Violet Hawke browsed the shelves of the dry goods shop in the town of Milton Hill, weighing the length of the walk home against how soon she wanted to return. Flour was heavy, but she had a weakness for fresh bread. Caught up in her calculations, she was startled when the shop door banged open behind her, followed by the sound of angry voices. There were at least three of them, heading straight towards her with a clatter of heavy footsteps. She stiffened, fighting the urge to use her staff. Magic might bring the whole town down on her; it was better to avoid suspicion if at all possible. Should she try to talk her way out of this, or make a run for it?

Before she'd decided on an approach the men were intercepted by the shopkeeper, who greeted them kindly but firmly, asking their business. Hawke sidled around the edge of the wooden shelves, putting the heavy furniture between herself and the others before turning to look. Laborers, if you believed their rough clothes and dirty boots — but who were they really? She'd certainly never seen them before. Milton Hill was small, but situated as it was right on the Minanter it saw a fair amount of traffic. She considered slipping behind the counter and through the door to Mistress Hendry's living quarters — could she do it fast enough to make a clean getaway? Before she could decide, the woman led the strangers to the opposite side of the shop. Vi stopped to listen and realized the argument had been over a piece of broken farm equipment. The men's voices grew calmer as Margaret Hendry led them towards the hinges and other hardware. None of them so much as glanced at her.

They hadn't been looking for Hawke at all.

She sucked in a slow, deliberate breath before moving as casually as possible back in the direction of the flour.

Later, as Mistress Hendry measured and wrapped up her purchases, she fidgeted impatiently. Usually Vi enjoyed her visits to the shop — Margaret Hendry was good natured woman with a flair for storytelling — but today she had a hard time staying focused on her words. The encounter earlier had thrown her; she was getting as suspicious and antsy as Fenris.

"And how's that elf of yours?" Mistress Hendry asked, cutting through Hawke's thoughts almost as if she'd heard them.

He's not my elf. Vi's lips tightened, but she forced them into a smile. "He's fine. We've finally finished re-shingling the roof."

"You've certainly been giving that sad old place some much needed attention. Jack Faulkner has never been so lucky as when you showed up to rent his Mam's cottage," the shopkeeper beamed. "No one'd set foot in the place for years."

"Except the mice," said Vi. "My old dog would have had quite a time chasing them all out." Her smile turned wistful. Leaving Penny behind had been hard. But she was getting so old; far better the hound spend her golden years by Aveline's hearth than on the run, sleeping on the cold ground. Besides, mabari were rare in the Free Marches, and more than a little conspicuous.

"But," she said, pulling her thoughts together with an effort, "with the pests cleaned out and the roof repaired, it should be snug enough to get us through the winter." She hoped. At least the place was cheap — the landlord was a local farmer, and she'd managed to negotiate a significantly reduced rent in exchange for the work they were doing to fix the house up.

"Oh, you've plenty of time yet," said Mistress Hendry with a wave of her hand. "The rain won't really start 'til Firstfall this far north. And the mountains hold back the worst of the storms, in any case."

"That's one thing I won't miss about Ferelden!" Hawke lied with a smile. Fereldans were common enough after the Blight that she'd decided not to try to hide her heritage. She just neglected to mention the time she'd spent in Kirkwall. "Six months of winter, and another three of mud." She smiled as she gathered up her packages. "See you in a week or so."

"I'll be heading out to Ansburg in a few weeks," said Mistress Hendry. "But 'til then, I'll be here. Bring that handsome elf with you next time. Such lovely manners he has."

Vi managed not to snort audibly until she was out on the street.

#

She squinted as she came out from under the orchard trees along the border of the Faulkner farm, the late afternoon sun hot on her face. She was still grimacing over Margaret Hendry's appreciation for Fenris' manners. He'd always been polite enough in town, it was true. But his temper had never been placid under the best of circumstances, and lately he'd been snappish and irritable. Life in the country just didn't suit him. They'd fought the night before, when she'd tried to persuade him — again — to take a break and get away for a while. He could easily travel downriver to Ansburg, or perhaps even north to Antiva. But however often she suggested it, he always refused — insisting he had a job to do. Violet couldn't bring herself to tell him she'd welcome the chance to be left alone for a little while. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. Nor could she fault him for clinging to her for purpose, though she did sometimes wonder if it was the best idea for either of them. She reminded herself she was lucky he wanted to be around her at all, after everything that had happened.

In the end, there were other reasons not to push him away. Fenris was nearly as hunted as she… and far more recognizable. In the unassuming clothes of a farm girl, her fair hair darkened with walnut husks, no one questioned Violet's presence in Milton Hill. Small town life was as familiar to her as an old set of clothes, while Fenris' striking appearance invited questions. But she couldn't leave him alone to face the consequences of what had happened in Kirkwall — not when it had been her fault. Besides, she had no intentions of standing idly by if more Tevinter magisters came calling. As a pair, they could defend themselves better… even if on low-risk occasions she preferred to leave him behind.

Concerns about Fenris aside, she knew the cottage had been a lucky find. The house was set back several miles from the main road, which meant few travelers came past. The locals went about their business — mostly farming — and didn't mix much with their neighbors. But the town was reachable by foot and featured a small river port. Merchants traveling the Minanter between Ansburg and Starkhaven often stopped in for a pint and a proper bed before re-boarding the riverboat on their way to one of the larger towns, bearing news as well as merchandise. It was an ideal location — out of the way without being entirely out of touch. So here they were, living quietly and frugally in the Breadbasket of the Free Marches, while outside the world searched for the infamous Hawke.

When she wasn't up fixing roof or walking to the village, Vi spent her daylight hours in the garden; she'd dug up half the yard, transplanting and sowing seeds, and had managed to mostly rescue what had once been an extensive herb garden from tangling weeds and neglect. An occasional smile crossed her lips as she wondered what the residents of Kirkwall would think about the scion of the Amell family up to her elbows in the dirt. With all the exercise she was sleeping well — far better than she ever had in Kirkwall.

Climbing the cottage steps, she carefully balanced her packages, freeing one hand just enough to turn the knob on the door. Pushing it open, she stepped inside. The path had been empty behind her — so, squinting slightly in concentration, she used a bit of force magic to nudge the door closed.

"Violet?" called a gravelly voice, just before Fenris poked his head out of the front room. He always seemed to feel it when she used magic. Or maybe he'd just heard the door close.

It was still strange to hear him call her by her first name, but she kind of liked it. Varric had started the trend of calling her Hawke, but she'd always felt a bit like he must be looking for her father. Still, it was convenient now that so few people in Kirkwall had ever known her full name.

Fenris looked a bit grim; she realized with a pang that they hadn't spoken since last night. She tried to keep her voice light and casual.

"It's me, safe and sound and in one piece." The cottage was not large — it was only a few steps to reach the doorway where he stood.

"I don't suppose there's wine in any of those packages?" He seemed willing to match her tone. Her answering smile was partly one of relief.

"Trust me for that." She tipped the topmost parcel toward him slightly, gesturing with her not-quite-free hand. He reached up and took it from her.

"You might want to open a bottle — we've got a letter," she said. "I'll be back as soon as I've put some of these things away and started dinner."

#

Letters from Varric were a complicated matter. He insisted he didn't want to know exactly where they were; so one of his contacts would bring a package from Kirkwall to a tavern in Ansburg addressed to one Messere Maurevar. It was then up to Vi to convince or pay a farmer or merchant who traveled that way to pick up the letters, or to go herself. Vi's brother Maurevar, she explained to her hired messengers, was head clerk to a merchant and had been dragged off on a voyage to Seheron.

Should the courier prove nosey and peek into the package, they would find a very official looking letter from one Varric Tethras, author, thanking Messere Maurevar for his kind inquiries and offering in reply a few pages from the next chapter of his forthcoming novel Kestrel in Flight. Varric hid or encoded whatever information he wished Vi and Fenris to have into the body of the chapter.

She wasn't sure which he enjoyed more, the challenge of hiding information in the frame of the story, or forcing them to actually read one of his novels — a thing both of them had always adamantly refused to do. Honestly, she was unconvinced that this final layer of deception was necessary… or even particularly deceptive. Kestrel? Really? she thought for the twentieth time as she added vegetables and water to the chicken she'd been browning. She loved to bake but had never particularly enjoyed cooking; perhaps Fenris was so cross because he was tired of soup. If that was the case, he could do some cooking himself… though she had a hard time imagining he would. He might appreciate the finer things, but not enough to learn to reproduce them on his own. She smiled into the pot as she stirred. He saved his energy for what was important. She could respect that.

By the time she returned to the front room, Fenris had opened the wine and poured her half a glass, setting it on the low table between the armchairs. He had returned to his reading, his own glass cradled in his palm. A glance told her he was buried in his well-worn copy of the Chant. Benedictions, if she wasn't mistaken.

She settled into the other armchair and took a sip of her wine before cracking the wax seal on the letter. She leafed through the pages as quickly as she could. This month's installment was a lurid account of Candy Pentagram and Sister Songbird and their adventures through the Blooming Orchid in pursuit of one blond vixen named Kestrel. They found and spoke to many interesting people, but none of them had, alas, turned out to know anything about the lady they sought. Eventually they gave up the search and boarded a ship for Antiva.

"Really, it's like he isn't even trying," she said, tossing the pages onto the table. They skidded to a stop within an inch of Fenris' fingers. He didn't so much as twitch.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"I'm not telling," she said, taking a gulp of her wine. It was drinkable, though naturally not up to the standards of Fenris' old cellar in Kirkwall. She might be relatively well off even now, but she wasn't going to waste her money on wines like that, even if she could get them in Milton Hill… which she decidedly could not.

"I'm not going to suffer alone," she continued. "You have to read it yourself. Do you really think he'll publish these someday?"

"Unfortunately, I have little doubt of it," said Fenris, reluctantly closing his book and picking up the papers.

"Isabela might have helped him this time. His prose is even more purple than usual," she said.

She sat back and watched Fenris read, tracing his progress by the lift or furrow of his eyebrows.

#

Eventually he set down the papers with a grunt. "So the Seekers have been looking for you in Kirkwall."

"That's what I took it to mean, yes."

"It is good that we left Antiva City."

"I miss Isabela and her… entertaining companions, but I agree — it's better we didn't stay. The Seekers aren't likely to be looking for us out here in the middle of nowhere. Though we should probably avoid Ansburg for a bit, just to be safe."

"The last part, though," said Fenris.

"You noticed too? So much emphasis on how everyone was gone and the coast was clear. I almost thought he was inviting us back."

Fenris looked about to reply, but instead turned his head, listening. Vi set down her wine and stepped out into the hall, catching up her staff on the way. She could have sworn — yes, there it was again, a bit louder this time. The tapping came from the back door. She moved quietly to the kitchen at the back of the house, her bare feet making hardly any sound on the worn floorboards. She put her ear close to the door, listening. In the hallway, Fenris was buckling on his gauntlets with a scowl. Once his last buckle was fastened and she'd heard nothing from outside but the shuffling of a single pair of feet, Vi took a deep breath.

"Who is it?" she said through the door.

"It's Maddy," said a young, anxious voice.

"Maddy?" echoed Vi, turning the lock and pulling the door wide to reveal the landlord's daughter. Maddy, or more properly Madeline, was just fourteen; she was out of breath and her reddish blonde hair was falling out of its customary braid. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Serrah — we're all okay, thank you. It's just… I thought you should know." She looked back over her shoulder, but there was no one there that Vi could see. "There's a man, a stranger, bothering people in the neighborhood. He was just up at the farmhouse — Da found him lurking under the windows when he came home from market. He was looking for someone, he said, and he wouldn't go away. We had to set the dogs on him."

"I see," she said, exchanging a look with Fenris. "Did he go after that?"

"Maybe not far. He seemed very upset."

"Then you certainly shouldn't be out alone. Why don't you come inside and —"

"Oh no, Serrah, I have to get back. My parents don't know I've gone. I just… I wanted you to know. He was…" She bit her lip. "He was asking for Hawke."

"I'll go." Fenris didn't wait for a response; he simply shouldered his way past the girl and out into the growing dusk.

"Maddy," said Vi gravely, "why did you think we should know that?"

The girl flushed and looked down.

"When Father brought the letter for your brother that time — he said it was from Varric Tethras. His stories about Hawke are famous. There's an elf with tattoos in them, and…" She looked up warily. "When you let your hair grow out, it's almost blonde underneath. Just like Hawke's."

Vi bit back a curse. Instead, she smiled at the girl. "Aren't you a little young to be reading Ser Tethras' books?"

The girl dimpled. "My cousin from Ansburg lends me her copies," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "My parents don't know; I keep them hidden under the mattress."

"Well, if you can keep your clever observations to yourself, I won't say a word. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, Serrah."

"Then run on home — quick as you can, before someone misses you."

The smile dropped from Vi's face as she watched the girl scamper away into the orchard. They were going to have to move on again. And after she'd spent all that time replanting the garden, too.