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Scout Donnel met their return party at Skyhold's stables within minutes of their return from Dirthavaren, and he bowed to Ciri as she dismounted from Zephyr's back. "Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Nightingale would like to see you on the bottom floor of the main building, Inquisitor."

"Right now?"

"After you've cleaned up," he said. "The ambassador said she set out clothes for you. She wants the rest of you down there as well," he added, looking past Ciri to the others.

Olgierd nodded to him. "Of course."

"Why downstairs?" Sera asked.

Scout Donnel shrugged and looked over his shoulder at the door to the kitchens. "That tailor and his assistants took over the main room down there. You're wanted for measurements and the like. The others have already had their first fitting."

"We won't keep them waiting," Ciri said. "Thank you for passing on the message."

Scout Donnel bowed again. "Just doing my duty, Your Worship."

Sera left first, throwing a casual wave over her shoulder as she headed to the tavern. Ciri parted ways with Olgierd, Solas, and Dorian in the main hall and hurried to her room to clean up and change. As promised, clothes were laid out on the foot of her bed, and the water in the tub was still steaming. She stripped off her armor and the travel-worn shirt beneath it and sank into the water with a faint sigh.

Once she'd toweled off and dressed in the thin shirt and fitted trousers Josephine had set out, she made her way to the bottom level of Skyhold's main building. The sound of a dozen voices drifted up the stairs as she opened the door, and she paused for a moment to listen. Several of them wove in and out of heavily accented Common, falling into Orlesian and then back. She could pick up Sera's voice, and Josephine's. A bright laugh that belonged to Dorian.

A hand came down on her shoulder.

"Dropping eaves?" Olgierd asked quietly, a smile in his voice.

"I suppose I am," she admitted. She smiled back. "Come on."

The wide-open space at the bottom of the stairs had been completely transformed in the time they'd been away. Wooden tables and dressmakers' dummies filled the area, and bolts of cloth leaned against the pillars and walls in a display of sumptuousness: silks, organza, and satin, in silvery gray, deep emerald, rich crimson, soft charcoal, and pure white. Thick spools of hand-tatted lace and brightly-dyed embroidery thread sat in stacks atop the nearest table. A short, masked man with curly brown hair and a thin mustache directed his assistants with a constant stream of Orlesian, and they hurried to carry out his instructions. It was a scene of beautiful, crowded, well-organized chaos, and a far cry from the hard conditions of the road and the problems that plagued Dirthavaren.

Dorian waved his fingers subtly at them as they came down the stairs. It was the only part of him that could wave, as one of the assistants was measuring his arm span and calling out the number to another waiting with charcoal and parchment. A few feet away, Solas stood calmly while yet another assistant measured his inseam, and a table over, Sera submitted to the same treatment as Dorian with bad grace.

Leliana caught sight of them and nudged Josephine, who smiled brightly and hurried over to brush a kiss across Olgierd's cheek. He returned it gently, his hand finding hers at her side.

"Welcome back," she said softly. She looked up at him and frowned, reaching up with her free hand to touch the few white strands at his temples.

"I'm fine, dove," he murmured. "I used goetia for something it wasn't meant for, and there was a price to be paid."

Her hand slipped down to rest on his cheek, and her eyes searched his. Ciri took a step away, feeling uncomfortably like she was observing something intensely personal and private.

"Was it worth it?" Josephine asked.

"I believe it was."

"Well then," she said, and she smiled again. "I do wish you wouldn't take risks, but I can't fault you for doing the right thing."

They broke apart reluctantly, and Josephine turned to Ciri.

"It's good to see you. The reports out of Dirthavaren were encouraging, though we have questions about that temple you found with our scouts."

"As do I," Ciri said. She cast her eyes over the bustle. "I take it we have an invitation secured?"

"Two of them, in fact." Josephine leaned in and lowered her voice. "Duke Cyril de Montfort extended an invitation as thanks for your work in Dirthavaren, and Grand Duke Gaspard has done the same. Either one will get us there, but it makes a statement if you choose one over the other."

"No time to debate it in the War Room, I take it?" she asked.

Josephine shook her head. "We're cutting it close as it is."

Ciri crossed her arms and let her gaze settle on the rich bolts of fabric as she thought. Her instinctive response, to accept Duke Cyril's invitation, seemed logical enough. He was one of the few steady Orlesian allies they had. She hadn't met him in person yet, but he'd always come through for them. He struck her as trustworthy, or as trustworthy as an Orlesian noble could be. His invitation made sense. They had an established relationship, an accord. He was her connection to the empress.

Grand Duke Gaspard's invitation, on the other hand, came out of nowhere – or, perhaps, out of some sense of chevalier honor for her work saving his soldiers. They were utter strangers to one another, with none of the mutual favors or letters exchanged that gave Ciri a bit of insight into Duke Cyril. He might have invited her out of gratitude, but a far larger part of it was likely so it would appear he had the Inquisitor on his side at the peace talks. Moves within moves in the Orlesian Grand Game.

The easy choice, the logical choice, would be to accept Duke Cyril's invitation. But something about Grand Duke Gaspard's play unsettled her. It was too self-assured.

Leliana's warning about Papillon came to her, and she gripped her elbows tightly before forcing herself to relax.

The center of Papillon's web of influence is Lydes. And before it was Lydes, it was Verchiel.

"I have a feeling there's a trap in Grand Duke Gaspard's invitation," Ciri said at last. "I think the best thing to do would be to spring it."

Josephine sighed. "Of course there is. And of course you do. Very well. But do so carefully."

"I promise, Josephine," Ciri said. "And besides, if things don't go to plan at the masquerade, I'd rather Gaspard suffer the political repercussions from inviting us than Duke Cyril."

"And here I thought you disliked politics," Olgierd commented.

"Vehemently," Ciri said. "But that doesn't mean I don't understand them."

Josephine led them away from the stairs and over to the man issuing orders to his small army of assistants. "Inquisitor Morhen, Messere von Everec, meet Monsieur Colet le Mire, Val Royeaux's finest tailor. Monsieur le Mire, our Inquisitor and her dear friend, Olgierd."

Monsieur le Mire shook their hands enthusiastically, looking them up and down with a spark in his eyes. "Such coloring! What stature! It's my pleasure to dress you both. Step just over here and my assistants will take your measurements – you, monsieur, will need to shed a layer or two."

Olgierd obligingly stripped down to his under-robe and set his clothes on the nearest table. A short elven woman began to briskly measure him from head to toe while a human woman not quite out of adolescence did the same for Ciri.

Leliana made her way over as the assistant measured around Ciri's shoulders, and she greeted her with a small but genuine smile. "You'll have quite the ballgown, Inquisitor. Triss Merigold and I collaborated on its design."

"Should I be worried?" Ciri asked, only half-jokingly. She was all too aware of sorceresses' fondness for revealing garments, and she had no desire to be stuffed into one of those ridiculous Orlesian gowns with their exaggerated silhouettes.

"Not at all. It's quite tasteful, if a bit exotic." Leliana's smile grew. "You may even start a trend."

"Do I get a hint?"

"Not until your first fitting," Leliana teased. At Ciri's mild glare, she relented. "The green silk is for you, to match your emerald earrings. You'll have to wear a different necklace, of course."

Ciri's hand went to her agate pendant and wolf's-head medallion. "I'd feel naked without them."

"It will only be for one evening," Josephine said kindly.

Ciri sighed and reluctantly released her necklaces. "I suppose so. What's everyone else wearing?"

"Charcoal and crimson, as Triss suggested, in formalwear tailored to suit their styles. We're still attempting to work out something appropriate for Sera and Solas, and my goodness, the arguments we had with Iron Bull to get him to agree to a shirt! Cole…" Josephine trailed off in frustration and amusement. "He is a sweet boy, but from what we gathered talking to him, he didn't understand the point of the new outfit when he doesn't want to be remembered. We made him something anyway, of course."

"And what will you wear?"

"Something less House Montilyet and more Inquisition," Josephine said, running a hand over her wide leather belt. She caught Olgierd's eye and smiled. "With narrower sleeves. I have a bracelet to show off that will go beautifully with our chosen colors."

Olgierd said nothing, but his return smile was fond.

"Just one more, Inquisitor," the assistant said as she wrapped her linen tape around Ciri's hips and turned to scribble down the measurement. "That's the last of them. Thank you."

"Merci, monsieur." Olgierd's assistant bobbed her head and stepped back as well.

"Thank you, dear," he said as he pulled on his outer robe again and secured his sash and belt.

Sera's raised voice at the end of the room caught Ciri's attention, and she looked over to see her friend angrily shaking her head and gesturing at the parchment yet another assistant was holding up before her.

"No!" Sera said stridently. "It's too elfy! An' that one's too frilly! Look at me, lady. Do I look Dalish? Or like a fancy-pants noble tit? I want trousers."

"But mademoiselle –"

"Trou. Sers."

Leliana sighed. "I'll handle this. I have an idea that might appeal to her, at least."

She slipped away to stand between Sera and her increasingly harried assistant, and she leaned forward to whisper in her ear. Sera's eyes went wide.

"Wot, really?"

"Absolutely."

"An' you think –"

"I do."

Sera stared hard at her, all humor gone. "An' it's not just because I'm an elf?"

"You are uniquely talented, Sera," Leliana said with apparent sincerity. "We couldn't trust it to anyone else."

"Right then." Sera grinned at the assistant. "See you never. Go get your hands on Solas, yeah?"

With a bright cackle, she darted up the stairs and out of the tailor's makeshift studio.

Ciri took the opportunity, now that she was free of the linen measuring tape, to wander between the tables and dress forms to see the clothes in progress. At the far end of the room, a row of fully dressed dressmaker's dummies stood in a row, resplendent in charcoal and crimson and embellished with gold embroidery thread. She meandered before them, attempting to match the clothes to the person. The enormous doublet and breeches with a military twist could only belong to the Iron Bull. The gown with the diamond-shaped window in the chest and the exaggerated shoulders no doubt went to Vivienne. The dark, high-necked gown with gold accents was likely Triss', and the sweetly feminine silhouette of the full skirt and modest neckline of the next dress struck her as something Josephine would wear. Varric's tailored coat and vibrant shirt stood out from the rest of the menswear, as well.

The others weren't so easy to discern, but they were all beautifully crafted, and gave her hope that the gown Triss and Leliana had designed for her would suit her as well as these would suit their wearers.

Leliana rejoined her and gently touched her elbow. "Come, Inquisitor. I'll introduce you to Madame Potin."

Ciri turned from the row of outfits to follow Leliana back out the room and up the stairs. "Not that I'll argue against a new pair of shoes, but won't the slippers I bought in Val Royeaux suffice?"

A quiet laugh escaped Leliana. "Footwear is serious business in the Imperial Court, I'm afraid. You can't wear a pair you already showed at a minor soiree to an event as grand as this masquerade. Just come with me and let me do the talking. I'll take care of everything."

"Alright," she agreed. "I trust you."

Leliana nodded firmly. "A wise decision. Your trust is not misplaced, Inquisitor."

Ciri had the abrupt feeling Leliana was talking about more than shoes. "I know," she said seriously. "We may have had a rough start, but I do trust you. I'd like to think we might even be friends, of a sort."

"We are," Leliana agreed. "And I apologize for the part I played in that rough start. I was grieving, angry. Instead of seeing a woman who tried to save the Divine, I saw only that you failed. The rumors surrounding you and Olgierd were so suspicious. It was my duty to investigate and to protect the Inquisition, but I let that suspicion and anger blind me. What I asked you to do to recruit Mahanon and Malika –"

"I forgive you," Ciri said at once. "And I'm sorry I lied to you for months."

"Forgiven, Inquisitor," Leliana said gently. There wasn't even a hint of sharpness to her eyes. "I understand your caution."

"My friends call me Ciri," she offered, and she was rewarded by another small smile.

"Well then, Ciri." Leliana nudged her side with a soft laugh. "Let's not leave Madame Potin waiting."

Ciri beamed at Leliana. "My life – and my shoes – are in your hands."


"Hello?" Ciri pushed open the door to Triss and Solas' workroom and looked around in curiosity. Vivienne had directed her here after breakfast with a languid wave of her wrist, telling her only that she was expected. But neither Triss nor Solas was here. Only a tall, thin man with light brown skin and pale gray eyes behind a plain silver half-mask occupied the room, and he beckoned her in impatiently.

"Inquisitor Morhen," he said. His accent was strange, an odd blend of nasal Orlesian and Antivan musicality. He looked her up and down carefully. "Hm. You're young. No musks for you. Strength, beauty, youth, a hint of exoticism – you are a Marcher, yes?"

Ciri nodded.

"Forget that. We will embrace the Elvhen, not the provincial city-states. Smell this."

The man went to a massive open chest against the wall lined with tray upon tray of little glass vials and plucked one from the upper left-hand corner. With quick, precise movements, he uncorked the vial and let a single drop fall onto a small linen square. He safely stowed the vial back in its place and wafted the cloth beneath her nose.

"It smells sweet – almost like grapes?" Ciri gently pushed his hand aside. "I'm sorry, you are Rene de Genellen, correct?"

"Ah, I knew I'd forgotten something," the man said. "Yes, that's my name. Grapes, bah. This is passion flower. Well?"

"Too sweet," Ciri said decisively.

"Too sweet! Forget the passion flower!" He hurried back to his chest. "Have you ever worn perfume, Inquisitor?"

"No, but my mother did. Lilacs and gooseberries. And I knew other women growing up who did."

Monsieur de Genellen cast a curious glance over his shoulder at her as he searched his collection of scents. "Lilacs and gooseberries? What an intriguing combination."

"Mm-hmm. My father loved it."

Another three squares of linen were proffered, and Ciri rejected the first one swiftly, the second slowly, and handed the third back with a nod. "That one I like."

"Seheron limes, grown in Antiva," he said. "A faintly sweet note. Somewhat dry. Not too sweet?"

"I like the citrus," she told him. "Is there anything else like that?"

His eyes lit up, and back he went to his chest.

They worked their way through eight more samples before circling back to the Seheron lime, which Ciri liked just as well as the sunny, almost honeyed blood orange.

"We'll set them both aside," Monsieur de Genellen decided. "Hm."

"Have you made perfumes for many members of the imperial court?" she asked.

"Oh yes! And colognes. Every member of the Council of Heralds is a return customer."

"Maybe," she said to the next square stuck under her nose.

"A 'maybe' is a 'no,' Inquisitor. Try this one."

"Too powdery. Ah –" she hesitated. "I don't suppose you know much about your clients beyond their taste in perfumes and colognes."

He looked up from his chest of oils and cocked his head at her, gray eyes keen. "Looking for gossip, Inquisitor? Something to keep the sharks at bay when you go swimming in Halamshiral's waters?"

"I do need an edge," she admitted.

"You'll want to temper that honesty," he advised her. "Hm. Smell this."

"Is that freesia? No – lily?"

"Very similar. Lady-of-the-night orchid. Yes? No?"

"I like the spicy undertone, but I'm still hesitant about the powdery note. That little bit of jasmine is nice."

"Good, good! We're narrowing it down." He turned back to his chest and said over his shoulder, "The Doucy family breeds coursing hounds. They aren't quite as intelligent as Ferelden mabari, but they're the pride of the Lake Celestine region. Ask Comte Lothair about his prize bitch Grâce and he'll talk your ear off – and soften to you, though he won't realize there's a strict correlation."

"Thank you. This one's nice. A little strong. Maybe too much spice."

"Perhaps as a base note? I'll set it aside. Let's see…Marquis Etienne de Chevin recently weathered quite a scandal. Comte Brevin de Chalons put forth a false de Chevin relative with counterfeit noble credentials for the chevaliers. The man turned out to be an elf-blooded commoner – no small thing on its own, but given that he'd been the empress' champion, and failed her, well. Marquis Etienne still has his title and holdings, but he no longer has her Imperial Majesty's favor, despite none of it being his fault."

That could potentially be very useful. Ciri hadn't made the connection between Mihris' Michel de Chevin and the de Chevin in the Council of Heralds, but of course there would have been someone behind his rise. "That's more substantial than dog breeding. Wouldn't your business suffer if your clients knew you told me things about them?"

"Nothing I say isn't publicly known," Monsieur de Genellen said blithely as he set another drop of oil on a linen square. "Within the social circles of Orlais' nobility, of course. You're at a disadvantage, Inquisitor, foreign and elf-blooded as you are. So from one elf-blooded foreigner to another, allow me to lend a hand."

She wouldn't turn down the help, though it struck her as somewhat odd that she hadn't had to be more persuasive. "Gladly. Thank you."

They worked their way through a bouquet of flowers together, white florals and light spicy notes, some slightly green, others bright and almost tart before fading to sweetness. Interspersed with each were tidbits on the most important members of the imperial court. The late Marquise Mantillon's son Renaud had a gambling problem and was once a suitor of the empress. Duke Germain de Chalons was in his eighties and was, by all accounts, a disagreeable old sot with a fondness for rich red wines, and he'd all but stopped playing the Game years ago. Duke Bastien de Ghislain was sick with some mysterious ailment and had retired from court, turning over his duties to his son Laurent, a young man who was known to take after his father in certain roguish habits. And Comtesse Solange Montbelliard was surprisingly liberal in her opinions on mages, and quite fond of trinkets and finery.

"Oh, I like this one!" Ciri exclaimed. The scent unfolded sweetly, white floral and a bit opulent, close to but not quite jasmine. "What is it?"

"Jasmine orchid," he said, setting it down with the other yeses. "Let's see, who's left?"

"Duke Cyril de Montfort," she prompted him.

"Hm. Duke Cyril is the most eligible bachelor in the empire. Young, wealthy, intelligent, and by all accounts from his adolescence, before he donned a mask, quite handsome. Not to speak ill of his late father, but he's far better liked than Duke Prosper. Better taste in cologne, as well," he muttered. "He's a fan of Messere Tethras' books. Plays the Game well – not avidly, or in a particularly cutthroat way, but he understands politics, and he's polite. Politeness will get a person far."

"What are his politics? Oh – no. I like smoky scents, but –"

"Yes, you're right. It doesn't go with the others at all. We'd have to build a new profile. Ah, the duke's politics. He supports the empress' cultural reforms, as you might imagine. He's a patron of the theater, and he sponsors bright, impoverished scholars at the university. He even sponsored an elf once, which had the court gossiping for weeks until the next scandal arose. He's also an accomplished duelist, which keeps tongues from wagging too freely."

Ciri nodded thoughtfully. "So he's sympathetic to elves? To the disadvantaged?"

"By all appearances, and only in the past few years. He was as...hm, callous, perhaps...as his peers when he was younger. Before his father died. He stands with the empress, at least."

The empress burned down an alienage and killed three thousand elves, Ciri thought. She'd dearly like to know Duke Cyril's opinion on that.

Monsieur de Genellen wafted another square beneath her nose, and at Ciri's hesitation, said once more, "A 'maybe' is a 'no.'"

"Then no."

"Très bon," he said, and he gave her a shallow bow. "I believe I have all I need, Inquisitor. Thank you for your patience. Your perfume will be delivered at the end of the week."

"Thank you for coming all the way to Skyhold, Monsieur," Ciri said sincerely. "And for all your information."

"Now that was my pleasure." He returned to his chest and said, his voice suddenly quite serious, "Be very careful in Halamshiral, Inquisitor. There are some who would see your blood as reason enough to cut you down – and too much elven blood has been spilled in that city already."

"I'll take care."

She nodded to him and slipped out the door to head back to the main hall, her mind on his warning.


"And circle your partner – gracefully, darlings – and don't forget the arm motions as you do so," Vivienne called out to her pupils. "Mind your footwork. Light, delicate steps, Ser Owain. We are not ogres."

Olgierd caught Josephine's eyes as they faced each other again, and they both smiled.

"Tell me," he said quietly, slipping past her once more, "which one of these dances will allow me to hold you?"

She threw him a laughing look, her hands and feet not missing a beat. "Our hands will touch in the menuet and the bourrée."

"How scandalous."

Laughter bubbled out of her, and they faced each other again, knees bobbing slightly before continuing on. "You will enjoy the volte, I think. It's quite a bit more intimate. You'll have your hands on my waist. But it's not considered quite as high class, so it's unlikely we'll have the opportunity to dance it together at the masquerade."

The minstrel's music slowed and stopped, and Olgierd bowed to Josephine as she curtseyed back.

"The volte sounds promising," he said. "Should we slip their minstrels some gold under the table? Start a rumor that Ciri has an insatiable love for that dance? Loudly talk of how dull their music is when we're there?"

She burst into laughter again, bright and joyful, and leaned forward to kiss him softly. "You are… Oh, my dear one. Thank you for joining me in this."

Her joy was infectious, and he smiled back at her, struck by the captivating sparkle in her eyes and the flush to her cheeks. "I promised you a partner worth stepping out with. These dances make you happy; it's plain enough to anyone who looks at you. I only ever wish to add to that happiness."

Josephine's smile shrank into something soft and private, and she reached out to him. Whatever she had to say, however, was cut off by a polite "Pardon me," from a scout that quietly appeared at their side.

"Yes?" Josephine asked politely.

"Trouble in Nevarra, Ambassador. Sister Nightingale had the intelligence report sent to your desk due to it being a diplomatic matter. Time-sensitive, she said."

Josephine sighed. "I'll be there at once. Olgierd, I'm sorry to leave you."

"We both have our duties." He brushed a kiss across her cheek and drew back, still smiling. "If you don't return, I'll see you at supper."

"Of course."

Bereft of a partner, he turned to take a seat at one of the benches along the wall as she departed. The minstrel from the tavern – Maryden, he believed her name was – hadn't begun playing again, and Vivienne's students were drifting away to chat together or sit and rest.

The lessons had begun not long after he'd left for Dirthavaren with Ciri and the others. Triss and Owain had already been through them but returned at Vivienne's request to give Ciri a wider range of dance partners than only him or Solas. Sera had disappeared from Skyhold over a week ago, and Solas had expressed reluctance. But while Sera had a clear excuse for missing lessons, Leliana had insisted Solas join in. It seemed a worthwhile decision, as well, as he'd appeared genuinely happy to dance with Ciri yesterday.

Ciri did well with the dances, of course, nimble and graceful as she was. But she'd pulled a face or two at him behind Vivienne's back that had him stifling laughter. These delicate, dainty things were hardly the fare of the childhood she'd had in Cintra's court, or in the Skelligan Isles. They were both accustomed to more enthusiastic tunes, and moves to go with them.

Olgierd heard a faint clink of chainmail, and Leliana settled on the bench beside him. "Was the sarabande not to your liking?"

He glanced at her, a bit wary of her intentions, but she seemed perfectly content to make idle conversation. He gave her a small smile and shook his head. "Josephine enjoys them, which is enough for me. But there's not much life to these steps. They're all fuss and no fire."

"Oh, don't say that at the masquerade!" Leliana said in lighthearted warning. "The Orlesian nobility take pride in the technical perfection of their dances. There was even a treatise written in the last Age on the great social value of the bourrée. A man displays his grace and good temper while dancing, and dancing is practiced to 'reveal whether lovers are in good health and sound of limb.'"

He laughed under his breath. "I can't very well argue with such logic."

"There are some very daring Antivan dances I'm certain Josephine knows," Leliana mused. "Hardly appropriate for an Orlesian masquerade, but she would love to teach you, I'm sure."

He nodded and waited, certain she had a reason for speaking to him. She looked at him for a long moment, her dagger-sharp gaze oddly blunted, and sighed.

"She loves that book of poetry you gave her. 'The Blue Pearl'? She said some of the poems moved her to tears. And she's been gifted jewelry before, but no one has ever picked out anything like that bracelet. It's exactly her taste."

Despite his reservations, he felt his lips curl into a smile. Josephine had jokingly scolded him for the gifts, reminding him that the only thing she'd asked for was his safe return. But she'd been genuinely appreciative of the bracelet, and she'd teared up at the first poem in the blue leather volume. With the reception the bracelet and 'The Blue Pearl' received, he had high hopes that she'd be similarly delighted with the ring and 'The Collected Works of Gonzal de Verceo' later.

"I know," he said, and at the flicker of dissatisfaction that crossed Leliana's face, he added gently, "I do know Josephine, Sister."

"Yes, I suppose you do." Her voice was soft and thoughtful. "I haven't seen her so happy in years. To tell the truth, I don't know if I ever have. And it's not the gifts, don't mistake me, though she certainly appreciates that you know her taste. It's simply…"

"Still worse than most of her past suitors put together, I suppose," he said dryly.

She cut a ruefully amused look at him. "You are an objectively terrible man."

"A fair assessment."

"No, it's not." She sighed again. "You were, and I respect that you've changed your ways. Worse than most of them put together? You're no longer penniless. You have no debts or vices. You aren't violent outside of battle. As for older…how old are you?"

He let out a huff of laughter. "I'm not certain," he admitted. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he elaborated, lowering his voice. "Thirty-nine in body, I believe, and seventy-two in mind. The immortality confuses things somewhat, and I feel more the age my body is than my mind these days."

She shut her eyes, looking pained, and he laughed again. "Thirty-nine," she said firmly when she opened them again. "Ten years is a modest and acceptable age gap in noble relationships."

"Hm." He waited again for her to continue, but she held her peace. "Go on, Sister. That's all but one of the suitors you ran off. There's still a sticking point for you."

"It's not something that matters anymore," Leliana said quietly. "I thought, I believed, that Josephine deserved to be someone's first love, that a widower wouldn't have room in his heart for her. She disagreed with me when I brought it up. Quite vehemently, you might be pleased to know."

He shrugged and said, "It's a reasonable concern. Some people have their great loves and can never get over them once they pass. They mourn forever, compare all subsequent lovers to the one who came before and find them all wanting."

"But not you?" she asked, her voice just barely shading into incredulity.

"My love for Josephine isn't diminished for having loved Iris first. She isn't second-best, or lesser, or a consolation prize." He leaned back against the table behind them and propped himself up on his elbows. "I hold my memories of Iris in my heart, but in truth, few of them are untainted by Mirror's curse. I brought misery into our marriage. We weren't happy, even before I made such a mess of things. When I had a heart of stone, I broke hers. If regrets were currency, I'd be richer than your empress.

"But I cannot regret coming here. Nor could I ever regret loving Josephine. She is, as I said before, so very easy to love."

He could feel Leliana's eyes on him as she sat beside him in silence. Across the way, Ciri, Solas, Owain, and Triss were wrapped in an animated discussion, Ciri gesturing and laughing as she slouched against Owain's shoulder. Farther up the hall, Vivienne stood in consultation with Maryden. The minstrel plucked a tune, then said something to Vivienne, who shook her head and sketched out a beat in the air with an elegant hand.

"Was there something else?" Leliana asked. "You seem at ease, but there's something I can't put my finger on." She tilted her cowled head at Olgierd. "Another of your secrets?"

"Nay, Sister." He sighed and looked away from Solas and Ciri. "Solas believes the one who cursed me is one of your Forbidden Ones. Imshael. I hear you're looking for him for Mihris."

"We are," she said, "though we haven't had much luck finding him." There was a hint of concern in her voice as she asked, her eyes catching on his temple, "Do you think he's right?"

"I've no idea. He made a fair argument in favor." The thought put a cold pit in his stomach. He'd finally begun to feel like he'd started anew, only to have the worst of his demons revisited on him.

"Will this harm Josephine in any way?"

"Never." He sat forward abruptly at that. "I'll not let it, no matter what comes. You have my word."

Leliana nodded and fell silent again. He didn't feel the need to fill it this time, and they sat side by side wordlessly, both of them watching the laughing group across the hall and listening to Maryden strum chords for Vivienne.

"Come," Leliana said at last. She stood and looked down at Olgierd, her knife-like smile small and oddly kind. "I'll be your partner until Josephine returns. You can tell me all about that mysterious tablet you found in the temple to Dirthamen that Solas has been studying."

He stood as well. "That might have to wait for present company to leave," he said, inclining his head at Solas. "But I'll share what I can."

"In that case, tell me your thoughts on Dirthavaren," she said as they walked side by side on to the makeshift dance floor. "You lived a…colorful…life before you joined us. Your perspective would be invaluable."

"If you like."

The music started up with purpose again, and Vivienne called out instructions to her pupils. Olgierd faced Leliana and bowed as she sketched a curtsey in her chainmail tabard.

No, even if Solas was right and his mistakes were about to catch up with him, he'd never regret Josephine. Not while he still had breath left in his body.


Fun history fact: a 16th century French priest named Jehan Tabourot wrote a book on social dances under the pseudonym Thoinot Arbeau. In his book, "Orchésographie," he does talk about the social value of dancing, and how it reveals "whether lovers are in good health and sound of limb," and that "a mistress is won by the good temper and grace displayed while dancing." *Jazz hands* the more you know!