Archive of Our Own

„People say she has a temper,” her father had warned her about the Inquisitor. It was Amélie’s first assignment as a Lady’s maid for someone else than the spoiled daughter of the Comte de Bayard. And while she told herself repeatedly to stay calm and quiet, she was unable to keep her hands from shaking when the Inquisition marched through the gates of the Château. She could not help herself but peer outside the window, half hidden behind a curtain.

After the honour guard had come to halt, the Herald of Andraste herself galloped a spirited  horse into the courtyard. This was no bulky warhorse like the one Grand Duke Gaspard had arrived upon the day before. It was agile, less heavy, and it danced on the spot, neighed with its head held up high. A hot-blooded and marvellous creature. 

The Inquisitor wore no mask. It was odd for Amélie to see a woman of such an important position to not hide her face behind noble metal donned with precious stones. She was able to see the woman’s face, read her facial expressions like those of a servant. Was it something to be afraid of? The Herald’s courage to walk barefaced?  

Behind the Inquisitor rode her inner circle, no doubt. A handsome man with golden hair, a delicate and pale woman, a man with a moustache and the posture of a king, an elf, and many others. They all were dressed in a pitch-black formal attire with sashes in the colour of the Breach. 

“Inquisitor!” The voluminous voice of Gaspard de Chalon boomed across the courtyard and got carried into the Château through the open door. Amélie winced.

The Inquisitor jumped off her horse and pulled her riding gloves from her hands. The mark on her hand glowed a faint light. A smile appeared on her face as she faced her host. “Grand Duke, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Once she stood opposite Gaspard, she bowed, quickly and not very low. 

In the back, a stable boy had to snatch the reins from her antsy horse. The creature danced rather than walked with him. She noticed that the horse of the elf wasn’t very calm either, but he bribed it with something to eat before he slid off its back. He was quite tall for an elf, and slender.

The Grand Duke pressed a kiss to the Inquisitors hand. “Shall we go inside? The servants will see to your needs until dinner.”
Amélie was unable to hear the reply. She was too busy; this had been their cue to greet the guests inside and show them to their rooms. 

She wiped her hands across the fabric of her dress, both to make sure there were no wrinkles and to make the sticky feeling go away. Her heart pounded at an uncomfortable pace and her stomach turned and tingled. What if her father’s warning came true and she would be shouted at, regardless of her careful walk on eggshells? What if the Comte fired her for somehow insulting the Inquisitor? 

Her and the other servants scurried into position. She was the first in line, right beside the staircase. Amélie was only 18 summers old and she felt like the worst choice.

The Inquisitor walked through the door, next to the Grand Duke and with the Comte trailing behind. It was the first time Amélie got a good view on her; she was a tall grown woman of balanced shape with dark curls framing her square face. The beauty she held vanished behind her piercing eyes that draped her appearance into something unsettling. The shade of green reminded the young servant of poison. As if the mage had been created by the Maker to be the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste. To judge them all with her icy gaze. 

The group stopped in front of the line of servants, still in conversation. “The Château is not the Winter Palace, but I’m sure you will be pleased with tonight’s accommodation anyhow,” the Comte said. “If you have any wish, Inquisition, please do not hesitate to let the servants know.”

“I’ve heard of your hospitality, so I rest assured that we’ll leave for Halamshiral well rested. Besides, it’s a testimony in itself that the Grand Duke has chosen your beautiful Château to be the last leg of his journey.” 

What if I trip over my words? Amélie worried. What if I leave an awkward pause between the end of their conversation and my invitation to follow me? Will I know when to speak?

The Comte released her from the spiral of questions inside her head. “You honour me, your worship. Please, let my servants bring you to your rooms. You will find everything you need to unwind from the long journey before dinner is served.” 

The Inquisitors eyes darted to her and the other servants. “That would be lovely.” A shiver ran down Amélie’s spine.

“Please, if you’d follow me, your worship.” Amélie heard herself say. She made an elegant movement with her hand, rehearsed a thousand times, and gestured towards the stairs. 

The Inquisitor gave her a nod and followed her to the guest wing. “What’s your name?” the woman asked as they walked. Should she have introduced herself before walking upstairs, Amélie wondered? No, the madam of the Château had said not to until they reached the rooms. But perhaps the Inquisitor would have wanted her to? 

“Amélie, your worship.” 

“A beautiful name.” Even though it was a compliment, it sounded rather practical. 

“Thank you.”

“A bath would be quite refreshing after three days on horseback.”

“I will see to it, your worship.” Amélie opened the door to the biggest bedroom of the wing, which was specifically reserved for the Inquisition. The room was flooded by the light that fell through the four almost ceiling high windows, split evenly between the two walls facing the gardens and the Dales. To dust off the Orlesian splendour and furniture had taken her the entire morning. It was all very lavish and much on the eye for a girl who herself lived in a dorm with simple wooden floors and furniture. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction. My name is Amélie -“ She had to swallow when she saw the raised eyebrows of the Inquisitor. Should she not have repeated her name? Had she made the Inquisitor feel like she thought her dim-witted? “- and… I am your assigned servant. If you need me, at any time of the day, do not hesitate to ring the bell by the door. I’ll prepare the bath you’ve requested immediately. Do you have any other wish I can fulfil, your worship?”

The eyes of the Inquisitor had left her, and instead their gaze wandered through the room. Amélie felt herself regain the ability to breathe. It was only the two of them in the room, but she felt like being pushed backwards, all the way, until she would hit with her back against the wall. 

“Thank you, Amélie. That’ll be all, then.”

She bowed and left the room, grateful for a task elsewhere. She silently closed the door behind herself. The door of the opposite room, however, was still open. Maeve, a quite senior servant with increasingly unsteady hands, had been assigned to it, and Amélie couldn’t help but feel envious. While she felt cornered by the most scary woman of the continent, hardly comfortable or experienced enough, the older woman got to serve the elf she had seen before. She didn’t wish the Inquisitor on Maeve, of course, but there was a sting inside her when she saw the soft lines of a laugh on the elf’s face as Maeve spoke to him quietly. 

Amélie tried to remember his name. They had talked about so many people during the briefing; Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast with too many middle names, Sister Leliana with the many titles, the Qunari without a real name, Warden Gerold Blackwall—was it even Gerold? No. Gunner?—, and so, so many more. She had tried to hold onto the names of the two elves the Inquisitor brought along, but only ‘Sera’ stuck to her head. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when Anisa left the room beside the elf’s. Right, she had a task to do. She had to get a grip on herself. Her heart was pounding.

It didn’t take too long to draw the bath, but it kept her mind occupied anyhow. How did the Inquisitor preferred her bath; very hot? Or rather consistently lukewarm? With oils and herbs, or with oils and flowers, or another way entirely? She should have asked, shouldn’t she? But in that moment she hardly could, and now she would only embarrass herself. She managed to ease the twitch and flutter inside her upset stomach by remembering how the Inquisitor took her tea and what patisserie she liked from the briefing. Amélie would not mess this up, at the very least.

As she waited for the water to warm up, she made a trip to the kitchens. The narrow hallway seemed to stretch endlessly before her. Left and right, other servants passed her. She clutched the hem of her apron, knuckles white, as she willed herself to move forward. 

The moment she stepped into the kitchen, she was enveloped by a whirlwind of activity. The heat was stifling, waves of it rolling off the massive hearth where pots bubbled and roasted meats sizzled. The air was thick with the mingling scents of baking bread, fresh herbs, and the tang of citrus. Servants dashed around in a blur of motion and noise, their voices overlapping in urgent shouts and hurried whispers. Dinner had to be ready on time, and everyone worked hard for it.

“Watch out!” A boy carrying a tray piled high with steaming dishes nearly collided with Amélie, jolting her out of her frozen stance. She stepped aside just in time. Quickly, she hurried along to the table with baked goods and prepared pots of tea.

Amélie picked up a delicate porcelain teapot adorned with intricate floral patterns, its handle warm to the touch. She added everything else tea time needed. This was an easy task, one she wouldn’t fail.

The journey back seemed longer than before, each step echoing in the dimly lit hallway. She could hear the distant murmur of voices and the clinking of silverware as preparations for dinner continued. On her way, she saw her older sister Lily carefully carrying a dress in her arms. Lady Montilyet was surely delighted by her handmaid. 

Amélie placed the tray on the small table beside the tub. She settled for rose oil, but she almost dropped the entire open bottle into the steaming water when all of a sudden, the door to the private bathroom opened. Amélie stood up quickly, her heart pounding. 

Without no other announcement than her steps, the Inquisitor had entered.

"Your bath is ready, your worship," Amélie muttered, gesturing towards the tub and stumbling over her words. She did not dare to hold the woman’s gaze, so she disappeared into half a bow. 

"Thank you, Amélie, it looks lovely," the Inquisitor replied, her voice soft but commanding. "You may go now." The presence of the woman was astounding, but perhaps appropriate for a woman blessed by the Maker himself.

Amélie bowed deeper and retreated from the room, closing the door softly behind her, still holding the bottle in her hand like an idiot. She let out a breath and leaned against the wall for a moment. Harsh feedback would surely follow later. 

Evening came, and the grand hall was transformed into a scene of opulence and elegance. The long dining table was adorned with fine porcelain, crystal glasses, and candelabras that cast a warm, flickering glow inside the room. Servants moved like shadows, setting the final touches and making sure everything was perfect.

It was her duty, of course, to assist the Inquisitor, to make sure she had plenty of time to get ready and would be guided to the dining hall. Amélie found her hand frozen inches away from the door. Why, just why had madame Ouvrard thought it a good idea? There had been so many who had wanted to be close to the Herald of Andraste. There had been grumbling over the choice, but even when she had offered to trade, the madame had refused.

“May I?” a soft voice said behind her. 

She flinched back and spun around. In front of her stood the elven man, indeed quite tall grown for one of her people. He tilted his head slightly, curiosity evident in his expression.

“May I knock?” the elven man repeated, his voice gentle, yet it made Amélie instantly feel even more self-conscious. 

She nodded quickly, stepping aside to let him pass. He gave her a brief, appreciative smile before knocking softly on the Inquisitor's door. 

“Come in,” came the Inquisitor's voice from within. 

The elf opened the door, but instead of slipping in and closing the it behind him, he said: “After you.” 

She took a deep breath and smoothed the front of her apron. Somehow, she managed to force her lips into a small smile as she passed him. 

The Inquisitor lounged on the sofa, with a book in her hand. When she saw Amélie enter the room, her eyebrow rose as if she had not anticipated her waltzing in, too. 

Behind her, Amélie heard the door fall into its lock. She cleared her throat before she spoke up. “I’m sorry for the disturbance, your worship. Dinner will be served in half an hour. Can I be of any assistance beforehand?”

The Inquisitor rose from her seat and placed the book on the table. “How good are you at accentuating the eyes? I’m afraid my patience isn’t sufficient for my lacking skills in symmetry.” 

“I have a steady hand and I’ve had plenty of practice.” 

“Then please, stay.” The tall woman gestured at the coffee table. “And please help yourself to tea and sweets. Maker knows why I’m drowning in them. And you, too, Solas. Take as much as you like.”

“I’d rather not sate my minor hunger before dinner,” the elf—Solas—dared to say. 

“Your loss.” The Inquisitor strode past them, up the small flight of stairs towards the bed. “Now, did you need something from me?” 

“You requested my presence,” monsieur Solas kindly reminded her. His hands were folded behind his back and he emanated a natural elegance. 

She spun around and stared at him for a moment, maybe scrambling her memory for the reason.

They stared at one another and Amélie felt awkward enough to take a candy from the bowl the Inquisitor had pointed at. It looked like they were communicating in some way. Was she intruding on something? It certainly gave her the impression of being a superfluous particle in the room. Both of these people had an incredible presence; there was something about the Inquisitor that seemed to fill the space she was in—and then some. Monsieur Solas, however, was more subtle and less threatening, but just as imposing in the way he stood tall and straight and surrounded by calmness. Like a centre to her storm.

“I remember. Take a look at the maps on the desk, maybe you can make more sense of them. I don’t recognise the historical sites on some of them The comte was kind enough to have had them brought to my room prior to our arrival.” The Inquisitor waved him off and turned towards the bed again. “Amélie, could you please help me with the dress?”

Amélie hurried up the stairs and joined the Inquisitor. A dress was lain out on the bed; it was black and long. The most noticeable detail was that there was no ornate detailing. 

She threw a look over her shoulder. Monsieur Solas sat down at the desk, but if he turned his head, surely, he could see the Inquisitor change? Was this proper? She really wasn’t sure how to react. Should she ignore it? Or offer more privacy by closing the curtain of the bed and leading the Inquisitor to the other side? 

But the Inquisitor already discarded her dress, underneath which she wore a thinner chemise, and slipped into her choice for the evening. Amélie helped her pull it in place and immediately noticed the reason why her help had been requested: The back closed with lacing. The Orlesian fashion her mistress wore was different: layers upon layers, carefully placed and with each fabric being more expensive than the last. This dress, however, appeared lavish in its choice in fabric and in its tailoring, but instead of making the Inquisitor fade behind it, masked and a display of riches, it made her appear even more towering and frightening than she already was. 

The fabric was smooth and the seams were almost invisible. The Inquisitor stood still, her back straight, exuding an air of authority even in this private moment. Amélies hands were shaking as she tried to thread the laces correctly. Accidentally, only a third of the way down, she managed to pinch the skin of the perhaps most powerful woman on the continent, and undoubtedly in the Château,  by pulling too tightly. 

Lady Trevelyan winced and snapped her head around. Her striking eyes considered her with an intense gaze that Amélie couldn’t help but read as anger. 

“I’m so sorry, your worship, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to-“ Amélie stammered, her heart pounding in her chest. She was certain she would be dismissed on the spot. She let go of the laces and took a step back, to sink into a bow and hopefully from existence.

“Don’t worry about it,” the Inquisitor said sharply. “Sit and have a cup of tea instead. I wonder what’s been told to you that you’re this nervous.”

“It’s alright, Da’len,” monsieur Solas said softly when Amélie didn’t move. “You aren’t in trouble.” As if he had to smooth the words of the Inquisitor. 

“He’s right, you aren’t. Still, Solas, perhaps you could lend me a hand instead?” the Inquisitor asked and was met with a brief silence.

Amélie lifted her gaze only ever so slightly, just enough be become aware of monsieur Solas’ eyes flickering to her before meeting the Inquisitor’s gaze. All of a sudden, the confidence with which he had assured Amélie appeared replaced by uncertainty. 

“Look at her,” the Inquisitor said. “She’s a nervous mess.” She turned to Amélie for a moment —“Do take some of the lavender tea, dear, it might just help.”— before turning back to monsieur Solas. “What’s on your mind?”

“It may be seen as inappropriate,” monsieur Solas replied calmly.

“If it’s a concern of yours, I’ll respect that. I will, however, not respect gossip making more of it than it is.” It was obvious at who the last part was directed. 

“I would never… You have my utmost discretion, your worship,” Amélie said. Her fingers fumbled with the hem of her apron as she walked to the coffee table where the tea was set up.
 
“I believe you.” A half smile appeared on the Inquisitor’s face. It almost softened the edges of her sharp gaze. 

Amélie, who had poured herself some tea, wrapped her hands around the cup, feeling awkward standing there, with a task she had failed being dropped into the lap of another elf. 

“In that case… I won’t mind.” Monsieur Solas stood from his chair and joined the Inquisitor. Gently—as if to keep the contact as minimal as possible—he placed the tips of his fingers on her shoulders and turned her back to him.

“Perhaps, Inquisitor, you shouldn’t scare people into trying to be less afraid.” Monsieur Solas had a soft voice, yet he did not need to speak loudly for it to be carried effortlessly through the room. As he picked up Amélie’s work, she noticed that his technique was slow, though not overly careful. As if he was not afraid of hurting the Inquisitor, even though he was obviously out of his element.

The furrow in the woman’s brow turned deeper and she looked over her shoulder to glare at him. “I’m doing what now?”

“Have you considered some people may not even like tea?” 

She snorted. “Like yourself?”

“Like myself, yes.”

“Amélie? Settle this for us, will you? Do you like tea?” 

Amélie flinched as she had not been expected to be addressed or even acknowledged at all. “I… we only drink herbal tea in this household, which I’m not very fond of.”

The Inquisitor looked somewhat exasperated. “Don’t drink it if you don’t like it.”

“Lavender tea is… fine, your worship.”

The Inquisitor turned and all thoughts were blown away. Before her stood the Herald of Andraste, and she certainly looked the part. Even dressed to please the eye and attend a lavish Orlesian dinner, her presence demanded respect and obedience.

Amélie remembered the girdle belt still lying on the bed and was quick to pick it up. Perhaps she can do this right. “May I?” The delicate chain of gold and emerald stones reminded her the rosaries of the Chantry. When the Inquisitor gave her a nod, she carefully secured it around her waist. 

“Why don’t we sit and you tell me more about yourself?” The Inquisitor sat down at the dressing table and begun to work on her curls. Amélie was surprised to see her pin it up by herself, and it looked so effortless. The daughter of the Comte could never.

Amélie complied and sat down on the stool next to the dressing table. “What… what would you know of me? There isn’t much to tell, I’m afraid.” Her hands ran along her skirt, smoothing it out once again. 

“Everyone has a story,” the Inquisitor waved her off. “Indulge me, please. How did you come to work for the de Bayard family?”

“My father is a servant for the family. My sister and I were brought up here. This Château has always been home.” 

They talked about her until it was time to leave for dinner. At first, she felt uncomfortable, not because of the questions but because of who she was and who the Herald of Andraste was in comparison to her. But this tall and scary woman, who symbolised a saviour sent by divine intervention, the one who rode out to defeat the hole in the sky, sat with her, with hair needles between her lips, and listened to all Amélie had to share with patience and curiosity. 

Amélies hands were as steady as ever when she applied the makeup. She was still in awe to be this close to the Inquisitor. She could see the almost invisible summer freckles on her nose and cheekbones. There was a tiny scar on her cheek. And there was a dimple when she smiled, but only one. She was very human like this.

The makeup was simple, nothing too eccentric or heavy. It harmonised with the dress and the clever, though not very elaborate, updo of her hair, which was adorned with a hairpiece that matched the girdle belt. 

The Inquisitor looked like a goddess to Amélie when she left the room. Not a benevolent one that would weep to heal the world with her tears. No. A goddess that would burn you down if you as much as lifted a hand against those whose prayers and pleas she heard. She fought for them all, all those threatened by the Fade. That’s what people said and that’s what Amélie believed. 

Later that evening, Amélie, like the other personal servants, stood by the door, ready to assist with whatever was needed during the meal. She couldn't help but overhear snippets of conversation among the other servants. They were all whispering about the Inquisitor and her entourage, all of them curious to witness the Herald of Andraste in the flesh. 

“No masks. Is it because she’s a Marcher? Or because she’s the Herald?” 

“Have you seen the horns of her bodyguard? Maker, the horns!” 

She watched as the Inquisitor entered, her presence commanding attention. The members of her inner circle followed, each one exuding their own aura of authority and power.

The Inquisitor took her seat next to the Grand Duke, who sat at the head of the table, and opposite of the Comte. She glanced around the room, her eyes briefly meeting Amélie's. For a moment, Amélie felt exposed, as if the Inquisitor could see right through her. But then the moment passed, and the Inquisitor's attention shifted elsewhere. She still wore no mask, even though by now, Amélie had caught on that the Inquisitor was not the best at keeping her face neutral.

Dinner proceeded with a formality that belied the underlying tension. Three factions—the host considerably weaker than the other two—circled one another, in an attempt to see behind the masks of intentions and goals. It was a poisonous pit, one Amélie was happy to not share with people of nobler purposes than serving drinks.

Amélie was happy to let others serve the Grand Duke and the Inquisitor. She stayed as far away from the table as possible. As the hours passed, toasts were spoken, dessert was served, and the entire dinner party scattered into different corners and rooms. The Grand Duke, the Inquisitor, the Commander and the Ambassador joined the Comte in his study for a more private setting. 

Amélie saw monsieur Solas slip away, though he wasn’t on his own. He offered Maeve his arm and the two of them disappearing from the dining hall. Part of her wished she could leave as well, but she still had to serve drinks and clean up after the guests. 

It was late at night when the day’s work was done. Her feet not only ached but burned from walking all day. Her hair was a mess and her stomach still growled, even though she had inhaled some leftover food in the kitchen. 

That night, she would not sleep in the comfort of her own bed, and neither would she the day after that. Instead, she would share the tiny room between the Inquisitor’s and the Ambassador’s room with her sister. It wasn’t even wide enough to extend her arms and it had no window. Two beds, one after the other, a washing bowl and the bells of the two guest rooms. That was all the furniture they had for the night. She hated the tiny rooms. 

Her sister was already fast asleep when she crawled into her bed, with a mattress not worth the name thrown on top of it. Nevertheless, sleep claimed her within seconds. 

Morning came too soon, accompanied by the persistent chime of the Château’s chapel bells. Amélie groaned and rolled out of bed, splashing water on her face to chase away the remnants of sleep.

Once she looked presentable, with her hair pulled back into a neat braid and with clean clothes on, she only managed to walk a few steps before she came face to face with the Inquisitor. 

Despite the late night all of them had had, the woman looked put together and awake. She wore trousers and a coat, both perfect choices for a ride. Indeed, she was in the process of pulling her riding gloves over her fingers when she bid Amélie a good morning in passing. 

Amélie didn’t even have the chance to bow properly beforehand. Had she woken too late? Had she overslept the ring of the bell? 

When she turned, she saw the Commander, also dressed in riding gear, walking down the stairs with the Inquisitor. Cassandra Pentaghast appeared to be already waiting for them, while being stuck in a conversation with the Grand Duke himself. 

The day was slower than the day before. The Inquisitor and her party were out with the Grand Duke and the Comte. Some others like the Ambassador or the giant Qunari remained and enjoyed the hospitality of the family de Bayard. Or was it the other way around? Amélie saw the daughter she usually attended, who was supposed to marry within a few months, bat her eyelashes at the Tevinter mage, who hardly appeared interested in her company. 

After lunch, the preparations for the ball in Halamshiral begun. The Inquisitor had taken another bath before Amélie joined her in her room to help with her attire. Crumbling, that’s how she felt. Crumbling underneath a grinding stone of anxiety. The tingle in her stomach never went away, and her hands and feet were cold as ice, no matter the thickness of her woollen socks. 

There was no monsieur Solas present who could save her with his smooth words and his helping hand. Instead, she was alone with the Inquisitor, with hours ahead of them. 

Her hands were steadier. She managed to lace up the dress and wove an intricate updo with the stubborn curls. They were soft and scented with oil made from fruits and flowers. It took her some time to get the hairstyle right, and she would often worryingly glance into the mirror to see the Inquisitor’s face expression. But the woman was occupied with reading letters. 

The face paint was more complicated as well. “Why would I hide behind a mask?” the Inquisitor snorted at her question if she would wear one. “It makes sneering so incredibly ineffective.” 

When she saw the puzzled look on Amélie’s face, she added: “They call it a game, and I’ll play my hand. I won’t need a mask for it.”

Amélie wondered if it was foolish arrogance of a foreigner who thought herself above the rules of the game. Or was there a tactic behind it, some reasoning one wouldn’t reveal to a servant of another household? It was brazen anyhow.

Amélie avoided asking more questions after that. Instead, she concentrated on the task at hand, with each of her movements under the scrutiny of the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor. 

And then, when the Inquisitor held her head high and with her shoulders straight, with her hair and makeup done, dressed in her evening attire, Amélie understood why she wanted to mask. She was no noble of the Orlesian court, one who was always fretting over the furthering of her house. She had no family feud, no rivalry over land or influence. She was the slayer of Adamant’s demons, the survivor of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Herald of Andraste, their saviour. The Inquisitor was power. 

The Grand Duke and the Inquisition left shortly after.
By the end of the night, only the Inquisition returned. 

The mood was light, but quiet. There was chatter between different people, about the ball, about the Grand Dutchess, about the food and wine that had been served in Halamshiral. Laughter escaped their lips, even when their eyes looked tired and their attire ruffled. 

The Inquisitor walked barefoot on the cold marble floor. She was in deep conversation with the Seeker and the Qunari, and probably did not notice Amélie waiting with her back against the wall, ready to assist with the dress and countless hair needles that would need to be removed before retiring to bed. 

The updo was entirely ruined and the makeup smudged. But the Inquisitor was radiating a benevolent mood with her small smiles and the teasing comment she gave the man with the odd beard and grey streaks in his hair, who filled the hallway with hearty laughter. 

Amélie almost did not notice when monsieur Solas placed a hand on the small of the Inquisitor’s back. He gently steered her to her door, and then, slipped into the room with her. What could he possibly want there after a long day of travel and a ball with political socialising? Maybe the Inquisitor hadn’t been impressed with her in the afternoon, with her inability to offer pleasant idle conversations.

She hurried to the door of her tiny cubbyhole, where Lily had entered moments before her. She would have to listen for the bell, in case the Inquisitor needed anything more.

Angry at herself, with her belly fluttering from anxiety, she pushed open the creaky door of the servant’s room as quietly as she could. 

“I’m so tired,” Lily murmured, turning to face her as soon as Amélie had closed the door and sat down on her thin mattress.

“Has the bell rang?” she asked. In the dark, she discarded her clothes, folded them neatly and changed into her night attire. 

“Not since I’ve been here, why?”

“I’m worried I might have missed a cue. When I came up the stairs, the elven servant of the Inquisitor went with her into the room,” Amélie whispered and sat down next to her sister. “Maybe she expected me to do things differently? Maybe she didn’t see me, or…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Lily chastised her. “You did fine, I’m sure. But what elven servant are you talking about? The blond girl?”

“No, the man, the bald and tall one.”

“He’s hardly her servant. A mage expert on the Breach, that’s what someone said he is.”

“Then why has he laced her dress yesterday while I was there?”

“He’s… what?” Lily breathed, expressing her shock as quietly as possible. “Why haven’t you done it? Do you know in how much trouble you can get if you slack behind your duties? This is the Inquisitor we’re talking about.” 

Even towards her sister, it wasn’t easy to confess how badly her fingers had shaken and how she had screwed up by being so horribly terrified. But she longed for the comforting words Lily might say. 

Lily didn’t say them. “And now he’s gone to her room?”

“Yes.”

There was the rustling of a blanket and then the patting of naked feet on the ground. Amélie could only make out the silhouette of her sister with the little light that made it through the gaps between the door and its frame. She scurried to the far end of the wall connected to the Inquisitor’s room and pressed her ear against it. 

“What are you doing?” Amélie hissed. She didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping on their distinguished guests.

“Shh!” Lily waved her off and concentrated on the sounds coming from the other side. 

A moment felt like an eternity. Amélie sat on her bed, confused and with worry turning her stomach. The pressure inside her built to pester her sister what, by the Maker, she was doing exactly and what she was hoping to hear. But she managed to swallow her questions.

“Nothing,” Lily whispered. “Do you know what that means?”

“He may have already left the room?”

“You’re no fun.” Lily sat down on Amélie’s bed, with her ear still pressed against the wall. “What if they… you know…”

“What?”

“Maybe she’s taken a lover?” Weren’t it this dark, Amélie was sure she could see Lily’s eyes shining mischievously as she spoke. “Imagine, the Inquisitor and an elf.”

“Don’t be absurd. She wouldn’t hurt her own reputation like that. She’s so.. rigid and cold. ”

“I mean, you’ve spent the most time with her, but…” Her sister crawled closer to her and took her hands into her own. “Imagine the Inquisitor being with an elf. Someone who’s known for speaking up and swimming against the tide. Someone who isn’t interested in pleasing noble assholes. Red Jen-”

“Or he is a commodity to her, if you’re right. It’s a desperate fantasy.” Amélie interrupted and squeezed Lily’s hand. She didn’t believe in her sister’s visions, in her foolish daydreams that one day, they would leave the Château and find a better life and jobs they like. All there was waiting out there were alienages and their poverty. 

Lily exhaled and shook her hands from her younger sister’s grasp. “Let us sleep. I don’t want to show up overtired to work.” She was in a huff, that much was obvious. She always was when Amélie refused to listen to all that dangerous Red Jenny talk.

Amélie laid back, staring at the ceiling, into the darkness. The weight of the day pressed down on her, mingling with her exhaustion. She closed her eyes -
- and morning came too soon. The persistent chime of the tower bells pulled Amélie from the abyssal depths of her sleep. She groaned, rolled out of bed and splashed water on her face to chase away the remnants of the night. The room was dimly lit, the dawn light barely broke through the small cracks in the door frame.

Lily was already up, dressed, and tying her apron around her waist. “Come on, last day, then it’s over,” she said, her voice stricken by fatigue.

Amélie slipped into her clothes that were too thin to warm her up. Then, she braided her hair, like she did every day and like she would for the rest of her life in service to the de Bayard family. 

Other servants have opened the big windows to let the fresh morning air into the Château. The chill had Amélie tug her sleeves over her hands. 

Only brunch would be served before the Inquisition’s departure, yet even this early, the kitchens were buzzing with staff. Cooks, dishwashers, and maids squeezed past one another, cooking, plating and decorating food of all sorts. 

A small group of giggling women had gathered in front of a selection of breakfast for those guests who were too hungry to wait. Among these servants was Lily, with sparkling eyes and a half empty tray sitting on her hip. She seemed deeply engrossed in conversation, in fact so deeply, she did not plate food for Madame Montilyet.

 Amélie could not help but squeeze past them, taking her sweet time as she did so. 

“… assure you, her sounds of pleasure certainly weren’t louder than his.” Lily’s words were a whisper not loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear, but certainly for anyone who had gathered around her. She smirked as she said it, and looked so very pleased when she earned gasps and more giggling from the others. 

Amélie’s blood froze and she stopped in her tracks, now directly looking at her sister, who did not look one bit ashamed for telling such a blatant lie. Of course, she may not have been talking about the Inquisitor, but what were the odds? 

“What are you talking about?” she asked and all attention snapped to her in an instant. 

Lily blinked at her, feigning innocence with practised ease. “Just a story,” she said, voice syrupy-sweet. “Something I overheard from the honour guard last night.” So it was a blatant lie.

The other women exchanged glances, some biting their lips to suppress laughter, others suddenly finding the bread rolls very interesting. The kettle clattered slightly from the nearby hearth as the cook turned, but said nothing. There were always ears in the kitchens, even when no one was supposed to be listening.

Amélie felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “This isn’t a tavern. Keep your stories to yourself,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended.

Lily rolled her eyes and turned back to her tray, scooping a spoonful of soft cheese with the same casual air one might use when swatting a fly. “You’re always so serious,” she muttered. “Maker forbid someone has a little fun in the morning.”

“You don’t know who might hear you and how the Inquisitor deals with idle prattle about her.” Amélie’s voice was barely above a whisper now, but sharp with warning. She stepped closer, speaking not just as a sister but as someone desperate—desperate to protect, to silence, to undo what had already been said. “She hasn’t been unkind so far, but I believe it when father says she has a temper.”

“Why do you desperately wish to spend your life cowering to people who aren’t better than any of us? Why do I have to watch my mouth? If she’s ashamed of taking a ‘knife ear’ to bed, then that’s on her, not me.” 

“But your gossip is disrespectful! I wouldn’t want the stable boys to talk about you like this either. And if the Inquisitor hears that sort of talk—if any of the inner circle hears it—you could be dismissed. Or worse.”

Lily’s expression flickered, but only for a moment. “Only if someone tells her.”

A long silence followed. 

Amélie could feel the others watching. “You aren’t being very discreet about it.”

Lily scoffed. “And neither was she. He’s still there, you know. Hasn’t left her room all night. So why don’t you run along and grab breakfast for two?” 

“And why don’t you-“

“Stop it!” Anisa slapped her flat hand against the cupboard door to get their attention. “Children, both of you. Get your act together.” 

Lily flinched slightly but recovered with a scoff. Amélie, cheeks still burning, stepped back, feeling as if her shame had just been nailed to the wall like a poorly-hung tapestry.

Anisa’s stern gaze passed over them both, her greying hair pulled back in a bun so tight it looked like it had been wound with tension alone. “I will not have this nonsense in my kitchen,” she said, voice low but cutting. “You want to whisper filth? Do it when you’re not in uniform. Until then, serve or get out.”

The murmuring staff scattered, trays suddenly needed polishing and herbs urgently chopped. Lily turned back to her half-assembled plate with a stiff motion and muttered something under her breath that Amélie couldn’t catch, but she could guess the flavour of it.

Still trembling slightly, Amélie reached for the fresh bread rolls and a selection of fine Orlesian cheese, stacking them carefully. Her hands moved on instinct, but her thoughts were snarled tight.

He was still there.

He’s still there, Lily had said, with that tone that curdled her voice into poison. If monsieur Solas truly had spent the night with the Inquisitor — well, what did it matter, really? The Inquisitor was free to take whomever she pleased to her bed. It wasn’t Amélie’s place to judge it, not when he seemed to enjoy the lady’s company anyway. 

This wasn't her concern. She wasn’t hers to speculate or scold. She was there to serve. To survive. And to keep Lily from getting herself hung because of her own foolish tongue. Maker, one could also shift the blame on Amélie herself, that she was responsible for spreading even the idea that the relationship was not entirely professional to her sister.

She turned, stepping carefully through the narrow corridor between benches and steaming platters. Lily caught her eye as she passed, and for a second Amélie thought she might offer some small peace, an apology, or at least an attempt at it.

But all Lily did was smile, bright and brittle as sugar glass.

“Don’t forget the tea,” she said, and Amélie couldn’t tell whether it was mockery or mere instruction.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Instead, she lifted the heavy silver pot from its warmer, steam curling from its spout like a warning. The tray was full now, too full, really, but she didn’t dare leave anything behind.

Just like the days before, she hesitated to knock on the Inquisitor’s door, but eventually, she did it. 

“Come in.” 

Slowly, she opened the door and hurried inside. Even before she had spotted the woman, she bowed. 

“Ah, it’s you. Good morning.” The Inquisitor greeted her with a raspy voice and a tired smile played around her lips. Her face was framed by her unruly curls and she wore a silken dressing gown over her nightgown, which sported a generous cut. Even like that, she looked commanding. 

“Good morning, your worship.” Why had she not been quicker to greet the Inquisitor? “I’ve taken the liberty to bring some early breakfast. How else can I be of service this morning?” She sat the tray down on the tea table before retreating backwards to the door, folding her hands behind her back, awaiting the response. 

The Inquisitor walked down the small flight of stairs. “I appreciate it. Otherwise we’re all set.” 

We. 

“Who will be joining you, your worship?” Amélia asked and was quite pleased with the clever question. “Perhaps I can arrange the preferred breakfast of your guests here?”

The Inquisitor glanced at the tray, reached for her book, sat down on the sofa and, without another glance at Amélia, said: “Master Solas. Perhaps Pavus, if he wakes from his beauty sleep any time soon. Although I doubt it. If you’d like to delight Solas, bring something sweet. Oh, and a pot of plain, hot water for me, please.” 

With another bow, Amélie left the room and headed back to the kitchens. Once she had the pot of plain, hot water—what a curious request—, the porcelain cup with the steaming hot chocolate and the brioche—together with butter, honey and some jams—on her tray, she hurried back. The hallways were still quiet, except for other servants. No guests and no family member were up and about. 

When she came back and slipped through the door, words in a foreign language were filling the Inquisitor’s room. To hear their sound, their softness and fluidity, sent a pleasant shiver down Amélia’s spine. 

She didn’t catch the words he said, but she marvelled at their beauty regardless. The vocal rhythm with which monsieur Solas spoke reminded her of a chant. Not the Chant of Light, but something older and subtler. 

He walked towards the sofa corner, where the Inquisitor was still sitting. Amélia noticed that she still wore her nightgown, with her legs sprawled out across the sofa. “And you’ve memorised all that?” she asked, with something in her voice that could be read as being reluctantly impressed.

“Paraphrased, but yes.”

Careful not to interrupt the conversation, Amélia set the tray down on the table as quietly as possible. She wished she could hear more of the language, even though she understood not a single word. 

Yet, her presence drew their attention and their eyes were now trained on her. 

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” she mumbled. 

Monsieur Solas sat on the armchair diagonally from the sofa. “May I ask you something, Amélia?”

“Of course, monseur.”

“Do you speak the language of the People?”

She shook her head. “No. Unfortunately, Orlesian and the trade language are the only ones I speak. I don’t think I know anyone who can speak it.” After a small pause, she asked: “Are you Dalish?” There was no way he wasn’t, was there? Who else spoke the eleven language but the travelling people with their Halla and aravels? She only knew of them through stories and tales. Perhaps this was why he held himself with such easy pride, with his head held up high. He was unbroken and free. 

“No.” A smile wove itself across his lips as he looked at her with the patient gaze of her childhood’s teacher. “The Dalish and I have nothing in common, I’m afraid. Just as I have nothing in common with dwarves.” 

A city elf, then? Like herself? She hesitated ask. But the Inquisitor filled the room with a snorted question of her own: “Who do you have something in common with?” With a spoon she filled some content of a satchel into a tea infuser.

“With you, for one. We’re mages, and are both interested in academical matters, among other things. The Dalish are elves, just like farmers are humans, but you wouldn’t consider yourself to have much in common with farmers, either.”

The Inquisitor swayed her head left and right as if she truly had to consider his observation. “Hardly.” She dropped the tea infuser into her cup with a little clink and poured hot water from the teapot into it. With a honey-coated spoon, she stirred. 

“Would you even be interested in learning it?” Monsieur Solas asked Amélie, and she was unsure what motivated the question.

“I’ve never heard more of it than a word here and there. No one I know speaks it, so I wouldn’t have a reason why.” 

“Learning can be a reward by itself if one is interested in pursuing knowledge.” It was an ideal so far removed from the reality of her life, she had no idea how to reply to his words. “Though I suppose the lack of a teacher poses an issue.”

The Inquisitor did not even fish the infuser from her cup as she took a first sip of her tea. Her nose crunched and a shudder went through her. 

“Has it gone bitter? Do you wish for a new pour, or maybe more honey?”Amélie asked.

“It’s charm doesn’t lie with its taste, I assure you,” the Inquisitor said. 

Monsieur Solas raised his eyebrows at the remark, more mildly amused than surprised. It was almost an idyllic picture; her, occupied by an attempt to glare the taste of her tea into submission, across from him, who had his fingers curled around a cup of the sweetest hot drink the household served, sharing a quiet morning.

Amélia hesitated, unsure whether to leave or linger. The room was warm, filled with the scent of tea and honey, yet she felt a strange tension, as though she had intruded on something profound and private. Monsieur Solas set his cup down on the low table with a deliberate grace, folding his hands in his lap as he regarded the Inquisitor. 

“Is there anything else you need of me?” Amélie asked. 

“No, I think we’re all set,” the Inquisitor replied.

“Of course, your worship.”

When Amélie returned to the kitchens as the Comte would never allow for indolence, the scent of the kitchen was still thick with fresh bread and roasting meat. But beneath it was a sharper smell: anticipation and envy, steeping within the entire personnel. 

Amélie kept her eyes on the stone floor as she wove through the other servants, but her usual invisibility failed her.

She was halfway to the washing basin when Lily intercepted her with glittering eyes. The other kitchen girls fell silent, knives paused above onions, hands stilled on the dough, all of them not even pretending not to watch. 

“Well?” Lily asked, firmly planted in her younger sister’s path. “You were in there, weren’t you? Are they there? Together?”

Amélie pressed her lips tight, determined to keep her discretion the priority it deserved. She pulled a stack of dirty dishes towards her and squeezes past to the basin. 

But Lily leaned closer. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. The whole Château is whispering about it. A guard says the elf never left her room, not all night, not all morning, and you -“ She jabbed a finger, smiling victoriously as if her sister knowing something was akin to her knowing it herself. “You’re the only one she lets in, now.”

A flush climbed Amélie’s throat. She felt every eye on her, their hunger for the gossip of something forbidden palable. She tried to focus on her hands, but she almost dropped a plate regardless. “There’s nothing to say,” she mumbled. “They talked. They took their breakfast. That’s all.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “That’s all? Then why do you look like you’ve seen the Maker himself in his bathrobe? Don’t tell me you don’t know what it means when a woman like her is with someone of our own. What did they say to you?”

The kitchen girls edged closer, their curiosity like a noose around Amélie’s neck. She stared down at the crusted porcelain. “It isn’t our place to spread tales about the people we serve.”

Lily shook her head and let out a deep sigh, one that reflected what perhaps everyone else around them thought. “What world do you live in? It only matters who knew first.” She bumped her shoulder in affection. “You’re part of it now, sister. You saw something the rest of us only dream about.”

It didn’t feel fair to Amélie. Not when she had seen monsieur Solas’ eyes soften with something unguarded around the Inquisitor. Not when the Inquisitor seemed to find some peaceful moments with him. Amélie heard her father’s old warnings echo that elven girls are safest when unseen and unheard. 

She submerged the dishes in the water and shook her head in irritation. “I saw a woman who will save us,” she snapped, but her voice trembled anyhow. “And I saw a man who didn’t presume his place. That’s all.” 

Lily sighed again, but Amélie ignored her. She ignored them all as she washed the dishes and acted as if the gaze of the other servants did not exist. 

But her sister’s quest did not end there. The corridor outside the guest wing was quiet, in contrast to the faraway clatter of trays and the muted laughter of the kitchen personnel. She was about to let the Inquisitor know that the brunch would now be served, but when she reached the top of the stairs, she stopped in her tracks. 

Lily was there, with eyes bright with mischief. She blocked the path of monsieur Solas as he headed toward the stairs. Monsieur Solas paused, polite as ever, with his hands clasped behind his back. He inclined his head, as if to grant passage, but Lily stepped closer in a loose posture that she only had when servants spoke among their own. 

“Monsieur l’expert,” Lily lilted in a way that she used to charm gossip from even the tightest mouths, “do you really talk to spirits, or do you just tell the shems what they want to hear?” She grinned at him, full of sly camaraderie. “It must be nice, having the Inquisitor’s ear. You’ll have to teach me how to get a bed that soft. Or maybe just how to get noticed at all.”

She meant to draw him in, with her friendly banter and the easy smile, like she did with any elven kitchen boy or steward. Typically, such conversation would be seen as an olive branch; revealing the knowledge of an affair between a noble and an elf to a participant of said affair was strategically unclever if one wished to bring advantage to their own household by revealing that secret later.
 
But Amélie feared that the Inquisition worked differently in that regard when monsieur Solas did not return the smile. His gaze was steady and mild, but when he spoke, his tone beneath its gentleness was cool. “A conclusion quickly drawn, for someone who does not work with the Inquisitor directly.”

Lily blinked, surprised. She had surely expected a wink, or a joke, perhaps even a secret shared among those unfortunate enough to have been born with pointed ears. Instead, she got an answer as rigid as stone.

She tried again, softer and eager to recover her footing. “We have to find our comforts where we can, don’t we? I don’t mean to criticise, I’m honest in my envy.”

Solas regarded her for a long moment and Amélie was almost certain to see the pain of a lesson too well learnt crossing his face. “One does not wish lightly for the attention of those with indefinitely more power.”

For a moment, Lily looked away and her gaze traced the grain of the floorboards. But then she met Solas’ eyes with a last effort. “If you’re so wise, then why take the risk? You must know how stories end for elves who rise too high?”

Solas hesitated, then spoke so quietly that Amélie had to strain her ear. “Another conclusion quickly drawn, for someone who does not work with the Inquisitor directly.”

He bowed his head to Lily before he stepped past her with a courtly grace that made Amélie wonder about the quiet elven mage with the lofty court position.

Lily did not need long to bounce back from her humiliation. They were setting the table for the brunch, with half a dozen idle conversations drowning the dining hall’s silence. 

“Did you see that?” Lily demanded to know from her little sister, who fell quiet as she was quick to sense where the current was coming from. “That elf. The Fade man. Walking about like the Grand Duke himself, and too good to have a conversation with the likes of us.”

There was a ripple of amusement among the other servants. Noelle, who was assigned to the famous Varric Tethras, offered: “He does keep to himself, doesn’t he? A bit cold, for one of our own.”

Lily rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion. “Cold? He was straight up arrogant. I tried to be friendly, but now -“ she snapped her fingers “- he’s forgotten what it means to be a servant. All because the Inquisitor’s let him into her bed.” She glanced around, ensuring the words landed where she wanted them. 

“You should stop speaking like that, Lily,” Amélie said and felt highly uncomfortable in the presence of her own sister. “It’ll only get you in trouble.”

Lily scoffed and set down the decanter with a little too much force. “I’ve seen it before. Some noble gets bored of her toy; elven, human, doesn’t matter. One day, he’s the subject of our gossip and tomorrow, he’ll be out on the streets. That’s all he is, the flavour of the month.”

Old Maeve corrected the crooked arrangement of cutlery. “But he’s not just a servant, is he now? A mage, one important enough for a seat in the inner circle.”

“Magic or not, he’s still not one of them, not really. They’ll never let him stay. The moment he steps out of line, he’ll be gone. Now he thinks he’s better than us, but watch how fast he falls once she’ll tire of him.”

Noelle grins. “At least he’s getting something out of it. She isn’t hard on the eyes.”

That earned a round of laughter. Lily straightened and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Let him enjoy it, but she’ll drop him, just like all the rest.”

Amélie looked down on her hands. She remembered monsieur Solas’ gentle words, the way he spoke the elven language without scorn from the Inquisitor, and the way he had teased her the day before. There was something about him that did not fit any of Lily’s rules, but she said nothing. In this room, no one would understand. 

The conversation turned to the Comte’s daughter and her fancy for the Tevinter mage, despite her engagement to an important ally of the master of the Château.

Later, Amélie moved among the same servants as the brunch was under way. She tried to slip by unseen as the tension in the room was a fine web, like the trap of a spider. She could also see it in monsieur Solas, who sat straight, his shoulders tense. Though the reason could be the Comte’s daughter, Eloise, as she traced the rim of her glass, her eyes darting between monsieur Solas and sister Nightingale, who sat opposite her. On the other side of the only elf at the table sat the Tevinter mage, sparkling with wit and smiling like a cat that could easily kill for the simple fun of it. 

Amélie poured wine and felt all too aware of how every servant would later recall this seating as a quiet spectacle because among the powerful sat an elf as part of them. 

At the head, the Comte presided in his jewel bright waistcoat like the portrait of Orlesian civility, though behind his mask, his gaze glinted in a way Amélie did not like. Next to him sat the Inquisitor, unmasked and unbothered. Amélie could not help but watch her, even as she filled water glasses and exchanged worried looks with other servants. 

The meal began with pleasantries. The Comte’s wife voiced her approval of Celene’s steady hand on the empire. The Seeker sated the Comte’s son’s curiosity about dragon hunting. But conversation soon drifted towards the subject that had remained unspoken until then: the aftermath of the ball, the storied that had followed the Inquisition back to the Château.

After the Inquisitor let the Comte in on a few details of the night, it was the host himself who finally drew his verbal dagger, even when his words were honeyed. “It has been a season of unusual alliances, has it not, Inquisitor? Even the most celebrated guest must tire of being the subject of so much… scrutiny.”

The room did not still, but there were reactions to be seen: Lady Eloise leaned slightly forward to watch the Inquisitor’s face. Sister Nightingale smiled behind her cup. The Grey Warden glanced between all present. 

The Inquisitor’s voice was never soft, so neither was it in that moment. She lifted her eyebrow. “Scrutiny is an Orlesian pastime, my lord,” she replied. “As I recall, the game is played by those who wish to hide something. That is not the purpose of an Inquisition.”

The Comte’s smile widened. “But surely, there are things even the mighty Inquisition prefers to keep private. Especially when such… curiosities walk openly among the likes of us.” His gaze flicked too quickly to be polite to Solas, then back to the Inquisitor. Of course he knew. How couldn’t he when half his staff was giggling and gossiping about it all night and morning? 

Amélie forgot how to breathe for a moment and to retreat back from the table after she had finished pouring monsieur Tethras a glass. Monsieur Solas sat silent and still, his eyes not averted but resting on the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor tapped her fingers on the table in open impatience. “If Orlais has found itself short of true scandal, I am happy to supply some, Comte.” She leaned back in her chair with effortless poise. “I do not hide my alliances or my friendships. If that gives reason to gossip, let them be busy. I would rather be the subject of truth than of polite lies.”

For a moment, Amélie thought the Comte might be offended, but his smile did not waver. “Directness in Orlais? You must be very certain of your position.”

Amélie found herself glad to not be the the subject of the woman’s irritation. Trevelyan’s striking green eyes remained fixed on her host. “I am certain of myself. The Orlesian empire owes me, and so will the entire world once we strike Corypheus down. If you wish to find scandal in where I draw my strength, be my guest, but I certainly will not apologise as there is nothing to apologise for.”

The Comte’s eyes narrowed and seemed to ponder if he wished to exploit the Inquisitor’s adamant refusal to be part of the game. Yet, he laughed, too loudly. He lifted his glass and toasted to “formidable alliances and the bold woman who shapes the age.”

Amélie could see the shift among the guests, as especially those more versed in the game let their tension fall away. Monsieur Solas’ posture eased slightly, too. He engaged in conversation with the Tevinter mage, and the smallest of smiles ghosted on his lips. But Amélie saw the soft glance he and the Inquisitor exchanged before Trevelyan was drawn into a conversation between Grand Enchanter Vivienne, the Comtesse and Lady Montilyet.

Later, when Amélie came to help the Inquisitor with her hair, the calm of morning was gone. The Inquisitor did not say much when she sat down at the dressing table and broke the seal of a correspondence. And when Amélie began to braid the unruly curls, she could almost feel the huff Trevelyan was in beneath her fingertips. Amélie decided to avoid conversation at all cost. 

The silence between them was neither gentle nor unkind. Amélie found herself grateful for the simple task as each section of hair, each gentle tug and twist, gave her something practical to do with her hands and something to focus her mind on. 

Eventually, Trevelyan broke the silence. “They are talking, aren’t they?” She spoke with a voice that did not leave room for denial. “About Solas and me.”

Amélie’s hands pasued for the briefest moment before she continued the Orlesian braid. “There are always stories, your worship,” she managed carefully. 

The Inquisitor observed her through the reflection in the mirror. “Why do you think I don’t hide it?”

Amélie’s breath caught and she tried to look away, but the Inquisitor’s gaze, so fierce and filled with expectation, held her fast. She could not help but think the question a trap. “I…” She struggled for words that would do the question justice. “Most people hide because they are afraid of repercussions. That what little they have may be taken by social pressure.” Her voice grew softer as she pulled a stray curl back into its place. “But you have nothing to fear from them. You are the Herald of Andraste.”

Trevelyan hums. “So I do as I please merely because I can?”

Amélie’s finger fumbled the ends of the hair into the braid and wrapped them tightly with a bow. “Maybe not only that,” she said. “Even the Empress adheres to the rules of the game, but your power comes from elsewhere. You live by different rules.”

“That’s nearer to the mark,” the Inquisitor says and the smallest hint of a smile appeared on her face. “My advisers would prefer it if I played the game like everyone else, and alliances with nobles like the Comte are important to our cause. But I would do a man like Solas great injustice by treating him like an uncomfortable secret, not only but especially because his knowledge and sacrifices for the Inquisition exceed what even the Comte can bring to the table.” 

“I think,” Amélie said softly, “that many would wish to be seen so openly, but for people like us, being noticed is dangerous.” She ran her fingers over the braid, making sure it was tight enough to last the ride. “Many favoured servants are finding themselves targets.”

“Thank you for saying that.” The Inquisitor sighed deeply and looked tired beneath all her fierceness. “I won’t let that happen to him, and he’s too clever to not know and navigate the danger. Let them talk, Amélie. I don’t care for their gossip or even their slander. Just make sure you never settle for someone who treats you like a scandal.”

Amélie’s hand went still at the tails of the ribbon. The words landed with a surprising warmth, and was advice sharper than she had expected to hear. She met the Inquisitor’s eyes in the mirror again and found no condescension there. Only the sparkling eyes of a woman who dared to take on the world. 

“I wouldn’t dare, your worship,” Amélie said, though it felt more like a wish than a promise.

“Good.” The Inquisitor rose from the chair and reached for her coat. “And if you should ever be in need of employment, I would be glad to have you at Skyhold.”

For a moment, Amélie forgot her nerves, the sleeplessness, every fear of the past days. She watched as Trevelyan slipped into her coat and the braid resting against her back. The invitation, which was simple and almost careless in its generosity, hung in the air as if it were nothing at all to poach the elven maid from the family she served. 

“Thank you, your worship,” she managed and her voice was thick with something she could not name. 

The Inquisitor’s mouth twitched in a smile that was all approval and no pity. The bells began to ring out across the Château, calling horses to the gate, guests to the courtyard, and servants to their final errands. Trevelyan, her letters in hand, paused at the door and glances back once. “Farewell, Amélie.”

The door closed, leaving the room suddenly empty, and Amélie stood for a long time, squealing into her hands. She tucked the words away with careful reverence. She aired out the bed, changed linen, and straightened the chair, feeling as if she might just for a moment stand taller. 

Sure enough, there was a faint stain on the linen, one Amélie would expect in a marital bed. She made sure to spill leftover tea over it and let it dry before she brought the linen to the wash women. If they gossiped, prying would bring them nothing. 

Outside, the Inquisition was preparing to depart, their banners streaming in the afternoon breeze. The rumours would continue. Stories would multiply. But as Amélie slipped quietly from the room and into the busy noise of the Château, she felt unafraid.