There's an old joke.

Not the oldest in the room — certainly not the best. There's an old joke, sort of shit, and it goes: When you shoot love's arrow, aim for the knee. See your intended doesn't stray.

In grim taste then. No better now, limping past wire with dull intention, and altogether too much practice. It had been a long walk from the sunless lands. It's been a long walk from that room.

She tips her head to Bastien,

"You were led astray," Less dry than distracted; she doesn't bother to indicate herself. It takes four to agree to a plan, only one need propose it. No purpose to burning the lot of them, and bullishness will be believed. "Better we were not surprised of this later."

Mme. Fitcher made quick work of that maleficar. There are only so many who can; precious few among their ranks. Fitcher has too made work of Athessa, and that's —

That's good. The twist of her mouth may only be the wound, can only be the wound. She's discreet, when she watches the girl shiver. The tilt of her eyes may only be the wound, can only be the wound,

"Should have burned it."

The corpse. Quiet, because it isn't a true suggestion. Wouldn't do much in the first place. She pushes a breath over her shoulder, to the hall, and to clear-headed, light-footed Bastien. A year ago it wouldn't have been a question: Destroy the evidence, however flimsy its use. There's little to be done beside a noble son's testimony, but even so,

But Kirkwall is waiting. But no one strays.