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It was absolutely the final straw in what had proven so far to be a very bad day. It had not started out well, the morning ravens had brought bad news about several of the more delicate interventions she was engaged in to bolster the Inquisition’s support (and finances), over lunch she had managed to inadvertently offend a visiting Chantry dignitary with significant influence, and now this. The Comte de Seyrès, having previously promised extremely generous support to the Inquisition, was now up in arms about the fact that the Inquisitor was a ‘Qunari heathen’. Since the Inquisitor’s race had caused quite a sensation across Southern Thedas since the closure of the Breach Josephine was not sure how this fact had previously escaped his notice, but she would have to find some way of soothing the Comte’s mistrust and quickly.
Josephine sighed heavily, then rising from her chair she opened the door that led from her office to the great hall, checked no one was in hearing distance (it wouldn’t do to accidentally upset any of the messengers or other Skyhold staff), then expelled a brief but filthy bout of Antivan invective that would have no doubt made her mother blush. Feeling better, if a little guilty for her momentary lapse from proper decorum, she returned to her desk.
At a momentary impasse, her mind drifted aimlessly for a moment as she cast about for an idea of how to proceed with the Comte. The fleeting thought of her mother filled her with a melancholy as crushing as it was sudden, a bone-deep longing to feel her arms around her and hear her voice. She’d been away from home for long periods before, but she’d never felt quite so isolated, stuck in an ancient crumbling fortress on top of a mountain with the weight of the world upon her and a few other shoulders. She could hardly expect Corypheus to put his plans on hold for a few weeks so she could go and visit her family.
“This is good and important work,” she told herself sternly. “You cannot afford to be so self-indulgent.”
And yet, she longed to see the sea turned into liquid fire as the sun rose across Rialto Bay.
Wrestling herself back to her task with the discipline that had made her Antiva’s youngest ever ambassador, she sorted through her papers at which point she noticed a previously overlooked packet that had been delivered with her other correspondence. She picked it up curiously, noting that it bore only her name on the front in a sloping hand she didn’t recognise, and no other stamps or marks. The paper was thick and heavy, with the delightful scent she associated with good quality stationary, and the sealing wax was also fragrant beeswax. Almost involuntarily a smile crept across her lips, delight in both the object itself, and the mystery of its origin.
Intrigued, she broke the seal and lifted the flap of the packet, expecting to find documents or correspondence of some sort. Instead, she found only a small, carefully folded swatch of fabric, a sumptuous dark green ring velvet with a luxuriously deep pile, and a small card, written in the same hand.
“A gift for you, Ambassador, I heard you might appreciate and find a use for it.”
Josephine’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. The piece of fabric was small, far too small to serve any practical purpose. Make use of it for what? Making a cape for one of Leliana’s ravens, or a set of matching waistcoats for the mice that sometimes scampered across her office, making a game of running as close to her shoes as they could without coming close enough for retaliation? She turned the fabric over in her hands, relishing its softness beneath her fingers and the way the light played on the different directions of the pile. It was a lovely thing, surely some use could be found for it.
Perhaps it was her earlier longings for home, still near the surface of her thoughts, but unbidden, a memory demanded her attention. Of course she had once frequently collected such scraps and had clothes fashioned for her doll collection from them. Her mother had made them for her when Josephine was younger, and had passed the skill on, although it was a hobby she had mostly had to leave behind with the demands of her diplomatic career. The recollection threatened to bring back the earlier sadness, but now it was threaded through with happiness, with memories of quiet moments with loving parents.
Her mind returned once more to the puzzle of who could be her mysterious benefactor. Whoever had sent it, it was a lovely gesture, genuinely thoughtful, but she had only ever told one person about the doll clothes. The writing though was not Leliana’s, and if she was behind the gift, why hide it? Still turning the mystery over in her head, she tidied her office and set off for the rookery, determined to thank whoever had managed to bring some light to her otherwise thoroughly grey day.
. . . . . . . . .
By that evening, she was still none the wiser. Leliana had denied all knowledge of the gift, and while she could be secretive and inscrutable when she chose to be, Josephine had known her long enough to know when she was dissembling. While she still believed that the invisible hand of the spymaster was involved somewhere, she suspected her unknown benefactor to be someone else. The question was, who?
That night, as she slipped into bed, her brain continued unbidden to ponder the mystery. Of course, the second most likely candidate was the woman comfortably spooned behind her, lips currently sleepily tracing her shoulder. She reached down to interlace her fingers with the hand sprawled across her waist, tracing battered knuckles.
“Cassandra?”
“Mmmph?” The warrior’s voice was drowsy, but soft with affection.
“Did Leliana ever talk to you about my family?”
She could almost hear the cogs grinding in Cassandra’s sleep-fogged brain. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“She didn’t mention some little traditions we had, of gifts?”
“Nnnnngh.”
Josephine decided that was a no, and that she rather preferred Cassandra’s lips return to their prior occupation than answering her questions. She snuggled herself closer to Cassandra’s warmth, tugging her arm tighter around her middle, and drifted off to sleep secure in her lover’s embrace, all thoughts of the mystery banished for now.
. . . . . . . . .
The next morning as she passed past the corner of the great hall where Varric had commandeered a prime fireside location to use for his writing she remembered she needed to speak to him about some contacts in Kirkwall he had suggested could help with the Inquisition’s mission. The dwarf was not there, but his papers and materials were, suggesting that perhaps he had merely temporarily left in search of refreshments. Grateful of the excuse to warm herself by the fire for a minute or two, she took a seat at his table, idly glancing over at the neatly stacked sheaf of notes and pages that represented whatever Varric was currently working on.
The writing on the top sheet looked oddly familiar. Picking it up, she scrutinised it more closely. Varric had a bold, precise hand, just slightly angled, but if he had accentuated the slope of the characters just a little to disguise his handwriting… she brought the sheet up to her face and inhaled delicately.
Josephine had always loved books and letters, and had spent much of her adult life working in a profession where correspondence made up almost as much of her job as personal, face to face negotiation. She knew the different types and grades of paper and which to choose depending on the meaning she wished to convey, the selection of medium often as important as the message contained upon it. She knew how to judge the quality and provenance of a received document, and what that inferred about the situation and intentions of its sender. So it was not surprising that she could identify a particular maker’s distinctive signature and be quite certain that the paper Varric was writing on had come from the same press as that used to deliver her unexpected gift.
As she inhaled again, more to enjoy the pleasant scent of quality vellum, Josephine became aware of the feeling of eyes upon her, and turned round to find Varric regarding her curiously.
“Ruffles,” he asked with the sort of exaggerated care employed when addressing someone of dubious sanity, “are you sniffing my paper?”
Josephine put the sheet down quickly, suppressing the urge to feel guilty. “I was just… comparing it, to a mysterious packet that appeared in my office.”
“Oh?” Varric deflected casually. “Maybe you should ask Nightingale. That kind of sneaking around and shady stuff is definitely more her area than mine. I prefer writing about other people’s secrets to creating them myself.”
“Perhaps, although Leliana is quite insistent this had nothing to do with her. I couldn’t help noticing that the writing on the envelope really does look quite similar to yours, and the paper is from the same maker.”
“Oh come on Ruffles,” the dwarf laughed, “why would I want to send you secret messages?”
“That’s what I don’t understand. It was a lovely gift, quite thoughtful, I don’t know why whoever sent it would want to keep it a secret. It means I can’t thank them properly.”
Varric looked thoughtful and strode over to the fireplace, sipping from the mug of ale he’d apparently fetched from the tavern. “Shit, Ruffles, you do so much for other people, because you’re kind and thoughtful that way. Do you have any idea how hard I would have found it to keep in contact with my editor and publisher while I’m stuck up this mountain without your help?”
“I don’t do anything special Varric. All the Inquisitor’s inner circle do things to help each other after all. Cassandra helps Cullen with his lyrium withdrawal, Bull and Krem do their best to keep the soldier’s morale up, Dorian helps the researchers-“
“Yeah, they do,” Varric interjected,” but that’s all to help the Inquisition, in one way or another. You just do stuff because it makes people happier, or their lives a bit easier. You’re always looking out for us, like a more polite and better dressed version of the Kid. I thought maybe it was time someone did something for you.”
“Oh Varric,” Josephine impulsively reached down slightly to awkwardly hug the dwarf. “That’s very sweet of you, although I admit I’m rather curious about your choice of gift. How did you know to give me fabric samples?”
“You know Ruffles, you should teach the Seeker how to interrogate people, catch more flies with honey and all that. As it happens, Nightingale might have mentioned that you’d been having a rough time and if we wanted to cheer you up a bit, here was something simple we could do for you.”
Josephine breathed out in relief. “Thank you Varric, so she didn’t mention why I wanted them?”
“Nope.” He cast a curious glance her way, grinning. “You’re not going to tell me either, are you?”
“A lady must have some secrets. Thank you again for your gift, and for telling me where it came from.”
. . . . . . . . .
That was not the end of the gifts. Over the next few weeks, she received several more packages of fabrics and swatches of materials. A truly lovely piece of infused Vyrantium samite turned out to be from Dorian, complete with a written instruction to “Use it to make something fabulous!” Cole appeared in her office one morning with several odds and ends that looked as if they had been stolen from someone’s knitting basket, but turned out to be made from soft Dales laden wool. He was very vague about where they had come from, and she decided it was best not to ask. From Vivienne she received a sample of royale sea silk, in a stunning shimmering blue that danced in the beams of sunlight and reminded her of the sea in Rialto Bay. Perhaps the most touching though was a set of ribbons in plaideweave of various colours, which she was not surprised to find had come from Sera.
“Well, yer alright for one of the big people, you know?” the elf explained when Josephine tried to thank her. “I mean, you have to deal with posh nobs all day, but you don’t forget about the little ones, yeah? And even when I’ve done pranks an’ stuff, you haven’t gone crying to Lady Cassandra Grumpy-Tits No-Pants or whatever her names are. You’re pretty all right, and you’re well fit too, which helps. Shame you’re knocking ladybits with Cass, but-“
“Errr, thank you Sera,” Josephine hastily interjected before the conversational wrecking ball started swinging too far in the direction of any of the well-placed ears around Skyhold. “It was very thoughtful of you, whatever the reasons behind it.”
As with Varric, if asked the givers of her gifts all admitted that the idea had been planted by Leliana, but confessed ignorance to the reason she might want such items, which suited Josephine just fine. She wasn’t ready for the use she made of the fabric samples to become common knowledge around Skyhold, and besides, even if they knew, they would still not understand the real reason why each new swatch of material brought a lightness and warmth to her heart. As infurating as Leliana could be on occasion, she was also the truest of friends, and her thoughtfulness in making sure Josephine was not embarrassed by the gifts was appreciated. She really must ask someone to find out if the Skyhold vaults held stocks of the sweet Orlesian wine Leliana was fond of, and order some more if not. A subtle thank you to the spymaster would certainly not go amiss.
. . . . . . . . .
The campaign against Corypheus and the Inquisition’s fortunes waxed and waned, and Josephine had good days and bad days, like all its members. The little presents continued to arrive, often at those times when she was most frustrated or overworked, continuing to bring a smile to her face when she was at a low ebb. A striking rich crimson-dyed swatch of imperial vestment cotton came courtesy of the Inquisitor, silk brocaded with rich patterns of leaves and flowers from Solas, Highever weave from Cullen, hardwearing and practical, and a truly lovely length of plush fustian velvet from the spymaster herself, as beautiful and multi-faceted as its donor. Even the hardiest of warriors seemed to be able to find little treasures, evidenced by a gift of darkened samite from the Iron Bull and a tiny bag made from Everknit wool that Blackwall had somehow located. She made sure to thank each of them personally.
It never ceased to surprise her just how much the small gifts lifted her mood. There was a pleasure in the materials themselves, in touching them, handling them, and in thinking up ideas for how she could make use of them. There were the memories they invoked and the warmth they brought, and with them a faint but noticeable easing of the tension of her shoulders and her chest, a relaxation of clenched fingers and cramping neck muscles. Just for a little while, the weight would lift from her shoulders, and she could be the carefree Josephine of her childhood, concerned only with how well dressed her dolls should be and not with the fates of nations. Most precious of all was the realisation that while she missed the family she had left in Antiva, there was a second one here at Skyhold, one that saw when she struggled, when she needed encouragement, and was determined to look after her. While Josephine knew that her own difficulties were minor compared with many of the inner circle, who went into the field with the Inquisitor and risked injury and death on a daily basis, it was good to know that others cared, that they saw her as part of this strange and wondrous collection of individuals that fate had thrown together.
. . . . . . . . .
It had not escaped Josephine’s notice that of the inner circle, the only one who had not participated in the Leliana-inspired giftings was Cassandra, but that did not unduly surprise her. Leliana knew the reasons why there were certain things she did not talk about with Cassandra, and would no doubt have avoided broaching a sensitive subject. So she was surprised when, in the midst of a comfortable lazy evening by the fireside, Cassandra presented her with a small carefully wrapped package, tied with a silk ribbon.
“I wanted to give this to you,” her lover explained, a rosy tinge stealing across her cheeks, “but I kept changing my mind and thinking you would find it silly. Leliana was most insistent it would be what you wanted, but it didn’t make sense.” She stopped, eyeing Josephine ruefully. “I’m not really finding the words, am I?”
Josephine couldn’t help but giggle slightly at the vexed expression that stole across Cassandra’s features and leaned forward to kiss her fire-gilded forehead. “No, but it doesn’t matter, my love.” She turned the parcel over and untied the ribbon, putting it carefully to one side, and drew out a small bolt of King’s willow weave, in an astonishingly rich and deep gold she had never seen before. It shimmered in the firelight, and as she held it up to inspect it she became aware of a faint perfume, like incense, that was imbued within it.
“What is this from? I have never seen such material before.”
“It is a cloth that the Chantry has woven especially to make the sash that goes with the ceremonial robes that new Seekers of Truth wear when they are formally acknowledged as fully fledged members of our order, once we have completed our Vigils. As far as I know it is not used for any other purpose.”
Josephine turned it over in her hands, feeling its lightness and strength, but as she glanced back up saw the way Cassandra looked away, almost nervously. This was something very important to her. “It is lovely, where did it come from?”
“It was mine, once, but the Seekers are no more, and I have no use for it.”
Josephine swallowed heavily. “Thank you for such a gift, but I can’t possibly accept it. This was yours, you earned it, it should stay with you.”
Cassandra shook her head slowly. “It represents what was, what I was, not what I am now. If there is one thing I have learned since we began this Inquisition, it is that no good can come from clinging to the past. Thedas has changed, for good or for ill, and we must fashion what we can from this new reality and try to swing the balance for good. You,” she punctuated her statements by taking Josephine’s hands and kissing the knuckles, “you are a large portion of the good in my life, and if this brings you pleasure, then you should have it. It would please me greatly.”
“Oh, love,” Josephine lifted her hands to frame Cassandra’s face and kissed her, gently at first and then more deeply. The kiss was unhurried, luxurious, and she would have been quite content to let it spiral slowly towards more, but she had something she needed to unburden herself of first.
“Cassandra,” she breathed, their foreheads pressing together, “I feel like I need to explain the reason Leliana suggested this particular gift.”
The warrior’s brows furrowed slightly as they did when she was curious, but she made no other comment, just encouraged Josephine to cuddle up on the chaise before the fire. Josephine moulded herself into the crook of Cassandra’s shoulder, grateful for the reassuring feel of her arms around her.
“When I was a young girl in Antiva, I was quite an avid collector of dolls, and I particularly enjoyed being able to dress them up in different outfits. There was a tailor in the nearest town to my parent’s estate, and in his shop window he advertised his trade by displaying dolls wearing miniature but immaculately sewn versions of his creations, faithful down to the tiniest detail.”
She paused in her explanation, seeing in her mind’s eye the busy street with its bustling shops, the scent of the sea carried in the air despite the calm, still air, traders and customers calling out to each other in the way of Antivans, where purchasing something was a performance that frequently involved pleading, cursing, insulting the other’s parentage, and other such outlandish displays, all strictly business and carried out in such an oddly friendly way that both parties could wish the other’s mother had never met their father and yet part on perfectly amicable terms.
“Whenever Mama took me shopping with her I would spent as long as possible with my nose pressed to the glass, admiring the outfits and begging Mama to purchase one for me in the careless way young children do, but as I grew up I began to understand that my family was no longer as rich as our ancestral estate and fine old manor house would seem to suggest, and I realised I would never be able to dress up my own dolls in anything quite so fine.” She watched Cassandra’s expression anxiously. “I suppose it must seem silly and selfish, to worry over such trivial things.”
Cassandra kissed the top of her head. “Not at all, you were a just a child Josephine.”
“Well, I don’t recall Mama ever saying anything to Papa, but not long after that, whenever Papa went travelling on his business trips, he would return with samples of exotic fabrics, offcuts and samples too small to be of use for tailoring, but big enough for Mama to sew into clothes for my dolls. She was quite the seamstress, she would make them dresses and jackets, hats and waistcoats, all quite beautiful and unique.” Josephine sighed happily, closing her eyes for a moment, lost in recollection. “Over time, I came to delight as much in the stories that Papa would tell of how he came to acquire the fabrics, tales of exotic lands and outlandish people, as I did in Mama’s creations themselves. Whenever Papa went away, I missed him dreadfully, but it was easier to bear his absence when I could look forward to the evening of little gifts and storytelling that would follow when he came home again.”
With her eyes closed, he was almost close enough to touch. She could smell the scent of his hair oil and cigars, feel his whiskered cheek against her own and the deep rumble of his laughter that vibrated through her chest when he lifted her up for a hug. He seemed nearer somehow, despite all the months and miles that lay between them.
The slow twist of Cassandra’s fingers through her hair dragged her back to the present. Cautiously, she opened her eyes to find her lover regarding her with a look so indulgently affectionate she could have wept for relief.
“So the fabric pieces, they remind you of this tradition?”
“Yes,” Josephine nodded, “they make it easier to bear when I miss my home, and my family. I do make use of them too, although I do not have the same skill as my mother. I had to leave most of my dolls behind in Antiva when I came to work in Orlais, but I keep a few with me.”
“That is a lovely story,” Cassandra said, and if there was a hint of wistfulness in her voice she did not allow it to show unduly. “I should like to meet your parents one day, if you are not too ashamed of me, that is. You do not speak of them often, although your sister said you are very fond of them.”
Josephine stretched, wriggling lower until her head was cradled in Cassandra’s lap. “I did not wish to upset you by flaunting my ludicrously happy and contented childhood. I know that family is a rather sensitive topic for you, and the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you.”
“Oh Josephine,” Cassandra chided gently, “just because I do not like to speak of my family does not mean I cannot share your joy in your own. We are partners, are we not?”
She sighed happily. “Yes, love, and thank you, for understanding. I was not something I wanted to keep from you.”
Cassandra’s fingers resumed their careful threading through her hair. “So, you said you have a few of your dolls with you?”
“Hmm... yes, although I keep them hidden away mostly. Can you imagine what Sera would do if she found them?”
Cassandra opened her lips to speak, hesitated, but her wonderfully expressive features made it clear some sort of idea had come to her and she was too awkward or embarrassed to express it. Josephine sighed contentedly at the caress of her fingers and waited for her to twist her courage together.
“I wonder… it’s stupid, but, well, did you ever think to make something that reminded you of them? Your mother and father, I mean? I know it is not the same, but to think of Anthony hurts less when I can see his portrait, and remember him.”
A rather startled Cassandra had to get out of the way quickly as Josephine pushed herself to her feet. “You are quite brilliant, my love.” She quickly kissed Cassandra’s forehead and went over to the chest where she kept her most precious possessions, quickly sorting through it to find the various assorted ribbons and oddments of fabric. Yes, she could do something with these.
. . . .
Really, the Empress was impossible. Josephine set down her quill, pursing her lips, and rested her head in her hands for a moment, wresting control over the frustration that swelled within her. She had to keep calm, had to get this letter absolutely perfect. The pressure of that knowledge and the weight of all that depended on her words threatened to crush her beneath it, but she breathed deeply, and glanced up at the shelf to the side of her desk.
Two figures sat there, cloth dolls in the shape of a man and woman. The cloth had been dyed to give them a dusky complexion, and raven black strands of wool served for hair. The male figure wore a dark suit of velvet, offset by a waistcoat of vivid cerulean blue, and held a miniature cigar in one hand. The female was clothed in a gown of shimmering gold, adorned with ribbons, and an extravagant hat adorned with leaves and flowers.
Josephine smiled, and returned to her work.