"Come on, Handsome. Wicked Grace waits for no man."

Cullen startled, book dropping to his lap and then bouncing with an unpleasant-sounding thunk to the floor. Isabela stood in the doorway of his room, leaning casually against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest and smirk firmly in place. He didn't want to think about the fact that she'd not only approached but somehow managed to open the door without him noticing.

"It will, however, wait for this woman, since she's the one with the cards." Isabela flipped the deck into sight and then made it disappear… somewhere. "Coming?" She raised her eyebrows when he did not immediately jump to do her bidding.

"I wasn't intending to—are you entirely sure it's entirely appropriate?"

She chuckled, pushing herself away from the door with the heel of her boot. Bending at the waist, she retrieved his book and scowled at the cover. "Please. This is better?"

"The sermons of Divine Hortensia the Third are—"

"Boring," the pirate finished, tossing the volume onto the bed beside him. "Desperately, blindingly, mind-blowingly boring."

"But appropriate."

She nudged at one of his feet with the toe of her boot. "Appropriate for putting you completely to sleep."

He… couldn't argue with her there. Flinging herself down beside him, she leaned back against the headboard, crossed her legs at the ankles, and said, "It's not about the cards. Cards are something to do with your hands, and they're a good reason for a gathering, but they're just cards. The real thing is the company." He frowned slightly and she shook her head. "Look, this is what we do. When you weather a storm like some of the storms we've weathered, you want to remember you're not alone."

"And you winning a great deal of money has nothing to do with your fondness for this particular pastime?"

She winked at him. "I probably wouldn't enjoy myself as much if it was the same brand of company sitting around reading to each other from Divine Mind-Numbing's Monologues of Monotony, true."

He hesitated before admitting, "I'm not entirely sure I'm… welcome."

Isabela snorted indelicately. "Handsome, I'm here aren't I? Do you need an engraved invitation? Something with Princess' seal? Because I could probably steal that."

"Varric—"

Isabela waved a hand dismissively. "This isn't still about the Turnip thing, is it? Sweetheart, in spite of what you might think, he doesn't go around bestowing nicknames willy-nilly." She smiled fondly. "Ask to read one of his books. He'll like that. And if this—" She glowered at the book of sermons, "—is the bilge you're spending your nights with? You'll like it, too. Trust me." After a moment she laughed delightedly. "Swords and Shields. Ask about that one."

Cullen arched an eyebrow as he got to his feet. "Sounds… martial."

On a wide grin, Isabela shook her head. "Oh, no. Not at all. Does have a templar Knight-Captain in it, though. You can have a discussion after. Tell him all the things he got wrong." Leaping up, she clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Handsome. Bring money. Maybe I'll even let you keep some of it."

"How kind of you." Cullen didn't even bother to hide his skepticism and Isabela laughed.

"Oh, someone's still smarting from his initiation to Wicked Grace during our little road trip."

"If by initiation, you mean that I'm still wondering whether that was an actual game you claim to have taught me, then yes."

Isabela's eyes went wide with feigned innocence as she clapped a hand to her bosom. "Claim? You sound as if you suspect me of something sneaky, Handsome."

Cullen attempted to give the pirate his sternest glare, with little success. "Perish the thought," he muttered, going for flatly disapproving but winding up sounding wry instead.

"All right," admitted Isabela, striding for the door. She seemed utterly certain he'd follow — and follow he did. "I'll admit I didn't explain the rules quite as clearly as I could have."

"You'll note my lack of surprise."

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," she chided him, turning down the hallway. Cullen noted the palace guard seemed to be split between admiring the pirate and looking at her as if wondering whether she'd stolen the silver — and where she could have possibly hidden it if she had. "You have my word we'll teach you properly this time."

"And why the sudden change of heart?" As he kept pace with Isabela, he was mildly surprised that she seemed to know every inch of the palace already. Cullen had been a guest for just as long as she had, and he still struggled with the urge to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. The path they were taking seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't tell if he actually knew where they were going, or if he just thought he did.

"Because while taking advantage of you is certainly tempting," here, Isabela paused, giving him a blatantly appraising stare from bottom to top, during which time her smirk turned positively lascivious, "—very tempting indeed—the fact remains that eventually it would just get too bloody easy. Teach you the real rules and who knows what might happen, Handsome? You could make things interesting." She waggled her eyebrows over the final word.

He wished "interesting" coming from Isabela's mouth didn't register so loudly as "illegal, immoral, and potentially disastrous" in his head. But that was his own battle.

"You're going to teach me the real rules to keep things interesting?" Cullen asked, not even making a token effort to hide his skepticism this time.

"Is that what she's trying to sell you, Turnip?" Varric asked, coming up from behind and falling into step on Isabela's other side. "Hah, right. More like if Hawke catches her out she'll be all over Rivaini's ass like a bad rash."

"And that's only going to happen if someone tells her, Fuzzy."

"What're you looking at me for?" asked Varric affably. "Like I'd sell you out. Please. You know where I sleep. And I know how many knives you carry." He waved a hand at a heavy, paneled door at the end of the hall. "Here we are — plenty of room and the best booze in the house. You bring the cards?"

The mysterious deck appeared once again in Isabela's hand. "Never leave home without them."

Admittedly, Cullen hadn't had either the time or the inclination to completely memorize the palace's layout—he feared such a thing would take a great deal of effort—but even before Varric opened the door, he was certain the door looked familiar. Even if the ostentatious paneling hadn't been a giveaway, the hall was too well-appointed for an empty barracks or common room.

"It's no Hanged Man," Varric groused good-naturedly as he… jostled the doorknob. Cullen peered closer. Surely the dwarf wasn't picking a lock? "But it'll do in a pinch."

With that, the door swung inward, revealing the room Cullen vaguely recognized from one or two visits as the prince's office. Varric and Isabela sauntered in at once, the pirate heading unerringly for the liquor cabinet as her counterpart went to the fireplace. Cullen remained in the doorway, as though not stepping foot across the threshold might somehow keep him from the trouble Varric and Isabela seemed intent on inviting.

"Does the prince know you're using his office for—"

"What Choir Boy doesn't know won't hurt him," Varric retorted. "Hawke seemed to think we wouldn't be interrupted here."

"Hawke… told you to break into the prince's office? To host a card game?" Cullen didn't bother trying to mask the astonishment—and, very well, horror—in his voice. He glanced down the hallway as though expecting a patrol of guards to arrive at any moment. Varric only laughed and set a pile of kindling alight with his flint.

"Told might be a slight overstatement," Isabela said, deftly filling several waiting glasses with honey-colored liquor. Cullen remembered the last time she'd been in charge of pouring the drinks and felt his stomach drop.

Hopefully Aileene Caddell wouldn't make the mistake of being anywhere near here tonight.

Somehow he suspected not drinking wasn't going to be permitted, with Isabela manning the bar and Varric raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. With a disgruntled sigh, he crossed the room, accepting the glass, leaving the hall—and safety—behind.

At least the first sip tasted good. It hardly burned at all. Cullen was afraid this was rather a bad sign, overall, but it didn't stop him enjoying the beverage.

"Pull your weight, Turnip," Varric commanded. "We need that table—" he pointed, "—and those chairs over near the—"

"Booze," Isabela finished. "We need the table and chairs by the booze."

Varric snorted. "Yeah. What she said."

Cullen had just about arranged the table and chairs to Isabela and Varric's specifications—both managed to keep justbusy enough to avoid the heavy lifting, he noticed—when an alarmed voice at the door cried, "What in all the Maker's green earth is the meaning of this?"

Blinking, Cullen felt the heat of shame rise in his cheeks. It was Sebastian's Steward, he saw at once and Corwin looked just about as scandalized as Cullen felt. Isabela grinned and poured another glass, pressing it into the older man's hand, refusing to take no for an answer.

"More the merrier," she said. "You look like a man who knows his way around a game of Wicked Grace."

"Does His Highness know—"

"'Course," Varric lied. "Wouldn't dream of invading Choir Boy's personal space without his permission."

After a moment, the Steward regarded the glass of liquor in his hand and smiled shrewdly. "Well, in that case… I must say a card game sounds like just the thing to chase away the memories of a very unpleasant day." And he downed the entire glass in a single swig.

Even Isabela gaped.

"Well. Looks like that's settled," Varric said, dropping into a chair as Isabela refilled Corwin's glass. He pulled another deck of cards from an inside pocket and at Cullen's curious look, Varric looked briefly at Isabela — momentarily distracted by refilling her own glass — and back at Cullen, shaking his head minutely.

So it appeared Isabela would not be cheating right away, at least. Or cheating quite so flagrantly, in any event. Varric, on the other hand…

Cullen lowered into a chair and listened carefully as Varric explained the object and rules of Wicked Grace as he shuffled the cards with a deft sort of finesse that always took Cullen by surprise. But then he remembered the ease with which the dwarf picked the lock on the door and he decided it was pointless to predict either of the rogues. The rules Varric spoke had very little in common with the things Isabela had murmured in his ear the last time, and he scowled at her darkly. Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, she winked at him.

Corwin and Isabela claimed their seats as Varric began to deal the cards. He left Cullen out of the first hand, explaining, "Trust me, Turnip — you'll want to sit out the first few. You'll learn more about Wicked Grace by watching the players than playing it."

"You're actually telling him to watch for tells, Fuzzy?"

Varric paused in dealing the cards to send Isabela a long-suffering look. "No, but you just did." He frowned at her glass. "Don't tell me you're getting soused already."

"Hardly," Isabela snorted, taking a drink from the very same glass. "But this is really good."

"It ought to be," replied Corwin, picking up his cards and looking them over. "It's Starkhaven's best export."

Isabela's brows nearly reached her hairline. "You make this here?"

Corwin took another sip from the glass, closing his eyes and savoring the taste of the liquor on his palate. "Oh, aye. Aged seventeen years in oak barrels made from our own trees."

Cullen blinked and took another sip. And then another. It was quite good — perhaps a little too good, he decided, and with that he vowed to pace himself.

"I'm beginning to think Starkhaven's not as repressed as we thought it was, Rivaini."

Isabela drained her glass. "And I'm beginning to think I want to live here."

Varric took a drink as well, and for a moment the dwarf's visage relaxed into something akin to bliss. "You did catch the part about this being an export, didn't you?"

"To the Void with that," Isabela sniffed. "They never had this at The Hanged Man."

"I have found," said a voice by the doorway, "that anything The Hanged Man doesn't serve generally has much to recommend it." Fenris and Amelle stood by the open door. The elf was eyeing the cards Varric dealt. Amelle, on the other hand, was staring openly — gleefully, Cullen feared — at the drink he held in his hand.

"Hey, Broody. You found my note. You want in?"

Fenris arched a brow. "Next hand. When I've watched you shuffle and deal."

Cullen watched Amelle glance quickly around the room. "Kiara's not here?"

"Not yet," Varric said.

It was Corwin who supplied, "I believe she had an errand to run."

"An… errand?" Cullen asked. His tongue was already feeling just a little lazy, and he pushed the deceptively agreeable drink away from him. Unfortunately, this just left the glass nearer Isabela, and she took it as a hint to refill it. Which she did. With a disturbing grin.

"She had something to show His Highness, I believe."

"His Highness," Isabela murmured, mocking yet somehow also affectionate. "Maker's puckered arseh—"

"Isabela!" Amelle admonished. "Quit with the blasphemy and do what you do best, will you."

The pirate leered. "I would, kitten, but I don't think your sweet elf would let me. To him or to you. Mmm. Or to both of you at the same time. More's the pity."

Cullen blushed, and suddenly found his hands very absorbing as they toyed with the crystal glass.

Wait. When did I pick up the glass again? And how did it get so much emptier?

Amelle didn't blush. She rolled her eyes. "I meant a drink, Isabela."

Isabela pouted theatrically, but poured a glass of the golden liquid for Amelle. She didn't bother asking Fenris before handing him an entire bottle of red wine. Fenris' lips twitched as he accepted the offering.

A not-so-delicate cough from the doorway caught everyone's attention. Tasia stood with her fists planted on her hips, Ser Kinnon smirking at her shoulder. "Forgetting something, my lady?"

"Oh," Amelle said dryly, "I forgot. Tasia and Kinnon have invited themselves along."

"My lady, need I remind you you'd still be dressed in a dressing gown if not for me?" Tasia asked archly, slipping into the room. She took the seat between Corwin and Cullen. Kinnon, still smirking, offered the table a brief bow. Corwin shifted down a seat, smiling as Kinnon sat next to Tasia. Tasia scowled. Darkly.

At this Amelle did blush. "I was not in a—honestly. There was absolutely nothing wrong with what I was wearing."

"A tunic and leggings both utterly inappropriate and two sizes too big, you mean? And I'll not start on the color—"

"I think you already have," Amelle drawled.

"My lady, black is hardly a color appropriate for your complexion! I'm sure you agree the sage green is far more flattering."

Amelle glared down at the dress she wore and flicked a hand down her skirts, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle. "Oh, hang the flattering colors, Tasia. If someone would see that I was supplied with more clothes that, I don't know, had buttons and laces on the front, maybe I wouldn't end up—"

"Wandering the halls in someone else's clothing?" Tasia queried, with a pointed look between Amelle and Fenris. "You are the sister of the future princess of Starkhaven, my lady. Some decency would be—"

"Ladies, ladies," Varric said soothingly. "Let's keep the mud-slinging to a minimum, shall we?"

"Mmm," Isabela said, leaning back and closing her eyes, still cradling her glass of whiskey close to her bosom. "Mud-slinging. You know, I once wrestled a pretty blonde girl in a mud-pit outside Llomerryn."

Kinnon choked on his drink. Cullen was mostly glad he'd not been drinking at that moment. "Why?" the knight asked, half-awed and half-scandalized.

"Fun?" Isabela gave a lazy shrug. "Might've been over a man. All I remember now is how slippery the mud was. And how great that girl's tits were." Isabela leaned on one elbow, propping her head in her hand. "They were great."

"Rivaini."

"What?" she asked guilelessly.

"He's not even playing this hand. Stop wasting your best stuff."

"You're just cranky you haven't heard that one before."

Fenris, his hand at the small of Amelle's back in a gesture both solicitous and yet vaguely possessive, guided the mage to the chair on Cullen's other side, pulling it out for her. Amelle's smile was positively beaming as she sat and Cullen could not help but marvel at how very much had changed since that cold wet night in the cave. In truth, it was a relief to see Amelle smiling — he'd seen far too many of her tears. Though Fenris wasn't smiling, the elf definitely seemed far more peaceful than he had in quite some time. Thank the Maker, he thought, taking another sip and then wondering momentarily if he had just blasphemed.

"I'm not cranky," Varric answered Isabela, sending her a look over his cards. "And I have heard that one before." He frowned and took a drink. "Or I've written something like it already."

"Maker help us all," Amelle said, taking a drink as Fenris sat down on her other side. "Varric's writing friend-fiction too."

"Friend-what?" asked Ser Kinnon, topping off Corwin's glass. The bottle was getting dangerously low. "We have more of this, don't we?" With a nod, Corwin got up to retrieve a second bottle.

"Friend-fiction," Amelle explained, smirking. "Isabela writes stories about her friends." She paused and sent the pirate a look. "And then has the nerve to continue calling them friends."

"Stories?" Cullen echoed. "Why?"

"Why not, Handsome?" asked Isabela, winking. "I've certainly had plenty of ideasabout you." She paused and sent Amelle an arch look. "As I've mentioned already to certain parties." Had Cullen not already been entirely out of his depth, he certainly would have started feeling so.

Cullen had a multitude of reasons why not, for all he couldn't currently latch on to any of them. Fortunately, Amelle shook her head at Isabela and said, "Why not? How much time do you have, Isabela? For starters, it's bloody embarrassing."

The pirate sent her a blank look. "What? I'm never emb—"

"Embarrassing for the people you write about, you ninny," Amelle countered, dipping her fingers in the glass and flicking whiskey at the pirate.

"Hey!" Isabela cried. "Don't waste that! And besides, if people would just tell me things, I wouldn't have to make them up." She leaned one elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand, sending Amelle and Fenris both a particularly speculative look. "Speaking of which, what have you two been up to, I wonder? Wandering the halls in Broody's clothing, are we? And why would you be doing such a scandalous thing?"

"Good going, Tasia," muttered Amelle, sending the maid a dark look. Tasia, however, only countered Amelle's glare with an arch expression of her own.

Varric sighed and tossed a coin to the center of the table. "Rivaini, everyone at this table knows your definition of scandalous doesn't involve wandering around in clothes at all. If you've even got a definition of the word, which I kinda doubt." Isabela conceded the point with a little sigh as she regarded her hand and met Varric's bet.

The little blonde maid tilted her chin up at Amelle. "At least you're presentable now. Honestly, even your sister didn't fight me this badly, my lady."

"I'm not fighting," reasoned Amelle. "And I have asked you to quit it with the endless my ladying. Tasia, I have been dressing myself for the past twenty-five years, thank you. I'm rather fond of it."

Tasia sniffed, "Made evident by the fact you were wandering around—"

"We weren't wandering. We were on our way here."

"—in borrowed clothing! And need I remind you of the state of your hair? My lady?"

"You don't need to," Amelle said, taking a healthy swig from her glass and glowering at the deliberate honorific. "But I think you're going to anyway."

"Why, it looked as if you'd come straight out of—"

Isabela cackled suddenly, setting her glass down with such force the liquor inside ought to have sloshed out — and would have, if there'd been any left in her glass. There wasn't. The pirate shot the crystal tumbler an accusatory glare before filling it again. Then she slammed down the bottle. It sloshed more convincingly. "I knew it!" she crowed. "You two! I knew it!"

Fenris looked pained and pinched the bridge of his nose as Varric let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "Can we please play cards here?"

"A novel idea," the elf muttered.

"No way. Pay up, Fuzzy."

Cullen began to wonder if there was anything those two wouldn't bet over. And then he wondered idly what they'd bet on this time.

One look at Amelle's face told him plenty. Fenris looked even less impressed, if such a thing was possible. Intent on their argument, neither Varric nor Isabela seemed to realize they were facing imminent death by mage. Or elf. Or both.

"Dream on, Rivaini."

"Pay up," she said, holding out her hand and wiggling her fingers expectantly.

"Nope."

"I've clearly won."

"If you'd won half as clearly as you think you did, Firefly would've zapped you and blasted your hide halfway back to that mudpit in Llomerryn by now."

"Don't think I'm not thinking about it," Amelle growled, glaring.

Fenris' glower darkened further. "Might I encourage you?"

"Go ahead. Twist my arm."

"See, Tasia," Ser Kinnon broke in, making no effort at all to hide his mirth. "Told you you shouldn't piss her off. Zap."

"Shut up, Kinnon," Tasia muttered.

"Hmph," huffed Isabela, tossing her hair. "Handsome would never let that happen to me. Would you, Handsome?"

It really was a most impressive glass he held between his hands. The workmanship on the cut crystal was like nothing he'd ever seen before. He followed the pattern slowly with the tip of one finger, trying very hard not to listen anymore.

"Well, Handsome?" prompted the pirate.

"Pretty sure you're not going to be able to count on Turnip's razor-sharp templar reflexes this time, Rivaini. I don't think he could smite a nug right about now."

Beside Cullen, Amelle's glare disappeared into a grin, which was dangerously wicked. Cullen set his glass down firmly, and some of the liquor did slosh out. "Amelle Hawke, don't you dare—"

But Amelle didn't dare. Ser Kinnon did.

"Aileene Caddell is an easier target than a nug, though, wouldn't you say? Bigger, for one. Louder, for another."

Cullen groaned, pushing the glass aside. This time Corwin topped it off. Was everyone against him now?

"I'm sorry I missed that," Tasia murmured into her glass. When Cullen gaped at her, she only shrugged her slender shoulders and said, "What? She's a dreadful shrew. And she's an absolute menace to the serving staff."

Suddenly Amelle was leaning across Cullen and clinking her glass against Tasia's. "And on that we can agree."

After observing several rounds, Cullen was certain of several things. First, Isabela would do anything to win. Lying, cheating, flirting—all fell under good regulation for her. Second, he was never, ever going to understand the game. Third? Hawke's little maid was terrifyingly good. Everyone had thought the first win a piece of luck. Tasia smiled her bright, dimpled smile, tossed her blonde curls, and gathered her winnings close. The second was a near thing, but still Tasia won. After the third, even Isabela grudgingly admitted perhaps she'd met her match.

Admittedly Cullen had very little experience, but if the girl had a tell he hadn't the slightest idea what it was. Neither, it appeared, did Isabela. The pirate leaned heavily on the table, gazing across the table at Tasia so intently even the glass of whiskey at her elbow was forgotten. "I like you," Isabela said at last.

"Imagine our collective surprise," Fenris sighed.

Amelle snorted. "You'd like her less if you'd ever had her hands and her hairbrush anywhere near your head."

Neither Tasia nor Isabela acknowledged Amelle's comment. Or Fenris'. Tasia, sorting her latest winnings into increasingly large piles, smiled and replied, "You are very kind to say so."

"Nothing kind about it," Varric said on a laugh. "Rivaini's picturing how rich she'd be if she could convince you to run off and go into business with her."

"I was not!" Isabela protested. Then, a heartbeat later, she added, "How do you feel about ships, Tasia? The open sea? The wind in your hair and the spray on your cheeks?"

Tasia giggled. "Wind in your hair sounds like monstrous trouble. So many knots." Then the maid tilted her head and winked. "I'm quite happy here."

"Glad to hear it," said a new voice. Cullen glanced up, blinking, and saw Hawke silhouetted in the door. Bloody rogues. Bloody rogues with their sneaking and their silent feet. They were going to be the death of him. Sebastian stood behind her, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. Cullen thought he looked less… grim than he'd looked in the courtyard. The weight that had been crushing him seemed, if not completely gone, at least a great deal lighter.

That didn't stop him from sputtering, "What… what in the Void—"

Tugging Sebastian by the hand, Hawke waltzed into the room. Ser Kinnon, Tasia, and Corwin rose to their feet and were halfway through their elaborate dance of bows and curtseys and salutes when Hawke waved a hand and glared. "None of that. Everyone's equal at the card table." She glanced over her shoulder at Sebastian, her expression fond. "Cat got your tongue, love?"

The prince blinked at her. "This is why you wanted to stop by my office? Do you have any idea what a mess they could have made?" He glowered at Isabela, who looked mildly affronted to have been singled out. "Did you touch anything on the desk?"

"You don't mean all those piles of paper?" she retorted without missing a beat. "We needed something to use as kindling, Princess."

To Cullen's surprise, Sebastian only laughed. Then he stole Isabela's glass and drank down the contents. She grimaced at him, but he only smiled mildly and said, "I see you didn't find the good stuff."

Isabela's eyes widened. "There's… there's stuff better than this?"

On an arched eyebrow, Sebastian said, "Aye, of course. But you don't think I'd leave it lying around in just any locked cabinet, do you? Maker only knows what kind of scoundrels might break in and abscond with it."

Ser Kinnon squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Your Highness, we—"

"Oh, Kinnon, sit down," Hawke commanded lightly. "There are two rules: everyone's equal, like I said, and what's said at the card table doesn't leave the card table. Can you abide by those?"

"O-of course, my lady."

She glared until he amended, "Uh. Kiara."

"Good. You, too, Tasia. I don't want to hear a single my lady out of you, propriety and preservation of rank be damned."

Tasia scowled. Amelle grinned.

Cullen started when Kiara perched on the arm of his chair and reached up to ruffle his hair. "What happened to never drinking again, Cullen?"

He sighed, defeated. Hawke only laughed.

From there, Hawke laid one hand on her sister's shoulder and bent, bringing the other arm around Amelle in a loose hug, squeezing gently as she pressed her cheek to the top of Amelle's head.

"Looking better," she said quietly.

"Feeling better," Amelle replied, tipping her head back and giving her sister a smile.

"I'll just bet she's feeling—" Cullen felt the flare of magic even through his slowly deadening senses and the next thing anyone knew, Isabela's chair had tipped back and the pirate with it, yelping out in surprise and indignation as she tumbled to the floor.

Amelle sipped her drink and smiled mildly. "You should be more careful, Isabela."

The pirate planted both hands on the table and pulled herself to her feet before bending to right the chair. "You, kitten," she said, dropping back into her seat with a flounce, "are a brat."

But Amelle only maintained that same enigmatic little smile, murmuring, "I have no idea what you mean."

Hawke, who was doing a particularly terrible job of hiding her laughter, gave her sister's shoulder a final squeeze. "You've been practicing. Force?"

With wide, guileless eyes, Amelle tapped her chin thoughtfully and said, "You know, I never thought being able to control the force of gravity could have such… practical applications." Across from her, Tasia and Ser Kinnon gaped. The Steward only raised an amused eyebrow. Amelle took another sip and guilelessness vanished as she gave a catlike smile. "Who'd have thought it would?"

Releasing her sister with a chuckle, Hawke dropped into a chair between Fenris and Isabela, smirking at the elf. "Hope you know what you're getting into here, Fenris."

"That's a warning come years too late, love," remarked Sebastian as he retrieved a different bottle from the locked bottom drawer of his desk. If possible, the liquid in the bottle he pulled forth looked even more like honey, gleaming when Sebastian held it up to the firelight.

"Is that the good stuff?" Isabela asked.

"Oh, aye," Sebastian answered her. "But if you're tumbling out of chairs already, Isabela, I think this might be a bit too strong for you."

The pirate drained her glass and made a face at him. "Princess, they haven't yet made a liquor I couldn't handle."

"Why, that sounds suspiciously like a challenge, my heart," snickered Hawke, accepting the glass Sebastian handed her.

"Indeed it does. All right, Isabela," Sebastian said, and there was no hiding the amusement in his eyes as he poured a glass for himself, and then a third, which he set solidly in the center of the table. "You win the next hand, and that glass is yours."

Cullen wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but Sebastian seemed to have slanted a knowing look in Tasia's direction. Entirely unaware, Isabela's eyes lit up at the prospect, then narrowed them as she glared across the table at the maid.

"That's it. You're going down, Blondie."

A strange hush settled over the table at the nickname. Beside him, Amelle's grip on her glass tightened minutely. Everyone seemed to be looking at everyone else. Only the Starkhavenites looked as clueless as Cullen felt.

Varric broke the strained, tense silence. He coughed slightly and said, "I was thinking Buttercup, myself."

"Good one," Isabela said, her tone peculiar and hollow. She was staring very hard at the table, both hands curled into loose fists. "That's better."

Hawke laid one of her hands over Isabela's. "No harm done."

"Bastard," Isabela muttered. Cullen's brow knit. He knew the pirate didn't mean Hawke, but…

"Oh," he said, realizing. It wasn't until everyone—everyone—turned to look at him that he realized he'd made the sound aloud. However, having played the unwitting distraction, he watched from the corner of his eye as Isabela pulled herself together, rebuilding her armor of nonchalance.

He knew Isabela was recovered when she grinned, tossed her hair, and said, "So are we going head to head, Buttercup, or d'you suppose the rest of these chickens want to make it interesting?"

Hawke snorted and tossed a coin into the center of the table to start the betting. It bounced, tinkling against the side of the glass. Fenris and Amelle quickly followed suit. Varric narrowed his eyes, taking in the competition, and threw in as well. Even Sebastian seemed willing, and so Cullen reluctantly pushed a coin to the middle.

"Maker's nuts, Handsome. You look like someone just kicked your puppy. It's only money."

Cullen had the sudden, irrational urge to stick his tongue out at Isabela. He refrained. Barely. And only then by lifting his glass and taking another sip.

"Do I get a nickname?" Ser Kinnon asked plaintively.

"Be careful what you ask for," Cullen muttered darkly. "There are plenty of root vegetables to go around."

Ser Kinnon looked vaguely unsettled by the possibility, but Varric laughed so abruptly that even he seemed startled by it. "Don't know you well enough yet, kid. Give it time."

"Maybe you should let Sebastian help you on that one," Hawke said sweetly. "I'm sure he could think of something all kinds of flattering."

Tasia drew a card from the top of the pile and smiled a pointed smile. "I could think of a few."

The knight paled as the play moved to him. "I—maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"Too late now," Fenris said grimly.

Cullen wasn't sure if it was the unique addition to the pot, but the bets seemed to move more and more quickly around the table, the stakes rising with every go round. He thought he'd started to at the very least pick out some of the more obvious tells around him, but considering the game was nine-tenth's deception — or seemed to be, at least — it was hard to discriminate. Finally, he folded.

"That's it for me."

Amelle's lips pulled into a little moue. "Cullen, you can't fold."

"I most certainly can and did and would do so again."

Varric chuckled as he dropped his bet to the pile. "You know the rules, Turnip. First one to fold gets the liquor."

"As I recall it," Fenris said mildly, choosing another card from the pile, "the first one to fold delivered a baby."

Across the table, Kinnon's brows twitched in confusion that had nothing to do with the cards he held. "I think you play Wicked Grace a little differently in Kirkwall."

"Amelle had an awful hand," Hawke explained, tossing a handful of coins into the pot. "She folded in a fit of pique—"

Amelle turned, clutching her cards to her chest. Cullen suspected she had a very good hand — she'd been strangely protective of her cards lately. "Excuse me," she said, her voice going up half an octave. "It was not a fit of pique."

"Oh, it was absolutely a fit of pique, kitten," Isabela chortled.

Amelle sat up, looking almost prim as she riposted, "I'm surprised you can remember through the haze of liquor."

Isabela peered over her cards, her full lips twisting into a smirk. "You'd never believe the things I remember, sweet thing."

"Considering what you said about the mud-wrestling, I'm surprised there are things you've managed to forget," muttered Kinnon, and even as the knight said the words, the tips of his ears went pink.

Bringing up that particular memory diverted Isabela and her smirk melted into a grin as she sighed a little, slouching back in the chair. "Sometimes I'm surprised too," she sighed.

Amelle snickered and plucked up another card from the deck. "Thank you, Kinnon. I thought I was going to have to knock her over again."

Sebastian raised the betting with the light clink of coins. "The night is still young."

Hawke arched a red eyebrow at him. "Don't encourage my sister, love."

"Indeed," Fenris intoned, though there was a faint half-smile at his lips as he sent Amelle a sidelong glance. "Though she hardly needs it."

Mindful of his cards, Sebastian spread his hands, his expression utterly innocent. "I was encouraging nothing." Then he dipped his head and sent Amelle a wink, adding in an undertone everyone heard, "Ten sovereigns if you do it again."

Isabela put down her cards and folded her arms, glowering at Sebastian. "Hey!" Then she looked back at Amelle, "Twenty if you knock Princess here on his royal arse."

Amelle pretended to piously study her cards, if such a thing were even possible. "Oh, I couldn't possibly do that, Isabela. Sebastian's practically family."

"And I know where you sleep at night," Hawke added on a laugh, elbowing her sister.

"Which wouldn't be a problem if you didn't sleep alo—Augh!" Down Isabela went, again.

"Oops," Amelle said, blinking doe eyes and fluttering a hand to her chest. "Did I do that?" she asked, deftly catching the gold piece Sebastian tossed, then turned it over in her fingers, huffing a laugh as she looked at it. "Maker. I heal people for free and get paid for silly party tricks. What's the world coming to?"

Hawke grinned, pondering her cards before trading one in. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time until you get paid for healing, too, Mely. I have connections, you know. I hear there might be a position open. Shall I put in a good word with the prince of Starkhaven?"

Sebastian chuckled, but Cullen didn't miss the flutter of… something that crossed Amelle's face. Nor did he miss the flash of concern as Fenris turned her way. Almost as swiftly as Cullen saw it, however, and just as Hawke looked up from her cards to meet her sister's eyes, the flash was gone, replaced by a smile just a little brittle about the edges. Too soon to joke about the last healer, he supposed.

"Nepotism," Amelle replied lightly, "is a terrible way to begin one's reign."

"Not when the sister in question is the best healer in the Free Marches," Hawke replied at once. "Then it's just good sense."

Amelle rolled her eyes, still smiling, still not smiling quite enough. When the play shifted to Isabela and she raised the stakes yet again, Cullen nudged Amelle's foot under the table. The smile she sent his way was more genuine, and less bright. Then she shook her head, just the tiniest fraction, and Cullen thought he almost understood. It wasn't about Jessamine at all. Leaning over the table, he reached for the last of the lesser-quality liquor and filled glasses all around. Varric nodded approvingly, but Cullen noticed the dwarf's gaze lingered just a moment too long on Amelle as well, darkening slightly.

Betting went around the table again, and—forced into the role of bartender or not—Cullen was increasingly glad he'd folded when he did. Corwin was the next to gently place his cards face-down, sliding them away from him with a rueful smile. "Too rich for my blood," he said, leaning back and folding his hands across his middle.

"Mine, too," muttered Kinnon, "but I'll be damned if I let something minor like that force me out now."

Tasia said nothing. In fact, Cullen noted, the maid had said nothing since the hand started. While the others traded jabs and insults and small talk, she merely focused on her cards. Occasionally she looked up to smile or nod or—most often—roll her eyes at the hapless knight seated beside her, but she rarely let the banter distract her for more than a moment.

And she didn't touch the glass of whiskey at her elbow. Every once in a while she raised it to her lips, but the level of amber liquid never seemed to drop.

He chuckled under his breath.

"Something you want to share with the rest of us, Turnip?" Varric asked.

"I think not," Cullen replied, grinning. "I'm afraid it would only be amusing to me. Play on, play on."

"Turnip," Hawke sighed mournfully, sending Cullen a sympathetic look. "Maker but that's wretched, Varric."

"It's growing on me," Cullen said.

"Pun not intended?" Isabela chortled.

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully before he, too, folded with a sigh. "There are worse things," he opined. "A starving family sings the praises of a turnip, no matter how humble it is."

"Ugh," Varric groaned. "Good to see you're still good old Choir Boy under all that silk and satin and velvet."

Sebastian smiled wryly. "If you wanted it to be an insult, you should probably have thought it through."

"Turnip or Choir Boy?"

"Both," Sebastian returned.

"That's the thing about most of Varric's nicknames," said Amelle thoughtfully as she raised the bet and dropped more coins onto the pile. "They wind up sticking, whether you like it or not."

"Hey," the dwarf said, affecting a wounded air, "we changed yours easily enough, Firefly."

"Changed it?" asked Kinnon, who was trying not to glare at his cards and mostly failing. "What was it before?"

Amelle made a face but didn't reply. "Little Hawke," Varric said on a sigh, looking shamed.

Kinnon made a face. "That was her nickname? Little Hawke?"

"I know, I know. You can't say anything this lot hasn't already told me a hundred times. My least imaginative yet, laziest nickname ever — trust me kid, I know."

"But you did make up for it with Firefly," Amelle said with a grin. To Cullen's surprise, Varric looked — strangely — even more shamefaced. The dwarf turned his glass around in a circle, looking intently at the way the firelight caught the crystal and illuminated the liquid within.

"Yeah, uh," he finally began after a long silence. "I didn't exactly… come up with that one." He let go of his glass to trade out two cards and then fiddled with the hand he held.

"And the ones he was coming up with were awful," remarked Isabela, tossing her bet in. The pile of money around the glass of whiskey was growing ever higher, and the golden hue of the coins rivaled the color of the liquor in the glass. "Glow-worm? Really, Varric. Sparkles?"

"Hey," Varric groused lightly, "can the criticism, Rivaini — until you come up with something better than kitten, I don't wanna hear it."

Amelle looked at her cards for a moment and frowned, but Cullen didn't expect Amelle was frowning at her cards. "Then who did, if you didn't?" She glanced at her sister and raised her eyebrows, but Hawke only shook her head.

Varric's brows lifted as he looked over at Amelle. "You really don't know?" When she shook her head he chuckled. "Well, at least some people still know how to keep a secret. Still, I'm surprised Broody here didn't say something."

Then Cullen saw something he was fairly sure he'd never see again in the whole of his life: Fenris blushed. Scowling, glaring hard at his cards, he never lifted his eyes. Amelle, on the other hand, gave a start and turned to the elf.

"You did?"

Fenris' brows lowered further and he shuffled the cards in his hand as though that might somehow make them different. "It was merely a suggestion. As Isabela said, Varric's ideas at the time were lacking his usual… flair."

The mage just blinked and stared. "You came up with Firefly?"

Finally he tore his gaze away from his cards and looked at her steadily. "We were all perfectly aware how much you disliked being called Little Hawke." After a moment he lifted an eyebrow and said, with an air of defensiveness, "You needn't sound so surprised," he said, adding with a shrug, "Firefly seemed an apt name for you."

"I had no idea you… knew me so well, even then," she said softly. "I wouldn't have guessed."

The elf shot Varric a wry look. "That was rather the point, as I recall. I didn't…" he trailed off, turning his scowl once more to the cards. Amelle laid a hand on his arm and Fenris looked up again, his scowl fading in the face of her smile.

"Then I'm glad Varric's got a big mouth." Paying no attention to Varric's indignant "Hey!" — or to anyone else around the table — Amelle leaned over and pressed her mouth against Fenris,' kissing him firmly. The reactions ranged from Hawke's raised eyebrows to Kinnon's blushing ears, to Isabela, who was actually clapping her hands. Even Tasia peeked at them surreptitiously from behind her cards, her eyes widening minutely and her cheeks going pink before she jerked her gaze back to the cards she held.

When Amelle pulled back, she gave a funny little smile at the cards she held before placing them face-down on the table. "I fold," she announced, scooting her chair closer to Fenris' and leaning against him as she drained her glass. With a little smirk, the elf followed suit, and Cullen found himself intensely curious as to the quality of their respective hands.

"And now we learn the truth of it," Sebastian added, taking a drink. "Varric, I am most heartily disappointed in you."

The dwarf jerked a thumb at Fenris and Amelle. "Hey, this one turned out better than I could've written it. And even you've got to admit I'm rallying here, Choir Boy," Varric said, gesturing at Tasia. "Case in point: Buttercup." His gaze went to Kinnon then and he narrowed his eyes, thinking hard. "…Nope. Still got nothin' on you, kid."

Kinnon traded out three of his cards. "You know, that might actually be a relief."

Hawke was next to fold, shaking her head over her hand as she turned the cards face-down and pushed them away. Then she rose from the table and rang for a servant.

"My lady?" Tasia asked, half-rising from her seat even though she was still very much in the game. "Is there something you—?"

The maid swallowed her question when Hawke gave her a black look.

"Ten to one she's hungry," Amelle murmured, making Fenris smile. Tasia's brow furrowed. "Surely you've noticed the late night snacking, Tasia? Orana just made sure to leave plates of food already prepared before she went off to bed."

This time when the shadow crossed Amelle's face it was Sebastian who said, "We'll send for her, Amelle. She will always have a place here."

Amelle inclined her head, but said nothing, and when Hawke flung herself back into her seat, dangling her legs over the arm, and cried, "Maker, I'm starving," Amelle only laughed.

"All right, kids," Varric declared, pushing the remainder of his coins into the center of the table. "This sodding game's been going on too blasted long. I'm all in."

Isabela arched an eyebrow and followed suit, almost lazily. On a deeply tragic sigh, Kinnon reluctantly added his money to the pot.

And Tasia folded.

"What?" Isabela cried. "You can't fold. We just went all in!"

The maid smiled enigmatically. "I also can't win with this hand. I'm not going to throw good money after bad."

The pirate blinked. "Why not?"

"Because I won," Tasia said improbably. On Isabela's confusion, she added pertly, "At the end of the night I'm still going to have money in my purse, but you are not. Strangely, I find that's satisfaction enough for me."

"Game's not over until the cards are flipped," Isabela replied.

Tasia only shook her head. "You've been bluffing this entire hand."

The pirate gaped. And then blushed. "I… I was not."

Tasia's giggle made Cullen realize he never, ever, ever wanted to get on her bad side. Ever. It was entirely too knowing. "First rule of Wicked Grace: play the hand you have. You weren't playing your cards, you were playing me. And, in this particular instance, I was playing you. You had more to lose. So that's why I won, even though I folded."

Isabela sat back hard.

Varric guffawed. "Shit, Rivaini. You have met your sodding match."

Sebastian grinned as he passed Tasia a different glass of precious liquor. "No matter who wins the one on the table, you deserve this, Tasia."

She accepted it gratefully, and this time when she drank, the level of the amber liquid decidedly did not stay the same.

When the cards were flipped, it was clear just how right Tasia had been. Isabela's cards were rubbish. Even Cullen, who hardly understood the game, could see that.

Varric looked at his hand, and then at Kinnon's. "Well, kid," he said. "I think we may have discovered your nickname after all. Hand like that winning a pot like this? You're just plain lucky. We're talking horseshoe-up-the-ass lucky."

Kinnon blinked stupidly. "I… won? Maker's breath, how did that happen?" Then his eyes narrowed. "This doesn't mean you're going to start calling me Horseshoe, is it?"

"Tempting, but I think maybe we'll just go with Lucky. Trips off the tongue a little more easily."

The knight still looked somewhat dubious as he pulled his winnings in. "The problem with nicknames like Lucky is that they usually wind up being ironic."

"Take the hand you're dealt, kid. Could be worse."

"Root vegetables," Cullen said sagely. From the face Kinnon made, it was plain he agreed.

"You know," Isabela purred, leaning forward and pushing to her feet, setting her cleavage on display for everyone, though she appeared to be aiming it directly at Kinnon, "I knew a Lucky once." The pirate slinked around the table, coming to stand by Kinnon's chair, resting her hip against the chair's arm — and, by default, Kinnon's.

The knight gave an audible gulp. "You… ah, you did, did you?"

"Mmmm." She ran one finger up Kinnon's arm and back down again. "He was very… generous."

"Oh, blow it out your arse, Isabela," Hawke cackled. "Lucky double-crossed you and got his guts spilled for his trouble."

Kinnon shot a glare in Varric's direction. "See? Ironic."

"Sorry, kid. You're stuck with it. Better make the best of it, Lucky."

Isabela recovered her savoir-faire and cozied up against Kinnon. "Well. He wasn't particularly lucky, no, but you, on the other hand…" She smiled at Kinnon, reaching one hand out and dragging her finger across the rim of the coveted crystal tumbler.

"Uh…"

"So what do you say… Lucky?" The way she was stroking that glass was obscene enough to be illegal in at least three countries.

A chilly, barely civil voice replied: "He isn't interested."

Isabela looked with surprise to Tasia, who was giving the pirate as icy a look as Cullen had ever seen one woman give another. Whatever silent communication passed between blonde and brunette, it was Isabela who backed off with a nod and a smile. "My mistake, Buttercup," she said, sauntering back to her seat and dropping down into it.

Kinnon was the only one at the table who looked as if he hadn't the foggiest idea what was going on. "Hey… wait, what…"

"Drink your winnings, lad," Corwin said, doing a poor job of hiding his chuckle. "Maybe it'll make more sense later."

As Kinnon sampled the contents of his glass, Cullen looked around the table — everyone who'd remained in the game had shown their cards, but something was still niggling at him. He turned to Amelle, who had her head resting on Fenris' shoulder, a sleepily content smile at her lips, and gestured at her cards. "May I?"

Amelle shrugged lazily, but her smile didn't abate. "Why not?"

Gathering the discarded hand together, Cullen turned them over, setting them face-up on the table. And he gaped. In fact, the entire table had fallen silent. Even Fenris looked quietly shocked.

Hawke was the first one to find her voice. "Amelle Arista Hawke. That was your hand?"

Amelle was still smiling. "Mm-hmm."

Isabela's voice was going slowly higher. "You had a hand like that and you folded?"

"I did."

The pirate sputtered. "You folded with a hand like that?"

Varric snickered. "Pretty sure the answer's going to be yes no matter how many different ways you ask the question, Rivaini."

"You could have won the whole pot with a hand like that! I would've shanked someone for a hand like that!"

"It's a very good hand, Amelle," Sebastian said, tilting his head a bit, the better to see the cards. "I must confess I'm surprised as well."

The mage only shrugged. "I've already got everything I could want. Anything more would just be greedy."

Isabela huffed and slumped back in her chair, looking at Amelle as if she were entirely mad. "And what's the problem with a little greed? By the Maker's balls, Amelle, you could've won."

Echoing Tasia's earlier sentiment, Amelle only smiled and replied, "I did."

Food arrived then, and the cards were put away in favor of platters of fruit and cheese and cold meats. Another bottle of 'the good stuff' was produced and divvied amongst ten glasses.

When Hawke declared, "Did any of you know that Sebastian plays the fiddle?" there was a great deal of head-shaking and blinking before an instrument was duly produced and the blushing prince was pressed into quasi-reluctant duty.

And sitting in his comfortable chair, pleasantly warmed by drink and firelight, surrounded by laughter and banter and song, Cullen realized that even if he went back to Kirkwall to face court-martial or worse, he was grateful indeed for this night, with these people. In spite of the way the day had begun, it had become one of the happiest evenings of his life.

Hawke pushed her chair close to his, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. Her smile as she gazed upon the tableau before her—Varric and Isabela twirling a jig that followed no dance steps Cullen knew of; Amelle with her head on Fenris' shoulder; Corwin tapping his foot to the music; Tasia and Kinnon sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, not dancing but oh so evidently both wanting to if the looks they kept surreptitiously sending each other meant anything—was fond, and tinged with a kind of inclusive possessiveness. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. It was odd, improbable, even a bit mad, but he found he knew exactly how she felt.