Evelyn sat at breakfast in one of the smaller dining rooms of Corin Castle a handful of days later with her parents. It was a generally quiet affair. Her mother was already nursing her first glass of wine (albeit white wine, which was always much more suitable for daylight hours), her father was squinting down in distaste at this morning's edition of The Starkhaven Star.

"Bloody thing," her father grumbled down at the paper "Stirring discontent because of your own misguided beliefs is one thing, but doing it just to sell papers? Vultures, the lot of them."

"I don't know why you read that thing," Evelyn replied quietly "I only look at the articles Aveline flags as important."

That was one of many ways that her personal private secretary was a gem - she wasn't one who was much for kissing backsides, and she'd flag articles that were both complimentary and critical, so long as they held something in them worth her awareness. Silly scraps of speculation and gossip were not.

"Absalom did flag this for me," he grumbled in response, speaking of his own secretary, before reading aloud "Abdication is oft considered a dirty word amongst monarchies across Thedas, but history is littered with examples in which it was best for the people. Perhaps it is time that the House of Trevelyan heeds this example from the past, lest they become a cautionary tale in the future."

Evelyn's knife stilled in its efforts to slice through her egg at the same time her mother's fine crystal wine glass was returned to the glossy surface of the table with such force that it was a wonder it didn't shatter. They were saved from any drama, though, when the great wooden double doors to the room swung open. Fordham Trevelyan, Prince of Kirkwall and heir to the throne of the Marches walked in…and the paper in her father's hands was swiftly passed off to a footman who stepped readily forward and removed it from the room.

Glancing from her mother, whose outrage was still written in her pale blue eyes, to her father who simply looked painfully weary, Evelyn finally cast her attention to her older brother. He walked with a particular swagger to him, his eyes narrowed and his brown hair in disarray. Hungover? Or still drunk from the night before? It was difficult to say, but time would surely tell.

He fell into the seat to her left, clicking his fingers and announcing to the footman who stepped forward "Four eggs, scrambled. Toast, too. And bacon. With pancakes. And a black coffee."

Hungover it was, then. Although still just drunk enough to have an appetite.

"There's coffee on the table, darling," her mother said.

"I want it fresh."

The footman bowed his head and strode off to relay the orders.

"Did you have fun yesterday, then?"

"Mm. Parasailing with Smithy. Or was it Jonno? I can't remember. Either way, he swore up and down he almost got eaten by a shark when it was his turn- wait, no, it was Bango."

The flurry of nicknames made it even more difficult to remember which of his sycophants was which, but one small detail had Evelyn frowning.

"Isn't Bango a dwarf?"

"Yes - we joked that if it was a shark, it would have only taken the one bite. More of a snack than a meal, really."

"How did you get him mixed up with Smithy and Jonno, then? They're both humans."

"Mm, to use the word lightly."

"What are you doing today, darling?" Her mother interrupted the conversation before she could get anything resembling an explanation.

"Unveiling a statue for the victims of the Kirkwall disaster, I've got a jet to hop onto in…" he turned towards one of the footmen.

"Half an hour, sir."

"Hm. Evidently I'm going to be late."

Evelyn pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

"What about you, Evie?" Her father asked.

"I have a meeting with that new charity I'm going to be a patron of - One Day Soon."

"The one for former Templars?" Her mother asked sharply.

"For those battling lyrium addiction, yes."

"You don't know what sorts will be there. You'd better be very careful," she warned.

"I'll be fine," Evelyn said softly "And anyway, the founder - Mr Rutherford - will be there to walk me through everything, and he seems a very decent man."

"Of course he does, he thinks he can make money from you," Fordham rolled his eyes.

"It's a charity, it doesn't make money."

"Everybody involved in schemes like that makes money - why else would they do it? It's only the hopelessly naive who buy into all that goodness of our hearts tripe. Perhaps it starts that way, but sooner or later they all start skimming from the top. Mark my words."

"I don't agree," Evelyn said simply.

"Agree, don't agree, just don't let this endeavour of yours overshadow my press today."

That was one of her brother's few requests that sounded more unreasonable than it actually was. It was a bit of a rule within the family for each of them to go out of their way not to detract from one another's time in the limelight - or, more importantly, whatever cause they were dragging into the limelight with them. They'd do no good for anybody if they were fighting for headlines. Of course, it would have been a much more reasonable request if her last charitable endeavour hadn't been blown out of public notice (and therefore halving the amount of good she'd been able to do for that cause) by Fordham deciding it would be prudent to go skiing. Naked. For a bet, he'd said in his defence, but Evelyn didn't much buy that. The news of her former…association with King Alistair had broken around the same time as her brother's investiture of Prince of Kirkwall, and he'd never forgiven her for it, so that was probably his revenge.

"It's not a press event. The only photographers there will be ours, and then the announcement will be made next week across the family's social media pages."

"During which there'll be endless videos of you cuddling up to every unfortunate. That's how you get a knife in the ribs, you know. Mark my words."

"Fordham. Enough," her father said.

Her brother obeyed - albeit with an eye roll - and her mother smirked into her wine glass. Evelyn began counting down the minutes until she could leave.

Cullen had never seen the Starkhaven branch of One Day Soon quite so lively. The papers, he'd learned quite against his will, called this sort of thing 'The Evelyn Effect' - and he was beginning to begrudgingly see that there may be something to it. Although Rylen was immune from it, the grimace on his face as he helped with preparations was anything to go by.

"You're not happy about this," it was Cullen who finally pointed it out, when they took a break from setting up.

"Her involvement means more attention, which means more money, which means bigger bases of operations in every city across the Marches. Maybe even multiple buildings, depending on how successful this all is. We won't be forced to turn away men who need our help due to lack of resources, nor resort to outpatient treatment when half don't bother coming back for it after learning we don't have the room to house them and help them here," Rylen rattled off the very things that had Cullen playing Leliana's game in the first place "So I'm not unhappy about it, sir."

It was a habit from their military background, and Cullen had long since given up on trying to dispel it.

"But?" he prompted.

"But," Rylen sighed "I've met her brother once, you know."

"You have?"

"Aye, not long after the incident in Kirkwall. He came with his father, to meet those impacted by everything. Or to be seen meeting them, more like."

"The father- er, the King and the prince?"

"Can't say in His Majesty's case, but he's a serious sort and I can't much imagine him putting on an act for the sake of a few cameras. But Prince Fordham? He showed up hungover, and excused himself to vomit in the hallway when a burn victim tried to shake his hand. It's no wonder the Marches prefer his sister, but I'm not convinced she'll be much better, save maybe in terms of acting capabilities."

"I don't think she's like that."

"And you've met her…once, is it?"

"That's why I said I don't think she is, rather than she's definitely not," Cullen replied drily.

It was something he'd have to say either way - to keep up appearances if-and-when he had to make a big show of falling for the woman. It would be an easier charade to maintain if he didn't appear to hate her beforehand. However, it helped in this case that he was not pretending. While he was nowhere near foolish enough to believe that he could have the true measure of her from their one meeting so far, he had no trouble admitting that his first impression was a good one. Just as much as he'd happily admit, at least to himself, that his first impression could also be wrong.

Rylen made a face as though to concede his point, but any more discussion on the matter was ruled out when one of their volunteers poked her head into the room "Princess Evelyn is on her way, sir."

"Let's see if you find the second meeting to be as rosy as the first, then," Rylen said.

There was just enough time to change out of the ratty old t-shirt and jeans he'd worn to help set up, and into black slacks, a crisp white shirt with a grey tie, and comb his hair back into something resembling order. After that, Cullen was bracing himself as he stepped out into the street just in time to see Princess Evelyn's black Rolls-Royce pull up onto the street, flanked front and back by two similar cars.

Those were the cars that emptied first - plain-clothed security guards, judging by their bearing, and then two photographers. Aveline was next, climbing from the passenger side of the princess' car, and then finally Evelyn slipped from the back of the car, opening her own door to do so. It spoke about what her lot was usually like that Cullen was almost tempted to view that as a mark in her favour. The warm, beaming smile she fixed him with when their eyes met helped matters.

"Mr Rutherford," she greeted "It's good to see you again."

She sounded so sincere when she said it, too - so much so that it caught him off guard and he almost forgot to bow, doing so only when she was nearly within arm's reach. He did remember to wait until she extended her hand before he shook it, though, all the while pining for the day when this would all feel somewhat natural to him. Or, better yet, when he wouldn't need to know it at all.

"Oh, I- you, too, Your Royal Highness, we're happy to have you here," he replied.

The cameras were already snapping away, which did nothing for his discomfort, but he masked it in order to focus his attention on the woman standing before him. The dress she wore was fairly plain - long sleeved, with pleated skirts that reached her knees and with a high neckline, very businesslike, and the exact shade of red that the charity's logo boasted. Cullen did not think it accidental.

What he noticed immediately afterwards caught his interest more, though. She was nervous. It was well-hidden, but he'd lived a life watching recruits hide their nerves before a battle, and he knew the tells. The way her eyes flickered about them, the barest hint of a tremor in her exhale as she stepped back and brushed down her skirts. But then she clasped her hands before her, watching him expectantly, and any trace of whatever anxiety she was feeling was gone so swiftly and seamlessly that Cullen doubted it had ever been there at all.

As he showed her around the building, cameras trailing after them and recording their every move, Cullen completely failed to hide his surprise at the questions she directed towards him. And perhaps he should not have been surprised, considering she'd the same level of interest and comprehension during their last meeting, but Rylen's story must have renewed his scepticism more than he'd realised.

Are all of your bases identical regardless of city? Does each city have unique requirements? Have you found some are impacted by withdrawals more than others - based on age or sex, perhaps? Is there a particular window of time when withdrawals are at their worst? What treatment works best during those windows?

The first few were easily brushed off - her people could very well have versed her in what sort of questions to ask, but the way her follow up questions shifted and changed depending on his answer was less easy to write off, as was the genuine interest in her eyes as she answered.

"We've a few former Templars currently in our care who would like to meet you, if you're amenable," he said.

"Of course - although would they rather the cameras stay away? I know some prefer to keep this particular battle private."

She was already holding a hand up, gesturing for the camera-wielding staff members to stop before Cullen could answer.

"We've put those who don't mind into dormitory one, while those who've no interest- or, er, I mean those who would prefer to remain undisturbed are in dormitory two, which we won't enter," he answered "I'd already thought of that."

His reward came in the form of a pleased smile "Aren't you clever? That's what I like to hear."

It would've sounded annoyingly patronising from any other, but she managed to make it sound charming, and he couldn't help but chuckle as he led her to the dormitories. Her cheer also had him wondering if he'd been mistaken about her fit of nerves after all.

And she continued to prove him wrong. Cullen could only stand back, almost like he was mesmerised, watching as she interacted with each patient they housed. He'd been expecting something akin to a meet and greet - the sort idiots paid thousands for, simply to stand within arm's reach of some singer for five seconds, exchanging awkward greetings while a photograph was taken to commemorate the entirely unspectacular event. This was not that, and Cullen realised it the moment she sat down in the chair beside the first soldier's bed rather than simply shaking his hand and moving onto the next person.

Cullen knew all of the people housed in this dorm by name. He could not say the same for every centre in every city, but any time he was in any of their bases for any significant length of time, he did what he could to build a rapport. That was why he knew which were royalists, which ones didn't care much either way, and which ones had only agreed to this in order to behave indifferently towards her to prove some sort of point. And he watched them all fall under her spell, disarmed by how she leaned forward and spoke to each one as though she'd only come here to visit them specifically.

He'd never been that way - so innately social. Maybe that's why it was so strange for him to watch, because he couldn't pinpoint what it was that made her so…lovely. Nor what made it feel so genuine. It was a hell of a thing to witness.

The final soldier was the one that she spent the most time with - a lad of nineteen who has been honourably discharged from the Order after losing his leg in the midst of a failed Harrowing. He was in the midst of one of the worst stages, barely well enough to be sitting up, but he'd insisted on being here, dying for the chance to be able to boast to his old pals that he'd met Princess Evelyn.

"Half of 'em would chop both their legs off themselves if they thought it'd get 'em within spitting distance of her," the lad had told Cullen when he'd expressed his doubt on whether he was well enough for this visit.

If this patronage brought in an influx of amputees, Cullen would know that the word had spread. Still, he was glad he'd relented and took the boy at his word, for despite how his hands shook and the cold sweat that gathered on his brow, he grinned cheekily at the princess and managed to make her laugh more than any other in the room - something to write home about indeed. The snippets of their conversation that drifted towards Cullen made him wonder if they hadn't sensed that last thought.

"…hands are shaking too much to write home…not that there's much worth telling them at the moment right enough…could write to them about today, though…"

"And tell them all about how a strange lady came and bothered you while you tried to rest?" She asked with a smile.

Whatever response the lad gave prompted another laugh.

Only once Aveline had sighed at her clipboard at least four times in the span of as many minutes, and the photographers had long drifted from the room, did Princess Evelyn finally relent and stand, returning to Cullen's side.

"I'm sorry, did I take too long?" She asked with a wince.

"Not at all, ma'am. The lunch we've set up for you downstairs is cold, so it's no trouble. Although all of the good pastries may be gone by now."

She laughed, bowing her head "Well, the price we pay. Would you mind terribly if I nipped to the restroom? You go on ahead - save me a croissant, if you're feeling especially valiant."

Cullen did save her a croissant - a chocolate one, so he hoped she wasn't on some mad diet that disallowed that. But none of his "research" had suggested so. Five minutes went by, then ten, and Cullen was starting to worry. If something happened to her while she was here, it wouldn't be good for anybody.

"Should somebody go to check on the princess?" He asked Aveline doubtfully "She's been gone an awfully long time, perhaps she got lost on the way out of the restroom."

Nobody else seemed too bothered by her absence, her people milling about and slowly picking at the food on offer as though they were any other employee on a lunch break.

"She didn't go to the restroom," Aveline said "She only said that so we'd leave her be."

Well. Shit. While he strongly doubted she'd really be in any danger here alone, he couldn't guarantee that those who did not want to meet her would be polite about it if she took it upon herself to force some kind of visit.

Sighing, Cullen rose to his feet - and after a moment of thought, took up the paper plate which boasted the croissant, too. It would give him a better excuse for seeking him out than I don't trust you to pee alone. But Aveline made no move to stop him when he began to head for the door, so surely that was a good sign.

It didn't take long to find her, either, for she was exactly where he'd left her, sitting at the bedside of the last soldier she'd spoken to. Except now she had a refill pad and a pen in hand, perched awkwardly on her knee as she listened carefully to what he was saying, writing it down in careful looping script.

Hesitating for a moment, Cullen watched through the window of the door, fought a smile, and then headed in.

"You're going to have to tell me how to spell Amalie, I'm afraid," she said, barely glancing at Cullen.

The page was already filled, and it appeared now she was adding the finishing touches.

"All those tiaras and your lot can't afford a proper tutor, ma'am?"

"Don't be rude, or I'll slip something really embarrassing in here when you're not looking and your family will think you've taken up embroidery while you've been here," she was unfazed by the teasing.

"We can add a thread and needle station to the recreation room," Cullen commented blandly, earning grins and chuckles.

He waited patiently as the princess finished off the letter, signed it for the lad, and then folded it neatly before setting it, the notepad, and the pen down onto his bedside table.

"There. Now they won't worry," she said.

"My mother'll have it framed when she reads who scribed it for me," the lad admitted.

Princess Evelyn took that in her stride, smiling bashfully and squeezing the boy's hand "I really must go now. But it was good to meet you. I do hope your mother can read my handwriting."

The lad smiled, bowed his head, and called after her as she left.

"Maker watch over you, Your Royal Highness."

The Evelyn Effect, indeed. Cullen followed her from the room, but then paused unsurely when she stopped in the corridor rather than making any move to head to their canteen. Did she need him to lead the way? Then he looked at her, and saw the tears glistening in her eyes and his heart sank. Oh, no. If seduction was something well beyond his wheelhouse, this was something well beyond his stratosphere.

"We…could get some air," he suggested unsurely "It's nice weather today."

Great, now he was rambling about the weather.

"On the street?" She asked doubtfully.

"The roof," he clarified "So long as you don't mind the stairs - the lift doesn't go all the way up. It's…quiet. Secluded."

And now he sounded like a serial killer.

"All right, yes - that's…that would be nice. Thank you," she nodded.

He led the way in silence, croissant still in one hand, which only made him feel all the more absurd. Three flights of stairs later and they were stepping out onto the roof, into the glow of the early afternoon sun. Princess Evelyn contributed to the general idea that she was not quite mortal when she ended their climb not at all out of breath, nor with a hair out of place, despite her precarious heels.

Leading the way to a worn wooden bench that the workers here typically used for their smoke breaks, Cullen sat down and then offered her the paper plate when she perched down beside him.

"I…brought you lunch, ma'am. As promised," he said, feeling incredibly awkward in his own skin.

His sigh of relief when she smiled and accepted it was audible, and she smiled bashfully, ducking her head as she balanced the plate on her lap.

"I'm very sorry about this, Mr Rutherford, I'm being silly."

"Not at all," he said, and he meant it "It can be overwhelming. And you did a good thing for him there. If he wasn't a staunch royalist before, he certainly is now."

"That isn't why I did it."

"I know. I'm only teasing. But it is natural to be upset by all of this - nobody here would fault you for it."

"Perhaps not, but if anybody sees it, then that becomes the conversation rather than the actual cause. I can't have that. Not if we're to help more like him."

He didn't know what to say to that - he agreed with it, but he didn't know what to say. Although he found himself pleased that he was dealing with Evelyn and not her brother. In more ways than one. In the end, he decided that silence was not a bad response, and it was not an uncomfortable one, so he let it go on. The princess pulled apart the croissant with her fingers and ate it delicately a piece at a time, and when the silence was broken she was the one to do so after she'd finished eating.

"Can I ask you something, Mr Rutherford?"

"Would…it be rude if I asked you to call me Cullen?" He scratched the back of his neck "I've never really been Mr Rutherford - even to my subordinates when I was a Templar, it was Commander or Captain, or some such title…"

"Of course. I understand, I think - I imagine Miss Trevelyan would sound strange to me," she admitted "Not necessarily bad, just strange."

"I'm glad I wasn't being impertinent, then. What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Say you wake up tomorrow and your every dream for this organisation is fulfilled. What does that look like?"

Cullen considered the question for a moment. From her slight hesitancy when it came to asking, he'd expected her question to be far more intrusive.

"Everybody who needs help getting it," he answered frankly "And I know that's vague, but so far we've been creating resources as they've been needed, and it's worked so far. If you want me to be very pragmatic and literal, I should very much like to see us branch out beyond the Marches - to wherever we may be needed. Ferelden, even Orlais. I won't pretend to be blind to the fact that our bases such as they are now are rather rough around the edges, but I built them from the ground up. I'm proud of them."

"You have every right to be," she nodded slowly.

"I won't lie and pretend I don't hope for better facilities - larger ones, with less patients to a room, and more comfort for them. I also long for the day where we never have to turn anybody away for lack of space. But the thing we're really battling here is the stigma. People…people wince when it's discussed. They grow uncomfortable. They take it as an attack on the Order, rather than an effort to help those who were willing to give all that they had to it."

Her lips pressed together and her gaze cast downwards, and Cullen wondered if he'd brushed on something that had perhaps been a discussion within her own family thanks to her involvement in this. The reaction only spurred him on.

"The stigma is trickier to combat, and it's the killer. It can't be solved with more beds, nor with new buildings, and those things cannot help if men and women struggling with this are too ashamed to come to us to seek help in the first place. I…"

When he hesitated then, she looked up - deep brown eyes pinned to him as she listened intently to what he was saying. There was something about the sincerity that shone there that had him pushing forward, saying what he'd meant to say, as if it would be some form of insult to her to cough and brush it all off.

"I don't enjoy speaking of my own experiences with this. I find little comfort in it. But I can hardly insist to others that there's nothing to be ashamed of if I appear ashamed of it. It would be hypocrisy. I…I hope I might lead by example. That they might see somebody who could have once been their superior, and decide that if it's something I can tackle head on, they can too. Maker's breath, this sounds so narcissistic, doesn't it? I don't picture myself as some great hero of the people. But if my facing a little bit of discomfort can bring more men like the one you just helped with that letter come to us rather than to some shady back alley dealer, then it will be worth it, and-"

Now he did stop. Primarily to pause for breath, but also because he really was ranting now, and it was likely time he stopped.

"Forgive me," he sighed "I doubt you came here for a lecture."

"No," she admitted gently "But if you've one prepared, I'm happy to listen to it. Your enthusiasm is admirable, Cullen, I mean it. You could teach some of my lot a thing or two about public speaking."

He chucked, shaking his head and sighing "Another time, perhaps."

Later, when the princess left, Rylen waited until her car was out of view before he sighed and grumbled.

"Maybe she is better than the brother."