Amelle hated Kinloch Hold.
Granted, she hadn't been looking forward to the visit from the start, and while the town was larger and more bustling and nicer than she'd expected—or than the mining camps they'd traveled through on their way here had led her to believe—in it she also saw her worst fears, fears that had seemed amorphous and unreal as a child, turning insidiously solid and real as she'd grown up. Fears she'd, eventually, learned to cope with. Insofar as "humor" and "denial" were coping mechanisms.
Her father had told her about the Tranquil. He'd been a Circle mage once, thought it didn't have much to recommend it, and so had escaped. He'd told her stories, of course. Daddy had always enjoyed a good yarn. Most of his tales were cautionary ones, meant to provide lessons—valuable ones—for his two mage daughters.
And now that old advice came back to her: Don't get involved, Mely.
She'd never wanted less to get involved anywhere, with anything, and for as hungry as she was, and how utterly and desperately she wished for a bath, she would have been entirely content to remain in her room until it was time to leave.
Shaking her head, she crossed the room where Fenris had dropped her things on the bed. Her lyrium, she'd decided, would be safest if it was hidden in her bedroll, which she now pulled off the foot of the bed and stowed underneath. She was reasonably sure templars didn't wander through guests' rooms specifically looking for contraband materials, but it was still reassuring to know her lyrium potion was tucked away and kept out of sight, rather than clinking around in her bags where anyone might accidentally (or not) happen upon them. She had other, more practical potions on hand, but none of them magical or suspicious—ointment for the horses, restoratives for the humans. Nothing at all that might cause anyone to lift an eyebrow at her. But no, lyrium potion was safely hidden, and there wasn't a speck of contraband to be seen anywhere. Good.
Rummaging through her pack, Amelle tugged free a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt, setting them out so they'd have time to air out a bit—with all the rain, everything smelled a bit… damp—before the next day's departure. Then she rocked back on her heels and surveyed the rest of the clothing she'd brought. There wasn't much, but maybe she could—
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and sent Amelle starting out of her skin.
"Hawke," Isabela called, the wood muffling her voice. "Open up, kitten, I've got a surprise for you."
She opened the door to reveal the woman in question, her traveling clothes every inch as sweat-dark and dust-crusted as Amelle's own. She was smiling, though, and while Isabela's smile often worried Amelle (more often than not this was the case), the key she held, dangling from a slender chain, piqued her interest.
"I got us baths, kitten," came the smug, self-satisfied announcement. "Get your clothes."
Amelle blinked at her. "Baths?"
Isabela's smile widened. "You heard me. Baths."
She blinked. Again. "Baths," she echoed. Again.
Amelle's stomach gave a sudden sideways lurch, her mouth working in silence a moment as she glanced over Isabela's shoulder into the deserted hallway and wrestled with all the different ways she could tell Isabela how and why that was the worst idea she'd had in a very long and storied history of immensely bad ideas. "I… I thought, maybe—"
"If you say, kitten, you were thinking about spending the whole night in your room…" Isabela stepped forward, letting the door shut behind her, the slam both punctuating her statement and filling it with no end of unvoiced threats.
"I…" But Amelle's voice cracked on the syllable; she swallowed away the dryness—tried to, in any case. The problem was—well, there were several problems, but the main problem was all of Kinloch Hold loomed over and around Amelle like a silent chorus of unvoiced threats, so Isabela's particular, familiar brand of threat had very little effect on Amelle. "I—" she began again, then tossing up her hands as she turned to stride to the end of the room. "This was a bad idea. It was such a bad idea, and now we're here, waist-deep in bad idea and that's too damned deep to haul ourselves out now without looking suspicious." She brought one hand up and pretended not to notice the way it trembled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Tranquil, Isabela," she breathed. "I didn't know there'd be—"
"None of us knew, Hawke," Isabela broke in. "Not even Varric—you saw his face. And if anyone ought to have known—"
"If anyone ought to've known the whole staff in this whole stupid hotel was Tranquil, it was Varric?" Well, yes, Isabela had a point there. "Maker's blood," she breathed, pinching harder at her nose and walking in a small, tight, controlled circle. The whole—the whole staff's Tranquil."
"We've noticed. Trust me."
"You don't—don't you understand what that means?" It meant there were a whole lot of people, enough to man a one heck of a big fancy hotel—people who'd once been mages, mages who'd been cut off from the Fade.
Daddy had always said—and Amelle agreed now, oh, she agreed—death was a kinder fate than the Rite of Tranquility offered.
"Not as intimately as you do, I'd wager," Isabela answered, her voice low as she shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. "Look. All I know for sure is what the kid in the elevator told us. This is paid work they're doing; most of it's sent back to the families they left—makes sense, most of them probably came from farmers and merchant families who lost a warm body that might've otherwise plowed a field or learned a trade. It's not ideal, but it's a damn sight better than some of what I've seen—you too, I'll remind you. Or have you already forgotten that sweet little mining couple you so gave so charitably to back in Ostagar?"
Amelle winced.
"No, I wouldn't have thought you'd forgotten." Isabela heaved a mighty sigh, crossing the room in a thump-jangle of boots and buckles and sat on Amelle's bed, sending her a perfectly level look, void of any jest or joke. "We're all being careful. I promise you that. But part of being careful enough to blend in means doing something you absolutely do not want to do, because the opposite would look even more suspicious. So. That all said, I propose we take full advantage of the two tubs of gloriously hot water I procured for us—indoor hot water, might I add, kitten—and then we are going to get dressed—you in that adorable yellow number you don't think I know you bought back in Lothering—and then we are going to have a delicious dinner, and afterwards Varric and I are going to see if there's a proper card game going on in this town, while you and your elf—"
"He's not my—" Amelle began to protest, feeling her face go suddenly, uncomfortably hot.
Isabela just arched an eyebrow, taking no pains whatsoever to hide her little smirk at Amelle's discomfiture. "While you and that elf decide how to entertain yourselves for the evening. If you're looking for suggestions, though," she added with a wink, "I've got plenty."
Amelle shot Isabela a scowl as she started going through her things, pulling free the yellow dress in question. Annoyances and innuendoes aside, Isabela… had a point. "Yes," she muttered as she rummaged through her pack, "that's partly what I'm afraid of."
#
The Kinloch Grand did indeed have baths. Indoor ones, with hot water, as Isabela had promised. Each floor had on it a private bathing room available for reservation, and a private water closet; evidently it was sheer dumb luck Isabela had managed to reserve a bath for them on such short notice and so close to dinner. The room itself was larger than Amelle might've otherwise expected, with high ceilings and pale yellow walls. Tall, narrow windows covered with gossamer curtains let in the late afternoon light and ornate sconces held flickering lamps that turned the waning sunlight positively golden; the two deep, copper tubs in the center of the room gleamed under the light.
Amelle loved a good bath, and considered herself an expert—a connoisseur, even—on the subject. And despite the… extenuating circumstances, this one, in her considerable opinion, had potential to be one of the best.
The bathing attendant—a middle-aged Tranquil woman, whose ash-blond hair was cut to her shoulders, the fringe across her forehead almost successfully hiding the sunburst branded into the skin—mixed salts and oils for the steaming water, a combination meant to soothe a weary traveler's aching muscles. Amelle sat on a divan situated against one wall, watching the woman work. The oils and salts mingled with the steam in the air and Amelle breathed in the scent of embrium. No doubt about it, she was a weary traveler with aching muscles. Even if she'd had a drop of mana to apply to that ache, she wouldn't have dared do so. But the embrium's presence in the mixture was… promising. If nothing else it implied the attendant knew something about herbalism, at least, which left Amelle… quietly surprised.
The woman poured the bath mixture into the two soaking tubs, side by side and separated by a folding privacy screen, turning away discreetly as Amelle and Isabela removed piece after travel-filthy piece of clothing and lowered themselves into the tubs. From the other side of the privacy screen, Isabela swore.
"Is there a problem?" asked the attendant.
"No," Amelle managed, not quite able to keep the groan from her voice. "No problems here. None whatsoever."
There was a drippy splash from the other side of the screen, followed by a long sigh. "Sweet thing, we are entirely problem-free right now."
No doubt about it, two copper tubs filled with pure bliss wouldn't have felt better, and Amelle closed her eyes, exhaling a deep, exhausted sigh as she tipped her head back against the edge of the tub.
"Mind doing away with this?" Isabela asked, flicking a fingernail against the screen, water droplets splashing on the floor. "We're all friends here. Right, kitten?"
Amelle only rolled her eyes and sunk further down in the bath, letting the warmth soak into her skin. "Please excuse my friend," she mumbled. "She forgets sometimes the word propriety exists at all."
"I haven't forgotten. I just don't care."
"It is no trouble, miss," replied the attendant, collapsing the screen. She turned to them both, hands loosely clasped as she inclined her head. "If you wish to make use of the laundry service, I will collect your clothes and have them cleaned and returned to you by morning."
Amelle's brows nearly reached her hairline. "You can do that?" she asked as Isabela's head fell back against the tub's rim with a metallic thud, exclaiming loudly, "Maker's balls, yes."
"Wait," Amelle said, gripping the edge of the tub and peering down as the the attendant began collecting their clothes. "How?" she asked, hopefully tempering wary suspicion from her tone, leaving only innocent curiosity. "How are you able to get them back so quickly?" She wasn't sure she really wanted to hear the answer. In any case, she was pretty sure she already knew it.
The attendant glanced up briefly as she explained—and there was no way Amelle was ever going to get used to that slow, measured speech, the tone of voice calmer even than the stillest pond on a windless day. "Apprentice mages who have come into their skills are enlisted to apply heat to the clothes to dry them more promptly. They learn to better control their connection to the Fade with such exercises."
Arching an eloquent eyebrow, Isabela drawled, "And if a twitchy apprentice turns someone's trousers to ash?"
"The hotel replaces the garment," the woman explained. "But such occurrences are rare."
Amelle swallowed hard. That was a trick she was already well-acquainted with, and made frequent use of herself, but to hear it put that way…
She chewed lightly on her lip. "So… so mages work here in… in the hotel as well?"
Holding the bundle of clothes tightly to her chest, the woman nodded. "Those who show promise do. Apprentices with control over fire or ice heat the water for baths or work in the kitchens. Those versed in earth magic help tend the grounds. Those more experienced who demonstrate appropriate aptitude train in the kitchens."
"I… see," Amelle replied. From the corner of her eye she caught Isabela sending her a warning look and she tried not to sigh.
"You'll have to excuse my friend," Isabela said, fairly oozing sincerity. "She's a bit"—she lowered her voice conspiratorially— "put off by mages. You know."
Of course, the attendant exhibited nothing of surprise, affront, or apology. She only nodded. "Many guests are. However, none of the staff wish to be the cause of any discomfiture."
"I'm—I'll be fine. You needn't… worry about it." Amelle couldn't quite say the words without cringing, but the attendant simply nodded, made a note of their room-numbers, and left them to their privacy, closing the door behind her.
Once they were alone, Isabela threw a glare over the edge of the tub. "You really need to work a little harder at fitting in," she hissed.
Looking pained, Amelle sunk down further in the water, cupping some in her hands and splashing her face. "You're right." She slipped beneath the water's surface and ran her fingers through her gritty hair before surfacing again, wiping the dripping water out of her eyes. "I just—"
"I know," said Isabela, and Amelle believed her. "Trust me, kitten, I know." The ensuing silence was punctuated only by soft splashing as they scrubbed away what couldn't have amounted to anything less than a full ton of sweat and grime. Finally, Isabela spoke up again.
"Just so you know, I'm almost afraid to ask, but have you got anything like a plan for when you get to Kirkwall?"
"I suppose," Amelle answered, running a short lock of hair between two fingers. The strands squeaked. "Some people might loosely refer to it as a plan."
"Some people?"
"People not you. Or Varric." She made a face. "Or… me."
"How utterly unreassuring," she murmured, unimpressed. "What you're saying is you have no plan."
Amelle flicked one finger at the water's surface, making it ripple. "Let's be honest—I don't even know how long it's going to take to find Carver. Kirkwall's a big city, and my brother's just one man."
Isabela let out a sigh that fairly thrummed with disappointment. "You have no plan."
"It's a work in progress," Amelle countered defensively, staring up at the ceiling. "Get to Kirkwall in one piece. There you go, that's phase one." She looked over to find Isabela arching a skeptical eyebrow at her and then, with a sigh, Amelle returned her gaze to the ceiling. "Considering I half expect Carver to refuse to see me at all, having a plan of any sort feels like courting trouble."
"Which you are clearly not doing right now." Sarcasm dripped from her words and hovered in the air. Heavily. "So, concerning your complete lack of anything remotely resembling a plan—"
"Not getting killed is a lovely plan, Isabela," retorted Amelle mildly, dipping her fingers in the water and flicking some at Isabela. "I'm quite attached to it."
"The first thing you're going to need to do is find somewhere to stay," she said, going on as if Amelle hadn't spoken. "Depending on how long we're stuck there—"
Amelle sat up, sending the water sloshing to one end of the tub. She stared at Isabela, blinking once. Twice. Three times. "Wait. You're… staying?"
"Unless I run across a schooner with a morally lax crew waiting for a woman with a firm hand to come along? Yes."
Amelle tried not to let her relief show; she suspected she failed fantastically.
"You're going to need a source of income, too," Isabela reminded her.
At least that part was easy. "Lucky for us I have a marketable skill."
"A point in your favor. Have you brought along any of your supplies?"
Amelle shrugged and water sluiced down her shoulders. "I brought a few things. I can buy or improvise the rest."
"And lo," Isabela said with a satisfied wink and grand sweep of one dripping arm. "A plan was born." Settling back in the tub, she closed her eyes and let out a satisfied little hum. "We can work out the details on the way."
"So I need a place to live and a job. How is that a plan?"
"Consider it parts two and three following not getting killed."
Several moments passed in silence, tight, knotted muscles slowly releasing as the past few days melted away in embrium-scented steam. Sleeping would have been unwise, but it was so very tempting. Amelle slid down in the tub until her chin touched the water.
"Tell me something."
Rolling her shoulders—and her eyes—Amelle let out a low groan, flexing her calves and wiggling her toes in the warm water. "I will tell you anything if it means peace and quiet for the next ten minutes." But when she turned her gaze to the other tub, it was to find Isabela, one arm resting on the ledge of the tub, her chin resting atop her wrist, watching Amelle. Her expression was inscrutable.
"How hard are you going to try to get Carver to talk to you?"
Well, shit. She hadn't been expecting that. Amelle… didn't answer right away, in part because it was a question she'd asked herself more than once since she'd decided she was going to make the trip to Kirkwall in the first place.
"I don't know," she finally answered. "It depends on how vehemently he doesn't want to see me. He was… angry when he left. Could be he's less angry. Could be he's just the opposite of that. Time's a funny thing. People change when it passes."
Isabela's pause was a thoughtful one. Troublingly so. Amelle opened one eye and looked over at her. "Something to share?"
"Just thinking." She pursed her lips in something too melancholy to be a smile. "About time. Mistakes. How they shape us. Make us who we are."
Amelle's answering laugh was just as mirthless. "And this does have the potential to be a whopper of a mistake."
"Didn't say I thought you were the one who made the mistake, sweet thing." But before Amelle could comment, Isabela's expression slid like quicksilver into one far more mischievous, and far more familiar. "But speaking of mistakes—and whatever is the exact opposite of the word—talk to me about the broody elf."
"How does Fenris have anything to do with mistakes?"
"You were the one who invited him to stay after he had his hand in your chest. Don't think I've forgotten that little scene."
"A scene that was never repeated," Amelle reminded her. "And there's nothing to tell. He was useful around the farm and he helped me a bit in mixing the tincture." What Amelle didn't tell Isabela, what she absolutely would not tell Isabela, were the times he caught her before she fell, or how swiftly he administered lyrium potion when she required it; she would not relay how often and how effortlessly he'd carried her from the barn up to her own bed, or about the warmth of his shoulder against her cheek, or the way he'd worked the boots from her feet before pulling her quilt up to her chin. Amelle had no intention of sharing with Isabela how Fenris had stayed, standing by the window like a sentry until she'd finally given in to slumber's pull.
"Well?" the other woman prompted.
"Well nothing," replied Amelle primly, closing her eyes and sinking further down into the water; it had started to cool and she wanted nothing more than to soak up every last bit of heat she possibly could. "He thinks I'm competent at my craft, whatever that means. I suspect it means he tolerates me; it's not as if we're friends."
"Mmm."
Amelle allowed herself a wry, unsurprised chuckle. "You disagree."
"Last time I checked, men who found women competent at their craft did not make a habit of offering said woman a leg up onto her horse."
"He knows the side-effects of the potion, Isabela. I daresay he knows them as well as I do. He probably expected me to—"
"Want to take the stairs?"
Amelle snorted. "Considering he scolded me on the stairs, I'm not so sure I'd read too far into that if I were you."
"Ooh, a scolding," Isabela purred, smirking. "You naughty, naughty thing, you. Mmm, you've got to love a man not afraid to—"
"I don't have to do anything of the sort. In any case, I have no doubt he'll be glad to be free of me the second we set foot in Kirkwall."
The sound Isabela made was a noncommittal one. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"
"And I have a feeling you're going to find yourself disappointed when we do."
By the time the water had gone cold, and after Isabela had groused over Amelle being entirely incapable of warming it up again, they emerged from their tubs, drying off with the thick towels hanging perfectly straight on the nearby racks. Amelle tugged the privacy screen open again and made a face at Isabela when she laughed.
"I only look when I know you won't catch me," she teased.
Amelle let out a snort. "All the more reason to guard my modesty, don't you think?"
"Guard away, kitten, if you think it'll do any good."
The attendant had hung the "butter yellow number," as Isabela had taken delight in calling it, on Amelle's side of the little room. The steam from the bath had done a… fair job of easing away the worst of the wrinkles. It was every bit as floaty and impractical as it had been when she'd first seen it, though still likely wasn't half as fancy as what any of the other women would be wearing downstairs, even if the sleeves were shorter and the décolletage a little more daring than Amelle typically favored. It hardly mattered; she'd made sure to pack as lightly as she could—there simply wasn't room for steamer trunks and hatboxes.
This was, as far as she was concerned, a dress perfectly suitable to eat dinner in.
"You're going down like that?" asked Isabela, sitting at a delicately carved vanity table placed in the corner of the room; her hair was twisted up with an artless sort of grace Amelle felt quite certain she'd never be able to imitate, even if she didn't wear her hair so short. A richly enameled vanity case—a gift from an Antivan lover, or so Isabela had said—sat open before her and even now a smudge of rouge darkened her fingertips, inches away from her cheek.
"I… yes? I know the dress is a little—"
"The dress is fine, kitten. But you look like death half warmed over."
"And you have such a way with compliments."
"Sit."
"I'm s—"
"Sit."
With no small bit of trepidation, and eyeing Isabela's enameled case (and all the items within) the whole while, Amelle sat.
#
The prospect of sleep had appealed to Fenris far more than a bath, and so, upon reaching his room, he took a short nap before sending down a request for a basin of hot water, with plans to wash up—at least perfunctorily—prior to his meal. He had no idea what plans Hawke or the others had made, but it hardly mattered—he did not assume himself to be included in them. As such, his plans were to dine and return to his room to sleep; there likely would not be another feather bed until Highever, and he planned to take advantage of the opportunity now presented to him.
Which only meant it was all the more surprising when the knock at his door came the very moment he turned away from the basin of lukewarm, dingy water and shrugged into a clean shirt—three sharp raps that made Fenris go perfectly still. He was not expecting anyone, not even an attendant to retrieve the basin of dirty water.
How many times had he been in this very position? How many times had he been faced with no choice but to abandon a soft bed in favor of flight?
Too many times.
"A moment," he said just loudly enough to be heard, buttoning his shirt and moving silently to his bedside. His belongings lay in a jumble, but at one end of that tangle was his gunbelt. With slow, purposeful movements, he pulled the revolver free from one holster and approached the door, his thumb resting on the hammer.
"It's me, Fenris." There was a slightly awkward pause. "Amelle Hawke," the voice added, somewhat sheepishly. With a sigh that was more than part relief, Fenris took his thumb from the hammer and opened the door.
When he did so, it was to discover Hawke on the other side, looking… nothing at all like she had earlier. When he'd aired his frustration at her on the stairwell, she'd stared up at him, whatever shock or surprise his outburst may have brought doing nothing to temper her pale, drawn, grime-smudged features, pinched with equal parts discomfort and worry. Now, though, she looked… as she ought to have looked; the color was returned to her cheeks, a jeweled pin in her damp, dark hair, shining under the flickering lanterns in the hall. The pale yellow dress she wore… suited her; its neckline revealed the column of her throat, the delicate indent of her clavicle. She wore no other adornment than the pin in her hair, but neither did she require one.
It was at that point Fenris wondered when exactly he'd started to pay particular attention to the line of Hawke's throat or the smoothness of her skin, and why he was doing so now.
Hawke looked down at the gun in his hand, arching an eyebrow at it. "Not the welcome I was expecting, I'll admit."
He shrugged a shoulder, turning away and replacing the gun in its holster before fastening the belt about his waist. "I was not expecting a visitor," he explained as he finished buttoning his shirt to the neck. He shrugged into the green waistcoat he'd brought—the only waistcoat he'd brought—then wound a cravat around his neck and tied it. "Is there something you require?"
She wound her purse's drawstring around her index finger. "You… were going to eat, weren't you?"
"Yes," he answered evenly, fingers deftly buttoning the vest.
"I… thought you might like to join us." She stepped over the threshold into his room, hands clasped in front of her. A small tasseled purse dangled from one wrist. "You don't have to if you don't want to, or if you've got… other plans? I don't want you to feel oblig—"
"I have no other plans," he answered, turning to face Hawke once again.
"Good." Her answering smile was hesitant but genuine, and the quality of it made Fenris wonder if Hawke yet knew what awaited her downstairs in the dining area. He began to think it unlikely as she went on to say, "Varric secured us a table already; they'll be downstairs…" But then her smile dimmed into bemusement. "Fenris? Is… something wrong?"
Fenris hadn't realized his own expression had shifted to betray his thoughts and he blinked.
"It is… nothing," he finally replied, moving about the room and securing his few belongings before sliding the heavy room key into his waistcoat's inner pocket where its weight hung heavily, cool even through the material of his shirt. Nothing. No, that wasn't entirely true. The less-than-truth weighed unpleasantly on his tongue.
"You're sure it's nothing?"
Frowning, he shrugged into his jacket and turned to face Hawke again. "It is only… you were discomfited earlier by the—"
"Hotel staff," she finished for him with a grimace, her voice low as she stole a glance over her shoulder to the door, still hanging open. "Still am, if we're to be honest, but… as we discussed it's better if I act like an adult about it."
It was then he decided to tell her what he'd seen, but when Fenris explained to her the number of Tranquil waiters he'd spotted in the hotel dining room, Hawke's expression slid briefly to one of dismay before hardening into resolve.
"I see." Hawke gnawed her lip a moment, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "Well. I'm glad you told me, in any case." She sent him a tight, determined smile as they moved into the hallway together and turned their steps toward the stairway. "Thank you, Fenris."
"You… are welcome, Hawke."
#
Dinner turned out to be a blessedly uneventful affair.
Though Hawke had appeared momentarily unnerved at the Tranquil servers in the dining area, Fenris watched as, one by one, she tamped down whatever fears or worries might have been plaguing her, putting up a wall of polite charm as her defense. The change reminded him heavily of their first meeting, when she had charmed an audience with showmanship and charisma, but he now was able to identify the differentiation for the defense mechanism it was.
It was, after all, a very convincing act, when she had time to prepare it.
All the same, Fenris noted she ate little more than half her perfectly-prepared meal, despite the fact that the fare had been remarkable, the menu boasting trout, which Isabela claimed divine—Fenris left her to that particular opinion—lamb and roasted game and any number of exotic, chilled desserts, the likes of which Fenris hadn't seen since leaving the Imperium. Hawke, however, declined dessert, and much of her meal had been pushed around on her plate. Wine, however, she'd had plenty of, evidenced by the deeper flush at her cheeks.
"Seems to me," Varric said, leaning back in his chair, looking entirely satisfied by both the quantity and quality of food, "it's time to hunt down a little entertainment in this town."
"Mmm," agreed Isabela, holding up her glass of port, admiring the way the scant remaining drops of liquor gleamed in the lamplight before she tipped the glass against her lips, draining it. "Nothing like a good meal to put one in the mood for a game of cards."
"Isabela, watching paint dry would put you in the mood for a card game," Hawke observed dryly.
"Of course it would," she retorted with a laugh. "Watching paint dry is boring."
Before Hawke could toss back a rejoinder, Varric tilted his head, regarding her, and asked, "What about you, Hawke?"
She wrinkled her nose, considering. "I thought I'd just go back upstairs and—"
"Kitten," Isabela drawled, the barest hint of a warning injected into her tone.
Hawke made a face. "Or maybe I'll just go for a little walk," she said with false brightness. "Get some air."
"And then join us at cards," prompted Isabela. Hawke did not look convinced.
Throwing Isabela a shrewd look, Varric said, "You just want her to join in because she can't cheat worth a damn when she's had a few." He nodded at Hawke, adding, "A walk's probably a good idea." And then the dwarf settled back in his chair, telegraphing a very meaningful look Fenris' way.
The gesture, he found, grated slightly, and Fenris wasn't sure whether it was that the dwarf was giving him such an eloquent look at all, or if it had more to do with the fact he'd already considered how unwise it would have been for Hawke to go wandering alone about Kinloch Hold. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since her last tincture dosage, and though her hands weren't the least bit unsteady, the wine had rendered her speech slower and more cautious. Slow enough and cautious enough he'd already given thought to accompanying her.
"I found my room rather close," he said, pointedly ignoring Varric's gaze. "Perhaps some fresh air would help."
Hawke blinked owlishly at him. "You… want to go for a walk?"
Five minutes ago, perhaps, he did not. But now the idea seemed less distasteful than he'd originally thought. "It would do, if nothing else, to check on the horses."
"All right," she replied slowly, eyes narrowing at him as if searching for falsehoods. Before he could wonder what she saw, what she found when she looked so very closely, Hawke smiled and pushed to her feet, pausing only to reach into the sugar bowl set at the center of the table, plucking up a handful of sugar cubes and dropping them into her purse.
After settling the bill, they exited through the hotel's wide double doors, which opened out onto a street every bit as busy in the evening as it had been in the afternoon. Gas lamps lit the street with dancing light, illuminating men and women walking past, arm in arm; a trio of laughing young women stood in front of the theater where The Denerim Players were putting on a production of Maferath. A fourth joined them, hurrying down the street, hands hitched in her skirts; they greeted her and disappeared into the theatre together.
"While you were making yourself dainty," Varric said, addressing Hawke and Isabela, "I took a stroll around town myself. From what I hear, if there's a game of Wicked Grace going on in this town, it'll be at The Spoiled Princess." He jerked a thumb to the right and looked up at Isabela. "You up for seeing how they do gambling in this town?"
Isabela snorted. "I'm up for seeing how they do losing in this town."
Varric grinned, then gave a shrug. "Same difference." And, with nothing more than a backwards wave, they departed, and Fenris was suddenly certain if there was not already a game of Wicked Grace in progress, there soon would be.
Beside him, Hawke let out a soft snort of laughter. He sent her a sidelong glance. "Do you wish to join them?"
"Another time, maybe." She turned, tipping her head, indicating which way the stables were. "Another town, definitely. Shall we?"
He nodded and they strode off in the opposite direction, walking the short distance to the stables. The stablemaster was gone for the night, the lead groom, a young man of no more than eighteen, with a thatch of shockingly red hair explained, but there was no problem if they wanted to check up on their animals. He smiled at them both, though his smile lingered on Hawke several seconds longer.
Before Fenris could wonder if she were even aware of the attention, Hawke ducked her head demurely, offering the young man a smile of her own.
"Thank you so much," she said, fingers plucking at the string on her purse. "I'm sure he's in capable hands. It's just I get so worried about him in a strange place overnight."
"Been watching over him like he's my own, miss," the groom said, and even in the dim light there was no mistaking his flush.
"I'm sure you have…?" she answered sweetly, her voice canting upward inquisitively.
The groom pulled off his cap. "Jonah, miss. I-it's… Jonah. I…" he cleared his throat, chest puffing out with pride. "I watch the horses on the overnight, while the stablemaster's off."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jonah," replied Hawke, dimpling at the groom. "So it's likely you we'll be seeing in the morning, then? We're only stopping over for the night." At his confusion—and dismay, Fenris noted—Hawke added quickly, "But it's really just a lovely little town." She dipped her head, adding with a shyness Fenris had never heard from her before, "It's such a shame we can't stay longer."
The young man beamed while Fenris managed to avoid rolling his eyes, though it took a supreme effort to do so. "We're very proud of it, miss."
Fenris cleared his throat. "You wished to check the horses," he reminded Hawke, unable to completely smother the groundless irritation flaring beneath his breast. Hawke nodded, offering a quick, apologetic smile to the groom, and they made their way down a corridor of stalls, enough to board about twenty horses at a time. More than half the stalls were filled, and it was a short search before they found Agrippa and Falcon, both chewing sedately on hay.
"He was a little young for you," Fenris observed in a dry undertone as Hawke reached into her purse for the sugar cubes. Falcon perked up immediately, and Agrippa craned her neck to see what her neighbor was nickering about.
Hawke did not blush, or look abashed in any way. She just chuckled softly, shaking her head as Falcon licked three sugar cubes from her open palm. She then offered sugar cubes to Agrippa, who took them as avidly as Falcon had. "More flies with honey, Fenris," she explained softly. "If we need to get out early tomorrow, Jonah will likely be far more willing to oblige us."
"Do you anticipate needing an early departure?"
She sighed, withdrawing more sugar cubes and offering some first to Falcon and next to Agrippa. "Anticipate? No." She frowned at her hand, slick with horse spittle and smears of mostly-chewed hay, and Fenris pulled a handkerchief free from an inner pocket, handing it to her. Hawke's fingertips grazed his as she took the cloth, and she smiled her thanks as she wiped her palm clean—a softer, slightly self-deprecating, and far more genuine thing than any of the charms she'd aimed at the groom, he realized. "Call it a contingency plan."
He watched Hawke fold the handkerchief, carefully tucking away the green streaks of horse saliva before handing it back to him, thinking all the while of contingency plans and his intimate understanding of their necessity.
"There now. We've checked on the horses and they appear to be doing all right. Shall we check on our compatriots?" she asked as he pushed the white—less so, now—cloth back into a pocket. "Three coppers says they've got a game of no fewer than six going."
"You're so certain?" Fenris asked, but did not argue as they turned their steps in search of The Spoiled Princess.
Hawke laughed and shot him an amused sidelong glance. "You're only saying that because you don't know Isabela like I do. Trust me, stronger men than templars have succumbed to her charms."
It was a short walk to the saloon, the wind off the lake turning the night air chilly. The light blazing from The Spoiled Princess' front window, however, looked bright enough to ward off the bitterest cold. Hawke peered in through the front window, where she saw Varric and Isabela, deeply embroiled in what looked like a game of diamondback, surrounded by four men and three women, at least five of which were templars, if the badges upon their chests were anything to go by. The pile in the center of the table was small, but Fenris knew the game well enough to know the pile of winnings would be at least five times what it was by the time the game concluded.
"Do you play cards at all?" Hawke asked, watching the game with avid, narrowed eyes. Fenris followed her gaze; one of the templars held a worthless hand, and yet tossed coins onto the pile as if he'd already won it. She made a little derisive sound, deep in her throat.
"I play enough to know he will not last an hour playing like that."
She tipped her head, yellow lamplight catching her eyes as she sent him a conspirator's grin. "Highever, then. We'll find a game there and give those two a little competition. What do you say?"
Fenris looked once more through the front window, his musings fading for the moment beneath the prospect of a journey measured not by how many hunters he'd had to evade, but marked rather by towns and people and card games.
"I… believe I look forward to it."
