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rose_in_winterCharacters: Fenris, Mage Female Hawke, Sebastian Vael (Fenris/f!Hawke/Sebastian)
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks tosenmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.
Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Chapter index here.
In the ordinary course of things Hawke supposed it would have been appropriate to have hired a carriage to take her to the ball at Lady Merinfort's, but the lady's manor was just around the corner from her own, and Hawke could justify neither the bother nor the expense for that distance, especially since their part of Hightown was unbelievably crowded with people attempting to get to the party in question, and therefore it seemed unlikely that any of the gangs of thugs that regularly cropped up to annoy the various parts of Kirkwall would be out for blood tonight. As she walked swiftly past far too many carriages crowded into each other and jostling for position to no avail, she was pleased with her decision, even if the soft slippers that went with ger gown were much less comfortable for a walk than her boots.
Lady Merinfort's manor was half again the size of the Amell mansion, and judging by the masses of ivy clinging to its sides, it had sat in this very spot for decades. Hawke showed her invitation to the guards at the gate and was waved into the courtyard. Meticulously cleaned flagstone pathways wandered through a well-maintained garden, with tiny star-prick lanterns to guide guests to the front door. A servant took her light cloak and the pattens that had lifted her slippers and hems above the street's grime; another offered her the use of a retiring room. She checked her appearance briefly in the glass, and found it acceptable. The gown was one of a quartet her mother had ordered made for her shortly before her death, a soft deep gray that went well with her redhead's coloring. The sleeves and sash were layered with embroidery in the same gray of hawks in flight; she appreciated her mother's nod to the family name, even as she had sought to reclaim her birthright.
The servant pointed her toward a receiving line, where Lady Merinfort and several members of her family awaited guests. The matriarch in question was a woman a handspan shorter than Hawke's own meager height, gowned in hunter green, with iron-grey hair in an elaborate style. She looked Hawke over head to heels, through a pair of glasses she held to her eyes with an elaborately carved and inlaid wooden stick. "Lady Amell," she said coolly. "I look forward to our future discussions. Do enjoy yourself."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Merinfort." Hawke confined herself to that, assuming she couldn't make a mistake with a pleasant greeting, and made her way down the line, offering polite and insubstantial greetings to the Merinfort family.
A servant at the door confirmed her identity, and shouted into the ballroom, "Ariane Hawke, Lady Amell, the Champion of Kirkwall!"
Hawke fixed a polite smile on her face and reminded herself that each of those names and titles came with their own requirements. She recognized some people, those who had come to take tea with her mother or had been at the forefront of the crowd in the Keep when she dueled the Arishok. Some she knew by sight only from the markets or her visits to the Keep when the Viscount had ruled. A passing servant offered her a cup of wine and she accepted it to have something to do with her hands, but took only the smallest sip. She needed all her wits about her.
She scanned the room briefly, noting that almost everyone present was human. She hadn't expected many elves--the ones she saw in Hightown were usually trailing dutifully after a human employer--but surely there were some surfacer dwarves wealthy and influential enough to rate an invitation. She wondered whether their absence was due to their shorter stature being hidden behind taller human bodies, something more unsavory about Lady Merinfort, or something more unsavory about Hightown in general. Her mother had never commented on that--but her mother might never have noticed.
"Serah Hawke--I beg your pardon, Lady Amell," someone said from behind her. Hawke turned and saw Flora Harimann offering her a polite greeting. "I trust the evening finds you well?"
"Well enough, Lady Harimann," she said. Sebastian had told her that with Johane Harimann dead, Flora had taken over running the family's holdings, her father being overcome with both grief and shame at his wife's extracurricular activities and loss. "And yourself?"
"I am well, thank you." Flora smiled, and it almost reached her eyes. "I have not seen you at one of these gatherings before; is this your first?"
"Surely I didn't wear the wrong dress?" Hawke asked, falling back on her most reliable defender: her wit.
"Your dress is lovely," Flora said firmly. "I only meant to offer my company, and perhaps a word or two to the wise." She paused, her gaze thoughtful. "I am not your enemy, Champion," she murmured, low enough that only Hawke heard.
"My enemies don't tend to end well," Hawke said, with enough of an edge of the truth to it to make Flora blink once before mastering her expression. That had been unkind of her.
Flora recovered quickly. "I understand," she said, "and I do not intend to get on your bad side." The corner of her mouth quirked wryly. "Though I suppose my mother already burned and salted that ground. Your loyalty to your comrades is well-known."
Hawke lifted her cup to her lips to buy herself a moment to think. Flora had been lightning-quick to offer her apologies and her aid to Sebastian after her mother's death, and it was possible she was in earnest. It was also possible she had an ulterior motive as predictable as designs on a wedding ring from the future ruling Prince of Starkhaven--or that she was more devious than that. You burn your bridges too fast, her mother had told her, over and over, when she would fight with children in Lothering.
She chose her words carefully. "I am a little over-protective," she admitted, making herself laugh.
With a light hand against her elbow, Flora nudged her over near a perfectly competent, if uninspiring, tapestry depicting Sundermount (mysteriously empty of any Elven clans) and slightly out of the main pathway through the ballroom. She then kept up a light conversation sprinkled with charming laughter and the overall impression that Hawke was just the most entertaining companion in the room, while conveying an incredible amount of information about the other guests at the party--who was in debt to whom, who kept questionable business concerns in Lowtown, and who was known to have wandering hands. Hawke memorized it to check against Varric's notes later.
"You know an extraordinary amount," she said when Flora flagged down a passing servant to refresh her cup of wine, providing a break in the flood of information.
Flora smiled wryly. "As a young woman of good breeding whose objective is to acquire a husband at least as rich and influential as myself, knowledge is the best tool I have," she said. "I imagine that if you were to take me to your favorite tavern, you could tell me the same sort of facts about every regular in the room."
Hawke tried to picture Flora in the Hanged Man and failed catastrophically, but the point was sound. "You have me there," she admitted.
Flora lifted her chin slightly to indicate someone to Hawke's left. "Lord Alvanue would be an appropriate match, save that he mistreats his staff, his animals, and his younger sister," she murmured. "He also has designs on Starkhaven, as his father the Vicomte has an abundance of both sons and debts; he bribed a Chantry chronicler for the Vael family records and is trying to find an unmarried female cousin he can use. Pass that on to Sebastian, would you? He'll want to know--both about the bribe and the effort. But I have spoken with you long enough, and I must go mingle." She smiled faintly. "Good luck, Champion."
Hawke watched her melt into the crowd and then took up a watchful position with her back to a wall, observing people come and go, and which people gathered into tight knots of lingering companionship. She heard the servant at the door announce Sebastian and Varric's arrival, but both seemed to be busy with other people, or at least slowed by them.
She was contemplating inserting herself into whatever mischief Varric was planning when Finn Blackwood stopped in front of her. She forced herself not to reach for the dagger she had under her skirts when he bowed.
"Lady Amell," he murmured politely. "Champion." She wondered which title he found more attractive. "I fear we hit a stumbling block in our conversation when last we spoke, and the fault was mine. I hope you will consider this token of my respect, and allow me another chance." He straightened from his bow and offered her a small box, tied with a white silk ribbon edged in gold beading. From the size, the box could only be jewelry; Hawke recognized the wax seals that held the ribbon to the painted wooden sides of the box as belonging to one of the most exclusive jewelers in Hightown.
She didn't take the box. "I wonder," she said calmly, "what you think we could have to discuss after what you told me."
He frowned faintly; clearly this conversation was not going as he had planned. "I beg your pardon, Champion?"
A woman standing a few feet away glanced over, then raised her fan to pretend she wasn't avidly listening. Hawke ignored her and kept her eyes on Blackwood. Over his shoulder, she saw Sebastian approaching. "You insulted me to my face, told me I was untrustworthy, and treated me like a child." Over his other shoulder she saw a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to him watching them intently. She made his job easier by raising her voice. "I do not care to speak to you, now or ever again."
He grabbed her left wrist with his free hand, and Hawke froze. "Please," he said, low. "My father is furious with me for insulting you."
"Champion," Sebastian said coolly from behind Blackwood. "I do not know your companion."
"Prince Vael." Hawke tried to pull her hand free and Blackwood tightened his grip. Sebastian's eyes narrowed when he noticed. Hawke nonetheless made her obeisance to him as best she could under the circumstances. "I do not think you wish to know him."
The older man observing this little farce was looking thunderous, brows lowered and his mouth in a grim line. Hawke glanced at him to indicate her attention, then looked at the man holding her wrist. "Perhaps the rules have changed," she said, quite loudly enough to be overheard by everyone within ten feet, "but I was taught that a gentleman does not touch a lady without her permission, and you do not have mine, ser." She put extra emphasis on the address.
"It is Lord Blackwood to the likes of you," he hissed, but not quietly enough, and the man Hawke guessed to be his father started toward them.
"I see I gave you too much credit for manners," she snapped back. "Unhand me this instant or duel me at dawn--and lose."
"Your pardon, Champion," the older man said, his hand coming down with bruising force on Finn's shoulder. Hawke saw from the white of his knuckles that he gripped Finn's shoulder painfully, and the idiot let go of her wrist. She refused to rub away the red marks that showed clearly where her sleeve had slid up, and knew that several overly interested women nearby saw them from the way chatter began to spread out like ripples in a pond.
"Not granted," she said coldly.
"I understand." He faced her directly, which she respected.
"Champion," Sebastian said, a light stress on the title that indicated he chose that which she'd earned, "would you do me the courtesy of a stroll?"
"I would be honored, Prince Vael." She let him take her arm--he chose to put her on his right, where the fading finger-marks on her left wrist would be on display with her hand draped over his--and walked away from the Blackwoods.
Sebastian was perfectly correct and perfectly silent for several steps, while word of the contretemps spread through the guests. "Should I be prepared to be your second?" he asked when they reached a quiet corner.
Hawke laughed. "I wouldn't need a second or even my talents to duel that idiot," she said, knowing Sebastian would know what she meant. "But I do appreciate the offer, Your Highness." If she remembered her mother's attempts at protocol lessons correctly, that was the correct address, since he hadn't yet laid formal claim to his throne.
"Are you hurt?" Sebastian asked.
"Slightly sore and annoyed, but I'll be fine." She paused and cocked her head. "You held that question back on purpose."
"I did," he admitted. "I thought you'd answer me more honestly if I didn't make a fuss."
She was not sure if the insight or the trick was more annoying to her. "He's the one who told me I could be a suitable wife if I were Tranquil," she murmured, and under her hand, the muscles in Sebastian's arm tensed.
"That's against Chantry law," he said.
Hawke reminded herself firmly that a Hightown party was categorically not the place to fight Sebastian about Meredith's violations of Chantry law. "Yes," she said, but any further comments were interrupted by the arrival of their hostess.
"Lady Amell." Lady Merinfort inclined her head politely. "I was made aware of the unacceptable behavior of Lord Blackwood's son. I must apologize that you were importuned so under my roof, and I assure you that the offender has been removed."
"I can hardly expect everyone to like me all the time," Hawke answered lightly. "I think I'm doing well if some people like me a tenth of the time." She thought she saw the faintest crinkle of amusement at the corners of the lady's eyes. "I do appreciate your care," she added, trying to think what her mother would say. "I do not hold the actions of an uncouth boor against you." She infused her voice with as much sincerity as she could muster; it sounded strange and not her own, like she was play-acting at being someone else.
Lady Merinfort nodded. "Should your schedule permit," she said, "I would enjoy conversing with you later."
Sebastian smiled. "I think I am superfluous," he said. "Champion, if you don't mind, there's someone I should speak to."
"Of course, Prince," Hawke said, and felt again that little flinch, though his smile was as easy as ever when he took his leave of Lady Merinfort.
Chapter Fifteen
The lady surveyed her thoughtfully for a moment. "Perhaps this is a discussion for a more private location," she said. "The library is this way."
Hawke followed her, amused at the way the command was phrased. She was uncomfortably aware of the stares and whispers of the other guests as they went.
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks to
senmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Chapter index here.
In the ordinary course of things Hawke supposed it would have been appropriate to have hired a carriage to take her to the ball at Lady Merinfort's, but the lady's manor was just around the corner from her own, and Hawke could justify neither the bother nor the expense for that distance, especially since their part of Hightown was unbelievably crowded with people attempting to get to the party in question, and therefore it seemed unlikely that any of the gangs of thugs that regularly cropped up to annoy the various parts of Kirkwall would be out for blood tonight. As she walked swiftly past far too many carriages crowded into each other and jostling for position to no avail, she was pleased with her decision, even if the soft slippers that went with ger gown were much less comfortable for a walk than her boots.
Lady Merinfort's manor was half again the size of the Amell mansion, and judging by the masses of ivy clinging to its sides, it had sat in this very spot for decades. Hawke showed her invitation to the guards at the gate and was waved into the courtyard. Meticulously cleaned flagstone pathways wandered through a well-maintained garden, with tiny star-prick lanterns to guide guests to the front door. A servant took her light cloak and the pattens that had lifted her slippers and hems above the street's grime; another offered her the use of a retiring room. She checked her appearance briefly in the glass, and found it acceptable. The gown was one of a quartet her mother had ordered made for her shortly before her death, a soft deep gray that went well with her redhead's coloring. The sleeves and sash were layered with embroidery in the same gray of hawks in flight; she appreciated her mother's nod to the family name, even as she had sought to reclaim her birthright.
The servant pointed her toward a receiving line, where Lady Merinfort and several members of her family awaited guests. The matriarch in question was a woman a handspan shorter than Hawke's own meager height, gowned in hunter green, with iron-grey hair in an elaborate style. She looked Hawke over head to heels, through a pair of glasses she held to her eyes with an elaborately carved and inlaid wooden stick. "Lady Amell," she said coolly. "I look forward to our future discussions. Do enjoy yourself."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Merinfort." Hawke confined herself to that, assuming she couldn't make a mistake with a pleasant greeting, and made her way down the line, offering polite and insubstantial greetings to the Merinfort family.
A servant at the door confirmed her identity, and shouted into the ballroom, "Ariane Hawke, Lady Amell, the Champion of Kirkwall!"
Hawke fixed a polite smile on her face and reminded herself that each of those names and titles came with their own requirements. She recognized some people, those who had come to take tea with her mother or had been at the forefront of the crowd in the Keep when she dueled the Arishok. Some she knew by sight only from the markets or her visits to the Keep when the Viscount had ruled. A passing servant offered her a cup of wine and she accepted it to have something to do with her hands, but took only the smallest sip. She needed all her wits about her.
She scanned the room briefly, noting that almost everyone present was human. She hadn't expected many elves--the ones she saw in Hightown were usually trailing dutifully after a human employer--but surely there were some surfacer dwarves wealthy and influential enough to rate an invitation. She wondered whether their absence was due to their shorter stature being hidden behind taller human bodies, something more unsavory about Lady Merinfort, or something more unsavory about Hightown in general. Her mother had never commented on that--but her mother might never have noticed.
"Serah Hawke--I beg your pardon, Lady Amell," someone said from behind her. Hawke turned and saw Flora Harimann offering her a polite greeting. "I trust the evening finds you well?"
"Well enough, Lady Harimann," she said. Sebastian had told her that with Johane Harimann dead, Flora had taken over running the family's holdings, her father being overcome with both grief and shame at his wife's extracurricular activities and loss. "And yourself?"
"I am well, thank you." Flora smiled, and it almost reached her eyes. "I have not seen you at one of these gatherings before; is this your first?"
"Surely I didn't wear the wrong dress?" Hawke asked, falling back on her most reliable defender: her wit.
"Your dress is lovely," Flora said firmly. "I only meant to offer my company, and perhaps a word or two to the wise." She paused, her gaze thoughtful. "I am not your enemy, Champion," she murmured, low enough that only Hawke heard.
"My enemies don't tend to end well," Hawke said, with enough of an edge of the truth to it to make Flora blink once before mastering her expression. That had been unkind of her.
Flora recovered quickly. "I understand," she said, "and I do not intend to get on your bad side." The corner of her mouth quirked wryly. "Though I suppose my mother already burned and salted that ground. Your loyalty to your comrades is well-known."
Hawke lifted her cup to her lips to buy herself a moment to think. Flora had been lightning-quick to offer her apologies and her aid to Sebastian after her mother's death, and it was possible she was in earnest. It was also possible she had an ulterior motive as predictable as designs on a wedding ring from the future ruling Prince of Starkhaven--or that she was more devious than that. You burn your bridges too fast, her mother had told her, over and over, when she would fight with children in Lothering.
She chose her words carefully. "I am a little over-protective," she admitted, making herself laugh.
With a light hand against her elbow, Flora nudged her over near a perfectly competent, if uninspiring, tapestry depicting Sundermount (mysteriously empty of any Elven clans) and slightly out of the main pathway through the ballroom. She then kept up a light conversation sprinkled with charming laughter and the overall impression that Hawke was just the most entertaining companion in the room, while conveying an incredible amount of information about the other guests at the party--who was in debt to whom, who kept questionable business concerns in Lowtown, and who was known to have wandering hands. Hawke memorized it to check against Varric's notes later.
"You know an extraordinary amount," she said when Flora flagged down a passing servant to refresh her cup of wine, providing a break in the flood of information.
Flora smiled wryly. "As a young woman of good breeding whose objective is to acquire a husband at least as rich and influential as myself, knowledge is the best tool I have," she said. "I imagine that if you were to take me to your favorite tavern, you could tell me the same sort of facts about every regular in the room."
Hawke tried to picture Flora in the Hanged Man and failed catastrophically, but the point was sound. "You have me there," she admitted.
Flora lifted her chin slightly to indicate someone to Hawke's left. "Lord Alvanue would be an appropriate match, save that he mistreats his staff, his animals, and his younger sister," she murmured. "He also has designs on Starkhaven, as his father the Vicomte has an abundance of both sons and debts; he bribed a Chantry chronicler for the Vael family records and is trying to find an unmarried female cousin he can use. Pass that on to Sebastian, would you? He'll want to know--both about the bribe and the effort. But I have spoken with you long enough, and I must go mingle." She smiled faintly. "Good luck, Champion."
Hawke watched her melt into the crowd and then took up a watchful position with her back to a wall, observing people come and go, and which people gathered into tight knots of lingering companionship. She heard the servant at the door announce Sebastian and Varric's arrival, but both seemed to be busy with other people, or at least slowed by them.
She was contemplating inserting herself into whatever mischief Varric was planning when Finn Blackwood stopped in front of her. She forced herself not to reach for the dagger she had under her skirts when he bowed.
"Lady Amell," he murmured politely. "Champion." She wondered which title he found more attractive. "I fear we hit a stumbling block in our conversation when last we spoke, and the fault was mine. I hope you will consider this token of my respect, and allow me another chance." He straightened from his bow and offered her a small box, tied with a white silk ribbon edged in gold beading. From the size, the box could only be jewelry; Hawke recognized the wax seals that held the ribbon to the painted wooden sides of the box as belonging to one of the most exclusive jewelers in Hightown.
She didn't take the box. "I wonder," she said calmly, "what you think we could have to discuss after what you told me."
He frowned faintly; clearly this conversation was not going as he had planned. "I beg your pardon, Champion?"
A woman standing a few feet away glanced over, then raised her fan to pretend she wasn't avidly listening. Hawke ignored her and kept her eyes on Blackwood. Over his shoulder, she saw Sebastian approaching. "You insulted me to my face, told me I was untrustworthy, and treated me like a child." Over his other shoulder she saw a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to him watching them intently. She made his job easier by raising her voice. "I do not care to speak to you, now or ever again."
He grabbed her left wrist with his free hand, and Hawke froze. "Please," he said, low. "My father is furious with me for insulting you."
"Champion," Sebastian said coolly from behind Blackwood. "I do not know your companion."
"Prince Vael." Hawke tried to pull her hand free and Blackwood tightened his grip. Sebastian's eyes narrowed when he noticed. Hawke nonetheless made her obeisance to him as best she could under the circumstances. "I do not think you wish to know him."
The older man observing this little farce was looking thunderous, brows lowered and his mouth in a grim line. Hawke glanced at him to indicate her attention, then looked at the man holding her wrist. "Perhaps the rules have changed," she said, quite loudly enough to be overheard by everyone within ten feet, "but I was taught that a gentleman does not touch a lady without her permission, and you do not have mine, ser." She put extra emphasis on the address.
"It is Lord Blackwood to the likes of you," he hissed, but not quietly enough, and the man Hawke guessed to be his father started toward them.
"I see I gave you too much credit for manners," she snapped back. "Unhand me this instant or duel me at dawn--and lose."
"Your pardon, Champion," the older man said, his hand coming down with bruising force on Finn's shoulder. Hawke saw from the white of his knuckles that he gripped Finn's shoulder painfully, and the idiot let go of her wrist. She refused to rub away the red marks that showed clearly where her sleeve had slid up, and knew that several overly interested women nearby saw them from the way chatter began to spread out like ripples in a pond.
"Not granted," she said coldly.
"I understand." He faced her directly, which she respected.
"Champion," Sebastian said, a light stress on the title that indicated he chose that which she'd earned, "would you do me the courtesy of a stroll?"
"I would be honored, Prince Vael." She let him take her arm--he chose to put her on his right, where the fading finger-marks on her left wrist would be on display with her hand draped over his--and walked away from the Blackwoods.
Sebastian was perfectly correct and perfectly silent for several steps, while word of the contretemps spread through the guests. "Should I be prepared to be your second?" he asked when they reached a quiet corner.
Hawke laughed. "I wouldn't need a second or even my talents to duel that idiot," she said, knowing Sebastian would know what she meant. "But I do appreciate the offer, Your Highness." If she remembered her mother's attempts at protocol lessons correctly, that was the correct address, since he hadn't yet laid formal claim to his throne.
"Are you hurt?" Sebastian asked.
"Slightly sore and annoyed, but I'll be fine." She paused and cocked her head. "You held that question back on purpose."
"I did," he admitted. "I thought you'd answer me more honestly if I didn't make a fuss."
She was not sure if the insight or the trick was more annoying to her. "He's the one who told me I could be a suitable wife if I were Tranquil," she murmured, and under her hand, the muscles in Sebastian's arm tensed.
"That's against Chantry law," he said.
Hawke reminded herself firmly that a Hightown party was categorically not the place to fight Sebastian about Meredith's violations of Chantry law. "Yes," she said, but any further comments were interrupted by the arrival of their hostess.
"Lady Amell." Lady Merinfort inclined her head politely. "I was made aware of the unacceptable behavior of Lord Blackwood's son. I must apologize that you were importuned so under my roof, and I assure you that the offender has been removed."
"I can hardly expect everyone to like me all the time," Hawke answered lightly. "I think I'm doing well if some people like me a tenth of the time." She thought she saw the faintest crinkle of amusement at the corners of the lady's eyes. "I do appreciate your care," she added, trying to think what her mother would say. "I do not hold the actions of an uncouth boor against you." She infused her voice with as much sincerity as she could muster; it sounded strange and not her own, like she was play-acting at being someone else.
Lady Merinfort nodded. "Should your schedule permit," she said, "I would enjoy conversing with you later."
Sebastian smiled. "I think I am superfluous," he said. "Champion, if you don't mind, there's someone I should speak to."
"Of course, Prince," Hawke said, and felt again that little flinch, though his smile was as easy as ever when he took his leave of Lady Merinfort.
Chapter Fifteen
The lady surveyed her thoughtfully for a moment. "Perhaps this is a discussion for a more private location," she said. "The library is this way."
Hawke followed her, amused at the way the command was phrased. She was uncomfortably aware of the stares and whispers of the other guests as they went.