Alistair noticed upon coming out of the bathroom that Leliana hadn't budged from where he'd left her. She sat at the dining table with a towel wrapped around her torso and another around her head. With a leg crossed over the other, the slit in the towel had hiked halfway up to her thigh. Alistair nodded appreciatively.

Not that she noticed. Leliana had been poring over the papers found in the dead man's jacket for as long as he'd been in the bathroom. Going over to her, Alistair peered over her shoulder.

"Any progress?"

"Mmm." She held up one of the slips for him. "You should start with that."

Taking it, Alistair sat lightly against the edge of the table. The paper, which had once been white, was now blackened. He eyed Leliana gently dragging a stick of charcoal over the others and nodded. A rubbing. It was clever to him, but probably obvious to her.

Her mind worked in ways he couldn't fathom. She pulled patterns out of thin air and solved problems he didn't know even existed. In fact, Leliana wouldn't be out of place as the Warden-Commander. Now that would be a treat.

"Are you done with that one?"

"No," Alistair replied quietly and began reading.

The handwriting was messy and jumbled. At times, the impressions weren't deep enough for the charcoal to display prominently. Overall, he could make out a few sentences.

Third house from the right. 2nd storey. Red flag hanging from pot = yes. Else, no. Check every day.

"Instructions?" Alistair ventured after reading through it a few times. "He wrote down instructions for something."

Leliana nodded. "Wrote down dictation, seems like. His handwriting there is ghastly. It is pristine here." She held out another. "See if this makes any sense to you."

The legibility of the new note was leagues better than the last one. It was almost calligraphy. A lot of time and effort had gone into this note and it was evident. Which was about the only good thing about it, since Alistair could make neither heads nor tails of what the rubbing had revealed.

13/61/73| |19/97/89/59/79| |61/11/37/67/73/19| |73/37/79/11/19/59/37/67| |59/37/17/59/79/73| |5/59/43/43| |29/19/73/17/73/37/13| |59/13/17/73/43/71| |79/73/71/59/97/37/13/43/2|

"Looks like a random bunch of numbers," he muttered. "Leli, are you even sure that ths was written by the same guy as the last note? Hell and Heaven difference."

"The numerical 2 gives it away. It's the same 2 in both notes."

"Huh." Alistair turned it over. "Looks like a mathematician's wet dream. Anything else?"

"Just this last one. Take a look."

The third note was simple. No full sentences. The handwriting was definitely that of the same man as the first note. He'd written this one in a clean, careful hand. Alistair had no problem reading it, and he did so aloud.

"'Bourdain. Stay at Don't Go Inn.'" He snorted, but pressed on. "'Good food, cheap ale. Meet Father Mael. He knows.'" Alistair handed the note back to Leliana, who was looking up at him expectantly. "You want to track down this Father Mael?"

"Eventually." She held up the note with the numbers. "I want to figure this out, first. I can't simply go up to someone and ask if they knew… whoever it is that died. We have no name, and sandy haired, stout humans of medium height are abundant everywhere. This is our only lead so far."

Alistair slid off the table and walked toward the bed, where'd he'd put out fresh clothes. He picked up a tunic and slipped it on. "Why couldn't he have just carried a notebook like normal people? We could've had a name by now. Who carries loose slips of paper? Makes no sense."

"Nothing makes sense as of now, Alistair," Leliana replied from the table. "If it was an accident… I mean, if the man got drunk and toppled into the water, it makes sense he'd have his belongings with him. If he was murdered and thrown in after he was dead, why didn't the murderer go through his pockets?"

"How can you be so sure it was a murder?" Alistair returned, putting a leg through his trousers. "The rune might not mean anything. And if it was murder, well, why not simply bonk him upside the head or stab him or something? And why not make sure the body sinks? Tying a drick to his ankles wouldn't have been hard."

Leliana hummed. "An autopsy would have been helpful. I wanted to know whether his lungs were filled with air or not. That would tell me whether he was dead or alive when he went into the water."

"How does that work?"

"If he was alive, his lungs would fill with water and he would drown. If he was already dead, they would have air instead and he would float."

Alistair gave her a long look. "You look so attractive in that towel, but being a repository of morbid knowledge kinda kills it, no lie."

Throwing back her head, Leliana laughed aloud. It was such a sweet, sonorous sound that Alistair couldn't believe such a thing could exist whilst surrounding by death and violence. Or the possibility of death of violence. Leliana's laughter deserved to be preserved in a greenhouse far from the ears if the sinful. Or a museum.

"You know you love it." She shot him a smug grin which made Alistair's spine tingle. Who was he to contradict what his body knew to be true? However, Leliana went on: "It is still early yet. We'll change and go down to the guard office after breakfast. I have to hand over the evidence to Gideon. Can you make copies while I cook?"

"Absolutely. But does it matter? I mean, they clearly don't care enough about the case."

"We just have to appeal again and do better this time."

"Hmm." Alistair sat himself at the table and set about copying the notes into his notebook. "You're awfully optimistic about that."

"I have to be, Alistair. I need to be."

He didn't say anything after that, feeling foolish for having brought it up. Leliana's work was and always had been shrouded by darkness. Optimism becomes a defence mechanism, I guess. It helped her go on and keep trying. Who was he to question that?

When he finished, Alistair sat back and stared idly at the sequence of numbers. Leliana was right. This was the only lead they had. That and Father Mael. She was also right that they couldn't just go up to the man and ask for information about a corpse they knew nothing about.

Then again, they knew nothing about this Mael character, either. But the dwarves might.

Bourdain was an island town. Everybody would know most everybody else. And Chantry folk would be the best known of all. The religious would want to be in their good books. A priest was as close as you got to the Maker and Andraste, after all. For many, the Chantry was the same as visiting the Golden City.

But what did Father Mael know?

His reverie broke when Leliana served him brunch – four slices of buttered toast, a boiled egg and a banana. It was heavy. Alistair smiled at her.

"Thanks," he said. "Leli?"

"Hmm?"

"Try to get the dwarves to have an autopsy done as well. If we're going to push them, might as well go all the way."

"You sound awfully optimistic about their cooperation," Leliana replied. He glanced at her and caught her grinning. "What if they refuse?"

Alistair winked. "I doubt any of them would like to become Grey Wardens. Do you?"