"She's from the abbey," Myr says of the wraith, feigning calm through gritted teeth. (Gritted half to keep his gorge from rising at the scent and what it evokes. At least that one he had plenty of time to get used to back at home.) "Where I got my eyes back. I s'pose she's reason to be angry at me."

A mob recently. Myr's got no certain knowledge of what that might be, but has an inkling; he hadn't heard of Benedict coming to any grief inside Kirkwall itself. And the screaming peasants mobbing him aren't dressed like they bubbled up from Darktown--

Unaccountably his vision dims--he freezes a moment in heart-clutching alarm--as a pair of hands reach from the Fade to fold over his eyes. The rest of their owner materializes in short order: A woman with braided hair who's old and young at once, crone and maiden oddly overlaid. (Her smile is all the latter, mischievous and bright.) "We all do," Revered Mother Alvar says. "But I can't imagine being cruel to you even now."