannard calls for new restrictions on mages.

She couldn't make out the full article, but the gist was clear enough. If Stannard got her way, no more being a legal apostate so long as you didn't use your magic. Meredith wanted all mages in a Circle, or something like it.

Varric saw her looking and grimaced. "You've been following this?"

Juliet nodded.

Naia pulled the newspaper towards her; her face fell as she took in the news. "Ugh."

Fenris crossed his arms. "I am not unsympathetic to the idea that more mages ought to be under the Circle's supervision," he said, in a tremendous understatement. Juliet bristled—but then he followed with, "However, I would not like to see the principle so broadly applied as the Councilwoman suggests."

She felt herself relax a bit. That's progress, maybe?

"Yeah, let's take a bunch of mages who don't want to live in a Circle and lock them inside one with the next Uldred. No way that could go wrong," Alistair shot back. He grimaced. "Wonder how Eamon's going to vote on something like this. He'll vote no. I think."

A gloom settled over their little group as they silently handed the newspaper around.

"All right. Too much moping at this table," Juliet announced. "You're forcing my hand."

She knocked back the rest of her glass of whiskey in a single swallow, pushed back her chair, and headed straight for the karaoke machine.

Alistair had unplugged it, as promised, so she stuck its plug back into the socket. When it whirred to life, she stepped behind the microphone and began scrolling through her options. The fifth choice was a fast, perky pop hit from a few years back, one of Naia's favorites. Since she knew at least half the words Juliet took a breath and hit play.

From the table, Naia clapped and whooped in delight. "I can't believe it!"

Juliet waved at her sheepishly as the first notes played.

She knew as soon as the opening drums started that she couldn't keep up with this for long. Her husky alto was no match for the song's high notes. But before she'd finished the first phrase, Naia was there at her side. She wrapped her arm around Juliet's waist and leaned in to share the microphone, her cheerful soprano easily matching the diva's range. Juliet slung an arm around Naia's shoulders and began singing the backup vocals, grinning with a mix of embarrassment and pride as she watched the bar's other patrons stare at them in confusion.

At the table, Alistair folded the newspaper and dropped it to the floor, pinning it carefully under the leg of his chair. Varric crossed his arms and leaned back, a fond grin on his face as he watched them make idiots out of themselves. Fenris shook his head and poured himself another drink, but he looked more amused than annoyed. Zevran was tapping his fingers to the beat cheerfully as he took the bottle from Fenris.

As they wound down the song's last notes, Varric soon stood up and began paging through the machine's catalogue himself. "Hey, kid! Come help me choose something!" he called.

Alistair shook his head frantically. "Oh, no. Singing and me? Bad when combined."

"Here, let me help." Zevran stood with a drink in his hand. He winked at Naia as he approached the stage. "Perhaps we could entice Ms. Tabris into a duet?"

"Only if Juliet sings too," Naia said immediately.

Juliet groaned. "Come on. I already did one."

"Sure, you did one." Naia shook a playful finger at her. "But you've got years of not singing at all to make up for. One's not going to cut it tonight, Juliet Hawke."

With a sigh and a smile, Juliet let herself be pulled forward to debate their next number.