Sebastian woke slowly, and smiled as the first thing he saw was the back of Kiara's head, the fine red hair stirred by the passage of his breath. His arm encircled her waist, and the deep, even tenor of her breathing told him she still slept. Content for the moment to enjoy the novelty, he lay still and inhaled the rose and cedar and Kiara scent of her. Maker, he even found her delicate little snores endearing. The light from the window told him it was certainly beyond the hour someone ought to have woken him—them—but he found he didn't care. Let the dignitaries wait. Kiara Hawke was safe and warm in his arms, and if he could buy her a few moments more of untroubled sleep, he'd do so gladly, Tasia's wrath be damned.

Of course, his intentions were somewhat derailed when he inhaled a bit of Kiara's hair and sneezed. She jerked in his arms, and before he could whisper her name or roll away or apologize, her violent elbow drove the air from his lungs and only his own swift reflexes rolled him out of the path of the incoming reverse head-butt and kept him from having to suffer through his own wedding with two black eyes and a broken nose. Or worse. Kiara was still blinking sleep from her eyes when her instinct to fight evidently calmed enough for her to realize just who she was defending herself against.

Every exposed bit of skin blushed instantly the color of her hair, and her hands shot up to cover her startled mouth. "Maker's balls," she gasped, the words muffled by her palms. "Maker's balls, Sebastian. I'm so, so, so sorry. I'm not used to—oh… oh, balls."

He sent her a lopsided little smile and ran the backs of his fingers along her heated cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "I suppose it will be separate beds after all," he murmured. Kiara moaned behind her hands, and he didn't think he was imagining an even brighter hue to her cheeks. "Perhaps we might consider adjoining rooms? Though if you think it's safer, we can always move you to the east wing. Oh, or perhaps a room at the top of one of the towers? Hardly liable to kill anyone in your sleep up there."

Her brow furrowed in a glower and he chuckled.

"You are not amusing," she said. "Just so you know."

"From the woman who just viciously attacked the prince of Starkhaven in his own bed! My own one, I am certain that's treason. Perhaps we'd best consider the dungeon, then? And pray for the prince's mercy?"

Dropping her hands from her face, she reached out and sent a swift punch to his shoulder. He rolled away from it, laughing. "Again, even! I'll have to call for the guards."

"Oh, you'll be long gone before they get here," Kiara menaced, sitting up and running a hand through her tousled hair. The curves of her breasts shifted beneath the tunic she wore—his tunicand before she could think about either attacking him again or rising from the bed, Sebastian caught her about the waist and pulled her close. She feinted a punch and used her momentum to flip him onto his back. He didn't protest, except to lean up and beg a kiss. When she obliged, he clasped her tight, running one hand along her side until it caught the edge of her shirt. She shivered beneath his touch when his fingers found bare skin and began traveling upward.

Before his hand could reach its intended destination, however, she stopped and pulled back, her eyes wide. "Maker, Sebastian! What time is it?"

He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose before reluctantly replying, "A few hours past dawn. Not yet mid-morning. I think."

Her jaw dropped and she sputtered a few nonsense syllables before pushing him away two-handed. He thought about pulling her back again but the wildness about her eyes stopped him. "Not yet mid-morning? Sebastian! Tasia's going to kill me!"

He smirked. "Just as well you've been practicing your hand-to-hand combat this morning, then. I think you may be able to take her."

"And I think you've never seen her truly determined." Still, Kiara spared him a brilliant smile and paused long enough to bestow another of her long, slow kisses to his parted lips. "If I don't make it later, you'll know she's killed me. Check the third wardrobe. She hardly ever uses that one. Excellent place to hide a body."

He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he watched her scramble from the bed. It wasn't easy; the mattress was soft and the tangled sheets attempted very determinedly to hold her. He and those sheets were of one mind. She was halfway to the door when he cleared his throat and said, "My dearest. Not that you don't look fetching in your current attire, but you might consider pants? I imagine there's quite a crowd assembled out there. What with there being some kind of event happening today."

She froze, reached for a book—he supposed he had to be glad it was nothing breakable—and threw it at him. It went completely wide, bouncing off the headboard with a crack. "Not your best aim, my love," he said, rising from the bed and hunting down her misplaced trousers. She pulled them on quickly, and while she was half-dressed and helpless, he swung her up into his arms. "Are you certain you don't want help?"

"I don't have time for help," she muttered. "I don't have time for—"

He kissed her quickly and dropped his brow to hers. "Remember what I told you, dearest. The single most valuable advantage of being Prince—or Princess—is possessing the right to a fashionably late entrance."

"Mmm," she said as his lips followed the curve of her jaw. "You make a solid argument." Arching a brow, she nudged him with her hip. "Not the only solid thing in the room, I see. Or feel, rather."

His own blush was much fainter than hers, but present nonetheless. "And you have been spending too much time with Isabela."

Kiara giggled, squirming against him. "Too much? Or not enough? Because trust me, we only barely touched on the breadth of her advice last night…"

And in that moment, Sebastian found he didn't much care how late pushed the bounds of fashionably.

Maker. It wasn't like they were going to do the ceremony without them, was it?

#

It really was a lovely ceiling.

Amelle had had ample time to admire it, from the way it looked in pre-dawn dimness, all the way to… well, now, an hour most decidedly post-dawn.

It wasn't that she was troubled, current sleeplessness notwithstanding. And it hadn't been a wholly sleepless night. Well. There'd been some sleeplessness at the start, but it was of a rather pleasant sort that had facilitated quite a bit of excellent sleep. But then Amelle's eyes had popped open at some ungodly dark hour, and as Spero slept on, curled contently against her chest, one thought had churned round and round in her head:

Her sister was getting married.

There was something so incredibly surreal in that simple thought. It wasn't as if they hadn't giggled and whispered and had play-pretend weddings out in the field behind the tiny house in Lothering. They'd swathed themselves in bedsheets pilfered from the laundry-line, and under the power of imagination they became the most beautiful gowns imaginable. The wildflower bouquets they'd picked became fragrant roses, and the little sapling by the pond became the groom (Carver had never been bored or desperate enough for entertainment to join in this particular game of theirs). Kiara and Amelle had taken turns being the chantry sister presiding over the event, and even now Amelle could still remember the scent of wildflowers and the way the pond had sparkled with sunlight, to say nothing of the scolding they got every time Mother caught them abusing her linens so.

They'd been so young. Young enough to think anything was possible, young enough to believe everyone got married sooner or later. Then they got older and things changed. And changed. And changed some more.

And now her sister was getting married. For as thrilled as Amelle was by the whole development—nobody deserved happiness like Kiara—it scarcely seemed possible. Still.

Further beneath the current of disbelief Amelle was experiencing, there was something else, something still and deep, with a price beyond the rarest gems: Kiara, whether she knew it or not, was… well, perhaps not rebuilding her family, for that implied those they'd lost could ever be replaced. But she was building another, a family with ties beyond friendship. Amelle already cared for Sebastian like a brother, and now he… would be her brother. No, there would never be another Carver, and even so many years later loss and grief twisted beneath her breast when she thought of him, but this would be something… new. Something different but still family.

For too long now, the only family they'd had had been each other. That was going to change. Was changing. Would continue to change.

Next to her, Fenris shifted in his sleep, settling on his side as he let out a sigh. Running her thumb over Spero's little spine—nowhere near as bony now as it had been—Amelle turned her head and watched as the slowly creeping sunlight found gaps in the draperies, pouring down in slender shafts of pale light, catching his hair, the markings along his arm. Amelle ran one finger along Fenris' forearm; his fingers twitched. Spero picked her way across Amelle's chest and with determined little steps clambered onto Fenris' pillow, butting her head against his forehead, purring all the while.

And while we're on the subject of things that scarcely seemed possible…

Sleepy green eyes opened, glaring displeasure at nothing in particular until spying the kitten now sitting primly on the pillow, tail wrapped around her body. Fenris blinked at the kitten. She mewed her reply.

"I think she's saying 'Papa, wake up,'" Amelle murmured, sliding a hand out to cover his.

"And I think she must take after you if she makes a habit of waking so early," he grumbled, his voice low and gravelly with sleep.

"Maybe she just knows you hate it when the maids come in with breakfast while you're still sleeping." Amelle propped herself up on one elbow. "And they'll be in early this morning."

Spero mewed again, and as if on cue, a knock sounded at the bedchamber door mere seconds before it swung open and a maid bustled in carrying a breakfast tray, followed by another pair of maids drawing Amelle's bath, and still another carrying what was easily the grandest gown Amelle Hawke had ever worn in the whole of her life.

Any lingering hope of peace left with the room's shadows as the first maid opened the drapes, letting the morning sunlight in. And as Amelle sat propped against pillows, maids scurrying about the room, she watched Fenris take Spero into his hands, running his thumb over her head until the kitten's eyes closed in sleepy contentment.

She watched, and she thought about family, changes, and impossible things.

#

Normally Fenris could count on the palace servants allowing them to break their fast alone, but this morning they were afforded no such luxury. Maids, all of them chattering excitedly about decorations and preparations and the various visiting dignitaries and guests, hurried about the room while Amelle and Fenris had their tea and ate their meal. Amelle, at the very least, seemed to be taking it in stride, shooting Fenris conspiratorially amused looks in between sneaking Spero tiny pieces of bacon and letting the kitten lick marmalade from her fingertips. The fact she was eating pleased him enough that he could overlook the noise and bustle at such an hour. Her coloring was as it had ever been, and the hollowness had finally left her cheeks. Amelle looked… as she ought to have looked. At the moment she looked bed-tousled and undeniably content.

With the understanding it would take him considerably less time to prepare, he watched in silence as Amelle was hurried off to the bathing chamber—on her way in, she snagged a piece of toast slathered with honey and shot Fenris a grin before the door closed behind her.

Perhaps it was not the done thing, remaining in the chamber as he was, but Fenris had scarce little experience with such nuances of etiquette. He did not wish to leave and so he remained in the little sitting area, drinking his tea and entertaining Spero while Amelle splashed distractingly in the bath. While she did so, a maid prepared the gown she was to wear, smoothing out skirts and muttering softly to herself as she lay out layer after layer of clothing on the freshly made bed. His own ensemble required no assistance and Fenris was already entirely aware of just how much Amelle envied him that.

She came out of the bathing chamber in a fraction of the time Amelle normally took for bathing. Damp and rosy-cheeked, she submitted herself to a whirlwind of preparation: her face painted and her short hair adorned with a number of glittering pins before being helped into a gown of burnished gold and ivory silk, gold silk slippers upon her feet.

He'd never seen such a transformation.

For all Amelle looked as if she were tolerating the fuss and finery, Fenris saw her badly suppressed smile behind the long-suffering looks. And as one of the bevy of maids fastened a necklace around the slender column of Amelle's neck, Fenris' thoughts began to churn and a snatch of conversation had in the shade of the palace gardens played over and over in his head.

"Well. I did ask what your intentions were. Sort of. At least I insinuated I would like to know what your intentions are."

Once the final touches were in place, Amelle twirled for Fenris, the vast, full skirt flaring out slightly as she spun.

"Well? What do you think?"

Had there not been three other women in the room, watching his reaction with eagle-sharp eyes, he would have spoken frankly. But his words were not for onlookers.

"As lovely as ever," he said, holding her gaze—he hoped—meaningfully as he spoke.

Amelle flushed beneath the expertly applied paint and dipped in a curtsey. "As compliments go, I'll take it." And then she swept close and brushed a kiss against his cheek before murmuring, "I'll see you later. I have to go keep my sister from going crazy."

#

It took no small amount of finagling, and the use of all her best roguish sneaking skills, but somehow Kiara managed to extricate herself from Sebastian's very beguiling distractions and make her way back to her own room. Mostly undetected, even, though she gave a servant a fright when she darted into one of the not-so-secret passages she probably wasn't meant to know about. She figured one startled servant was better than getting herself shot while traversing rooftops, or—worse—running the risk of meeting Aileene Caddell while unbathed, bed-tousled and decidedly underdressed.

Her relief at having made it back was short-lived. Tasia stood on the other side of the servants' door in Kiara's chambers, arms crossed over her chest and glaring. Kiara winced and fumbled for apologies. If anything, the glare grew only more heated, and Kiara had no doubt that if Tasia'd had Amelle's talents, a smoking crater would've been all that remained of her.

She'd never have owned to it even under pain of death, but her tardiness was almost worth it to see Tasia so at a loss for words. As if sensing the turn of Kiara's thoughts, Tasia glowered even more darkly, unfolded her arms, pointed toward the bathing chamber and commanded with as much force as Kiara'd ever used on a battlefield, "Go. Hours! Hours behind!"

"Sorry, Tasia. I—I really am. I—was detained."

A little of the ire faded, and Kiara let herself pretend she spied a hint of a smile a the corner of Tasia's mouth. "I imagine you were, my lady. And doubtless you'll be delighted to know most of the ladies meant to… help have had to retire to their own preparations."

Kiara, already halfway to the door, stumbled mid-step. "Really? So I won't have an entourage of gawking spectators?"

"Indeed," Tasia said, and now Kiara was certain she was smiling. Faintly, yes, and a bit self-deprecatingly, but it was most definitely a smile. "Why, it's almost as though someone planned for you to be… detained, as you say, just to make certain you'd have the most privacy on this of all possible days."

Kiara blinked at her. "You don't mean—"

The glower well and truly gone, Tasia now wore an expression of complete and utter guilelessness. "My lady. Please. Your bath is getting cold."

As it happened, her bath was also already occupied. Or at least the room was. Isabela sat in a chair at the tub's side drinking lazily from a flask—and why, in Andraste's name, were there always chairs in her bathing chamber? If ever a room existed where extraneous people did not need to be sitting about watching, surely this was it—while Merrill sniffed her way through the dozens of vials of soaps and oils and scents lined up along the shelf at the water's edge. Isabela's eyes caught Kiara's as she entered, and a slow grin overspread her lips.

"Oh, it's about bloody time," Isabela declared grandly, her already loud voice carrying in the enclosed and very acoustic bathing chamber.

"You are running a little late," Merrill added, lifting a clear bottle filled with golden liquid and swirling it around. "Though I don't see why you sound so relieved, Isabela. We've only been waiting a few minutes."

Isabela's grin slid into a smirk and Kiara answered with a roll of her eyes. "Yes, yes," she said. "Very funny. Isabela knows best. Kiara Hawke has accepted her wise counsel and Isabela may now gloat accordingly."

Leaning back in her chair, Isabela took another swig from her flask. "And it's only taken you more than half a decade to realize it. Better than most, really."

After dozens of evenings spent huddled around tiny fires and communally bathing in whatever freshwater happened to be nearby, modesty had rather gone out the window ages ago. Still, Kiara blushed a little as she shucked her already-askew clothing. Isabela crowed, and when Merrill asked what all the fuss was about, the pirate pointed out the various and sundry marks Sebastian had been careless enough to leave on her person.

"Oh," Merrill supplied helpfully, "you've another on the back of your neck. You probably can't see that one."

"I hope you lot are happy when I curl up and die from embarrassment," Kiara groused, sliding herself into the still-steaming water of her bath.

"You know, I don't think a person can actually die of embarrassment, Hawke. You have gone awfully pink, though. Is the water too hot? I could probably make it a little cooler, if you like." Self-consciousness shifted across Merrill's features. "I've been practicing. The way… the way Amelle does things. So you wouldn't… you wouldn't have to worry about the things you used to worry about."

Merrill scuffed her toes against the marble floor, and Kiara found herself smiling—genuinely smiling—at the change in her. All this time. All that suffering. And here she was, trying. Here they both were, for that matter. "The water's fine," Kiara insisted. "Isabela's giving me a hard time. As she does."

"Oh, is she innuendoing again?"

"Is innuendoing a word?" Isabela asked no one in particular.

"I think innuendoing is a word," Merrill said brightly. "Hawke, do you want this bottle or the little blue one? The blue's got a touch of embrium in it."

Kiara raised her eyebrows in silent question.

"The scent's an aphrodisiac." Merrill shrugged as if this were the most common of all common knowledge, and Isabela chuckled into her rum. "Though with all those marks, perhaps you don't need any help. Best stick to the other, then. It does smell more like you."

Kiara slid deeper into the water, muttering, "Dying. Embarrassment."

"Why, exactly, are you dying of embarrassment?" this came from Aveline, who took that opportune moment to poke her head into the room.

"Maybe because I can't have five minutes alone in the bath without having an audience of thousands?" Kiara griped, though she laughed as she said it. "Andraste's arse, you lot have no sense of privacy, do you?"

Aveline snorted. "Little late on that score, Hawke. Maker knows your protests lost all credibility after that one time you ran stark naked through the camp—"

"Only because someone stole my clothes at the pond!" Kiara insisted, jerking an accusatory thumb at Isabela. "I'm not… I'm not some kind of exhibitionist!"

"More's the pity," Isabela added. "I'd pay good coin—"

Kiara dunked herself completely under the water to prevent hearing whatever horrible innuendoing Isabela was about to embark on, and when she emerged again, she lifted an arm and pointed them toward the exit. "All of you out! Maker's balls. You're impossible."

Aveline chuckled. "And you love us for it. Tasia says she's coming to drag you out by your hair in five minutes, by the by. Her words. I think they may be literal."

Isabela leapt to her feet rather too gracefully for someone who'd already been drinking for Maker knew how long, and she waved a hand as she reached Aveline at the door. "Means I've got five minutes to tell everyone about all the love marks, Hawke. Even the one on—"

Isabela ducked through the door just as the little bottle of embrium-the-aphrodisiac-laced bath oil shattered against it.

#

Despite the early hour, the palace hallways were ten times as busy as Amelle had ever seen them. Countless guests and dignitaries were staying within the palace walls, each of them with their own troupe of servants and guards, and recent events not being quite as far behind them as anyone might have wished, such an influx of strangers meant a doubling of Starkhaven guard.

It was a very crowded walk to Kiara's chambers. Which meant it took longer than it ought to have done. Which gave Amelle far, far too much time to think during the walk.

By the time she reached Kiara's door and Ser Kinnon standing dutifully outside it, she was fighting back tears. Maker only knew what form Tasia's wrath might take if Amelle showed up with her face smudged and tear-streaked. All she had to do was… not think about Kiara. At all. On her wedding day. Radiating with happiness the likes of which Amelle had once feared Kiara would never get…

"By the bloody Void," she muttered, looking up at the ceiling so the tears wouldn't fall.

"My lady?" Kinnon asked, armor jangling as he took a concerned step forward.

"I'm fine, Kinnon. I swear it." Amelle took a few deep breaths until the salty sting of tears subsided. She looked from the ceiling to her sister's guard and said, self-deprecatingly, "Maker's balls, I'm going to be a mess today. Happy tears are still tears, after all."

Kinnon's answering expression was fondly amused. "Let Tasia know. I'd bet a glass of Starkhaven's finest she's got a hidden stash of handkerchiefs."

Amelle grinned at him. "The ones she's forever pressing upon Kiara to carry?"

But Kinnon only snorted a laugh and shook his head. "Maker, no,"he said, before adding in an undertone, "Nobody weeps like Tasia at weddings."

"I'll make a note of it," Amelle said, pushing open the door.

Inside, somebody had cleared away the remains of the wedding demon. It was utterly and entirely gone—not even the faintest whisper of the court ladies' perfume remained. For that matter, even the court ladies were absent. In their place were Aveline, Merrill, and Isabela, the latter lying indolently on Kiara's divan, taking a long drink from a flask, while Merrill and Aveline helped Tasia smooth out and generally fuss and fret over Kiara's gown. Orana stood near Kiara's vanity, gently setting a quantity of cosmetics and hair pins in order.

Isabela who noticed her entrance. She even bestirred herself to sit up for it. "Oh, look, kitten finally made it to the party."

Swallowing her tears and pushing forward a smile, Amelle looked around. "I take it disposing of prissy court ladies was your doing, Isabela? And if so, dare I ask where you hid the bodies? Or will that make me an accessory to the crime?"

"Can't take credit for this one, much as I'd like to—it was entirely Buttercup's brainchild." Tasia's back was to Isabela, but Amelle saw the small, secretly-pleased smile curve at her mouth.

Just then the bathing chamber door opened and Kiara's voice drifted out on eddies of cedar and rose scent. "Bodies get hidden in the third wardrobe, Mely," she said, stepping out of the little room, fresh from her bath and swathed in a dressing gown, looking, despite her state of damp dishabille, beautiful and radiant and happy and every inch the bride. "More room in there for—" But upon spying her sister, Kiara's words cut off abruptly, without so much as a jerk or a start. It took barely more than a clock's single tick, no more than half a heartbeat, for Kiara to see directly past Amelle's smile and straight through to her eyes, which, to Amelle's endless annoyance, had started to sting with tears. Again. "Oh no," Kiara said, the warning only half in jest. "No. Absolutely not. If you start, I will, and I am not showing up to my own wedding with my nose as red as my hair and swollen eyes to match. No. Someone find her a glass of that sparkly Orlesian wine and tell her a joke. Something dirty, preferably."

And because Kiara always knew exactly the thing to say, Amelle blinked and laughed, and for a moment the tears were held at bay. As Tasia slipped past, she pressed a handkerchief into Amelle's hands and patted her lightly on the forearm. Cupcake, neck adorned with a vast bow of golden silk, padded over from his spot by the fire and nosed at Amelle's hand until she relented and scratched behind his ears. Tasia fixed him with a mock-glower. "No hair on the clothes, you." Cupcake opened his mouth in a panting mabari grin. "No drool, either."

"No, seriously," Kiara said to the room at large, "I really do want some of that sparkly Orlesian wine. And not just for Amelle."

"Really, Hawke," Aveline chided. "A tipsy bride will go over about as well as a tear-stained one."

"It's for my nerves." Kiara grinned. "A woman has nerves on her wedding day, Aveline. Or don't you remember when you—"

"Enough of that," Aveline muttered, flushing nearly as bright as her hair. "Sounds to me like a woman is full of shit on her wedding day."

Kiara sighed a beleaguered sigh. "Well if no one's going to find me sparkly Orlesian wine, I suppose we'd better get this… dress thing over with."

"This dress thing." Amelle snorted, brushing her hands down the front of her own insanely opulent gown. "Kiara Hawke, if you expect me to believe you aren't salivating over that confection, you must think me blind indeed."

"She's got a point, Hawke," Isabela added. "Your expression goes positively lustful every time you look at it. Unless, of course, you're merely having flashbacks to—"

"Hey," Kiara interrupted. Amelle caught the hint of a blush at her sister's cheeks before she turned away. "You're on the short road to banishment from Starkhaven forever, Bela."

Merrill, now fussing with Orana over a bunch of flowers, glanced up, wide-eyed. "Creators! You wouldn't really, Hawke!"

Kiara laughed. "And be denied public teasing at every turn? Of course not. Besides, Isabela's promised to keep me in aged Antivan brandy now that I won't be cracking open every barrel and wooden crate in Kirkwall. And how can I turn down a steady supply of aged Antivan brandy?"

"How indeed," Amelle mused. "Maker, are you really meant to wear all those petticoats?"

"Hair first," Tasia insisted.

Isabela's grin broadened, dangerously close to evil. "Oh, I think the hair will be easier than you think."

Tasia, momentarily startled, blinked at her. "What do you—"

"Uh," Kiara interjected, "I think what Isabela means is that I'm, um, wearing my hair down."

"You are not." Tasia turned on Isabela. "The current style—"

"Take it up with your lusty prince," Isabela said, raising her hands in mock surrender. "I'm not the one who left kisses all up and down Hawke's pretty white throat."

"He does like my hair when it's down," Kiara admitted, sheepishly. "He, uh, might've done it on purpose. Come to think of it."

"You know, Kiri," Amelle said, "you may be able to avoid the red eyes and nose, but I'm afraid that blush may be permanent."

Kiara wrapped an arm around Amelle's shoulders, but Amelle batted her away. "You're as bad as the dog. You're damp. No dripping on my dress."

Her sister made a mock of gathering up her damp hair as if to wring it out, and Amelle danced backward, nearly tripping over the quantity of unfamiliar skirts. Luckily, Tasia swept to the rescue, pulling Kiara—gently, perhaps, but definitely pulling—to the vanity. Orana hovered on the other side, doubtless feeling out of place. Before Amelle could call her over to invent some duty for her, Kiara turned her head and sent a beaming smile her way. "Orana, mightn't you help with the hair? If you don't mind?"

Tasia blinked, but otherwise unfazed merely reached for the cosmetics. Amelle saw Kiara mouth the words thank you, and Tasia merely nodded, holding Kiara's chin steady as she dusted powder across her cheeks.

Orana and Tasia were still hard at work when a servant appeared a few minutes later bearing a fat bottle containing—as Kiara had wished—sparkly Orlesian wine. Glasses were poured and divvied up; Amelle accepted hers carefully, as afraid of spilling on herself as breaking the delicate crystal goblet. Isabela regarded her glass with an expression almost bordering on thoughtful, and with an oddly practiced ease, she sipped and closed her eyes to savor. When her eyes opened again and caught Amelle staring, her lips twisted in a wry smile. "Some things you never forget," Isabela said. "And damn if Princess doesn't get the good stuff. Suppose I'll have to be nice to him now."

"But you were always nice to Sebastian," Merrill piped up, her cheeks just a little pink and her eyes most definitely shining. Her glass of sparkly wine was, Amelle noted, already almost empty. "You always had such interesting conversations. And he was always nice to me." A brief shadow passed over the elf's face, and Amelle suspected she was remembering times other companions—Kiara included—had not been quite so nice.

Kiara, evidently picking up the same, said quietly, "Sebastian's willingness to examine points of view different than his own is one of his great strengths, Merrill. I can only hope to emulate it. And apologize for not trying harder earlier. You deserved better than you got. From me. From… others."

Amelle, sitting at Merrill's side, saw tears pool in the elf's eyes. "I—thank you, Hawke. I know I made mistakes, but—"

Kiara laughed, earning a stern look from Tasia who was working some kind of magic with rouge. "No, Merrill. Just accept my apology. You really needn't give me one of your own. You've already proven yourself many times over. I just… never acknowledged it."

"This wine's not meant to make you maudlin," Isabela griped. "You lot are drinking it wrong."

This pronouncement had the intended effect: everyone laughed. Kiara returned to being primped, and Amelle turned to Merrill and asked her about the clinic. Even now, a pang of loss attended the memory of her clean-swept floor and windowboxes full of healing plants, and the sense of accomplishment she'd felt upon building something useful. Sebastian had already hinted that she might do something similar here—and in a more pleasant location than deep within chokedamp-filled tunnels—but the clinic in Kirkwall still held pride of place in her heart. It did her some good, however, to hear how cheerfully Merrill spoke of the work she was doing; she mightn't have had training in healing magic, but her extensive experience with herbalism and potions was certainly serving her well. "Aveline comes sometimes," Merrill added. Amelle raised an eyebrow in the guard-captain's direction.

"Field medicine's not so different. I can set a bone and wrap a bandage well enough."

Isabela looked as though she were searching for a way to make this comment dirty, but Aveline only rolled her eyes and drank down the rest of her wine.

It was good to know that life went on. Friends helped each other, teased each other. Drank and laughed and supported each other. Amelle sipped her wine and pretended the sting in her eyes was merely from the bubbles.

The rest of the morning was spent in much the same way—reliving old triumphs and telling old stories and companionable ribbing all around. Laughter flowed as easily as the storytelling and the Orlesian wine. Kiara griped about devilish underwear as Tasia, with expert hands, pulled tight the laces of her corset and then helped her into the various thousands of layers of gown.

Isabela let out a low whistle. "Andraste's bouncy tits, Hawke, you do clean up."

Kiara smiled faintly, but Amelle could see—clear as anything—her sister's sudden nerves, as though dress and hair and cosmetics had somehow combined to make the whole thing terribly real. And it was all a far, far cry from bedsheets stolen from the laundry line; this certainly wasn't their old games of play-pretend. Kiara's dress was so deceptively simple Amelle knew it must've taken dozens of seamstresses countless hours to construct. Made of gold-trimmed ivory silk so fine it seemed to carry its own glow, Kiara looked a little like she wore a dress woven of sunrise-kissed clouds. Nary a ruffle or bow in sight. Touches of golden lace and embroidery edged the bodice, highlighting the creamy skin and the cascade of a glimmering diamond and gold necklace above it. Amelle began to wonder if having Kiara's hair down wasn't, in fact, in Tasia's plan all along—current style be damned—because the long, loosely curled locks fell in perfect counterpoint to the ivory, held back from Kiara's face with jeweled combs. The veil hadn't yet been lowered over Kiara's face, but hung, cobweb-soft, down her back.

And yet her sister looked a little like she wanted to fist her twitching hands in the impossibly full skirts and run.

Amelle sent a meaningful look Tasia's way, and the maid inclined her head ever-so-slightly before clapping her hands.

Kiara's nerves really were shot, Amelle realized, when the sound made her sister jump half a foot.

"It's almost time, my lady," Tasia said, soothing without sounding the least bit condescending. "But perhaps you might appreciate a moment alone with Lady Amelle?"

Kiara blinked like a sleepwalker abruptly woken and nodded too slowly. "Yes… yes, that would be… thank you, Tasia. Just a moment. Would be… lovely. Yes."

The room cleared out in a swish of skirts and backwards glances that ranged from Merrill's tearfully happy wave to Aveline's crooked grin to Isabela's look of fond resignation as she shook her head at the sisters, carrying the bottle in her arms on the way out.

"Come on, kitten," she said, slinging an arm around Merrill's narrow shoulders. "Let's see if we can find Fuzzy and share this lovely bottle with him."

"But… isn't the bottle empty already?"

"I said we'd share the bottle with him," Isabela replied archly, her voice bouncing gently off the walls even as it grew fainter with every step they took. "I never said it'd have anything in it…"

Tasia was the last to go, hesitating by the door, looking briefly between the sisters. The blonde woman's expression conveyed at least a thousand sentiments—too many to put into words in such a short span of time. She looked wistful enough that Amelle wondered if she had a sister, or if Kinnon had the right of it all along and Tasia simply got weepy at weddings. But pressed in between the wistfulness and something that looked a great deal like pride, Amelle caught the warning in Tasia's eyes, the tilt of her eyebrow.

Sending Tasia what she hoped was a reassuring smile, Amelle said, "No crying," she said. "Healer's honor."

A short, surprised laugh burst past Kiara's lips. "We wouldn't dare undo all your hard work."

"I'll take that as a comfort, considering some of the things you've dared to do, my lady," Tasia answered pertly. Then she closed the door.

The room, which had only moments ago been full to bursting with friends and laughter and wine, was suddenly, almost impossiblysilent, though still so very full—anticipation, hope, happiness. All these things and more radiated from her sister, filling every corner like the dawn creeping over the horizon.

"You're beautiful," Amelle said honestly, clasping Kiara's hands in hers and squeezing. "Prettier even than Mama's sheets."

Kiara laughed again, despite herself, and looked down at the length of her dress, shaking her head in wonder. "I can't decide whether that feels like it was a million years ago, or just last week."

"Somewhere in between, maybe. Just after the beginning of time and before—"

This time it was Kiara's turn to squeeze fingers, blurting, "I'm getting married, Mely."

A wry retort hovered on the tip of her tongue, but Amelle swallowed it back. "I know," she said simply and softly, unable to fully banish the hint of a tear in her voice. And she knew, she knew better than to think Kiara was nervous about Sebastian. No, that much Amelle was certain of; definitely no shortage of love and loyalty on either side.

Still, things were changing. Things were changing and now her sister was standing in front of her looking nervous and, Maker, if that wasn't a change Amelle didn't know what was.

"My big sister," Amelle breathed, reaching up to gently finger one of the red curls resting against Kiara's shoulder. "I'm so… proud of you."

"Proud?" she scoffed. "The only impressive thing I've done so far is hold my breath to get into the blighted corset for this thing."

"You know what I mean," Amelle chided, taking a step back, but never relinquishing her grip on her sister's hands.

And then Kiara said what neither of them had dared to until then. "I wish they could be here."

"Me too," Amelle murmured, swallowing back the sudden tightness in her throat. "Mother would've been over the moon about this dress," she said, brushing a careful hand down the pale skirts.

"Carver would've terrorized Sebastian in the name of honor or something," Kiara added with a fond chuckle. "And Papa…"

"Take your pick," Amelle said. "He'd have been wreaking terror upon your betrothed right along with Carver, and when he wasn't doing that, he'd have been planning distractions should you decide at the last minute this wasn't what you wanted, and failing all that, he'd…"

"He'd've had his hands full keeping Mother from dissolving into a weepy mess."

Amelle leaned forward, brushing a feather-light kiss across her sister's cheek. "They're here," she whispered. "I don't think any of them would have missed this for the world."

Kiara smiled an ever-so-faintly watery smile—nothing to harm Tasia's paint job—and embraced Amelle tightly enough to make her squeak. "You're here, Mely. You're here. And Maker, they'd be proud of both of us." Then she stepped backward, brushing invisible wrinkles from her cascade of skirts, and the small smile was replaced with a brilliant one. "Now. I think we have somewhere to be."

"Oh, can't we make Tasia wait just a little longer?" Amelle wheedled.

"And have her stuff us both into the third wardrobe?" Kiara returned. "I think we've pushed the limit of her patience already."

"Maybe you have, but I—"

Kiara snorted—a sound very at odds with her regal appearance—and said, "If you think she didn't notice you pulling those excess pins from your hair, you've got another thing coming, sister dear. She's going to jump you as soon as the door opens."

Amelle frowned, sighing a deep sigh that transformed into a giggle part way through. Then she pulled a handful of jeweled hairpins from under a pillow. Kiara helped her tuck them back into her hair. Amelle saved one and added it to Kiara's hair. "You ready, Kiri?"

Kiara grinned, lifting her skirts gracefully and giving them an experimental little swish. "Never more ready for anything."