Amelle woke to brightness—she'd been so tired the night before she'd forgotten to draw the drapes—and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow with a groan. Then, slowly, like a trickle of water down a drainpipe, the previous night came back to her.

First, Fenris' somewhat surprising opinions on her magebane use—but that twisted and twined around and through the evening's other revelation: They had an ally in their endeavor, a development none of them had anticipated. Not just any ally, either—Elinora Cousland, one with not-inconsiderable influence at her fingertips. An ally who, it appeared, had rather unorthodox opinions regarding mages in general and apostates in particular. Provided she'd been telling the truth, of course, but woman had no reason to lie—and also kept the company of an apostate mage, which did much for her credibility.

And Elinora Cousland wanted—wanted—the lyrium mines. More to the point, she seemed to recognize just how badly Amelle didn't want anything to do with them. And, to her credit, the woman had a better idea than Amelle herself did on how to run them. Although, from the sounds of things, the inestimable Miz Cousland had plans for her as well. Provide oversight on the mines and make sure they operated on the up and up? She could do that—and maybe more; maybe Elinora would be open to providing better housing for the miners a safer distance away from the mines.

Assuming, of course, Amelle took her up on her offer. It was a really good offer. Her travel wouldn't necessarily end, not if she was keeping an eye on the mines, but she'd be able to go home from time to time, and for longer than a quick visit. Maybe long enough to start making it feel like her home again.

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the white plaster ceiling, taking a moment to untangle her thoughts on the matter. No question about it, she was relieved they had people backing them up, that they had a proper plan now—not to disparage Varric's ability to scheme, but there'd been a few holes she hadn't been sure how to work through. Most noteworthy, though, was her relief they were dealing with people who wouldn't necessarily hand her over to the templars at the earliest opportunity.

They still had one more day to smooth things out. On the one hand, it wasn't much time at all. On the other hand, they'd done far more with far less.

Plans or not, schemes or not, mines or not, today Highever was in full celebration mode. One glance out her window revealed Main Street bedecked in blue and silver bunting hung between the gas lampposts. The townspeople were already out and about, bustling from shop to shop, calling out greetings to their neighbors. A breeze carried with it the scent of fresh-baked bread and Amelle's stomach gave an insistent growl.

Perhaps it was time to join them. She too had last-minute errands to run.

First, and perhaps most importantly, after breakfast Amelle went to the dressmaker. It soon became evident her idea was far from original—upon opening the door she found the shop to be three times as crowded as the first time she'd been there, the air twice as thick with perfume. Women wearing streaming gowns in varying hues of blue stood before every mirror in the shop—Amelle suspected they'd brought in extra full-length mirrors for the occasion, as there seemed to be some reflective surface no matter which way she turned, turning the store into a kaleidoscope of blue silk, satin, and organza. The seamstress and her assistants moved industriously from woman to woman to woman, checking final details before packing gowns up in tissue. Still more women stood at the counter, admiring bonnets and fancier wide-brimmed straw hats trimmed with ribbons, feathers, silk flowers, and the occasional ornamental bird in bright jewel tones.

Despite the fact that the dress had been so close to Amelle's size to begin with, she still found herself buttoned and laced into the gown and led before one of the shop's many mirrors to examine the final fit.

One of Annabel's assistants, a young woman named Fatima, asked her, "What do you think, Miss Hawke?"

Amelle turned to look in the mirror, lifting her gaze in time to catch the sweep of her skirts, the way the gold thread winked as she moved. She looked at her reflection, and then she stared. The fit, unsurprisingly, was perfect, but more than that—the gown was beautiful. The green and gold played against her skin, the wide neckline showing off her clavicle and the swell of her breasts (courtesy of the corset beneath—which she could also thank for the generous curve of her hips), the airy organza every bit as light and gossamer as thin morning clouds.

She swallowed, running both hands down the bodice, then down to the full overskirt, letting her fingertips slide across the satin.

Despite herself, she wondered what Fenris would think—other than remarking on the cumbersome, restrictive nature of the gown, that was.

Several seconds passed without reply, and Fatima cleared her throat worryingly. "Er, Miss Hawke? Are you—"

"It's amazing," she finally managed, turning this way and that in the mirror, still unable to believe she was wearing—and would be wearing—anything this grand. More to the point, Amelle could hardly believe she was the woman in the mirror. "More than amazing. I've… never seen anything like it," she said, running one careful finger along the lush embroidery.

Fatima nodded enthusiastically, beaming at Amelle—and clearly relieved the gown was a success. "And since near everyone else will be in blue, you'll stand out."

You'll stand out.

Tincture or no, there were fewer words in this world that would set a mage—particularly an apostate—to twitching. But to her credit, Amelle—despite having been in too much of a hurry that morning to remember taking the tincture to begin with—did not twitch. She also didn't breathe for a moment, but that easily could have been blamed on her corset.

"Oh, I doubt that," she finally said, smiling in the mirror as she met the young woman's eyes. "It's not my nameday, after all. Besides, I've heard there'll be fireworks; come tomorrow morning I doubt anyone will even remember what everyone wore."

Fatima laughed. "That's true enough. Most years, with all the food and drink, the whole thing passes in a blur." Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "But Miz Annabel would rather we not mention that, since it might put a few of these women in the mind not to buy a new dress every year." Then she shrugged. "Truth be told, I can't see as it'd matter. There are some women who it'd take an act of the Maker Himself to keep them from a new frock."

Amelle barely suppressed her chuckle—badly. "You aren't telling me anything I don't know."

After changing back into her own clothes, and feeling considerably plainer for it, Amelle paid for the gown and a few other necessities—and, Maker help her, Isabela had to be rubbing off on her if the word "necessities" passed through her mind without a trace of irony whatsoever—and arranged to have it all delivered to her room at the hotel.

But the very moment she opened the door to the shop and stepped back outside, caught up almost immediately in the crowded thoroughfare, her pulse tripped and sped with something far more complex than garden-variety anticipation. By the time she laid her hand on the tailor's shop's door, her heart was very nearly ready to pound out of her chest.

Don't be silly, she chided herself, taking a calming breath, and then another. It's just a gift for a friend.

Easier to believe if thoughts of that "friend" didn't set her heart pounding all over again.

She pushed the door open, sending the little bell above it jingling cheerfully. The tailor, a wizened old elf named Jeremiah, looked up from his counter and smiled at her over his glasses. He'd assured her the red waistcoat would be ready for today, particularly since Fenris had entered the shop himself after Amelle and Isabela had placed their orders, eliminating any guesswork relating to Fenris' measurements.

"Thought I'd be seeing you today, miss," Jeremiah said, pulling the spectacles from his face and tucking them in his breast pocket.

"I do appreciate you finishing it on such short notice," she replied, taking a few steps in as the door fell shut behind her. After a moment, she blinked and looked around. There wasn't a single other person in the shop, and not the faintest whiff of perfume.

"Something the matter, young lady?"

"Nothing, no," she replied, shaking her head. "Only I just came from Miss Annabel's and—"

"Marveling at the quiet, are you?" he asked, cocking a wry eyebrow at her.

Amelle laughed despite herself. "Something like that."

"It's a little slice of chaos every year," he said. "Just between you and me I think she thrives on it. Oh, she acts plenty put upon, but I've known her since she barely reached my knee—taught her to thread her first needle. That girl loves a big to-do. Always has."

"And you?" Amelle asked, looking around at the much quieter shop. Jeremiah shook his head.

"Whole different business, young lady. Still got a fair few last-minute orders, but… well, I'm no fan of kerfuffles. Highever knows if they it wants old Jeremiah's custom work, they've got to give these old hands time to do it." His lined face creased into a grin as he tossed her a wink. "Otherwise how else would I have the time to put together a waistcoat for a lovely visitor?"

"I do appreciate it."

"I don't doubt that, Miss Hawke. You just sit tight and I'll be right back."

#

Elinora Cousland's words from the night before spun suddenly through Amelle's head as she stood at Fenris' door later, cradling the paper-wrapped package. She lifted her hand to knock, hesitating a moment—

That elf is quite striking.

—Before pushing through her uncertainty and rapping her knuckles against the door. The wrapping crinkled against her chest as she listened for movement on the other side of the wood. It was still early, and they'd all gone to bed abominably late; it was entirely possible Fenris was still asleep, entirely possible he wouldn't appreciate her interrupting that sleep.

"Hawke?"

Amelle turned at the sound of Fenris' voice to find him coming down the hallway, looking not only well-rested, but damp from a bath, his still-wet hair falling in segments against his forehead.

Oh, Maker's breath. Which was either an appropriate or ironic thing to think, as her own breath had quite left her. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and jerked her gaze down to the carpet as warmth flooded her cheeks and she cast about for something to say, hugging the parcel more tightly against her chest, dimly reminding her why she'd come here at all.

As Fenris drew nearer, with him came a distinctly piney scent—his soap, she realized, breathing in a little deeper—and he stopped long enough to pull his room key from a pocket. Swallowing hard—again—and fixing a smile to her lips, she looked up to find him watching her curiously as he unlocked his room.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, his brow creasing with concern.

"Yes," she answered immediately, half surprised she could and that she could speak truthfully, and more than half surprised she managed to find her voice at all. "For once and for now, everything's all right." Or close enough to it that it didn't matter.

"Good. Though we dare not grow accustomed to such circumstances."

Amelle allowed herself a soft bark of laughter as she shook her head. "Maker knows that's the truth." But Fenris still watched her with thinly veiled curiosity, enough to send her nerves jumping as warmth bloomed at the base of her neck. "I know it's early—to be honest, I'm half surprised to find you awake at all."

"I slept… well last night," he replied, looking almost surprised at the fact.

"Since Kinloch Hold, things have been…"

"Trying," he supplied, darkly.

"Exactly so," Amelle agreed. "I think we all were in dire need of some rest. I'm glad you got some."

"Thank you, Hawke."

As they descended into silence, Fenris watched her for a moment, and she wondered what he saw in her face. When the silence between them started to make her itch, the wrapping crinkled as she shifted and Amelle held out the parcel. "What I meant to say was, I know it's early, but I came by because I have someth—a gift. I have a gift for you."

Fenris looked briefly at the parcel before looking up again. "For me?"

"Yes," she answered, nodding. "I hope it wasn't too presumptuous of me, but I…" she paused, both to take a breath and hand Fenris the package, then clasped her hands tightly behind her back, fingers twisting around and against each other. "I, ah, thought it would suit—it seemed like it'd suit you."

He handled the bundle thoughtfully, then pushed open the door to his room. "I… have nothing to give you in return. I beg your pardon; I did not realize today's event was a gift-giving occasion."

"Oh." Amelle blinked. "Oh. I don't know if it is or not. This is…" His fingers snaked under the string, pulling it free from the parcel. She swallowed hard. "This is more of a thank-you gift," she explained. "I know it's probably presumptuous of me—"

"So you've said," he replied, humor tickling the outer edges of his tone just enough to make her stomach flip pleasantly.

"Ah." She cleared her throat. "So I did. Maybe you should just open it instead."

"As you wish," Fenris said, his normally nimble fingers fumbling with the knots as though he'd received very few gifts in his lifetime. After a moment more he added, "And for what are you thanking me?"

But before she could answer, he pulled the final knot free, and with that easing of tension, the paper sagged as if it had exhaled a long-held breath. Amelle, however, still held hers. Slowly the paper came free as Fenris worked thoughtfully, methodically. Carefully. He didn't seem overtly excited about the gift, but neither did he seem put off by it. What he seemed, Amelle realized, was entirely unsure of how to respond at all, though his movements and expression were a study in thinly veiled anticipation.

Brown paper gave way to white tissue so thin the red waistcoat showed through, pale and muted. When that came away, she realized the red was even richer and bolder than it had looked less than an hour ago in Jeremiah's shop.

Fenris held the garment out, fingers clasping it at the shoulders.

"I thought—I thought you might like wearing it for tonight's festivities." Fenris didn't reply and Amelle swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering and blood warming her skin until a slow trickle of sweat trailed down between her shoulder blades. "I would've had to guess at your size," she went on, "but then you got fitted yourself so I didn't have to guess."

Still nothing.

"I—I didn't use the Archon's money," she assured him. "In case you wondered. I didn't—that's blood money. I didn't want to—"

Fenris finally turned to face her.

"Maker's blood, Fenris, please say something."

His throat moved as he swallowed. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Finally—finally, after what seemed like an age—he spoke. "I do not believe I have ever been given any thing such as this before."

"A… waistcoat, you mean?"

"No," he replied, looking intently at the vest. "A gift freely given."

"…Oh." She didn't know what to say to that—if she should say anything at all. "It's… it's for everything you've done," she ventured into the hush that followed. "Most notably for saving my life—but there are other things as well. I… Fenris, I appreciate you," she said, a sudden wave of self-conscious foolishness swamping her. Fenris held the vest out in front of him but said nothing as he admired it—Maker, she hoped he was admiring it. "I'd probably be dead right now if not for you—"

He looked away from the vest, letting it drop to the bed in a pool of red silk. "Hawke—"

"Please. Let me finish."

He inclined his head. "Very well."

"Your presence on this trip—your friendship, too—has been invaluable. I—I wanted to… to give you something to show you—I know I invited you to come along because we were heading the same way, but I…"

The words tangled in her mouth, her tongue tripping over them, and it was in the middle of that tangle of words Amelle realized it wasn't only friendship she felt—the emotion that was giving her such a bloody difficult time expressing herself was far more complex than friendship. She swallowed hard again and said, her heart pounding in her ears, a truth she'd been holding on to since she'd clung to him, half-drowned, on Agrippa's back:

"You're…" How to say it? How could she convey this complexity in a way he could understand? In a way that didn't feel so much like standing at the edge of an impossibly high ledge and flinging herself off of it. "You've—" become dear to me and I don't understand it but there it is. "You're… important to me."

She dared not imaging how he'd have taken that which had remained unspoken, since her words took him by such surprise—Fenris' widened eyes and quick intake of breath was enough to tell her that—and for a starkly terrifying moment, Amelle wondered—feared, really—she'd said too much. That Fenris had managed to peer through the tangle of words and thoughts filling her throat and had seen the truth hidden in all she'd left unsaid.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, shaking her head and taking a step back. "It was too presumptuous of me. Those are probably—"

He took a step forward, erasing the distance she'd just put between them. "Hawke—"

"—Probably the last words you want to hear from someone like me—" She took another step back, as Fenris took yet another step forward, one hand snatching out to grasp her arm.

"Hawke. Enough."

If the words and the tone they'd been delivered in hadn't been enough to stop her cold, Fenris hand on her arm more than sufficed.

"Would you permit me a moment to speak?"

After a long moment she gave a short, uncertain nod.

A hint of a smile kicked up at the corner of his mouth. "Without interruption?"

Again, she nodded.

He looked down at her arm where he held her, loosening his fingers after a moment, without quite letting go entirely.

"I…you should know I am not…impartial to you," he said, the words coming slowly, as if he were giving each one its due consideration. Fenris never lifted his eyes from his hand on her arm. A second passed, then two, and his expression contorted into a brief grimace. "No. That is not what I wish to say, either."

Well. At least he was having at least as much difficulty as she'd had.

Finally Fenris pulled his gaze from his hand upon her arm, looking her square in the eye. His jaw set with defiance, and for a moment Amelle wondered if that defiance was directed at her, but no—

"You are also… important to me."

She blinked, casting about for a reply, but the most she could manage was, "…Oh?"

"In ways which I could never have anticipated." He gave a laugh that was barely a laugh and little more than a breath. "Or foreseen." Again he struggled with his words and Amelle, too familiar with that, slowly slid her arm within his grip until they were palm to palm. His fingers, warm and rough with calluses, threaded with hers.

"You know, I don't find it all that hard to believe."

"No?" The look he gave her was almost arch—almost, but not quite—and laced with what bore a striking resemblance to relief.

She squeezed his hand and smiled, not unkindly. "Considering how swimmingly our first meeting went?" He grimaced again and she could not quite contain her chuckle. "Sorry. I can't resist teasing you a little."

"I assure you, I have noticed." Whether he'd pulled her with gentle pressure or she'd moved of her own volition, Amelle found herself far closer to Fenris than she'd been even moments before. The scent of his soap, still strong so soon after his bath, wound around them, sharp and clean and very, very Fenris.

"Was it—was it the tower?" she asked, her voice low.

"Earlier than that, I think," he murmured. "Though that particular incident did put things into…perspective."

"I, ah, think I know what you mean," she replied, her own voice hoarse and scarcely louder than a whisper. The backs of Fenris' fingers brushed across her cheek and up to her temple, sending a shiver chasing across her skin as she leaned into the touch. And then, tilting her head up, she leant in even closer, brushing her mouth chastely across his. This time Fenris' intake of breath was more than a mere sound; it was cool across her lips, like a soft, intimate breeze, followed by warmth again as he returned the gesture, just as chastely. Once, twice—on the third time the tip of her tongue darted out—accidentally or intentionally; she wasn't sure—grazing lightly across Fenris' upper lip.

With that brief contact, the teasing, chaste brushes ceased.

Their kiss in the tower had been sudden—and that one, too, had been preceded by teasing—but sudden and impatient and, Maker's blood, hungry. It had been a whirlwind of impetuous spontaneity. Now, though, hunger and heat simmered beneath the surface of something that unfolded both slowly and thoroughly. Now when his hands slid into her hair, his short nails teasing across her scalp rather than twining tightly in the strands. Now when the kiss deepened, Amelle's hands slid up his chest (was that tattoo his heart pounding against her palms?) and lifted up on tiptoes as she leaned into—fell into, dove into—the embrace. With light, questing touches, her fingertips found his shoulders, the shell of his ear, the nape of his neck where his hair clung, still damp from his bath, the curve of his spine until he groaned, deepening the kiss further, tightening his hands on her as his teeth caught her lip, her tongue sliding against his until the kiss broke, both of them out of breath and—for Amelle's part, anyway—trembling.

She swallowed hard. "Well," she managed.

It took several unsteady breaths before Fenris replied. "Indeed."

They didn't part. He stroked his thumb along her collarbone, resting his forehead against hers. They might have moved forward; the bed stood next to them, beckoning, an inviting expanse of soft linens and down-filled pillows. But they remained still, remained together, knowing perfectly well enough had changed in mere minutes; things did not need to change further just yet.

"I had not…entirely intended to do that," he told her, the warmth of his breath tickling her skin. "At that moment, in any case."

Amelle loosed a soft huff of laughter and pressed another chaste kiss to Fenris' lips. "But you had been intending to at some point?"

He shifted, a whisper of discomfiture settling on his features. "Perhaps… eventually."

"I find myself glad for your impatience, messere."

Discomfiture shifted too easily into concern as Fenris' brows knitted. "You do not feel as if this complicates matters?"

An excellent question. Did it? Rather than pretend she didn't know what Fenris was talking about, Amelle looked down instead at their joined hands. "Considering kissing you hadn't exactly been far from my mind either?" She shrugged, then shook her head. "I don't know. I'm almost sure it does complicate some things. I know we're both going to Kirkwall, but…"

"You have no intention of staying there, and I don't know where I will go from there."

"You have a gift for boiling things down to their simplest parts, don't you?" she answered on an exhale. "But yes, you're right. In which case, it seems to me the best course of action available to us," she said, looking up from their hands and meeting his eyes, "is to take everything as it comes, one day, one step at a time."

Fenris considered this and, after a long moment, nodded as a small, thoughtful frown marred his brow. "We neither of us know what will come tomorrow."

"Well," Amelle countered. "We have something of an idea of what will come tomorrow." Then she smiled. "Which is why I'm looking forward to tonight."

But the frown didn't alleviate; if anything, it deepened. "Truth be told," he began slowly, "I still have concerns over what we will attempt tomorrow."

"I'd worry if you didn't," Amelle replied, her tone thoughtful. "Though, I have to admit I'm worrying somewhat less than I might have otherwise."

"Because of the Warden?" At Amelle's nod, Fenris looked down at their hands. "You trust Cousland, then." It wasn't a question.

"I do. Maker knows if she'd been interested in apprehending us, she could have done so dozens of times last night."

"I… noticed you spoke privately with her. It is none of my business, I realize, but—"

"She figured out—shockingly fast, I might add—that I don't actually want the mines," said Amelle with a shrug. "It wasn't a… bad conversation."

"And yet it seems there was some intent to it."

"She offered me an alternative. A compromise of sorts." At Fenris' curious look, she went on. "I allow her name to be put on the deeds, making her and Governor Theirin the legal owners of the minds, and I… will be in charge of oversight. Making sure they run legally—and, more to the point, ethically."

Fenris' frown hadn't eased, though the quality of it now seemed pensive as opposed to concerned. "Have you accepted this offer?"

"I…" Amelle breathed deeply, letting the air out in a hiss between her teeth. "I haven't decided yet. She made some excellent points—most of which I hadn't considered, which tells me just how much I don't know about the lyrium trade." Sneaking a sidelong glance at Fenris, she said, "But I think—I think I'm considering accepting her offer. She made it quite clear there's no question I'd be compensated, so it's not as if she's trying to double-cross me. Besides which, it's not as if we're on any real high moral high ground, since we're trying to cheat a cheater."

Fenris took this all in, but didn't say anything for several seconds. "It seems to me," he began slowly, "that this would provide a buffer between your position and the chantry as well."

"Believe me, I'd noticed that. And I can think of worse people to have as a buffer between me and the chantry."

"And I can think of no better person to keep such an establishment honest."

"Maker, Fenris, I'm surprised you can say that with a straight face."

He brought his fingers to rest just beneath her chin, tipping her face up until she met his eyes. "I would not say such a thing if I did not mean it. You have integrity, Amelle Hawke. Do not think I am ignorant of it."

There was no point in trying to hide her blush—not with Fenris this close—but the words and the tone he'd spoken them in sent a thrill down her spine. She parted her lips to speak, but Fenris silenced whatever words she might have said with another kiss.

When they parted again, she breathed, tremulously, "Just don't let it get around, all right?"

Fenris' smile, small and secret, warmed his eyes. "You have my word."

Just then, the distant sound of trumpets and trombones called through the air, carried on the breeze; the nameday parade had begun—it was meant to circle the town before cutting through Main Street and ending at the town square, led by the brass band they'd heard practicing the afternoon they'd arrived in Highever.

Amelle grinned at Fenris. "What do you say?" she asked, tipping her head at the window. "Shall we go outside and partake in the festivities?"

"It so happens I have an excellent view of the square from my window," he offered.

Her grin widened. "Looks like we'll have the best seat in the house.