Dearest Gentle Reader,

The season had its first marquis event this past evening with the Matriarchs' Ball, that most glittering of annual affairs, in anticipation of which every young lady in society has been positively breathless for weeks. Every couturière, florist, and jeweller of repute was engaged months ago in preparation for this parade of pretties, this spectacle of the spectacular, this exhibition of the exquisite. It is a time for the young ladies of the Smart Set to shine, to showcase their beauty and magical talent in the opening dance of a season-long quadrille that will culminate in alliances, affairs, duels, and a smattering of murders. The Patriarchs will have their answer two weeks from now, when the young men will flaunt their own feathers. But the first movement of this symphony is for the ladies, and as we all know, there is no second chance to make a first impression.

Spare a thought, therefore, for these tender young unfortunates upon discovering that few, if any, of the guests at this illustrious affair were paying the least attention to them.

The evening began auspiciously enough, with a cotillion danced by Lady Albina Valerius and Lord Marcus Caeso, an original interpretation in which the changing of couples was effected by a clever use of spirits. Alas, this moderately entertaining performance was thoroughly upstaged by the fashionably-late arrival of the season's most talked-about couple, Magister Pavus and Inquisitor Lavellan, whose presence shifted the centre of gravity as abruptly as a spell run amok.

It is considered very poor manners to outshine a lady, particularly when her lustre is so dearly purchased in blood and treasure. Yet we cannot wholly condemn the young couple for this faux pas, for just as the sun cannot be blamed for burning bright, these lovely young things cannot be faulted for drawing lesser objects into their orbit. Nor is their allure purely the delicious tang of scandal. Indeed, upon meeting them, this author found herself tickled by the young magister's irreverent tongue – razor-sharp even by the standards of the Set – and even more taken with his husband's mild and surprisingly refined manners, which hint at intriguing depths.

More entertaining still was the effect of their presence on certain nobles of note, whose extended seasons at their summer homes left them woefully behind on recent developments. Certain guests at the ball took inordinate delight in making these unfortunates au fait, a spectacle your humble correspondent witnessed no fewer than half a dozen times over the course of the evening's events.

Needless to say, there will be repercussions. Whether one faults the sun for its rays or not, one will take countermeasures, be it parasol or sun-blocking poultice. So too can our scandal du jour anticipate countermeasures against further disruption to the traditional mating rites of the Smart Set. Should the young magister and his husband succeed in securing an invitation to the Patriarchs' Ball, they will find their enemies ready. I promised you war, Dear Reader, and the drumbeats are sounding in the distance. Knives are being sharpened, spells quietly memorized.

En garde, my young lords. For you will never see them coming.

Yours,

Lady Thistletongue

Dorian finishes reading and tosses the pamphlet onto the breakfast table, narrowly missing the strawberry preserves.

"Andraste's arse," Varric says with a chuckle. "And here I thought the Orlesians were ruthless."

Seth, meanwhile, looks contemplative. "It says we met her."

"Indeed. I tickled her with my tongue, apparently." Dorian makes a face.

"I wonder who she was?"

"Could've been anyone," Varric says.

Dorian narrows his eyes sharply, but no – Varric's only been visiting for a few days. He couldn't be Lady Thistletongue.

"Are you gonna try to go to this Patriarchs' Ball?"

Dorian sighs. "I don't see that we have any choice."

"What?" Varric laughs. "Since when is going to a fancy party mandatory?"

"If only it were just a party, but this is Minrathous. These balls aren't about dancing and canapés, not really. They're diplomacy. It's about status and bloodlines and securing power for future generations."

"And we've been called out," Seth says, gesturing at the pamphlet. "She's practically daring us. If we back down, it'll be taken for weakness. Dorian's work in the Magisterium will suffer."

Varric shakes his head. "Tevinter. So what're you gonna do?"

"What we always do." Seth shrugs. "Dance, drink, and carry knives."

Varric laughs again. "That should've been the motto of the Inquisition."

"Not holy enough," Dorian remarks.

"Neither are we," Seth says, tossing Maggie a scrap of bacon.

"Will you come, Varric?" Dorian's not sure why he's asking. They'll have to learn to manage on their own. But these early days will be the most dangerous, and the dwarf has a sharp eye. It can't hurt to have another ally on the field.

Varric hitches a square shoulder. "Sure, why not?"

"Excellent," Dorian says, feeling more relieved than he'd like to admit. "Now, about your outfit…"