Denerim may have had lovely fabrics and Amaranthine a fine selection of imported leather goods, but nobody had Highever's dresses.
After rescuing Varric from Orlin, it had taken a thorough soaking and intense scrubbing before Amelle even thought she might someday begin to feel clean again. A short nap later, she'd been standing in a dressing gown, frowning at the perfectly respectable, perfectly clean trousers and shirt laid out on her bed.
Behind her, the butter-yellow muslin had hung, recently returned from the laundress, freshly pressed, fluttering invitingly. She'd glanced outside, then—outside, with its clear skies, its daffodils swaying in the breeze, the cheerful shouts of Highever being swathed in reams of blue and silver.
The town's festive anticipation—and Amelle's yellow muslin—had won out in the end. And now, as she strolled slowly down Main Street, Amelle didn't regret her decision one bit. The day was mild enough she didn't need a shawl; her thin wrap hung from one arm as she meandered, lost in the flowing silken confections taunting her from the other side of the dressmaker's window.
Then her steps slowed to a stop and Amelle's breath caught
So impractical, Amelle told herself.
So perfect, came the reply, spiraling up from the depths of her.
And it was. Perfect and impractical, but mostly perfect. And precisely what she needed. Before she'd seen him to his door, Varric had told her she'd need a particularly convincing costume change. And the midnight blue silk and flocked velvet interwoven with silver thread absolutely fit the bill.
"Oh, kitten. You need that." Isabela's smoke and whisky voice by her ear was enough to make Amelle startle, but she recovered in time to shoot the other woman a mild glare over her shoulder.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree." She stepped to one side, turning to face Isabela. "When did you get back?"
"Mm, awhile ago. Long enough for a bath. Andraste's tits, but I stunk."
"Join the club," replied Amelle on a chuckle, even as her eyes slid back to the dress in the window.
"You'll only find out how perfect it is if you go in, you know," Isabela told her, bumping Amelle's hip with her own. "Why don't we go inside and take more of a look?" Amelle, never a match for Isabela's reflexes, was arm in arm with the other woman and being towed through the door before she fully realized it. By this point it hardly mattered that Amelle had decided she did in fact need the dress—Isabela was going to talk her into it anyway.
Inside the shop the climate was much as it was around the rest of Highever. Three other women were being fitted for frocks, seamstresses and assistants buzzing around like so many determined worker bees. Paying no attention to any of them, Isabela steered Amelle to where the dress stood, pinned in place on the dressmaker's dummy.
"Oh, yes, please. The color would be divine on you. And you'd fit right in—blue and silver, all the rage this week." Isabela ran one hand down the ruched silk skirt. "Sweet thing, that little waist of yours? You were made for a skirt like this—oh." Gasping, Isabela took some of the fabric between her fingers, fondling it very nearly indecently. "Oh. Oh, it's Antivan silk. Kitten, that's Antivan silk."
Scarcely able to conceal her laughter, Amelle said, "I think I heard you the first time."
"Antivan silk," she told Amelle, as if she were sharing one of the best kept secrets in all of Thedas—and it's possible she was— "feels like sex on the skin. I'm not sure you're hearing me—you need this dress. Furthermore, you need Broody to rip this dress off of you. And the lace—" Here Isabela turned and called across the shop to one of the dressmaker's assistants. "Excuse me, is this lace imported?"
The young woman flushed and smiled, lifting her chin with a proud little tilt. "No, miss. That there's local Highever-made lace. Handcrafted in this very shop."
Isabela spun, the length of her dark hair swinging around her face. "Hawke," she said, lowering her voice to a fierce whisper, her eyes almost comically wide. "You need this dress. Do you know how hard it is to get Highever lace? Do you?"
Amelle looked at the dress, then back at Isabela. She blinked twice, then shook her head slowly, fairly certain the other women in the shop were staring at them by now. "No?"
"Buy the dress," she pressed. "That jacket is sculptured velvet. You are not going to find a gown like this anywhere else. Hawke, the bustle alone—"
Crossing her arms, Amelle angled herself to face Isabela. "I'm buying the dress."
"Of course you are—wait, what?" Tilting her head to one side and squinting, Isabela planted her hands on her hips. "You haven't argued with me once this whole time," she said, more than a little accusatorily.
"I haven't."
Accusation turned to suspicion. "Rather unlike you, Hawke, when it comes to splurging on pretty things."
"Not terribly unlike me," Amelle argued, her tone sliding towards defensive.
"Unlike you enough, what's—" Isabela turned and looked at the blue dress again, running one finger over its flocked velvet coat. "Oh. Oh. I understand." She fingered the silk again, this time thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, think this will do brilliantly, sweet thing. Oh, but you'll need shoes, too. And gloves—oh, you'll definitely need gloves for that—and a hat. That dress wants a hat and—"
"Isabela."
"What?"
"I'm fairly certain I know how to dress myself properly." Sighing a little, she looked up at the gown. "I think this is going to cost more than every single stitch I own put together."
"What a good thing, then," Isabela purred into her ear, her voice low, "our good, good friends from the Imperium are bankrolling this little shopping spree. After all the trouble they put us through the other day, the least they could do is spring for a new dress for you." She cast a speculative look around the shop. "And for me, too."
#
Amelle stared at herself in the mirror as the head seamstress, flanked by a pair of assistants, all hovered with pins, making adjustments to the fit.
"There's not much to take in," one of her assistants remarked.
"How much is 'not much'" drawled Isabela from where she leaned against a wall, arms crossed beneath her breasts.
The seamstress, a meticulous-looking woman with white-blond hair twisted up in a chignon, arched a pale eyebrow at Isabela. Amelle could tell why she had Isabela's respect from the start; this shop was the woman's ship and it was more than obvious she ran a tight one.
"You're asking me how long a wait it'll be before it's done," the woman said, grey eyes watching Isabela shrewdly.
"I am," drawled Isabela.
"Workmanship like this can't be rushed."
"No one's saying we need a rush job. We just need to know when it can be done."
The seamstress stood, crossing her arms. She was tall and willowy, nearly half a head taller than Isabela, and a full head taller than Amelle. But there was steel in her voice. Hard, uncompromising steel. "Do you know how many rush orders I have waiting in back? They all 'need' to be ready for the nameday fete."
"Which is when, exactly?"
The seamstress looked at Isabela as if she were daft. It was a nice change; usually 'Bela was the one giving that look. But Isabela remained impassive, her expression never budging. Amelle knew that face well. It was one she often saw on the other side of a card table, usually before losing with near embarrassing swiftness. "Tomorrow night."
"You already said there wasn't much work to be done on the dress. What, exactly, needs to be done?"
"The neckline hangs too low, for one thing—"
"No such animal. Next?"
The seamstress sighed. "The neckline hangs too low; if we leave it, it'll throw off the entire silhouette. Beyond that, it needs to be taken in at the waist. More than this, if she's to wear a corset."
Isabela gave Amelle a speculative look, her eyes lingering about Amelle's waistline. "She hardly needs it."
"True enough, but you have to admit," the other woman said, folding her arms and rocking back on her heels, taking a hard look at Amelle's waist. "With the cut of that jacket, and the bustle…"
Isabela's hand rested on said bustle. "Mm. Yes. You're right; I do see it. A little cinched in waist would make a world of difference."
"Isabela—" Amelle began to protest. But Isabela held up a hand, silencing her.
"What is your name, sweet thing?"
The seamstress straightened a little, but there was a flush at her cheeks, and a smile playing about her lips she was trying dearly to keep in check. "Annabel."
"Ooh, I like that. Listen, Annabel," Isabela purred, while Amelle fought the urge to cover her eyes. "I can tell you're a woman who can see right through the bullshit."
The hard, uncompromising, steel-in-her-voice Annabel flushed more deeply. "Thank you."
"So take it from a professional bullshitter—"
"I beg your par—"
Isabela interrupted her smoothly, and with a smile. Annabel appeared to particularly appreciate the smile. "Which means, kitten, I'm not going to try and snow you. We need that dress by the day after tomorrow. And we'll pay. Handsomely."
"Day after tomorrow?"
"And we'll pay."
"I heard that part. How exactly would you define handsomely."
Isabela laughed, a low, husky chuckle. "I think you'd like my standard. You should see the man she's trying to get into her drawers—he's my new standard. And quite a handsome one."
At this Amelle flushed deeply, deeply red, heat that traveled from the base of her spine up to the crown of her head. She lifted both hands to cover the too-low neckline and leveled an entirely ineffective glare at Isabela, and Amelle knew it had been ineffective, because her friend—her so-called friend, anyway—met her glare with an unrepentant smile, and laughed.
Annabel, favoring a blush of her own, turned, smiling, to Isabela. When she spoke, the uncompromising steel was gone, and in its place was something decidedly more… speculative. "I don't think it'll be a problem having this ready day after tomorrow."
"I was hoping you'd say that," replied Isabela, who then, clasping her hands behind her back, turned to look at what seemed at the moment to be countless dresses crammed into the little shop. "You do a lot of ready-to-wear here?"
Annabel shrugged as she checked Amelle's measurements one more time and instructed her assistants to get Amelle into a corset for a proper fitting. "Not especially. This being the festival week, we do up some pieces that are mostly constructed. A small few are ready-to-wear. It never fails—we'll get people come into town and either haven't brought the right dress, or want something special that was made local." She shot Amelle a perplexed look. "Can't say as I get many people looking for frocks for after the fete."
"There's another event we've got to prepare for," Amelle replied smoothly.
"But that said, we haven't brought proper attire for any sort of party," Isabela said, somewhat pointedly.
Amelle fought to keep from rolling her eyes, with mixed results. "Isabela, you brought more than enough gowns, gloves, and Maker-forsaken hats for both of us."
"Don't you dare blaspheme against hats, Amelle Hawke," Isabela retorted. Her amber eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched dangerously as she said, her tone brooking no argument, "Now go get corseted. I want to see a proper bosom when you come out of that dressing area."
As it happened, Amelle's bosom was indeed proper with the application of a corset and three women to help her lace it up. A better word for it might have been prominent.
The dress, despite the alterations it still so obviously needed, despite the many pins glittering along the seams, looked entirely different now, and as the seamstress made adjustments for fit, Amelle marveled at her reflection. She looked nothing at all like herself. Despite the discomfort of the more… restrictive undergarments, she couldn't help but admit the hundreds of tiny changes it made.
"Well, aren't you just springing out all over?" Isabela asked, making a show of leering at Amelle.
A hundred tiny changes, and two sizable ones, she thought dryly, looking again at her reflection. The dress was no less perfect, however. She had a feeling Varric would approve. She did not spare any thought on whether Fenris would approve, however—she was quite pink enough already, and through no extra effort of her own.
"Oh, Hawke," came Isabela's voice from the far end of the shop. "Oh, you must look at this one."
"I'm sure it's fabulous, Isabela," Amelle called back, "but I'm somewhat indisposed right now."
"You hold still; I'll bring it to you."
Amelle didn't ask how Isabela planned to get a gown off a dressmaker's dummy—she didn't have time. In bare seconds Isabela swept into Amelle's limited line of sight, holding another dress aloft.
No, Amelle realized, staring at the peridot jacquard Isabela cradled like newly-discovered buried treasure—it wasn't a dress; it was a gown. The green material was embroidered with long, leafy vines on either side of where the skirt split to reveal a peek of black underskirt embroidered with gold thread, with a third skirt beneath that one, gold jacquard and embroidered even more lushly than the topmost layer. A narrow waist flared up to an wide, organza-adorned, shoulder-baring neckline.
"We're buying this," Isabela announced.
"What?"
"I didn't stutter. We're buying this and you're wearing it."
"Isabela. I'm getting fitted for a gown right now."
"You need one for work," she said, nodding at the pin-studded gown Amelle currently wore. "And one for play." To emphasize her point, Isabela twirled in a pirouette, letting the pale green material swing out around her. "I think it'll be just divine for the nameday fete."
"Two gowns?" Amelle asked, shaking her head even as Isabela nodded.
"Two," Isabela said. "And don't you dare be a wet blanket about it. I was looking for something for myself and then I found this and I clearly have lost my mind if I'm even considering letting you have it, but this green would look positively amazing on you, and, let's be honest here, would be the most amazing accessory to your oh, so dashing beau."
Color flared up to Amelle's cheeks. "Fenris is not my beau, dashing or otherwise."
"Right," Isabela said, letting the word stretch out to three times its natural length. "Are you not catching how perfect this dress is? I just used amazing twice, that's how amazing it is."
"Yes, and it probably needs to be altered, and as we've already discussed at length, alterations the day before Elinora Cousland's nameday fete are—"
"Actually," Annabel said, pulling several pins out from between her lips and eyeing the peridot gown thoughtfully. "You might be all right in that one."
Amelle blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"That one ought to fit you."
"With or without the corset?" Isabela asked, casting a scrutinizing eye on the gown, and then on Amelle. "Because I think she needs a bosom for this gown."
"You think everyone needs a bosom, always," retorted Amelle.
"Well, they are so very useful. Which you'd know if you showed yours off once in a while. Anyway, once we get you out of that one," said Isabela, planting one hand on her hip and indicating the cascade of flowing peridot fabric she held, "you're trying on this one."
"And then?"
"And then I'm damned well finding something for myself. Too many good deeds in one day make me itchy."
It couldn't have been hours later, certainly, though it felt like it by the time Amelle and Isabela exited the shop, Amelle feeling vaguely like a prisoner stepping into the sun after too many months in a cell. It wasn't that she disliked shopping—not in the least; Amelle had a hearty appreciation for pretty things, and Highever definitely had its fair share of those. But shopping with Isabela was not the sort of event one went into lightly. Had she been given time to prepare for the endeavor, though, there was the narrowest chance she'd have been able to talk Isabela out of talking her into buying the peridot gown.
And that, Amelle was now convinced, would have been a tragedy.
They meandered along the row of shops, pausing to admire the confections on display in the front window of a bakery from which there issued a particularly intoxicating aroma. Tiny pies were arranged in a circle under glass, their perfectly golden crusts enough to make Amelle's mouth water. Fairy cakes were iced and decorated, not only with the Cousland laurels, but still others bore a remarkable icing replica of a fierce griffon, the emblem of the Grey Wardens. Amelle looked up to find a tiny, fond, yet secretive smile playing about Isabela's lips.
"Copper for your thoughts?"
"Oh, they're worth so much more than that, kitten," she replied in a teasing murmur, still smiling that secret smile as she turned on her heel and led the way down the crowded promenade. Every shop it seemed was decked out in blue and silver, many of them offering goods in similar colors, often featuring some representation of the Cousland crest. Amelle saw laurel-embossed saddlebags, engraved flasks, etched glass, and in the front window of a haberdashery there hung a rich blue vest flecked with a laurel brocade.
"They do go all in for this party, don't they?" murmured Amelle.
"Even I'll admit it's a little over the top," Isabela agreed. "But look at that."
"That" was a blood-red silk brocade—not in a laurel pattern, thank the Maker—waistcoat with silver buttons, exquisitely crafted. The silk gleamed in the afternoon light and Amelle's fingers twitched with longing to touch it.
"Buy it," Isabela said suddenly.
"What?" exclaimed Amelle. "Why? What are you talking about? What could I possibly do with a waistcoat?"
"Not for you, you ninny," she replied with excruciating patience, such that Amelle felt stupid for asking. "For Broody."
Amelle looked again at the garment. It took no effort at all to picture such a flash of red beneath Fenris' black coat. She swallowed hard, then gave herself a shake. "Don't be an idiot," she said, frowning into the window. "I can't buy him that."
Isabela's reaction was nothing short of unmitigated shock. "That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard. Why not?"
"For one thing, it's entirely inappropriate. Clothing's too… intimate a gift." Besides, you had to know things like someone's size when you bought them clothing. And she didn't.
Suddenly, powerfully, the memory of Amelle's arms wrapped around Fenris pulsed through her mind, his warm back pressed against her cold, shivering front as they plodded through the rain and away from certain death. The memory of her hands at his shoulders as he clutched at her, his kiss enough to make her head spin. Still.
She knew too well how her arms fit around him, and how he felt so encircled.
"Kitten," Isabela said, breaking into Amelle's thoughts. "You haven't been paying attention to me at all if you think a waistcoat is an inappropriate gift."
"For another," Amelle went on, pausing to clear her throat, "I haven't got his measurements. And for another, Fenris would never accept such a thing. It's too… too…"
"The word you're looking for is perfect," Isabela finished for her, looking pointedly at the vest. "Nothing says thank you from saving me from a watery death like red silk brocade."
#
"I get it, elf. You've got concerns."
Fenris paused long enough to send Varric an exasperated glare. But as busy as Highever's main thoroughfare was, however, this resulted in several people jostling his shoulder, receiving an extra portion of said glare for their trouble. "Do you not think they are justified?"
"I think you're new to this whole thing we're doing," Varric replied, maneuvering the crowded through-street with surprising ease. "I think the fact you're nervous—"
"I am not nervous, I am—"
Varric waved a gloved hand. "Concerned. Right. Either way, I understand."
With a sigh, Fenris took several more cramped strides, trying to put his thoughts in order, avoid bodily collisions, and keep an eye out for Hawke or Isabela. "Hawke trusts you."
Varric snorted. "Sounds like she and I are going to have to have another talk about that."
"And I," Fenris interjected, "trust Hawke."
The dwarf shot him a long, shrewd look. "But you have trouble trusting me."
"Just so."
After a moment, Varric's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Fair enough. I mean, it wasn't me what pulled your hide from the brink of death. So I'm guessing your point is, you're wanting to make sure Hawke's trust in me isn't… misplaced." At Fenris' nod, Varric pursed his lips in apparent thought.
"It is… not my intent to offend," Fenris said, as Varric's silence stretched out, turning the surrounding ambient noise even louder, separating the thrum into high notes of children's happy screams, neighbors calling to neighbors, and vendors and shopkeepers shouting above the din as they vied for the attention of potential patrons.
"You know, believe it or not, elf…" Varric looked up at him. "I really do believe that." Another beat of silence passed. "Hawke's my friend. Been my friend for a while now. She's good people, and even if she doesn't see it, I've been around long enough and around to enough places to know she's the real deal—she is that decent. If I didn't think we could pull this off, I wouldn't be suggesting it. And that's not to say we don't need to be careful—or prepared. Just the opposite. There's nothing you can't tell me that I haven't already thought about—including the Archon's reaction once he figures out just how much money and men he's out."
Fenris nodded. "I confess I am…reassured you are taking that seriously."
"Seriously as I can take anything, Broody. We don't get where we are by being stupid. That said," Varric went on, "I also know this sort of thing isn't for everybody. You don't want to be a part of it, nobody's going to force you."
Fenris' smile was a blend of grim amusement and wry resignation. "We've few enough people as it is. I know my role, dwarf." He knew his role well, in fact—that was the one part of this piece of theatre Fenris wasn't worried about.
"And I made it a non-speaking part, too. Figured you'd appreciate that." He grinned at Fenris' low chuckle. "Now all we need's a decent wardrobe change, in case Isabela hasn't brought back anything useful."
"Has she not returned?"
"She probably has," Varric replied with an easy shrug, "but this is Highever, don't forget. And one things Isabela loves more than money is shopping."
Fenris remembered the wealth they'd uncovered on the riders. "With… other people's money, I suppose," he said. At his words, Varric snorted a laugh.
"All the better if it's not her own money, yeah." With that, Varric stepped nimbly to the left, easing his way through a space between two people that hadn't been there before. So focused was Fenris on following the back of Varric's head through the crowd that he gave a start at the sudden, familiar voice.
"Well, what do we have here?"
As Fenris lifted his gaze, the crowd parted just enough for him to catch sight of Isabela and Hawke standing outside a haberdashery. Hawke's cheeks were unusually pink, her expression forced to blandness, but still appearing discomfited for all that. He wondered, briefly, what Isabela must have said, for she was smiling too broadly—and far too guilelessly—for Fenris to believe otherwise.
"Told you she'd be back by now," Varric said to Fenris. He looked back at Isabela. "Getting the lay of the land, so to speak. Looking for supplies. You?"
"Same," Isabela replied, shifting a brown-wrapped package under her arm. "It's been harder than a randy Antivan to find anything that's not covered in blue and silver, but I think we're managing all right so far." She tipped her head at the haberdashery. "The owner's got more green material than he knows what to do with. Something about his buyer out of Orlais—I'm not sure of the details, exactly." She shrugged. "It was boring, so I stopped listening. But he has what we most definitely need, and of course everybody's buying up anything and everything blue right now, while the poor sod's up to his eyeballs in green."
"Which is Isabela's way of saying we were able to get some on the cheap," Hawke supplied.
Her blush had faded somewhat, but it was still strange, the way her fingers had twisted into her wrap, and how… restless, how ill at ease she appeared. Something, though he had no idea what, had left her surprisingly troubled. Fenris stole a quick look up and down the street—if there were templars, however, he couldn't see them. Highever didn't have much of a reputation one way or the other regarding templar presence, but one assumed, given the town's overall… tone that mages were as welcome here as they were anywhere else in Ferelden.
"And let me tell you," Isabela went on, tapping her wrapped package, "we're going to be needing plenty of green."
Varric frowned, tipping his head to the side. "I take it you weren't able to scavenge much this morning."
"Oh, I scavenged plenty." Then, leaning in close and lowering her voice, she said, "But bloodstained, lightning-scorched, and bolt-ridden material isn't going to be salvaged, no matter how badly we wish it. So I recommend you go in for a little visit with the tailor, and then come meet us back in my room so I can show you just what kind of lovely treasures I found."
"Treasures in your boudoir, Isabela?" drawled Varric, his grin going crooked. "I think I might've heard that one before."
"I think you might've written that one before," Hawke remarked.
