Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Unfortunately for Baron Blanchard,” Josephine says, leaning forward in her chair so her voice won’t carry beyond the gazebo, “Marquise Madeleine is a conservative woman. Were she to discover the irregularities in the family tree of her son’s beau, she would likely do all in her power to put a stop to the liaison.”

“That would be a pity. I hear the Girard seaside villa is a marvellous resort,” Vivienne says, not bothering to hide her smirk behind the rim of her teacup.

“Alas, only a recognized paramour would be allowed permanent residence.”

“And our dear Edmond was never one for standing up to chère maman.”

“It is a sad thing, losing a chance for love-”

“Not to mention holdings.”

“- but I believe the Baron and Edmond will spend many happy years together.” Josephine takes a small bite of her canelé, chews carefully and with obvious pleasure. “In other news, Inquisition troops and merchants should no longer face such high toll fees on the road past the Blanchard estate. In fact, they should face no fees at all.”

Vivienne puts her now empty cup on the low table between them. The tea set is lavishly painted with garlands, the design incorporating the Chantry sun between the delicately winding vines. Tasteful enough, one supposes, and certainly in keeping with who and what the ambassador represents, though the craftsmanship reveals the mass production. The porcelain ought to be thinner, the pattern personalized. Ideally, the Inquisition should have something exclusively produced, bearing their own symbols.

Still. It’s not a bad effort, considering the circumstances.

“Well done, my dear,” Vivienne says. “The goodwill of the likes of Baron Blanchard is expendable, and you have found a servable solution to a considerable logistical quandary.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Josephine’s eyes twinkle. “However, we still have the Blanchards’ goodwill.”

“Really, now? Even after threatening his amorous intentions?”

“Oh, I did no such thing. I paid a visit to Marquise Madeleine, let’s see… Four weeks ago, almost on the day. During which I answered her questions about the Herald of Andraste’s claims to holiness and convinced her of their verity. The Marquise is not only conservative, but devout. And has been feuding with several members of the Council of Heralds for over a decade.”

“Making her amenable to an organization outside the Chantry, I assume.”

“Yes, you’re right. However, she would never lend her support without discussing the matter with Edmond. Mother and son are quite close.”

“Quite,” Vivienne agrees, in what may be an understatement for the ages. One would be hard pressed to find a less independent man than Edmond; any more spineless and he’d be a mollusc.

“Edmond was sure to inform his lover of this new development. And, as no one is more aware of the less savoury branches of the Blanchard family tree than the baron himself, or more eager to be in the Marquise’s good graces and avoid her scrutiny...“ Josephine smiles. “I received a letter from Baron Blanchard three days ago. He very generously offered the Inquisition free passage, with no prompting at all.”

Vivienne touches her fingers to her décolletage, and laughs. “Oh, bravo! Darling, you are a delight.”

“You’re too kind. I only do my job,” Josephine says with the satisfied modesty of one who fully recognizes her own skill but has long since considered it a default rather than an accomplishment to be lauded. She reaches for the teapot and refills first Vivienne’s cup, then her own, turning the tray of canelés so the handles of the gilded silver pastry tongs point towards Vivienne, inviting a second serving.

“An appreciation for competence has nothing to do with kindness,” Vivienne says, “and you, my dear, play with a deft hand.”

“We’ve managed to gather many skilled individuals to the Inquisition, I’m proud to say. Though the group closest to the Lady Inquisitor certainly stands apart. I know she- well, all of us, greatly appreciate your expert advice on the Circle and other magical matters, to name one example.”

One might easily be fooled. If Adaar truly values Vivienne’s counsel she’s done her utmost to conceal it: disbanding the Templar order, associating openly with apostates and vagabonds, championing Leliana, dead set on foolishness and ruin, as a candidate for the Sunburst Throne. The woman frequently enlists Vivienne’s staff and sword arm in the field, but when it comes to decision making Vivienne is consistently disregarded. Adaar is never outright impolite, though washing the profanity out of her mouth has proven futile, but frustration makes regarding her favourably a mounting challenge.

Although, she answered Vivienne’s reluctant request with few protests and immediate action. She should be returning from the Exalted Plains any day. There will be time yet, time distilled from a white wyvern’s heart, and Adaar will be the one to thank for it.

Vivienne deports these thoughts and the knot of worry that comes with them to a distant corner of her mind and accepts the compliment reflected back on her.

“If I can lend even the smallest aid to the effort, it is my pleasure.”

Josephine nods genially and grips the pastry tongs to help herself to another canelé - is it her third?

She shan’t be shamed if it is so. Canelés are delectable little things. Crusts the color of mahogany, coated crisp and shiny with beeswax, and a sweet center not quite cake, not quite custard. Deceptively simple, judging only by the list of ingredients, but producing a perfect one is a feat of mastery far surpassing the abilities of the Skyhold cook.

A gift chosen with the ambassador’s sweet tooth in mind. Had the expression of joy that passed over her face when Vivienne presented her with the pastry box not already proven the gesture had invoked the desired response, this thrice repeated indulgence certainly would have.

There’s good reason to court Josephine’s favor these days. Yes, her key position in an organisation of growing power, and yes, her usefulness when employed in The Grand Game. But more important are the rumors of Inquisitor Adaar having taken a special shine to her, and for assets wholly other than her professional ones. A union would establish Josephine as a woman of great import. If it comes to pass Vivienne will make sure to have forged strong connections to them both.

Interesting, how recent events have steered her in new directions in every area of her life. Had she not decided to leave her position at Celene’s side for opportunities less plagued by… non-conformists, Vivienne would hardly have found reason to pursue a closer relationship with Josephine. Oh, she’s a lovely woman, in ample possession of charm, esprit and impeccable table manners, but the Montilyet name is a weak incentive, teetering on the brink of destitution.

Now, they did meet at court, on several occasions, and it’s not unthinkable a tète-á-tète might have appeared beneficial at some point in this other, unrealized future. Perhaps Vivienne would have invited Josephine for tea, and she would surely have enjoyed it. This past hour of conversation has been a spirited oasis in a desert of crude wit and churlishness.

Though she would likely not have arranged for a setting as public as the Skyhold garden gazebo, where all can observe how freely and intimately the First Enchanter consorts with the ambassador these days.

On its way from tray to plate, Josephine’s hand suddenly wobbles. Her grip on the tongs falters. She drops the canelé and her whole body threatens to follow the pastry down as it rolls over the tablecloth and falls to the floor. She sways, unbalanced, breaking the careening dizzy spell only by clutching the edge of the table. The tea set quivers and clinks.

“Oh-! Oh, pardon my clumsiness.”

Josephine’s mouth tenses at the corners, carving lines seldom seen on her face as she frowns. Vivienne straightens in her chair.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, please, do not worry.”

It’s unlike her. Josephine is remarkably steady, moves with a precise grace that accentuates her plump figure to great effect. Vivienne takes a moment to survey - the bags under her eyes, the bumps from powder covered pimples on her cheeks, her drooping eyelids - and ventures an educated guess.

“You’re not getting nearly enough sleep, are you?”

“Lady Vivienne, I assure you. It’s nothing to-”

“Darling. Please,” Vivienne interrupts. “It’s only the two of us, no need to keep up the pretense. I’m genuinely concerned,” she says, and it’s no lie. No one in their right mind would wish suffering of any sort on the sweet Lady Josephine.

She sees Josephine hesitate for a taut second before something seems to give.

“I’ve had some… trouble,” she admits.

“How long?”

“Since Haven.”

Many months ago. Vivienne raises her eyebrows. “Nightmares?”

“That, yes. As well as difficulty falling asleep. I keep seeing-” Josephine purses her lips around the memory.

“And have you told anyone about this? A healer? Physician?”

“No, no.”

“My dear, you must!”

“No. I was lucky. I had guards protecting me, I was nowhere near the frontlines. Nowhere near the fire, the- So many died for our cause. Many more suffered injuries that have altered their lives forever. The courtyard was a sickbed until recently, and still people are hurt in other battles every day. What are one woman’s nightmares compared to that? I won’t waste anyone’s time with them.” She meets Vivienne’s eyes firmly. “I manage.”

“As I’m sure you do.” Vivienne stands. When Josephine makes to do the same, she gestures for her to stay. “Do sit. I shall be just a moment.”

A few minutes, and she’s in her chambers. The small windows leave the rooms gloomy even mid afternoon, but Vivienne could find her way around her alchemy reserves in total darkness if need be. The jar of dried leaves sits in the small cherry tree chest that holds most of her ingredients. She wonders whether she should divide them up and keep a portion to herself, but decides she doesn’t want to linger overlong. Let it be a show of natural generosity.

Josephine is still seated in the gazebo, though the table has been cleared and she has taken out her writing board, ever dutiful. She politely puts down her pen when Vivienne rejoins her.

“Crumble these into hot tea or warm milk,” Vivienne says, sliding the jar over to Josephine. “One leaf to cure a headache; two for sleep as swift relief. Make sure you have no more tasks to attend in the evening before you ingest, they’re quite potent.”

“What are they?”

“Blight Balm.” A weed in Tevinter and a rarity in the south due to being infamously difficult to grow. These were cultivated by Vivienne herself in the Montsimmard greenhouse, and only her second successful harvest in a decade. The name is an old superstition as the plant couldn’t close a paper cut, much less cure the Blight. It’s a pain remedy, not a healing herb, but nowhere near as addictive with long term use as preparations based on elfroot or similar.

“It’s very thoughtful,” Josephine says, “but I can’t possibly accept.”

Vivienne smiles, makes it gentle. “Nonsense. That someone else has suffered worse in no way means you must resign yourself to misery. How does that help anyone, anywhere?”

“I was rather thinking of how I’m ravaging your private supplies.”

“Ravaging?” Vivienne says with a laugh. “You are too precious, dear. Rest assured, there is plenty more where that came from. My stores are in no danger of depleting any time soon.”

“Well, if that’s the case…” Josephine picks up the jar, and that appears to be that. “Thank you, Lady Vivienne.”

The gratitude in her voice is either heartfelt or more expert artifice than Vivienne would have thought her capable of. An altogether productive afternoon, in other words, and Vivienne leaves the garden with victory in her steps.

She’s striding through the great hall when word reaches her. Inquisitor Adaar has returned.

--

None of their efforts matter in the end.

Bastien lifts a weak hand inches off the mattress and Vivienne doesn’t understand that he meant to touch her face, that she should have taken it, pressed his withered fingers to her cheek, that it was her last chance, his last moments, until he’s already flickered out.

Impossible to determine where the potion failed. Was the compound too unstable, was it heated a second too long, was bloodmoss a poor substitute for primaetas root, after all? It’s no use wondering. The reason to investigate is gone.

The Inquisitor is blessedly quiet on the journey back to Skyhold, opening doors and offering her arm when descending a stair but otherwise making little of her presence. Her gaze is respectfully directed at the wagon window. No syrupy looks of pity, no sodden words of consolation.

Vivienne doesn’t regret bringing her. It was... better, not to be alone.

They converse upon return, on her balcony. She had decided, before she joined, that she would stand as impenetrable as a fortress in the Inquisition’s midst, but now she shares tender, treasured memories. Of younger days, of younger love, younger courage. What harm could there be, at this point? Adaar has already stood in her inner sanctum, and despite her bulk and sizable horns she swept no relics off the shelves.

Something has shifted between them. It’s not trust, not quite, but a difference in perception. Hard to predict where it might lead and no time to ponder it deeper. The letters stream in, some were already waiting for her, and there are the Chantry services, the will and the finances. There’s no dearer boy than Laurent, but Bastien’s son inherited none of his initiative. No, the funeral is all on Vivienne’s shoulders - were she to engage Marcelline, his sister would turn it into an affair too dreary for words, all in the name of piety. It’s no way to remember Bastien. He was a good Andrastian, but practiced his religion with a wine glass in one hand and a hunting sword in the other.

Days pass, a pen in her hand and a list in her head at all times. Vivienne burrows into work like a nug into its nest, for the very moment her mind clears and her fingers still, one jagged thought fills the newly carved hollow in her chest. She will never see him again.

She keeps good pace and can square away task after task, but for one. There’s a growing stack of letters on her secretaire. Less important senders than the family, of course, she would never let those wait more than hours, nor is there anyone in a position of true power. Background courtiers, wealthy commoners. Many who opposed their relationship, many opposed to Bastien, both his person and his work. Opposed to Vivienne, to her power and her success and her audacity to thrive in spite of their disapproval.

All must have replies. It won’t do to be lax at this critical juncture, Bastien’s death mustn’t be perceived as yet another step in a gradual decline, not after she left court, not when the Circle and all affiliated institutions lie in ruin. She must reply. Appearance must be kept.

Only it’s hard, much harder than it should be. She opens an envelope addressed to her in Comtesse de Tourdonnet’s coquettish hand and the gloating that seeps through the lines doesn’t fuel her with anger but numbs her with grief. She retires early after dinner one night, determined to work through the pile before bed, and ends up sitting immobile with a drink in her hand and exhaustion in her bones, staring at the inkhorn until the small hours. The evening after she foregoes dinner altogether, sends the maid away and places herself in an armchair by the fireplace, swearing on Andraste’s holy flame that she won’t rise from it until every single letter can be filed away, or better yet burned.

She sits. A very long time.

Shortly after midnight there’s a knock on the door, jostling her out of a comfortable not-quite-slumber. Immediately alert, Vivienne quickly ties the sash of her silk dressing gown tighter around the waist and sticks her feet into a pair of high heeled slippers adorned with tiny, shimmering opals, kicking the down-stuffed socks she’s been wearing under the bed. She throws a fennec fur stole over her shoulders, takes a second to inspect her face in the mirror and opens the door, just a sliver.

Josephine stands outside, holding a covered tray.

“Lady Vivienne. I suspected you might be awake.”

“Indeed I am,” Vivienne says, making sure not to let her displeasure at the disturbance show. “How may I help you, my dear?”

“We missed you at dinner tonight. I thought I’d make sure all was well. And, I brought some food, just in case.”

Vivienne is inches from turning her away, tray and all. The dismissal is on her tongue, and then - she sees herself from the outside. Peering through a crack in the door, fur up to her chin, retreated before nightfall to her own empty chambers to brood like an old biddy.

She throws the door wide open. “What a lovely surprise! Do come in.” Vivienne waves Josephine inside, shutting the door and following her with brisk, confident steps. She drapes the stole over a chaise with practiced carelessness and asks: “Can I offer you a glass of wine? I managed to persuade the steward to part with a perfectly drinkable Val Colline vintage, though I nearly had to pry it out of his hands.”

“If it’s no trouble,” Josephine says, taking a seat in the chair next to Vivienne’s, having put the tray on the side table between them. She accepts the glass Vivienne hands her, but takes only a small sip before setting it down.

Nothing to take personal. The ambassador is known to drink in extreme moderation.

“I promise not to keep you up too dreadfully late,” Vivienne says, sitting back down. She lifts the cover to inspect the contents of the tray - a rustic fish stew and airy bread, very Antivan, along with some tea - mostly to be polite. She hasn’t had much appetite for the past week. “I’m sure you’ve had a long day, darling, you work so hard.”

“No more than anyone else,” Josephine says, smiling.

“I could provide you a number of examples to argue that claim, but let us speak of more pleasant things, shall we?”

Vivienne stretches her legs, well aware of how the long, sleek robe call attention to their shape. Josephine traces Vivienne’s movements with her eyes, follows their silken length up to the curve of her thigh. There she blinks, looks away a little too quickly.

Wasn’t there a rumor, a while back? About the eldest Montilyet daughter’s preferences - or lack of them, as it were.

She’ll have to consider that later, for Josephine says: “You’re keeping late work hours as well, Lady Vivienne?”

The letters. Still on the table, alongside her dry pen and covered inkhorn. The stack is still tied around with a ribbon and only a few envelopes at the top have even been opened.

Vivienne’s jaw tenses. It’s a small chink in her armor but a chink it is, and she would rather none have noticed it before she sorted it out. Certainly not one as damnably sharp as Josephine.

She waves a dismissive hand. “These are busy days for many, dear.”

“I thought so,” Josephine says. “And, I thought…” From some hidden pocket deep in her voluminous skirts, she pulls out another stack of letters, places them neatly on the table. “This might ease the burden, if only a bit.”

It takes Vivienne a moment to recognize the handwriting of the sweeping letters addressing the envelope at the top to Comtesse de Tourdonnet. It’s her own.

A wild, hot impulse to grab Josephine by the nose and shake her impertinent little head until the curls come loose and tumble all about.

“What a remarkable talent!” she says instead, composing herself into icy calm. “I can only imagine what one may accomplish with such a tool at one’s disposal. After all, what intrigues cannot be weaved through donning another’s mask? When one responds to a letter in someone else’s name, what words might one choose to put in her mouth, I wonder?”

Josephine’s eyes are wide and aghast. She shakes her head, as if that could possibly assure anyone this intrusive gesture isn’t dripping with threat like a poisoned fruit, as if she wouldn’t have to be an imbecile to think it could be taken any other way. It isn’t needed. It isn’t wanted. It’s an insult, a mocking accusation of weakness and Vivienne won’t have it. She will not.

Josephine opens her mouth, and then she does the wholly unexpected. She puts her hand over Vivienne’s.

“My Lady, you are among friends.”

Would that she were. Would that she were seeing the archivist’s eyes glitter at receiving the new transcription of Marcant’s Medicinal Herbal. Would that she were introducing the latest musical darling of the capital to a bustling salon. Would that she were explaining the theory of tonal architecture to a rapt Celene in the grand library. Would that she sat trading gossip in Lydia’s office at the Ostwick circle, amusing her with stories picked out of the desperate ranks of ambitious courtiers until the dear woman’s chins quivered with laughter.

But Lydia is dead, murdered by her own student by the very spells she taught. The archive is reduced to ashes and burned bones. The Circles are shattered and broken, their knowledge scattered to the winds and their children run amok. The Imperial Palace is filling with rats, gnawing at one’s hem until one must shake them off and flee or be disrobed, thread by thread.

A lifetime of work and determination. Of shaping disadvantage into strength, prejudice into admiration, contempt into fear. A lifetime of carefulness, of tactics, of forsaking some to win it all, of honing herself into hardwon perfection because nothing else will do, nothing else will let her pass through the doors and into the halls of power.

And here she is, in a drafty castle at the ends of the world, miles from civilization and good company. Where her voice goes unheard and her opinion goes overlooked, and where her advice carries as much weight as that of criminals and vagrants. It’s still a gamble, this chance she took. One that may bring her glory beyond compare and forever ensure her place in history, but one that may as well leave her with nothing in the end. He did warn her, darling Bastien, but-

She will never see him again.

Her eyes burn. Vivienne turns her head to hide the tears that threaten to fall, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Pardon me. I’ve had this pesky headache all day,” she says, hating the thickness of her voice, the coating of mucus on her tongue that comes with crying.

Josephine lets go of her hand. There’s the rustle of fabric, the pop of a cork, and the sound of pouring water. When Vivienne ventures a glance at her, she’s holding out a steaming teacup like an apology.

“Two for sleep as swift relief,” she says quietly.

If someone wished to permanently remove her from the game, this is how it would be done. A pretty face and a gentle hand, and a steaming cup offering solace in a moment of intolerable vulnerability.

Only at this point, who would even bother?

The thought runs down her spine like a piece of ice. Vivienne has drained the cup within seconds.

Blight Balm is effective even in smaller doses and Josephine must not have thought to cut a larger leaf in half, because Vivienne’s eyes threaten to close on their own authority in a minute. There’s an arm at her side: she takes it, lets it lead her to bed, lets her head sink onto the downy pillows, lets the blankets be tucked snug around her body. She lets sleep take her far, far away.

She wakes at the light of early morning. For a while she’s content, thinking of nothing, enjoying the feeling of being recuperated, waking only because her body has had enough rest. It’s lovely, until she remembers the night before and bolts upright.

Josephine is still in her chair, slumped against the armrest and fast asleep. Her skirts are rumpled and her slippers kicked off her feet where her stockings bunch around the ankles, but her parted lips are dewy, and her lashes flutter sweetly against her cheeks. She looks improbably lovely.

Vivienne slides out from under the covers as quietly as she can, and tiptoes on bare feet to the privy. She shuts the door around her with a little more force than necessary, letting it slam. Waiting, she counts slowly to a hundred and twenty.

When she opens it again, Josephine is gone. On the table are two stacks of letters.

--

Everything looks better in daylight.

Of course joining the Inquisition was a gamble, everything is, she’s been playing a high stakes game since she left Ostwick. Bastien was a gamble. To be so young and First Enchanter was a gamble. What she did to the post as Court Enchanter was a gamble of rank, as has been every action that involved breaking the chains of powerlessness others would bind her with.

She plays; she wins. It’s what she does.

Vivienne doesn’t keep to Josephine’s letters. They’re perfectly passable, the ambassador really does have a knack for these sorts of impersonations, she’d be an excellent bard had she the inclination, but the task requires a personal touch to be successful. Vivienne spends an awfully long day forcing word after word, but the end results flow as though had they sprung fully written from her mind.

She does, however, keep to Josephine.

“Darling!” she exclaims, striding into her office one afternoon not too long after their... evening. “The weather is simply gorgeous. Walk with me.”

Josephine looks up from her writing with both joy and surprise written on her face. “I would be glad to.”

Better to jump straight back into socializing than to slink around awkwardly as if that one brief lapse in composure had any serious effect on Vivienne’s person, privately or publicly. No, Josephine must be a controlled variable.

And it’s not unpleasant to spend time in her company, there’s been no change to that. Tension melts away under Josephine’s sunny eyes and finds no purchase in her smooth conversation. Twenty minutes in, and Vivienne no longer feels like she’s carrying out a battle plan but savoring a vacation.

“How are you sleeping these days, dear?” she asks. “Was the herb of any use to you?”

“Oh, yes. Just knowing I have the option makes it so much easier. I only take it one night of three now, if that.”

“You have no idea how it pleases me to hear it,” Vivienne says, and finds she truly means it.

Josephine meets her gaze, and says with uncalculated honesty: “I think perhaps I do.”

There’s gladness in realizing they’ve become friends.

Josephine’s isn’t the only friendly relationship Vivienne finds herself in. Adaar seeks her out often, near daily, settling her mass on one of the chairs Vivienne keeps on her parapet, making the piece of furniture seem comically small. They talk. The Inquisitor asks questions on The Game and the finer points of the social interplay that’s the basis of Orlesian politics, as well as on magic, southern scholarship and Chantry history. While she often brings up inane counterpoints that she’s no doubt gotten from Solas and Dorian, Vivienne’s answers aren’t as often met with boneheaded arguing but with thoughtful discussion and openness. Their opinions will never align perfectly, but there is respect where once there were brush-offs.

“I thought saving the empress would be the end of this crap,” Adaar gruffs, crossing her arms. She’s pouting, and on a face as square jawed and weathered as hers, it looks ridiculous. “Why’re we still dealing with all this court and noble stuff. Or more like, why am I.”

“We stood victorious at the end of the battle, but now we must hold our ground and defend our position,” Vivienne explains. “This is the long game, where we measure not our brilliance in the moment, but our foresight and stamina. And yes, Inquisitor. That means sending a great deal of letters. How else are we keep the allies we won? Be a dear now and sign those for Josephine before we depart for Val Royeaux, save the poor girl gray hairs at such a young age.”

“This is what you do,” Adaar says ponderously. “Every day. All the time. Deal with all these scheming asses and get them to do what you want or go away or just die. And it never stops because then you lose. You don’t just win and go home.”

“Rather simplified, but yes. That is indeed what I do.”

Adaar nods and says, with her customarily crude forthrightness: “That takes some serious fucking tenacity. It’s impressive.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

“I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s all bullshit in the end. But you’re still impressive as balls.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Bastien’s funeral, a stately affair with an even statelier reception, goes without a hitch. It’s natural, afterwards, to bring Laurent and Marcelline to Skyhold, to introduce them to Adaar and to direct their support and connections to the Council of Heralds at the Inquisition, rather than Vivienne alone. Their interests are largely the same after all: whatever else one might say about the Inquisitor she’s dedicated to restoring order to the world, even if her methods and plans aren’t always as sound as one may wish.

And Adaar is a friend. The ring Vivienne gifts her is a symbol of alliance, but a token of real affection as well. Adaar wears it, squeezed onto her little finger, and seeing it fills Vivienne’s heart not only with triumph, but something sweeter still.

Yes, she is among friends, Josephine’s word were more than empty comforts. There is agreeable companionship to be find within the Inquisitor’s circle. Cassandra, of course, who has been a welcome sister in arms from the very beginning, but the Iron Bull, too, and Dorian, bless his barbarian little heart, who keeps trying to be on good terms, for whatever reason. They’re not unwelcome company in the field, though she doesn’t necessarily mingle much during leisure hours.

This, it turns out, to Josephine’s great chagrin.

“You must join us next time Master Tethras puts together a game of Wicked Grace,” she chides.

“In the tavern? I think not.”

“But it’s such a lively time!”

“If I want liveliness I need only stand in the great hall and watch the most recently arrived batch of luck seekers tie themselves into knots to catch my attention.”

“...Ah.” Josephine seems suddenly seized by an insight, eyebrows rising, nodding slowly to herself. “Well, there is no shame in it…”

“Whatever are you on about?”

“There is no reason to feel embarrassed over not knowing how to play. It’s a complicated game.”

Vivienne snorts. “Don’t think I’m not aware of what you’re attempting to do here, darling. Quite badly, I might add.”

“Then you do know how to play?”

“Of course!”

“Oh, wonderful! Then you agree to have a game!”

“When did I ever-”

“And I have a deck right here, what luck.”

Vivienne loses five straight games, sixty royals and a book of erotic poetry banned by the Chantry to Josephine who shows her no mercy, just as a lady should.

But mostly, they talk. Long conversations over cooling cups of tea, quick catch up sessions over Josephine’s desk, hushed midnight confidences with little cups of brandy. They speak of mutual acquaintances, opera shows they’ve both attended, books they’ve read and either loved or hated. Vivienne talks about her early days at court, the first year with Bastien, and it’s a relief to share with someone who doesn’t need the context for the conflicts she encountered explained. She describes the academia of magic, how the circles and the university and chantry schools entwine, and it’s a delight to find such an engaged audience. Josephine discusses her work, compares notes on the dilemmas she faces each day, and ventilates her frustration with demanding nobles asking the impossible and colleagues who don’t always afford her job the respect it deserves. They grow a little wordy garden between them, a place to retreat at the end of the day, a sanctuary where one is always sure to find a kindred spirit. Chats continue from one week to the next, private jokes sprout and blossom. They become, very quickly, very close.

“I’m quite serious, my dear. You have much to gain from adopting a silhouette with sleeker lines,” Vivienne says, having settled in one of Josephine’s office arm chairs.

“There is no sleek with hips like mine,” Josephine answers from her desk without self-deprecation, stating what she clearly believes to be simple fact. Vivienne frowns.

“Untrue, my dear. Imagine: bare shoulders, long buttoned sleeves. A bodice that clings to your curves instead of hiding them, caressing the hips in a tight embrace of glossy satin that

highlights your form. Then, a cascade of tulle in layer upon layer bursting from mid-thigh to your feet. All in light shades of blue, with sweetwater pearls and drops of polished silver. You would look like a goddess, risen from the sea.”

“I’m comfortable as I am,” Josephine says, smiling. They’ve had many variations of this discussion. “And confident,” she adds, before Vivienne can interject. “I dress exactly the way I want to.”

“Oh,” Vivienne sighs. “The wonders I could work with you. A couturière’s task is always a gratifying one when provided with such a lovely canvas.”

“Now you’re flattering me.”

“Not at all! Come now, you must know what a pretty young woman you are. If not, I shall send you a mirror.”

“No need, my lady,” Josephine says, laughing that quick little breathless laugh she laughs when she’s pleasantly embarrassed or demurely delighted. “I accept the compliment. Does this satisfy?”

“For the moment, yes.”

“And I very much appreciate it, coming from a recognized beauty such as yourself.”

“Well.” Vivienne runs a contented hand along the side of her neck. “One does one’s best.”

“Were you aware-? ...Oh, I don’t know if I should tell you.” Josephine taps her pen against the top of the desk a couple of thoughtful times and looks at Vivienne, eyes filled with giggly mirth. “At my finishing school in Val Royeaux, the girls had a habit of choosing prominent persons who figured in the societé as idols. To… dream about. Entertain girly fantasies. You, Madame, were one of them.”

“Truly?” Vivienne laughs. “I thought such honors were reserved for bards or dashing rogues.”

“Do not underestimate the appeal of a tall, driven woman young enough to be relatable yet so accomplished as to seem picked from an adventure novel. And you were a mage. That was ever so exciting. The elegant First Enchanter with her shining spirit sword and courtly manners… Surely you can see it?”

Vivienne shakes her head, thoroughly amused. “I never had an inkling.”

“I don’t suppose you spent much time around teenage girls.”

“I suppose not.”

“Many favored Lord Bastien, of course.”

“That surprises me not at all.”

“But then through him they discovered you. It led to a great deal of... confusion.”

“And you?” Vivienne tilts her head. “Were you…confused?”

Josephine gives her an enigmatic little smile. “Madame, in these matters I’ve never felt any confusion at all.”

The season turns. The rumors shift. The Inquisitor stops inviting the ambassador to her balcony for long, private hours, and is instead observed tangling limbs with the elven archer in a variety of more or less public places.

Vivienne fumes on behalf of Josephine, common decency and just plain sense.

“It’s outrageous,” she declares, tea going cold in her hands, “the way she’s wormed her way into our midst. Inquisitor Adaar is making a grave mistake in passing you, a woman of education and class, over for that street rat.”

“I’m happy for them,” Josephine tries, but Vivienne pays her no mind.

“Now this is the couple we have standing at the helm of this entire organization! An absolute image disaster. I’ve half a mind to-!”

Josephine puts her cup down with a resolute clink. “I for one am glad that a good friend and valued colleague have found happiness in each other,” she says, deceptively blithely. Her jaw is firmly set. “I wish only that my own good friends could feel the same.”

“Very well,” Vivienne concedes. “Then let us instead continue our discussion on the appropriate amount of ruffles to a dress.”

--

After spending a month trudging around a freezing, red lyrium infested Emprise du Lion, enduring not only the Inquisitor and Sera’s public displays of fraternization but also Blackwall’s boorishness, her private rooms in Skyhold are a haven of luxury and comfort. Vivienne soaks for hours in a warm bath, sleeps a whole night in a proper bed and puts on a full face of makeup for the first time in weeks. She wakes the next morning so refreshed as to be reborn, and goes to see Josephine first thing after breakfast.

“Lady Vivienne!” Josephine stands as she enters her office. “I’m relieved you’re all back safe and sound. I worried.”

“You needn’t, my dear. We were all perfectly fine.”

“We had word of the capture of Suledin Keep a while ago. You fought both red templars and a powerful desire demon?”

“There is simply no limit to what depraved lows those insurrectionists will stoop,” Vivienne says, “but enough of that. I want you to tell me everything that went on in my absence, no detail spared. Whatever came of the Baroness and Ser Magdalin?”

“Oh, it’s a whole other mess.” Josephine shakes her head, momentarily deep in exasperation, but her face clears and she asks: “Have you been to the garden yet? There’s something I want to show you.”

“What have you been cooking up now?” Vivienne says, but she takes her arm and follows.

The Skyhold garden has been a work in progress for quite some time. All parts of the castle were in glaring need of improvement when they found it, both constructive and aesthetic, but some areas have been more crucial to focus on than others. A solid outer wall, roofs that don’t leak and towers that won’t topple over matter more than flower beds and outdoor furniture, Vivienne doesn’t disagree.

Nevertheless, the tousled state of the garden needed to be dealt with sooner or later to properly serve as a place to mingle, to see and be seen, to show that the Inquisition is no enemy to elegance and style. Vivienne has brought it up with Adaar on multiple occasions, but the woman has up until now refused to understand that a renovation is in no way a waste of resources, but an investment.

Though something has changed. The impression one gets, stepping out of the cloister and into the sun, is a great deal tidier than it was when Vivienne last left. The paths are more defined and clearly marked, the trees and bushes have been trimmed. There are still patches of wild growing meadow flowers but their edges are sharper, occasionally contrasted with sections laid with mosaic tile, and the grass looks much less tousled. There are new statues, the benches are scraped free of moss and lichen, and well tended plants in ornamented pots cluster everywhere in tasteful arrangements. Small things when taken one by one, but the overall effect is vastly different from before. The garden has transformed from merely an outdoor space to a flowering parlour.

“Why, you’ve worked wonders!” Vivienne says, patting her hand. “This was your initiative, I assume?”

“In part,” Josephine says. “Lady Inquisitor gave the go ahead before you left.”

“It’s absolutely superb what you’ve accomplished. Our next fête should be held out here, under the stars. I can arrange for magical canopies and lanterns, suspended above the tables. Can you picture it? We shall be the talk of Thedas for months.”

Josephine accepts the praise with customary grace. “It’s a splendid idea,” she says, “but come. There’s more.”

In one corner of the garden is a section walled off by a fragrant juniper hedge. Josephine steers their steps toward it, speaking as they walk.

“The Inquisitor and I briefly discussed what direction to go with the overhaul. I was going to suggest a fountain, but then I thought of you.”

They step through an arched opening in the hedge. Inside the square frame of the junipers is a herb garden. Within edges of box, planted in a geometrical design, grow lavender and marjoram, embrium and prophet’s laurel, chamomile and elfroot. There are pots of vandal aria and dragonthorn, basins with blood lotus and spindleweed. In the back is even a small greenhouse, currently empty.

“I consulted with both our apothecaries. This should have all an alchemist needs to grow her own supply.”

Vivienne looks around, not without a certain sense of wonder. “And it is for me?”

“Well. It’s meant to be a shared space serving the needs of the Inquisition first of all, but yes. It was planted with you in mind.”Josephine runs her fingers over the petals of a blooming bergamot flower. “I heard of how you established the greenhouse at Montsimmard, and personally oversaw all work there. I thought it a good opportunity to repay you for your generosity with the Blight Balm.”

“Who in their right mind repays a handful of dried leaves with a garden?”

“It’s only-!”

“Oh no, darling, hush.” Vivienne lays a hand on Josephine’s shoulder, sinking into her puffed sleeve. “I couldn’t possibly be more pleased by your consideration. You are a gift, my dear.”

As is the garden, a fine one. Whether it’s truly Vivienne’s own matters little, she has no time to fully engage in the managing of it either way, but word will spread of how it was founded in order to please her, to cater to her needs and interests. ‘The First Enchanter’s Potager.’ Yes, that will do nicely. She will make sure the name sticks, that the herb garden serves as proof of the high regard shown to her within the organization, readily visible to all who visit the castle.

And Josephine’s care, that’s a gift as well. Vivienne imagines her researching current gardening styles, engaging horticulturists, drafting a budget, adding hours to her already lengthy work days and all with the goal of bringing Vivienne a bit of joy.

She smiles at Josephine, at her dear, dear friend, and Josephine smiles back, obviously glad to be well received. The tips of her ears - is she blushing? Vivienne can’t say. Josephine turns away, tucking away a few errant tresses of hair behind her ear. She clears her throat, adjusts her belt.

She’s flustered. How adorable. Vivienne’s heart surges with affection. How she’s come to miss the charming, quick-witted Lady Montilyet when they’re apart.

“It was a near thing I joined the ranks of the Formari,” Vivienne says, letting Josephine hide any awkwardness within the comfortable framework of conversation.

“Oh? As an alchemist?”

“What else? I showed great aptitude for the craft at a very early age.” Vivienne walks at a leisurely pace down the path between the low box hedges, the gravel crunching underfoot, and Josephine joins her. “I apprenticed to the foremost Formari alchemist at Ostwick when I was just a girl.”

Alia, an austere elven woman with dalish tattoos and high expectations. One of those rare few who came into the Circle folds as an adult and not only adapted, but flourished. She was a hard but fair teacher and a good friend - at least so she seemed. She joined the rebels when the Circles fell.

There have been times when Vivienne recognized those same tattoos on one of the apostates attacking the Inquisitor’s party and her heart seized until she examined the body. She hopes to never not be mistaken.

But such thoughts have no place in this fragrant sanctuary. She sheds the memory like an ill-fitting coat.

“What happened to change your course?” Josephine asks.

“My transfer to Montsimmard, where my skill at spellcasting earned greater recognition. Only a few mages are selected to undergo the training, and fewer still succeed at it.”

“I understand it requires immense magical talent.”

“Oh, much more than that. It is discipline that decides who masters the art and who falters along the way. The practice doesn’t agree with all; it’s far more physical than regular magical training and demands full control of the body as much as the mind. The regimes are rigorous and unforgiving, and not always enjoyable.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.” Vivienne smiles. “To be Knight Enchanter is to be power incarnate, the personification of command. The road may not have been easy, but I savored each step.”

“I’m happy the reassignment worked out so well,” Josephine says.

“Reassignment? You misunderstand, my dear, it was nothing of the sort. I was made an offer, one it was entirely up to me to deny or accept. I made a well informed choice. Such has been the case with most things in my life,” Vivienne says, and adds in a dryer tone: “Though nothing seems to shock outsiders to hear as much as that.”

“The view of the Circle does often look grim from out here.”

“And yet there are so many options for those with the sense and competence to reach for them. Even before I was made Knight Enchanter, with all the additional freedoms that followed the position, my work among the Formari had taken me outside the circle on numerous occasions. Why, I assisted in the tending of a shop in the Ostwick trade quarters for years!”

“Truly?”

“The Circle was never meant to be a prison.”

“We do hear of abuses…”

“I shan’t deny there are those who would misuse their position of authority and engage in severe misconduct, nor that there are those who have suffered needlessly under such leadership. To me, however, it has always been a place of learning and a shelter from a fearful and superstitious world. The Circles were a home to many who would find little protection elsewhere. It grieves me that this is so easily discarded.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Josephine says. “Whatever stance one has on the Circles as an institution, to have everything you knew as a child destroyed… I can’t imagine it.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” Vivienne says kindly. “One moves ever onward.”

They’ve circled the herb garden. Vivienne sits down on a small stone bench beneath a trellis supporting vines of hops and motions for Josephine to join her.

“But as I was saying,” she continues, “to pursue the title of Knight Enchanter was entirely my own choice. I believe every young mage entertains fantasies of wielding a spirit blade at some point, even before one becomes aware of the political advantages to such a position.”

“Ah.” Josephine sends her a knowing glance. “I see.”

“No need to look so smug, darling. I’ve made my ambition no secret,” Vivienne says. “Many doors open to a Knight Enchanter: one might reach for a position near the Divine, or serve one’s nation in battle and climb through the ranks. I found my purpose closer to home.”

“You made First Enchanter. The youngest yet.”

“Indeed,” Vivienne says with a great deal of well deserved pride.

“Was being Knight Enchanter crucial to it?”

“No, but it did help. To reach the upper echelons of the Circle hierarchy one needs a mind for scholarship, a hand with spellcasting and a head for politics, first and foremost. But it does help to be adept at making friends.” Vivienne crosses one leg over the other, rests her hands on her knee. “Joining the templars at their training to learn the techniques of the sword brought me closer to them than many other among the mages at Montsimmard. Drilling together tends to foster camaraderie. They gave me not only invaluable support, but many true bonds of friendships.”

Iman, Rivaini born and full of faraway stories, told in her honey-sweet voice. Walter and his grinning, improbable boasts. Ramón and his meaty fingers, so deft when dressing a wound. Jacques, weathered and weary, but with always a smile in reserve for Vivienne.

There had been nothing to cremate.

Enough. The past is past. There’s no use in staring back when there’s so much to look forward to.

“I forge my own path from my own choices,” Vivienne says, to herself more than anything.

“Choice,” Josephine repeats slowly. Her tone is pensive, almost morose.

“Hmm? What’s that, dear?”

“Oh, nothing.” Josephine’s pleasant smile immediately returns, but Vivienne knows her well enough by now to see the contours of the mask. She lowers her voice.

“All’s fair in The Grand Game, but I would never betray your confidence. Those close to me, I ward.”

“It’s nothing, I assure you,” Josephine says, brushing her fingers over her skirt. She looks up and her posture changes, whatever might have burdened her clearly put aside. “I was just thinking of how lovely it is to sit and speak like this. How glad I am to know you this well. I wish...”

A lock of hair has slipped free from where she tucked it behind her ear. On an impulse, Vivienne leans in and brushes it back.

The back of her fingers stroke Josephine’s cheek, follow the curve of her ear and she wants, with sudden intensity, nothing more than to trace that soft arch to her neck, follow the line of her jaw and cup her cheek, tilt her head up and-

She meets Josephine’s eyes and finds the same desire there.

Too many reasons to refrain. Vivienne may not be a noble, may not technically be of higher rank, but in reality her position holds far more power, far more influence, than the Montilyet name does. It would be a step down, if not on paper so in public perception. Her affiliation with the Inquisition would suffer from it, would be tainted by gossip of ulterior seduction. Her joining would be seen as not a tactical move by a powerful player able to predict the turning of the winds, but a desperate grab of a fading back-number with no other means to secure allies. And little more than a year after Bastien’s death. She can’t risk his relatives’ goodwill.

Josephine wouldn’t fare better. With her family’s fortune only recently on a tentative rise, anything resembling scandal would be hazardous at best. Once, a romance with a mage might increase social capital, but after what transpired in Kirkwall and elsewhere even Orlais is shying from such relations.

They’re both sensible women. They part as friends.

--

A week later Vivienne goes to meet Josephine for tea in her office only to find Leliana in her stead.

“So,” Leliana says, standing like a shadow behind Josephine’s empty chair. “You two have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”

“It’s called a social life, darling,” Vivienne says, taking her seat. “You used to have one, too, as I recall.”

“I would be more cautious, were I you. People might start talking.”

Vivienne squares her shoulders. “However can I help you, spymaster? Any webs of lies or tangles of intrigue I may assist you with? If not, do run along. I have other appointments.”

“Josephine’s a dear friend,” Leliana persists. “And I do watch over my friends. I won’t see her hurt.”

“You think that I would-?” Vivienne tips her head back and laughs. “Oh, this is an absolute farce.”

“Is it? Here’s a woman known to use people for her own gains, who stops at nothing to achieve her goals. No matter what breaks under her feet. See my concern?”

“And is that concern... sisterly, Nightingale?”

Leliana’s face darkens under the hood. “Careful.”

“No. No, I do not think I will be,” Vivienne says. She taps a nail on the armrest, punctuating the last words. “This little performance would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so sad. Josephine is a close, treasured friend of mine and, as it apparently must be stressed, a grown woman in no need of babysitting. If you feel slighted by her attention to me, if you mope in your tower, jilted and jealous…. Well. I really can’t help you with that.”

“She’s engaged.”

Vivienne blinks.

“Oh.” A smirk spreads over Leliana’s features. “She didn’t tell you? Perhaps you’re not as close as you thought.” She moves silently towards the door, but as she passes Vivienne’s chair she stops. Her voice is low, melancholy rather than derisive. “Her path has been set. Leave her be.”

With that, she’s gone.

Josephine enters in a flurry of apologies, her assistant right on her heels, wheeling a cart loaded with tea supplies. Vivienne waits until the table has been set and the two of them are alone, before she says:

“I understand congratulations are in order.”

“For what?”

“Your engagement.”

“Leliana.” It’s not something Vivienne is often witness to, Josephine’s face tensing in anger. “When did she tell you?”

“We had a most congenial little chat mere moments ago,” Vivienne says.

Anger becomes dejection. “I… see.”

It’s fair to assume this was how the Inquisitor’s romantic intent was steered elsewhere. Vivienne’s spine stiffens. Maker preserve every young woman from friendship the like of Leliana’s.

“You know I’d never mean to pry, darling, I-”

“His name is Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto of Antiva. His family owns several shipping companies. They do well, and Lord Otranto is by all accounts, mainly my mother’s, a man of standard interests and talents. I met him once, at a cotillion. He didn’t leave a memorably negative impression. That’s as much as I can say about his person.”

“That is to say, you know practically nothing.”

“I know he has good breeding and ample means.” Josephine sighs. “My parents made the match.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Not very.”

“It should be a small matter, then, to break this off,” Vivienne says. Josephine shakes her head. “Come now, dear. You’re clearly less than thrilled about the whole affair.”

“The Otranto fortune would be a great relief to my family’s debts.”

“And yet,” Vivienne insists, “you seem less than thrilled.”

“It is not so simple to just break it off. If it isn’t done properly, our good name will be stained. If worst comes to worst, we might find ourselves entangled in a feud. It cannot happen.”

“Let me see to it, then. A letter, a whisper in the right ear…”

“No. The Otrantos would know, and unless your plan was to besmirch my personal reputation-”

“Who do you take me for!?”

“-they would still take offense. My family would still suffer.” Josephine runs a hand across over her forehead. “I’m told he’s an adept duelist, what if he were to challenge whoever he thought behind the plot?”

“Hm, yes, there’s an idea. You Antivans go mad for dueling,” Vivienne says. “The solution is simple: enlist a champion and win back your own hand. His Lordship could hardly protest that, now could he?”

“No. I refuse to have anyone risk their life for me.”

“An Antivan duel is hardly a risk.”

“I said no!”

Josephine’s brows are furrowed in an uncompromising line. Vivienne leans forward. Her heart pounds, her tongue is dry, the feeling like that of discovering a potion is about to spoil in the pot, wasting precious ingredients.

“So instead you will abandon a splendid career, waste your brilliance and every opportunity yet waiting for you, to play house with some glorified merchant!”

Josephine regards her coolly. “A ‘glorified merchant’ like me?”

Vivienne never regrets words, but she comes very close. “You know perfectly well what I meant.”

“And you know what my family means to me. Our alliances, our finances, the prospects of my younger siblings… By insulting the Otrantos I could harm them all.”

“You can do so much better than him.”

“I think perhaps I can’t,” Josephine says, and her voice is an abyss of sadness. “This betrothal is a profitable affair for all parties. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be amenable.” She looks at Vivienne, eyes wide and pleading. “Is there?”

Vivienne stares at her fingernails. One of them has torn, coming off in a raw, jagged edge.

“No,” she says. “I suppose not.”

--

She attempts complacency. She abandons the attempt.

Instead, Vivienne researches Josephine’s betrothed. She sends some letters, she reads some peerage books, she goes through her memorandums. The information paints a decidedly mediocre picture.

The Otrantos are a young line, raised to nobility less than an age ago. No patrons of art, no prominent warriors. Their noteworthiness rests solely on material wealth and trading - one suspects the title was purchased - and not all of it legitimate. They’ve clearly tried to bury the details, but the most recent scandal involves the acquisition of a number of holdings that would rightfully belong to the Terraza family, had they not been thoroughly cheated out of them. It was a dreadful debacle, judging by the remaining signs, with several lives lost.

Vivienne seethes. If you don’t have the capacities to play a good game, don’t play at all. This clumsy display is entirely unbefitting a woman of Josephine’s talent and poise; no man fostered in an environment of such bumbling inability could ever hope to be her equal.

Marriage in no way has to be the end, neither to one’s work nor romantic adventures, none could more familiar with this than Vivienne, but surely this would be no life? Forever tied to a house of scoundrels and their petty squabbles, weighed down by an inurbane husband when one could have soared freely through the skies of high society, been appreciated by those who properly understand to do so. Doesn’t Josephine, of all people, deserve better? Don’t those who care for her have an obligation to ensure she doesn’t ruin her own future in a single insensible moment?

Her parents have been misguided and Leliana… Maker only knows what goes on there. No, it’s up to Vivienne to resolve the situation before someone does something they’re going to regret.

If Josephine won’t see reason, Lord Otranto will be made to. Vivienne would never go against her wishes and arrange for a public weathering of the Otranto’s dirty laundry nor an unauthorized duel, but surely none can fault her for inviting a young noble who just so happens to be on a visit to Val Royeaux for a talk, in all cordiality?

She sends the invitation; she makes the journey. On a clear afternoon in early fall, First Enchanter Vivienne receives Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto of Antiva in the de Ghislain apartments in the Summer Bazaar.

Vivienne lets him wait for half an hour in the sitting room before swooping in, armored in sea silk and a mask of sparkling silverite, her spirit sword handle on display at her waist.

“Darling! I’m so glad you could make it.”

He stands from the sofa by the window, and bows. “It’s an honor, Madame.”

It certainly is, and entirely one-sided. Vivienne sits herself down in a chair facing him, her back to the light, forcing him to squint slightly at her silhouette. She takes a moment to inspect the person before her.

Average height, average build, average grace. Coat a shade of turquoise in fashion two seasons ago, far too much kohl inexpertly applied around the eyes and the saber in its sheath is too plain to work with the outfit. The patchy beard makes his chin resemble nothing so much as a scrotum.

What a horrid little man.

“As I’ve had no opportunity earlier, allow me to express my condolences. The Duke de Ghislain was a great man.”

He’s had no opportunity because nothing he’s ever done or will ever do matters in the slightest, and were he to open his mouth in spite of this, no one would have had reason to take note.

Vivienne smiles, sweet as molasses. “The loss of our Bastien is keenly felt, but it’s a comfort to know he is remembered by so many.”

“I heard the Chantry services were splendid.”

“Oh? Word reached even your parts of Antiva?” That miserable backwater no woman of promise would ever set foot in.

Otranto’s smile strains for a second. It’s barely visible, but Vivienne revels. “We are not so far removed as many believe, my lady.”

“Of course, dear.”

She hasn’t offered him anything to drink or eat, though the invitation was to join her for tea. Vivienne can see him begin to wonder, glancing at the door.

“I was fortunate to know Bastien for many years, the private man as well as the public person.” She misses him. She will miss him always.

“As I understand it you were….involved?”

Vivienne presses a hand to her chest and laughs. “There’s no need to be coy, I assure you. I was his mistress, yes, and proud of our affiliation.”

“I am sure he was proud as well, to be connected to such a formidable woman,” Otranto says, as clumsy in flattery as he is in intrigue.

“Naturally.” Vivienne looks far away, as if to gaze deep into the past. “He fought for me, for us. Our relationship was a great scandal, the most intense of its time, with many wishing to force us apart. But he stood fast, never faltering in his defense of me. Those foolish enough to move against him found themselves thoroughly reprimanded, and any attempts to convince him to leave me only made him spend more time at my side.”

“It sounds romantic.”

“He was. Once, he sent me a gift of peonies so large it filled an entire floor of the Circle tower. The scent clung to us all for weeks.” A bright memory of bright days. “It was love as it should be, gallant and passionate. Every woman should get to experience it.”

“I very much agree.”

“Really, now.” Vivienne crosses one leg over the other and turns herself squarely to face him, drawing herself up tall and straight-backed in her chair. “That surprises me.”

A glint of insecurity in Otranto’s eyes. This is why one wears a mask. “How so?”

“Seeing as how you are willing to rope Lady Montilyet into an undesired marriage, I highly doubt you’re a man who has ever given thought to a woman’s wants.”

“I…” He looks around him as though expecting to see jesters jumping out of the cabinets at any moment, revealing the joke. “What is-”

“You would ruin her career, sabotage her social capital and offer her nothing to repair the damage you would inevitably cause her. Josephine is a woman of class, real class, and so far removed from the likes of you it boggles the mind to think you could imagine, even for a moment, you were fit to stand beside her.”

Otranto gets up abruptly, revealing another of his flaws: he doesn’t have the sense to fear Vivienne. “With all due respect, Madame, this conversation has taken an odd turn. Perhaps it is best we take our farewells now.”

He makes for the door without further niceties.

“Your house is a den of thieves!”

“Slander!” Otranto throws at her over his shoulder.

“Is that so? Perhaps I should ask the Terrazas.”

He stops mid step, spins around, his anger starkly visible. They always mock the masks and they always lose the game.

“Oh, yes,” Vivienne says, containing a grin only through effort. Let him suspect, not witness, how much she’s enjoying this. “You didn’t even succeed at covering it up properly. What a shameful, shameful thing. Whatever would people say?”

“They would say a woman should wash the blood off her own hands before condemning others.”

“Believe me, I condemn no one at all. Your little drama doesn’t invoke any emotion stronger than mild pity at your staggering ineptitude.” She crosses one leg over the other. “But the Montilyets? Now, that’s another story. They are good honest people with good honest business, and none is as honest as the lady herself. You think you could keep in their graces with your record? The marriage would be annulled within a week.”

“I think not. This marriage brings house Montilyet funds and political capital they sorely need. No one would pass that up for something so minor. As for any differences of opinion regarding business methods between Lady Montilyet and I…” He shrugs. “She would come around.”

“You clearly don’t know her.”

“I know she is beautiful, well educated and stems from a fertile line. What else does one need to know?” Nothing of her wit, nothing of her finesse, nothing of her dedication. Nothing of how she bites her lip while composing a letter. Nothing of how her double chin bunches when she laughs. Nothing of the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the way it softens the heart to behold her.

“Now, I believe we are done,” he continues. “I do not know what your motives are, but I do know one thing. Your opinion - nay, your very person - is irrelevant.”

Rage floods her, hot and heady. Vivienne is on her feet before she’s decided to move. He will learn what happens to those who cross Madame de Fer and he will learn it well.

She snaps her fingers. A wall of ice blocks the door.

“I do so hate to be misunderstood,” she says, makes her voice low, almost purring. A tigress to her cornered prey. “This isn’t a negotiation, and I’m by no means done with you.” She walks with long, slow steps until they stand eye to eye, a few meters between them. “Draw.”

He yips a laugh, tinged with nervousness. “You can’t be serious. You’re not even armed!”

Vivienne unhooks the sword handle from her belt, sweeping her hand in a wide arch. The spirit blade flares, spreading its otherworldly light on the parquette. There’s true pleasure in seeing Otranto pale.

“My dear, I am the weapon.”

He swallows. “It will shame you to win a duel by magic against an opponent without the same means.”

“I can attack you with your guard up, or down. The choice is entirely yours.”

Otranto curses hoarsely in Antivan. He bows before he draws, clinging to etiquette like a man shining his boots while his ship sinks. Vivienne doesn’t answer in kind.

The duel is too short and sad an affair to truly be called such. Oh, the man has skill, she must give him that, trained and honed and surely having won him many a victory in the past, but at the first swing he flinches from her magical blade, revealing an opening.

She moves in, striking his sword with a blow that grazes his fingers. He yells in pain, drops it, and Vivienne darts at him, puts a well-placed kick to his knees and he goes down. He sprawls on his back and she puts her foot on his throat, watches him gasp for air.

It would be so easy. Simply transfer her weight and-

“Stop!”

Josephine’s voice rings through the room. The ice wall has dissipated as all things Fade-wrought inevitably do. The doors are flung wide open, the terrified valet appearing behind her for a brief second before thinking better of it and fleeing the scene.

“Leliana told me you had gone to see him, but I could scarcely believe it until now.” She stalks into the room, eyes flashing with fury. “What are you doing!”

Vivienne removes her foot from Otranto’s throat. “The gentleman and I are settling a difference.”

“Why?” Josephine sinks to her knees, helping him to his feet as he coughs and gurgles. It’s repulsive. “Why do this? What’s your reason?”

“Surely it’s plain for anyone to see that this man is a-”

“No! What’s your reason?”

Her ears are flushed, her arms are shaking and it’s not all anger, not anymore. She stands there, in her golden silk and her rich brocade, with her noble nose and her night black hair, and she’s more lovely than anyone has the right to be.

Vivienne turns, and leaves.

She’s a sensible woman. This is a single insensible moment. Too many reasons not to pursue this path and so she will put it all behind her, she will move ever onward..

Halfway down the stairs, Josephine calls after her.

“Vivienne!” She sounds… desperate. Out of breath and desperate, a woman on the brink of losing the one thing that matters most. Vivienne falters. “Vivienne, please!” Josephine calls again and, damn her to the Fade and back, she stops.

“Vivienne,” Josephine says, quieter now, like she’s scared of chasing her away. Vivienne looks back. She stands at the top of the stairs, hands tightly clasped. “If there was ever a time for you to speak honestly to me, it would be now.”

She loves her. She loves Josephine like she thought she could never love again, she loves her fully, endlessly.

“What is there to gain from it?”

“Love!” Josephine cries. “All the love I have in my heart, and all of it for you!”

“Then convince me.”

“No.” Her eyes glisten, but Josephine’s voice is firm. “I will be yours because you chose me freely, or I won’t be yours at all.”

Curse her earnest heart. It’s precisely the right thing to say.

“We shall have to be discreet,” Vivienne says. “It can’t be public, not for the foreseeable future, and the Otrantos must be dealt with, one way or the other, before-”

She’s interrupted by Josephine bounding down the stairs, throwing herself into her arms. Vivienne staggers, nearly falls, but manages to keep them upright by twirling Josephine around in a full circle. She’s rarely been less dignified. She’s seldom been more happy.

“Oh,” Josephine says, her arms around Vivienne, once the world stops spinning. “Oh, goodness.”

“Indeed, my darling.”

“My ladies!” Otranto appears in the stairway. He seems to have recovered unfortunately well. “While yours may never be a sanctified union, I’m not fool enough to stand in the way of true affection.” He sheathes his sword. “The Otrantos regretfully withdraw the terms of our betrothal.”

Josephine inclines her head to him. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. I know when I’m outmatched.”

“Quite right,” Vivienne mutters.

He bows to them both, fancying himself ever so magnanimous.

A truly horrid little man.

But Vivienne thinks of him no more, for now Josephine removes her mask, now she cups her face, now she stands on her toes and seizes her lips, and then there is nothing else.

--

The carriage is ready, the suitcases packed, and the maid has fastened all sixty buttons on Vivienne’s travel coat. All yet missing is Josephine.

Officially, they’re to attend a gathering with key members from the Council of Heralds, but it’s a work trip only in name. Two whole weeks to themselves in the capital, perusing galleries and boutiques, going to concerts and plays, enjoying long, undisturbed hours in the spacious apartment Josephine rents in the Inquisition’s name.

Vivienne has packed a great variety of intricate underthings.

“You should take her to the opera,” Leliana says, coming up silently beside her. “She loves the opera.”

“My dear, I know,” Vivienne says calmly.

“Yes.” Leliana nods. “Yes, I believe you do. You are a good friend to her. I look after my friends, but I look after hers, too.” A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “I wish you both a wonderful time together.”

With that she leaves, returning to her tower and her birds to keep burying herself in the affairs of others. The poor dear.

Josephine appears from the castle doors, giving her assistant instructions until the very last minute. She’s a dark red figure in her new dress, the garment clinging to her hips, highlighting her form. Vivienne smiles to herself. She didn’t know her advice had been heeded.

She wishes she could have introduced her to Bastien. She wishes she could have sat listening to their debates, could have seen Josephine finally meet her equal at cards, could have known how highly they thought of one another, for surely they would have when she loves them both so much?

No use for regrets, no good staring back, but she takes her memories and the could-have-beens, fills the space in her chest where a hollow used to be and she moves, ever onward. Vivienne steps out in the late fall sun, waiting for her lady to join her.

There’s much to look forward to.