The situation's reversed now, in a cruelly ironic way. Instead of me serving the Inquisitor her comfort food, Lady Evie is the one who has given me hot chocolate and cookies. The taste is familiar—maybe she's ordered the cookies from a shop in Val Royeaux, or has asked someone else to bake. Maybe she's even baked this herself, but that's unlikely, because I know she's been busy.

"Hurt and confusion, loneliness and anger, eating you up," Cole chants. "Regret, always regret, if decisions had been different. Guilt for having survived and living in relative comfort. Working a sweet job when Jean dies in pain. Anger at her, rage against the woman who sold Jean, the woman who sold people like chattel, knowing what cruel fate they would face."

"You shouldn't let all these emotions eat you up, Ellie," Lady Evie says kindly as she holds my hand. "You should eat dinner, and breakfast and lunch, and snacks too. At the very least, these cookies and milk."

I still am not in a mood to eat anything. It's been several days now, since the Inquisitor meted justice to Mistress Poulin, may the Void take her and chop her up in tiny little pieces for spider-demons to devour. Lady Evie has ordered her execution, and her lands and gold forfeit in favor of the townsfolk, so that they may rebuild. Justice is enough, is not enough.

"Does her death bring back the lives of those she caused to die?" Cole chants. "Can her money heal the wounds in the heart of the grieving?"

Lady Evie sighs, hugs me, then looks me in the eye and grips my hand tightly. "Take the rest of the week off, Ellie, that's an order."

And for the rest of the week I walk without a purpose, no kitchen duties to attend to, no cake to bake.


I seek out the Spymaster. Sister Leliana, as her agents call her, as I must soon call her if this goes according to plan.

From afar I see in her spot in the rookery, reading reports and occasionally glimpsing the sky from her window.

"Spymaster," I say as I approach, and I hand her a jug of fresh Arl Grey tea.

"Ellie," she says in her melodious voice. That must be her best asset—she looks and sounds so sweet at first, that many an unwitting victim must have fallen for her before dying at her hand.

"Arl Grey," the Spymaster says. "Interesting choice. Why this?"

"Because the Arlessa of Amaranthine is your friend, before she became Hero, Queen, Commander and Arlessa. The tea leaves of this place is the main produce of the fields of Amaranthine after she dealt with sentient darkspawn in the area, and the people named it after her," I answer, rehashing the Ferelden gossip as I've heard them in Orlesian taverns.

"I wouldn't put it that bluntly, but yes," Sister Leliana says, giving me a sweet smile. Hmm. How many people have received that same sweet smile before meeting their end?

"Are you ready for your first assignment?" she asks me.

"Ready as I'll ever be, Sister," I say.

"Good. I'll put you in kitchen and mess hall detail," she says matter-of-factly. "Specifically, you are to cook for the Wardens. You are aware how they are now under the Inquisition?"

"Yes," I tell her, "but more information would not hurt."

"More information could hurt, Ellie," Sister Leliana answers. "It depends which kind of information, and from whom you ask. That's a primary lesson for us. We are given only what we need to know, and we must find out the rest for ourselves, always at a risk."

She accepts the tea and stares out the window, lost in thought. "If I had met you before Evie changed me, I might not have told you that." And then she looks me in the eye. "I might even have sent you on a mission, knowing that your success would mean your life. There's no use denying that, because you are astute and you can see that. But Evie has reminded me that the… lives of our agents matter. All men are the work of the Maker's hands, from the lowest servants to the highest kings."

"The lives of the poor matter as much as the lives of the rich," I mutter under my breath, daring to say what I'm saying. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you think that way, Spymaster. One may not live long if they keep treating your servants harshly."

"That is a bold statement. And you're here because you wish to avenge your brother." It is not a question.

"I am here to serve, Sister," I answer steadfastly. Normally I wouldn't have answered like this, but my heart is still hot. "To serve the Inquisition, to help Inquisitor Trevelyan. Avenging my brother won't bring him back. But serving the Inquisitor may help prevent losses, so that others like him don't need to die."

"We all serve for our own reasons, some more noble than others," Sister Leliana tells me. "Report to the main kitchens after Evie leaves for the Emerald Graves tomorrow. As I'm sure you're aware, Grey Wardens eat more than the average soldier, so we need more hands at the kitchen now. Watch them. Watch the other servants. Tell me anything you see interesting."

"Noted," I say, acknowledging her dismissal.

"Oh and Ellie?" she says as I turn to the stairs. "Do you still bring food to the Commander's quarters whenever the Inquisitor's not here?"

"Only when he does not come to the mess hall himself, Sister," I answer.

"Please continue that," the Spymaster tells me. "Commander Cullen is vital to the Inquisition."


And so I double my work, because Grey Wardens eat like crazy, and Commander Cullen's not going to the mess hall as often as he should. Not that I mind. For almost a week he has asked me to bring him some headache potions, if I would be so kind, along with his meals. And I comply, noting that despite the cold, his brow is sweaty, and that there are lines on his face that indicate sleepless nights and a certain sullenness that hints of fatigue. His food trays too have too much leftovers. I briefly wonder if he used to be an alcoholic who's turned a new leaf, and is now suffering withdrawal, but I know that assuming too much without any prior observation is one of an agent's biggest sins. I just decide to tell Sister Leliana my observations without any commentary.

What I won't tell the Spymaster is that the Commander of the Inquisition is a kind man. Kinder than most lords in Orlais, and most tavern keeps for that matter.

"Ellie," he calls me one night as I deliver his dinner. "I realize that it's been some time, but I have not offered my condolences. Allow me to offer it now, chef. My condolences for your brother, Jean Martin, who must have been a good man."

This is surprising, but not unwelcome. "Thank you, Ser. He was."

"I've lost enough to understand what you're going through," Ser Cullen says. "My siblings Mia, Rosalie and Branson survived the Blight and left our home village of Honnleath, but my parents did not. When they passed away, I was serving as a Templar, and I could not obtain leave to attend their funeral. I was in mad grief, partly due to other things too, but… I had my duties to attend to."

There seems to be something Ser Cullen almost blurted, but I let it pass. He is a kind man, and I am touched by his concern.

"It took me a while, but I realized that it's alright to mourn, Ellie," he continues. "Even in private. Even while working. But don't let it ruin your life, don't make regret eat you up. Our lives go on. We should emerge from our grief as better persons, and make sure the ones we loved did not die in vain."

"Thank you, Ser." I know that there's something he's almost blurted, about why he couldn't make it to his parents' funeral, but I don't see how that's any of my concern. I should not pry, I should not bite the hand that feeds me.

I bid him good night, but as I close his office door I hear a loud thud. I reopen the door with alacrity.

The Commander's fallen to the ground. I run to him, and he whispers how he wants to be assisted to bed. I help him up his ladder—somebody ought to get this man a real bedroom, or at least, decent stairs. He makes me swear not to tell the soldiers or anyone else about this. I'm thankful that it's to the soldiers he makes me swear discretion to, and not Lady Evie or Sister Leliana.


Being the Inquisitor's personal chef has lightened my workload, true, but right now I'm thankful for the distraction of too-much-work in the kitchens, delivering food to the Commander, and watching people. Even the after-dinner grub that soldiers eat in the tavern are doubled, much to Rinna's irritation—"feeding all that bunch of crazy that the Inquisitor brought back from the edge of the world for the Maker only knows what reason" as she puts it.

"Do the Wardens all eat like pigs?" Rinna asks me one day as I help her prepare after-dinner grubs in the tavern. "You know that some of them have broken in my larders again?"

"Beats me," I answer. "Wardens are crazy."

"You're close to the big bosses. Can you ask Commander Handsome to put guards on the larder, lass?" she asks with obvious irritation. "Some of us here don't earn wages, you know. We earn profits from selling food."

"I'm not very good friends with the bosses, but sure, I can ask Commander Cullen to post guards on the larder," I say. And because she's glaring at me, I swear it in the Maker's name.

"They've been here weeks, but they've eaten up enough for one winter," she comments. "And you. I know you're mourning, but do you really have to work your back off? Work in the main kitchens at day, work in the tavern at night? Deliver food to the Commander, morning noon and night?"

"It's nothing, Rinna," I say. "I like working. Gives me purpose."

"Purpose for what? Anyway, my life will be better if all Wardens stop drinking like fish and start eating like birds. Or if anyone gives me an unpickable magic lock. Ach, at least Wardens pay promptly. Can't be said of the Chargers most of the time."

"At least the Chargers are polite," I counter.

"Aye, they say thank-you on occasion," Rinna says. "Silence must be a Warden thing. Or are they still embarrassed by the entire business at Adamant?"

But as much as Rinna's a mother-sister figure to me, there are things I shouldn't share with her—I work all these shifts because I'm watching people now, and I can't tell her what I know or what I think. It's sad, that I can no longer talk to Rinna as unreservedly, but duty calls.

I verify later—well, ninety-percent verify—that it was indeed Wardens who have raided Rinna's larder. I continue observing them for some days, their taciturn ways, their insatiable appetites that is three to four times of an average soldier's, and their chronic inability to socialize with the rest of the folks in Skyhold. Very much like Blackwall, who's looked restless for the past couple days. But as strong and silent as Lady Evie's first Warden is, he doesn't eat half as much as any Warden…

I hear the night bells, realize what an un-Maker-ly hour it is, and yawn. My report to the Nightingale will come first thing in the morning.


A/N: Real life has been weird for me, and that's why it's taking me long to upload new chapters. But I really appreciate feedback on this! Thanks for the reviews, messages, faves and follows. Author subsists on unsweetened tea and coffee as well as concrit! :)