"What would he assume? I don't even know you." Alan pats him on the shoulder, sympathetically, finally stops tugging at his arms. "We can go to the wall. Anything you want. It's your party."

It's not Jamie's party, or the Inquisition's, or Starkhaven's, or any of it. But the wall has an interesting little tiled pattern of snoufleurs and hyenas that he's happy enough to inspect. It's quite delicate work.

A young human woman — blonde, round, with a smattering of pox scars half-hidden under powder — titters excitedly and sweeps her way over towards them both. She's dressed in the golden cloth of a serving girl, fancy against the kitchen staff's uniforms, but plain enough to blend into the wallpaper whenever someone important comes along. The two of them don't qualify.

She extends a hand theatrically to Jamie, batting her eyes. Her nails are filed sharp.

"Didn't hear you say Starkhaven, did I, lad?" It's a terrible impression of the accent, but as it drops away her voice is high and sweet; the joke's clearly meant at her own expense. "My cousin lives there now, her and her fancy new husband. Ooh, but it sounds so grand, is there really marble in the streets?"