Truly, the absurdity of it all was so great it seemed a crime the situation was not funnier. But Sebastian knew too well Hercinia's love of law and order, the stranglehold of bureaucracy it had on the entire city. It was ridiculous, that they'd been apprehended when he'd been the one upon whom injury had been done. The law that kept Kiara Hawke two paces behind him, ostensibly to keep her in her bloody place, was the same law that had put him into the path of the man roughly the size of an ox that came out of the inn at precisely the wrong moment. Though, in truth, he knew that if Hawke had been by his side at the time, she'd have caught the brunt of the opening door, and likely would have been—

Who was he kidding? Hawke would have demanded an apology. And she'd have gotten one, too, particularly if she'd had her bow in hand. That was an entertaining scenario, or would have been, had Sebastian been inclined to entertain such fancies. He wasn't.

Instead, he was stuck in a musty, dim room with a magistrate quickly on his way to being drunk on his own power. Sebastian was coming to despise the man and his superior smirk, strutting about, so certain of his own righteousness. Drolett took their sheets of paper with the sort of condescension that bespoke that very same righteousness and sense of superiority.

So great was Sebastian's irritation and affront that he almost forgot they were lying to the magistrate. It was difficult for him to care overmuch about the falsehood in which they'd engaged — not if Hawke was on the verge of being placed into Hercinian servitude for an act of kindness.

He did not think about — did not like to think about — how easy a lie it was to tell.

The sudden rush of anger at Drolett's ridiculous — to say nothing of insulting and invasive — line of questioning made every muscle in his body grow tense and rigid, and then, perhaps unsurprisingly, the wound at his chest — still throbbing after being jarred so violently — began to ache and throb all the more.

Strangely, it had been Hawke's smirk while answering the last of Drolett's questions (and had he not been harboring a healthy dislike for the man, Sebastian might have pitied him; the smirk meant trouble) that had made a surge of anger and protectiveness swell in his chest.

As he handed over his sheet of answers to the magistrate, Sebastian vowed silently he would break Hawke out of prison himself if they failed this little test. If they were jailed together, which also wasn't unlikely, given what the Book of Law had to say on the matter, they would break out together.

But once Drolett had both pieces of parchment in his possession and began to read over their answers, a strange look overspread his face. Slowly, the color began to drain from his cheeks, which until that point had been ruddy with what what Sebastian supposed was the thrill of victory. Watching him closely, Sebastian took care to keep his expression bland, but now he was suppressing the urge to smirk.

So Magistrate Drolett has figured out he has the Champion of Kirkwall in custod—

The magistrate's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "Your name is… Vael?"

"Of the Starkhaven Vaels," Hawke added, too sweetly.

The magistrate ignored her, fixing a gaze so confused on Sebastian that it took every effort not to give in to the smirk. Instead, Sebastian gently lifted one eyebrow and replied, "I never attempted to hide my identity, messere."

The unspoken you never bothered to ask hung between them. If he'd had color to lose, the magistrate would certainly have lost it then. The man's gaze darted back to the papers he still held clutched in his hands. "It says here—your parents—you've both written—"

"Lachlan and Meghan Vael, presumably."

Drolett pulled the papers to his breast, as if they might protect him. "But then—"

Sebastian interrupted him, explaining patiently, as though he was speaking to a very small child, "I am the youngest son of the last rightful ruler of Starkhaven, aye. By all means, though, continue: I do understand the importance of law being upheld."

"It is very important for a prince to understand the working of the law," Hawke intoned. Sebastian felt his lips twitch and bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

"I—yes," Drolett murmured feebly. "Yes, I'm sure. Ah. I believe there's been a misunderstanding. Ah. Your Highness. Highnesses."

"I did say that right from the beginning," Hawke reminded him. "Only you wouldn't let me explain."

Sebastian shot Hawke a warning look, and she inclined her head with a smile, subsiding.

"Now, Magistrate Drolett, presuming our… papers are in order, is there anything else? Our ship departs on the morning tide, and we would very much like to partake of the Hercinian hospitality whilst we're still able. Unless…?" Sebastian let the word hang, a tacit challenge. Drolett reached up and tugged on his mustaches, blinking.

"Well, ah, Your Highness, ah—"

Whatever Drolett might have said was lost when a sudden insistent knocking at the door interrupted him. A hint of the man's arrogance returned as he scowled at the intrusion and strode to the door. A guard quavered on the other side, clutching a piece of paper tight in his hand. "I know you said you weren't to be interrupted, Magistrate, but—"

"What do you have there?" Drolett snapped.

"A marriage certificate, Magistrate. Signed by the ship captain who married them, and witnessed by Varric Tethras. You know, of the Tethras merchant family out of Kirkwall—"

"I am aware of the Tethras family, guardsman."

"They supply all of Hercinia's—"

"I know," Drolett growled. "Enough. That will be all."

The guard lowered his eyes but did not budge. "Magistrate, the Assembly has been informed. They have requested you allow these… guests to depart. They wish to… ah, avoid an international incident. I believe those were Assemblyman Sollen's words. He did, ah, order me to escort the… guests from the building."

Sebastian grimaced as Drolett's shoulders stiffened. He half expected the man to hold them for spite, now. He seemed exactly the type of paper shuffler who'd do such a thing, just to prove he could.

"Relations between Starkhaven and Hercinia have always been cordial," Sebastian said lightly. "I would hate to see anything jeopardize that, Magistrate Drolett."

"Quite… right," Drolett agreed, reluctantly.

It became clear to Sebastian that the Assembly were men with whom one did not trifle when Drolett gave a gruff gesture, indicating that they were meant to leave with the guards. He and Hawke stood — and he noticed she was less inclined to lower her gaze now. On the contrary, she was all smiles and decidedly-not-lowered eyes as she crossed the room, standing by the guard's side, which left the poor man looking utterly befuddled and not a little worried.

Sebastian, on the other hand, approached Drolett, letting a polite smile form at his lips while keeping his eyes ever so slightly narrowed. He put one hand out, and the magistrate looked confused for a moment — making an aborted movement, as if he thought for an instant Sebastian meant to clasp forearms with him — until Sebastian nodded at the documents the magistrate still held and said, "I believe those belong to us, serah."

Magistrate Drolett looked down again. Something on the topmost page made his face turn an alarming shade of red, and he pressed the papers into Sebastian's hand. Without looking at them, Sebastian folded the sheets and tucked them into a pocket, nodding. "I thank you, serah. If there is nothing else, my wife and I will depart."

A muscle twitched in Drolett's jaw as his throat worked silently. "Ah. No, Highness. Nothing else." The ruddy color remained, and Sebastian started to wonder just what in the Maker's name the man had seen. "No hard feelings then?"

Hawke sent a bright smile the man's way. "I think you managed to avoid an international incident."

Drolett only coughed and nodded, gesturing again, as if to shoo them off.

It wasn't until they were on the other side of the door and on their way back down the long, tiled corridor — two very familiar silhouettes waiting in the twilight at the end — Sebastian realized the enormity of what they'd just done. He slowly flexed his left hand, the dull pain grounding him once again in the real world. A world where he was not married to Kiara Hawke.

Relief overspread Varric and Isabela's faces when they spied Sebastian and Hawke, but the complement of guards hampered their conversation significantly. The dwarf sent him a look and Sebastian gave a brief nod, which seemed to satisfy Varric, who then shot Isabela a glance. The pirate inclined her head, and the group of them walked in near silence back to the boat.

Once they were aboard, Isabela arched an eyebrow at the pair of them. "This had better not mean I'm blacklisted. There are only so many ports along this coast."

"And as you're already blacklisted in most of them…" Varric muttered, not quite under his breath. Sebastian gave the dwarf a sympathetic smile—Varric was already looking a bit green, and the ship was still in port, while runners went to fetch Isabela's sailors.

It occurred to Sebastian to hope no one had been partaking too heavily of the mead, or they'd never make it out to sea alive. It also occurred to him that the Assembly must have been worried about an Incident indeed, if they were willing to let them break the laws of hospitality—bed and food—to leave at once. Only Hawke had that kind of luck.

Isabela rolled her eyes, plucking at the ruffles of her pink gown. "There is something to be said for finally getting around those pesky hospitality traditions, but honestly, what were you thinking, Hawke?"

Hawke gave Isabela a nervous look and glanced over her shoulder, as if to make certain no Hercinian—Drolett or otherwise—was around to hear the name.

"I was thinking I couldn't very well let my, uh, husband crack his head—or his barely-healed wound—open in the street."

"We did witness that part, kitten," Isabela replied. "And we rescued your… things."

Hawke giggled. "Did you like your parasol? I was afraid it was lost forever."

Isabela's eyes widened. "That was for me?"

"To match your dress, obviously. You did ask for a present. We simply obliged. Do you like all the ruffles? Think how fashionable you'll be the next time you have to put in port here."

For a moment, the impossible happened—Isabela was rendered speechless. "Well," she said at length. "I think it's perfectly hideous."

"She loves it," Varric remarked. "She was going to steal it. Or… forget to tell you it had been recovered."

"I was not." Isabela's cheeks colored ever so slightly, and she glowered at Varric. Hawke giggled again. Maker, but her giggle was—

"Kiara Hawke, what in the Maker's name is this?"

She smirked up at him through batted lashes. "Heart of my heart, it's Vael, remember? Did you find my picture?"

"Picture?" Isabela asked, parasol forgotten. "Is it naughty?"

"It most certainly is," Hawke opined. "But that bloody bureaucrat was getting on my last nerve. Favorite position for repose, indeed."

"Ooh," Isabela squealed. "Let me see. I love positions for… repose."

Suddenly, Sebastian realized just why the man had been blushing. He feared his own cheeks were quite pink. Part of it was the picture. Part of it was the entirely inappropriate tangent his mind took at the words heart of my heart. Most of it was the picture, though. What the drawing lacked in skill of the artist was more than made up for by his traitorous, vivid imagination.

Also, he was fairly certain he'd never be able to innocently use the word repose ever again.

Extending her hand, Hawke crooked her fingers. "Come on, Sebastian. Let me see your answers. I want to see how badly we'd have failed Drolett's little exam."

The heat at his cheeks never abating, Sebastian handed over his sheet of answers while at the same time trying to keep Hawke's sheet from Isabela's prying eyes.

"Oh, it must be good if Princess doesn't want me seeing it," she laughed.

Sebastian started to protest and turn away from Isabela again, but with a deftness and quickness the pirate usually saved for battle, she slipped around him and snatched the paper from his hands and only a second or two later, let out a rich peal of laughter.

"Andraste's arsecheeks, Hawke!" Isabela's mirth made her sputter slightly, but she wasn't distracted enough to turn nimbly away from Sebastian when he made a grab for the sheet. "Mustache-Man asked you this? Really? Honestly, by the look of him I wouldn't have thought he'd have known there were different positions for… repose." And the intent Isabela loaded into the word made it sound every bit as obscene as… well, as Hawke's diagram.

But Hawke didn't reply. She simply stared at the sheet of paper, a queer expression upon her face. She was frowning, but didn't look particularly troubled or even upset. No, if anything, she looked confused.

While Isabela was distracted in her attempt to get Hawke's attention, Sebastian snatched the piece of parchment back and strode a few steps away — the better to keep the item from Isabela's prying eyes — to see if he could determine what exactly had Hawke so… bothered.

It took him no time at all to discern the root of her discomfiture. His face still felt warm with the blush, which seemed impossible, as he was certain the blood had to be draining from his face.

From behind him, he heard Hawke clear her throat and cough softly. "Sebastian…"

Neither of them had got a single answer wrong. It didn't seem possible, but the more Sebastian thought about it, the more that didn't make sense either. Of course she'd known about the bow — she'd been the one to present it to him. She'd seen the look on his face when he'd wrapped his hands around the polished wood, unleashing so many memories spanning so many years. He even found himself unsurprised, when he really thought about it, she knew his weakness for the chantry's fresh-baked bread, for the butter sweetened with honey that came from the bees feasting upon the flowers in the chantry's own garden. He remembered sitting on the chantry steps with Hawke, both of them filthy, exhausted and — more often than not — bloodstained, sharing a loaf of bread with butter and, on occasion, a steaming mug of too-strong tea, also sweetened with honey. Together they'd watch the sun come up over Kirkwall, sometimes saying nothing at all as they simply enjoyed their bread, tea, and company.

They were some of Sebastian's fondest memories.

Hawke coughed again. "Sebastian?"

He turned, realizing too late his heart was thundering in his chest. Sebastian swallowed hard; he was almost afraid to hear her ask the question so clear in her eyes. He also realized he didn't know which name to call her by, anymore. "Aye?"

She bit her lip gently, worrying it a moment as she hesitated. But finally the question came out: "How did you know about the tea-set? That it was…" She swallowed. "How did you know?"

As far as questions went — and the ones she could have asked — it was… answerable, at least. He looked back down at the paper he held. At the spatters of ink decorating the page as she'd tapped the tip of the quill so restlessly against the sheet. The handwriting, elegant even though a lap hardly made for a proper desk. Everything on the parchment reflected Hawke so clearly it might as well have been a mirror. Even the drawing showed not only her wit and her sense of humor, but an utter intolerance for bullies of all kinds.

Licking his lips once, he considered her question. "You mentioned your mother found it in the vault. The night I came to—the night Amelle fetched me to… see you, it… it was on the sideboard in your room." He shrugged. "It seemed… significant at the time. And I do know how little you have that belonged to your parents…" Sebastian trailed off — everything he was saying was true, but it still wasn't the right answer.

He didn't know how he knew the tea-set was so important to Hawke. It was something about the way she handled it when pouring tea, the way she stroked the rim of the teacup thoughtfully, the way she was always so careful with the delicate porcelain, almost reverent. All of it spoke to him. And all of it was equally difficult to articulate.

"You knew about the bread," he said quietly. "How?"

Her answering laugh was soft, and sounded almost broken. "I thought for certain I got that one wrong. I figured your favorite food was probably some impossibly rich, rare, princely thing I could barely pronounce and had certainly never tasted myself."

Now it was his turn to laugh, and it, too, sounded wrong to his own ears. "No, I…no. You were… quite entirely right, as it turns out. Right down to the honeyed butter."

She glanced down, and this time it was her cheeks that colored. "I think, if not for your name and Varric and Isabela's timely interference, our answers to the last question might've undone us."

Sebastian didn't need to look at the paper to remember what he'd written. She will jest in answer to this insulting question, because you've embarrassed her. As to me? What man could choose favorites with a wife as beautiful as she? He should count himself lucky she deigns to repose with him at all.

"And yet strangely, our replies echoed each other," he said, carefully light. "I think we could have made a case."

She huffed another laugh. "Did you get a good look at that certificate? I don't know if we should be relieved it looked authentic, or concerned we might actually be married."

Sebastian glanced at it now. Truly, whoever'd done the forgery was… alarmingly good, actually. He was forced to swallow past a hard knot of emotion. "I suspect Isabela. Maker knows what trouble we've signed our names to these past years."

"Varric could be the dark horse, though."

The dwarf chuckled at this, and Sebastian blinked, realizing both Varric and Isabela were watching with rapt attention. Hawke glared at them, collecting the various papers and folding them. "Use your powers for good," she warned.

"We did!" Isabela cried. On Hawke's look, the pirate amended, "Mostly. I mean, today we did."

"That's more like it. Now, all this madness aside, are we supplied adequately? Our… altercation didn't make things more difficult?"

"We've supplies enough to get us to Starkhaven," Isabela said. "And I bought you a present, too, kitten."

"Oh?"

"Princess isn't the only one who knows your fondness for strawberries."

This earned a genuine grin.

Varric added, "I don't think anyone's in the dark about that one."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Wait a second. Wasn't my purse the one paying for supplies?"

Isabela had the grace to look momentarily sheepish. "You bought yourself a present?"

Rolling her eyes, Hawke punched Isabela lightly in the shoulder. "I shudder to think what other presents I bought you."

"I kept her in check," Varric assured her.

"Someone must," Sebastian said under his breath, earning a glare from the pirate.

"Now, now, Princess. I've earned at least twenty-four hours of gratitude from you, I think."

Sebastian inclined his head.

On a smirk, Isabela said, "Now, since we're about to leave this Maker-forsaken place, I'm going to rid myself of these ruffles. May I suggest you do the same, Hawke?"

Hawke chuckled. "I don't know, I've grown rather accustomed to them."

Isabela shot her a skeptical glance and disappeared belowdecks. Varric followed, somewhat more reluctantly. Sebastian felt for the man. And yet the sooner they were out to sea, the sooner they'd be in Starkhaven, and the sooner they were in Starkhaven—

His thoughts were interrupted by Hawke's concern. "How are you feeling? Truly?"

"I—" He realized he was still absently worrying at the wound. "I don't know."

"I'll take a look at it. I've—I've still got healing potions."

"Amelle won't thank you for so thoroughly depleting her stock."

Hawke glanced skyward and sighed. "I'm afraid that's the least of what Amelle won't thank me for."

Sebastian's eyes dropped to the papers still folded tightly in her hands.

"Hawke—Kiara—I—there are things I would—"

Her answering smile was soft and sad. "Later, Sebastian. There'll be time enough for talking later. When we have… less of an audience, perhaps."

Sebastian nodded. The sailors were returning in twos and threes, laughing amongst themselves. Soon they would be out to sea again, trapped within the confines of the ship, once again caught in the routine of preparing food and helping on deck and sleeping and watching the horizon.

Perhaps there would also be talking, though, as she promised. Perhaps there would be apologies. For a moment—a brief, heartbreaking moment—he even let himself believe there might be forgiveness. Then he bowed his head and acquiesced to her request, following her belowdecks so she might once again tend to the wound that hounded him.

#

Kiara considered it a mark of pride that she could sneak up on Sebastian. Granted, at the moment sneaking required hardly any effort at all. He was once again abovedeck, having left poor Varric to die alone in their cabin. He was evidently so engrossed in whatever he was reading she was able to throw herself down next to him before he noticed her.

"So am I avoiding you? Or are you avoiding me?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light and failing miserably.

"I'm not avoiding you," he replied, sliding a bookmark between the pages and closing the book in his lap. She saw then it wasn't—as she'd half-expected—a book of sermons or volumes of the Chant, but a collection of children's stories. Something about the incongruity of this made her heart ache, and she bowed her head.

"As I suspected then," she said, with a theatrical sigh. "I must have been avoiding you."

It wasn't precisely true. The two of them were still in charge of the cooking, and most days they managed to occupy the same space for hours at a time. Avoiding wasn't possible in a ship's galley. Not physically.

Emotionally, though? Maker, but she was good at avoiding things emotionally. And conversationally? If the title Champion was handed out for avoiding difficult conversations, she'd have been crowned many times over. In the week since Hercinia, their conversations had amounted to nothing more taxing or trying than 'So, we're down to the salt pork and hard tack?' or 'What do you suppose we can make with weevil-infested grain?' She knew Sebastian had tried, in the beginning. Day after day, meal after meal, he'd tried. And she'd avoided.

This time when Kiara sighed, there was nothing fake about it. "Sebastian, we need to talk."

Had she been in his place, she would not have been able to rein in the sarcasm, but Sebastian only regarded her calmly for a few moments before nodding his agreement.

But before Kiara could say anything, they were interrupted by Isabela's laughter. "Fuzzy! You're alive!"

Varric's voice didn't carry as well as Isabela's, but the expression on his face was unmistakable… and alive seemed an exaggeration. Isabela leapt down from the foredeck, but Varric lurched away from her before she could touch him. Scowling, she said, "How many times do I have to tell you—the best place for you is up here in the fresh air. You'll feel better. Stop being such a bloody dwarf about this."

"Belowdeck's not exactly the Deep Roads, Rivaini. And as long as we're on water, I feel like shit no matter where I'm at. Up, down. Inside, outside. It's all the same. Misery. Also despair. And vomiting. So much vomiting."

Kiara watched for a moment, waiting for them to once again depart, but instead Varric and Isabela spotted them and drew near, their expressions oddly identical and uncharacteristically sober. Kiara blinked, asking, "Is there trouble?"

Isabela said, "Yes," at the same time Varric replied, "No." Then they exchanged a glance and both amended, "Maybe."

Varric swallowed hard—whether to keep illness at bay, or because he didn't want to say what he was about to say, Kiara wasn't certain—and said, "Let's go with it's not so much trouble as concern."

Kiara wanted to put her head in her hands, but refrained. The headache that had bothered her on and off since the battle with Meredith had all but disappeared in the week since they'd left Hercinia, but Varric's tone was liable to bring a return of it. Every time someone used the word concern these days, Bad Things Happened. She was… so desperately tired of Bad Things Happening. "Why? Is there another ship? Not another storm?" She glanced skyward, but there wasn't a cloud to be seen. "Andraste's tears, please tell me we don't need to put into some other law-choked port. I don't know if I could bear it."

Isabela rolled her eyes but held her tongue. Varric gave the pirate a warning look before continuing, "We've been talking."

Dryly, Sebastian opined, "How surprising."

Varric ignored him. "You know, Hawke, for a couple of rogues? You and Choir Boy are terribly forthright and principled. Rivaini says—thank the Maker and the Creators and the sodding paragons and anything else that cares to listen—we'll make Starkhaven tomorrow, winds willing. And… well, it's Starkhaven. And… I know you think it's your brother and all, Choir Boy, but—"

Clearly unable to hold the words inside any longer, Isabela blurted, "I don't want to die."

Kiara realized how stunned Sebastian was by this when his book tumbled to the deck and he didn't immediately bend to retrieve it, even though it was sitting in a puddle of seawater. As she reached for it, he said, "Starkhaven's not Kirkwall, Isabela. I don't foresee immediate danger upon our arrival."

Soothingly—ironic, given how sick he looked; truly, Kiara had never seen skin so green—Varric said, "No one's saying anything about dying—"

"I really am," Isabela interjected.

"No one except Isabela is saying anything about dying. Personally I'd rather take my chances with an entire battalion of slavers, an army of lyrium-mad templars, even a rampaging pack of rabid sodding nugs if it means getting off this piece of shi—"

"Ship," Isabela insisted on a glare. "Ship. Ship."

"Ship," Varric agreed, shooting Kiara a look that said touchy, touchy. Then he coughed. Meaningfully. "Look, given the circumstances—we know next to nothing about anything and we don't want to walk blindly into a trap and all—we would prefer if you… let the real rogues have a crack at things first."

Kiara felt her lips twitch, but she didn't give in to the urge to smile. "The… real rogues?"

Isabela snorted. Also meaningfully. Varric reached out and laid a hand gently on the pirate's arm, saying, "It's possible your respectability and virtue—though charming, of course, Hawke—may need to… lie low."

Crossing his arms over his chest—and she was glad to see he didn't wince in pain when he did so—Sebastian said, "You want us to what? Lie? Cheat? Steal?"

Isabela brightened. "Yes?"

Varric glowered at her. "No, Choir Boy. You two got your… hands dirty enough in Hercinia. We just want you to let us check the lay of the land."

Sebastian tilted his head, regarding the two of them steadily until they began to fidget. "You didn't think I was going to march up to the palace and demand an audience, did you?"

Isabela's jaw dropped.

A little feebly, Varric said, "The… thought… the thought had…"

Sebastian's sigh somehow encompassed disappointment, long-suffering and unhappiness all at the same time. Kiara felt her lips twitch again, and bit them. "You do take me for an idiot, don't you?" Sebastian queried, eyes narrowing. "But Hawke and I would be more than happy to—how did you put it?—let you check the lay of the land. If you're volunteering, that is."

Varric and Isabela exchanged confounded glances. "So you're… okay with this, then?" Varric asked.

"Perfectly. If there's anyone in the world I trust to scour a city's seedy underbelly for information, it's the two of you."

Isabela canted her head, as though desperate to find the insult she suspected had to be present in Sebastian's words. Before she could say anything, however, Kiara pushed herself to her feet and tucked Sebastian's book under her arm. "If that's all?"

"Uh. Sure, Hawke. We…"

This time she allowed herself to smile, just a little. "I know, Varric. You're just… doing what you do."

It was Varric's turn to look befuddled. Kiara reached out a hand to Sebastian—the gesture was automatic, but she still found herself surprised when she felt his grip strong around her wrist—and helped him to his feet. Smiling down at her, expression somehow both sad and fond at the same time as he released her, they made their way belowdecks, leaving Varric and Isabela bewildered behind them. "What do I do?" she heard Varric ask Isabela. "Rivaini, what'd she mean by that?"

"Void if I know, Fuzzy. I'm still stuck on hearing agreement out of Princess' mouth."

"Real rogues," Kiara muttered under her breath. "As if it's all… skulking."

"Or lockpicking," Sebastian added.

"Or breaking fingers for information."

He cocked his head. "To be fair, that's more thug territory than rogue. Lacks a certain finesse."

"Finesse," Kiara agreed. "Exactly. We both have finesse."

"Ample."

"Exceeding, even."

She laughed. Sebastian blinked, startled. Then he chuckled too, and said, "While they're slogging through the city, I suggest we find a pleasant inn and eat food made for us."

"Using fresh ingredients," Kiara added hopefully.

"And no weevils."

Kiara shuddered. "No pork, salted or otherwise?"

"Or tack of any kind."

Grinning, she said, "I could go for chicken. Probably even a whole one."

"With roasted potatoes. Vegetables, even."

She sighed. "Oh. Strawberries and cream. Freshly picked. Still warm form the sun."

He smiled and shook his head. "They'll never compare to Hercinia's. I'm afraid they'll have ruined you."

The mention of Hercinia sobered her. Sebastian's expression turned serious once again, and she pushed open the door to her cabin. "At least we won't be interrupted in here. And no one will come begging for biscuits." Sitting on one end of the bunk, she gestured to the other. After a moment, Sebastian joined her, but his back was straight and his shoulders tense. Kiara kicked off her boots and pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them in an insufficient gesture of comfort. "You could have thrown me to the wolves there."

Wincing, he bowed his head. "No. I couldn't have. But I understand why you might think otherwise."

Resting her chin on her knees, Kiara could feel her heart thudding against her breastbone. "Everything happened so quickly, at the end. Everything went so wrong."

Kiara saw his hand inch toward the place where he'd been wounded, which was how she knew that he, too, was thinking further back than Hercinia, but after a moment his hand fell back to his side. "It… did."

"So, should we stop dancing, do you think?"

This brought his face up again, his eyes bright and confused. "Pardon me?"

"Around the important subjects."

"Hawke…"

Grimacing, she breathed deep and said, "Let me start. I… owe you an apology."

Sebastian's intake of breath was almost a gasp, and he coughed as if to cover it up. There was no disguising the surprise on his face, however, or the disbelief in his eyes. "No, Hawke, you do not. If anything—"

She interrupted before he could finish. "I do. Please. Let me… I do owe you an apology. For my interference in your affairs. I didn't ask if you wanted company on this trip, and then I forced you to go along with my plan, whether you liked to or not. Like always. You've been so... reserved. Since... everything that happened. I... realize I ought to have let you go, if that's what you wanted. It occurs to me that ... perhaps you've been reserved because you do not wish to be here. With us. Anymore."

He blinked. "I've been reserved? Maker's breath, Hawke. If I've been reserved it's because I… I feel I no longer have the right to be here." Kiara began to sputter a protest, but Sebastian only raised his voice and continued over her, "You're apologizing for taking an action that very well may have saved my life. For thinking through the consequences of actions I would... not have thought through myself."

Softly, Kiara continued, "But they are your decisions. It is your life. Not mine. I... ought to let you live it as you see fit. You... you should not feel indebted to me because we—because my sister happened upon you in time to save your life. I do not want to hold you against your will."

"Hawke," Sebastian repeated, more forcefully. She made herself look at him, but couldn't read the lines and shadows of his face. This, more than anything, hurt her. There had been a time when she'd known every shift and smile and frown of Sebastian's face. This man wasn't quite a stranger, but she… she didn't know him the same way she'd known the Sebastian of before.

Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to put her face to her knees and weep. Instead, she said, "I'm not finished. I owe you a second apology. For… for Hercinia."

He shifted a few inches closer to her, but didn't attempt to touch her. She almost wished he would. The distance between them seemed so infinite. "It was an accident."

She shook her head. "I know. That's… not what I mean. I… expected you to turn on me. I truly believed you would. But instead you… you lied for me. You never lie. But you looked that wretched magistrate in the face and you lied. To protect me."

"And I would do it again," he insisted. "But I would never lie to you, Hawke. I… I hope you know that."

"I haven't been fair to you, Sebastian. Not once. Not since…"

"Once bitten, twice shy," Sebastian said. "I can hardly blame you for it."

"Everyone makes mistakes. Maker's balls, Sebastian, all of my friends have made mistakes—horrible mistakes—and I've forgiven them. You've already apologized to me, but I'm still making you pay. It's not right. You deserve better. So I'm sorry."

His forthright gaze made her blush, and she turned away, examining the grain of the wooden walls. When he spoke, she found his accent had gone strangely heavy. "I deserve better, Hawke? I do? Thirst for revenge would have had me turn against you—you, after everything—and you believe I deserve better? No. What I deserved was to be left in that alley. For years I waited for the Maker to send me a sign, to tell me His will, to direct and guide me to the path where I might do the most good. Have I not said as much, time and time again? And yet all the while there you were, the Maker's strident answer to my prayers. I simply did not see. I did not listen."

Kiara frowned, dragging her fingernails anxiously up and down her shins. "I hardly think I'm anyone's answer to prayer. I just… want to help. I want to… I want to keep the people I love safe. And half the time I can't even do that right, so… So I want you to know we can leave you in Starkhaven. If that's what you prefer. I… will respect your wishes in this. I promise."

"There is no one I would rather have at my side. No matter what trials the Maker sends." Sebastian inhaled deeply, and then released a long exhale. Kiara was gratified to hear no catch in his breath, no sound of pain or struggle. "If you wish to go, I would not hold you against your will. No matter what Starkhaven brings, you have nothing to fear from me. Now or… no matter what I said in the heat of anger, you will always have an ally in me, Hawke. Always. If you have ever believed anything of me, believe that."

Kiara straightened her legs. If she'd pointed her toes, she could have touched Sebastian's thigh, but she did not. "Fine. Then it's settled."

Much as she did not want to recognize his current expression, she could not help doing so. He looked wounded. He looked wounded, and like he was trying to hide it. "You will return to Kirkwall, then?"

Arching an eyebrow, she replied, "Of course not. Eventually. But not right away."

Sebastian glanced down again, hiding his face from her, studiously staring the palms of his hands.

"And we're not going to argue about this anymore," she added. "I'm staying because I want to stay. You've said you want me to stay. We've decided neither of us going to betray the other."

Somehow the surprise on his face hurt more than the distress had. "You want to… start over?"

"If you can call it starting over. I mean, I still guessed your favorite bloody food, didn't I? That has to count for something." Scooting nearer to him, she touched one open palm with light fingertips. "I'd like to call it healing. You're my—I… I miss you, Sebastian."

This time there was a catch in his breath, but she didn't think it had anything to do with his injury. She hoped it did not. He didn't say anything. He merely closed his fingers around hers.

"Good," she whispered, not able to keep the hitch from her own breath, either. "Then that's settled, too."