Silfee remembered Redcliffe Castle. A lifetime ago, there had been a party, perhaps it was for Connor Guerrin's Naming Day, she couldn't precisely remember the specifics or whys. All Silfee could recall was that the castle itself was beautiful and she has felt so grown up, so adult with that stupid, deep blue corset that was laced so tight she could hardly breathe.

That, and all the brandy wine Arl Eamon generously provided for his guests.

The halls were quiet, now. The only word they'd received in the village was when the elf girl, Adele, had burst into the Chantry breathless and pleaded for Wynne's help with Donal. After they left, everyone slowly migrated toward the castle and Silfee found herself wandering aimlessly down dimmed corridors. She wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for, or if she was even looking for something at all.

Her home had looked similar. The Cousland's castle had more wear and tear, courtesy of Edgar and Chester barreling down the hallways at break neck speeds, and maybe the decor wasn't as stylish, but the smells and echoes reminded her all the same. Silfee shook her head. Perhaps "stylish" wasn't the word she was looking for. Father would be polite enough to say "over-indulgent," while Mother would have directly said, "tacky." Fergus would just cough and mutter, "Orlesian." Still, the smell of the oil in lamps and the sound of her footsteps in the empty hallway took her back to a time long before the Grey Wardens and long before Ostagar.

Teagan was in his brother's room and he sat, hunched over in a chair pulled close next to the arl's bed. The only sign that Eamon, with his closed eyes and sallow skin, was alive was the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Teagan looked the same as the day they met, no new wrinkles, no stray gray hairs. Strange, that Silfee could feel so much older and he appeared the same. He didn't acknowledge her in the doorway, but she couldn't fault him that. His dark eyes were trained on his brother's every subtle movement.

"Connor is his old self," Teagan murmured. He propped his chin up on his hand as he continued to watch his brother. "He does not seem to remember anything, which is a blessing."

"Connor?" Silfee said. "I'm afraid that none of us that were in the village know what happened in Redcliffe Castle."

He didn't seem to hear her. "It's so odd to think of the boy as a mage, of all things," he said. "Should Eamon recover, I'm not sure how I will tell him of all this."

"It went poorly then, I take it?" she said.

He looked at her, then, the same Bann Teagan. He tried to smile, even though there was no strength behind it. Silfee always had appreciated that about him; he was never one to forgo pleasantries even when he really had no mood for them.

"Isolde is dead," Teagan said. "Yet her sacrifice saved their son."

"...Andraste guide her," was all Silfee could manage. Peculiar that for so long she had wanted to be alone with the bann and have his attention all to herself and now that she had it, she couldn't find the words she needed. All she could think of was that awful, deep blue corset.

"Edgar told me about Oren." His eyes were back on Eamon, again. "I am so, deeply sorry."

"You mean to tell me you didn't know until now?"

"That he died?"

"Oh." And there it was, again. That awkward silence. Silfee was torn between toying with her hair or tearing it out. Instead, she stood in the doorway, no longer wanting to be there, but unable to leave.

None of her romance novels ever had anything in them about uncomfortable silences. Everyone always knew exactly what to say. Back when she was trapped in her bedroom and only allowed to walk the grounds of Highever Castle at night, Silfee had fantasized about the time when she could confront Teagan. She would scream at him and tell him exactly what kind of rube he was and he'd soak it all in and forgive her, her words because he was so taken with her.

Doubt stilled her tongue. It had all been many years ago. Teagan was too preoccupied with Eamon to take her seriously. Maybe he was over it by this point. Maybe it was a little girl's fantasies that he strung along because he was bored and because he could. He didn't ask her to sit, didn't ask her to go away and she liked to think by standing in the doorway she was trapping him there, because she felt less helpless that way.

"I did try, you know," he said finally. "In my own way."

There it was, then. It was what she had wanted, the acknowledgement. "You're going to have to explain this to me," Silfee said. "Because I don't recall hearing anything from you until these past few days. You could have been dead for all I knew."

The corners of Teagan's mouth turned up, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "It probably would have been easier on you if I had been dead."

"I didn't mean-"

"It's alright, Silfee." He reached forward and smoothed the quilt under his brother's chin. "You were a child and didn't know any better. I was an adult. I have no convenient rationalizations to excuse my behavior."

She swallowed, hard. He wasn't supposed to get any emotion out of her. She was supposed to be beyond things that happened years ago. They weren't supposed to come bubbling up through her chest, the memories pressing behind her eyes.

Maker, she had been a child. And Teagan admitted it! Maybe that's what bothered her so much; no one else admitted it. From the aristocratic circle of bitches who whispered, "whore" from then on, to Father who locked her in her room for all those months.

"What happened, Teagan?" Silfee whispered. "I kept waiting to hear from you, but you didn't say anything. Why didn't you speak up?"

She had taken to drinking penny royal tea. Guzzling it, even, until it made her sick. Still, her stomach continued to swell despite her efforts and that's when she began to use that stupid, awful corset that began all the trouble. Teagan had liked it, he said the color complemented her eyes. Did he know how she cursed his name as she had her servants pull that same corset's laces so tight the boning bruised her belly and left marks in her ribs?

Father had found out, anyway. Father always found out.

"I was in the Wilds, training with the army when I found out," Teagan said. "By the time I got back, Fergus and Oriana had already claimed the child as their own. I wanted to say something, but Eamon said I'd do more damage by it than good."

Silfee had been okay with being confined to her room. She could understand only being allowed to walk outside after the sun had set, because of her parents not wanting anyone to see her in her condition. She could understand the silly story of her being sent away to be taught by a governess in Starkhaven, even the loss of her social status in their circles would have been worth it. The problem was that through everything, she had somehow convinced herself that she'd be able to keep the baby.

The midwives took him away and wrapped him up while she delivered the afterbirth. They never brought him back.

"You should have said something," Silfee said. "You should have said something to me."

Teagan nodded. "I should have," he said. "But I was afraid."

"Afraid!"

"Yes, Silfee, I was afraid!" His voice carried in the small room. Teagan's gaze trailed away from his brother and he cleared his throat. "I was afraid. I was afraid that if I went to you, it would give the rumors weight. I didn't want to drag Oren's name through the mud. I didn't want to bring you any further shame."

She supposed they were done with pleasantries, then. Silfee swallowed. "So instead, you chose to leave me all alone." There. The words had left her mouth and in the air, it couldn't be unsaid. Teagan didn't need to know the specifics, the ruined sheets or the way her breasts had ached. It would have all been fine had she not been alone. Father wouldn't talk, Mother wouldn't talk, Edgar tried for a while, but one day he returned to her side with a split lip and then, he wouldn't talk about it, either.

When they finally allowed her to see Oren again, he was already walking and calling someone else "Mama." Silfee supposed she was fortunate in that she even knew where he was. A dirty, little secret in plain sight. Maybe if she talked about it, Father would have taken Oren away again, somewhere where she wouldn't be able to watch from afar.

So it was parties and romance novels from then on. Dresses with ruffles, idle chitchat, deep blue corsets and brandy wine. She suddenly didn't want to be in the doorway anymore.

Oren was dead. Father was dead. They were all dead and the only one currently able to enjoy the addition to the Cousland's library, made possible by a sizable "gift" from Arl Eamon, was Rendon Howe.

Teagan took his brother's hand in his. "Of all the regrets I have, you Silfee, and the way I treated you, have always weighed most heavily on my mind." He tried again at a smile as he looked at her. "I've thought many times on how I might have done things differently, but I can't undo what's been done."

"No," Silfee said. "I suppose you can't."

"I'd like to write you," Teagan said. "I know I have no right to ask, considering, but once things are finished here, I'd like to write you if you'd allow it."

"If you're going to write me, you had better write me." Silfee stepped into the room. "I will not have you making false promises, I refuse to sit around waiting for letters that will never arrive. I swear on everything, Teagan, that if you do not write me when you say you will you will never see me again."

That made him smile in earnest. "I would expect no less."

Silfee caught her breath. "Okay, then," she said. "Then you may write me." She turned abruptly and left, before she had time to dwell further on memories or time to consider the implications of what was said.