"Maker, that was embarrassing."
It's past midmorning, almost lunchtime even, but Lady Evie's sitting in her bedroom table in her nightgown, her hair all over the place, sipping a huge mug of my strongest coffee: Dragon's Brew.
"Well, Lady Evie," I say in an attempt to make her laugh, "how'd you like your fat old cook dressed up like a proper lady's maid?"
"You're neither fat nor old, Ellie," Lady Evie answers. Well, at least now she's smiling. And I really am dressed today like a lady's maid, following the instructions of the big bosses to start acting like one.
"Maker. I've always hated dealing with nobles," she mumbles. "Now, there's no running from it. And you will accompany me, Ellie."
"Let me guess, you need me to educate the royal chefs on the secrets to great Inquisitorial cookies?" I ask.
"More like, we both need to stand around and look pretty." She sighs again, and switches topics. "How can I face Cullen again after yesterday?"
"It's easy, milady," I answer, "just tell him you wanna waltz with him at the fancy schmancy ball. Don't people dance and sip pink champagne in such places?"
"He carried me to my room, Ellie! And when I awoke, I was in my nightgown already."
"He carried you. I helped you dress, after he went out. And I was there all along. Don't you remember?"
"Ugh, Maker, no." She hides her face in her palms. "What will Cullen think of me now? And the rest of the Inquisition…"
I slam my fist on the table, and the mug rattles. There's a lot I wanna tell her. About how he cares for her, but their jobs get in the way, and she shouldn't blame him or herself for it. Well, she can blame Corypheus. Or that she should probably invite Ser Cullen for evening tea again, and not avoid him without giving him a reason. But that won't really help right now. Right now, we need the Inquisitor up and running. Halamshiral is weeks away. Not to mention that the Inquisition is facing a gazillion other problems as well: Anna Hawke is not yet back, the Chantry's still in shambles, and a lot of other things too.
"Now that's enough, Inquisitor," I say, copying Ser Cullen's big voice. "You need to look decent now. Come, let's get you dressed. And hope that I still remember how to do this."
I've been a servant all my life. I served in Orlais before, and started as a maid in a noble household before my unfortunate ex-boss got caught up really badly in the Game. Then I started working in taverns all over Orlais, some fancy, some not, always thankfully as a cook and nothing more. Then when the civil war happened, my last tavern suffered a major loss of patrons, and had to retrench some of its cooks and wenches. That's when I applied in the Inquisition, and now, I'm an official 'chef.' So yeah, I have a rough knowledge of the Game, both on how nobles play it and how it affects common lives.
I help Lady Evie dress. She has a war meeting to go to. And while the bosses talk politics, trade, secrets, military and other big stuff, I head to one of Lady Nightingale's agents, a girl called Simone, who gives me a refresher course on Imperial etiquette. Not much has changed, everybody still has smile and be polite all the time. But I do get surprised when Simone gives me the basics of espionage as well.
The Winter Palace is quite a sight. I've no words for it, honestly. How could one sufficiently describe the painstaking details of Orlais' ultimate symbol of decadence and might? It makes my head hurt just trying to express my awe at its beauty. But I don't have very long to linger on that. Right now, I'm a lady's maid wearing a nice silk dress and black leather shoes, a servant pretending to be a spy pretending to be a servant. Whatta promotion from my cotton aprons and cake pans!
"Is my hair alright?" Lady Evie whispers. "Does this dress uniform make me look fat? I knew I should have cut on butter cookies and chocolates the past few weeks!"
"You're radiant, Lady Evie," I tell her. I know that in the Game, confidence is key. "The mighty Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. You are the embodiment of power and grace. Don't forget that. Otherwise, we're screwed."
She gives a laugh, and puts on her best Inquisitor face, ready to mingle the Imperial Court.
Maker, I never really appreciated how beautiful she is—beautiful as rose made of silverite. Her thick black hair is artfully tied in a bun near the base of her neck, her cheeks chiseled, eyes lined subtly with kohl, lips maroon, all working to complementing her dress uniform. She looks every bit like the glorious Inquisitor she is. It's still early, but she's got a lot of heads turning to her now. Not just the Commander's, who every now and then glances at her with a small smile. Heh. At least one of us isn't seeing a very formidable woman tonight.
She gets introduced, alongside the dignitaries of the Empire and of the Inquisition: Lady Evelyn Marie Antoinette Trevelyan of Ostwick and all her accomplishments. The Court is abuzz, I'm almost excited to be part of the Game.
I take my designated place near Lady Leliana, as Lady Evie sneaks off to search for the assassin. Hopefully, the Court won't notice her absence for long. Tonight, the Game is at its most beautiful and ruthless.
"Do you see anything interesting?" the Spymaster asks me.
"Uh, milady," I stammer. She terrifies me, but gestures me to continue. I look around. "The Commander can't keep his eyes off the Inquisitor, oblivious to the masked beauties around him."
"What?" Lady Leliana says. "No, I know about that already. Tell me about the crowd. Your evaluation of the people here."
"That noble with the golden shoes?" I point at a particularly lavish young woman in the crowd. "With the pearls and emeralds on them. She's not expecting anything but a grand party, milady. Just partying, maybe a little extra after hours of flirtation and a long night of dancing. But no thought of losing her fancy shoes."
"What a good eye," the Spymaster says with a smile. "Yes, that's Lady Cambienne. Her family fell into hard times lately. But such vulgar display of wealth at a time of civil war… what's she done, who's she bedding? Why's she not afraid?"
A flurry of painted nobles glide past us, and we fall silent. I watch the Spymaster's face discreetly, wondering what's going on in her pretty head.
"Sans rival?" She suddenly offers me a platter of exquisite white cake sprinkled with nuts.
"Beg pardon, milady?" I say.
"Cake, Ellie," she says as she takes a bite. "My, someone's a little slow tonight. That's why you haven't made it to agent yet. I know you can tell a lot about someone by what they eat, how they eat, when they eat. I considered training you, but the Commander had other ideas. It worked out in the end. The Inquisitor relies on your sweets in order to function properly."
Curious, that comment. I want to ask Lady Leliana more about it, but she's not as approachable as Ser Cullen has been lately. I decide to shove it at the back of my mind, as right now, I have a job to do.
The party drags on. I'm amusing myself by counting how many decorated princesses ask Ser Cullen for a dance, and get a flat out refusal, which under the circumstances is almost rude. My. I never thought that the Commander himself would know less of the Game and Imperial antics than me, a servant. Well, a chef, but still a servant.
I glance at the Spymaster, whose pretty face is no less of a mask than Lady Evie's; at the Ambassador, who is clearly having the time of her life; and at the Commander, whose enthrallment for Lady Evie is written for all to see. Well, if they care to look. Apparently, those young nobles ignore it.
Things get interesting when Lady Evie dances with the Grand Duchess Florianne. Wow. I know she hates the nobility, but she hides it so well, her beautiful face with a gracious smile a mask in itself. I hear murmurs from the august crowd sharing my sentiment in far more flowery words. And it cannot be denied: tonight, without compare, Inquisitor Evelyn Marie Antoinette Trevelyan is the belle of the ball.
And then Lady Evie comes to the other bosses, discuss Inquisitorial-ey stuff. We take our positions—which means, for me, instructions to give discreet signals to Seeker Cassandra, Ser Dorian and Cole, and then to dash to the servants' area where some of the best agents of the Inquisition wait.
By the time I've returned, however, the Court was in a state of shock. Something big's happened, but no blood has been spilt. Thank Andraste, the Maker, even the elven gods and the Paragons! I discreetly ask the Commander what has happened.
"Evie's denounced the Grand Duchess," Ser Cullen whispers. "And she's decided to let the Empress keep the throne, with that Briala woman. Thank the Maker everything turned out alright. You can inform our agents that they can slightly relax now, but they aren't allowed to, uh, party wildly."
The Empress talks about peace, blah, unity, blah, potential elven rights, wait, there's support for the Inquisition. Now that's the one we've been waiting for. Yay!
Lady Evie steps beside the lovely Empress, and waves to the crowd. I note that the nobles now celebrate the Inquisitor more than the Empress, and spot quite a number of men eager to have her attention.
"Commander?" I whisper.
"Yes?"
"Now would be the perfect time to ask her out again," I tell him "You know, let her eat cake and celebrate."
"The sans rival? It must be good, Leliana can't seem to have enough of it," he says. "I've been meaning to give some to Evie, but do you think she'll like it more than strawberry jam?"
I don't need to answer. As a radiant Inquisitor Evelyn Marie Antoinette Trevelyan approaches her Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford, I discreetly hand him a beautifully done platter of sans rival, which he offers her. They share a secret smile as they head off to the balcony, eating cake with the best vista in the Empire.
Tonight, there are no leftovers for them—only the best and finest. Tonight, they celebrate each other, sans rival.
A/N: Lady Evie's name and fondness for cake are the only things she shares with a certain French queen who's said to have uttered callous words about letting starving people eat brioche. :)
Dragon's Brew is an idea from the amazing Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers Facebook group.
Sans Rival is a Filipino cake made with lots of buttercream, meringue and chopped nuts. Why this local recipe has a French name eludes me, though before I Googled it I assumed that it's a foreign (i.e., French or Canadian) dessert that has caught on our taste.
