[ Wren hasn’t curtsied in at least thirty years, and she doesn’t intend to begin again now. But a limp-wristed sweep of an arm implies its vague association. ]

I do aim for nostalgia. [ Dryly. She presses it out to him: Wine, some Antivan thing, cloying as the words that must have accompanied its donation. ] Even brought the Fereldens, for my lord's comfort of home.

[ A loose gesture to the ceiling. They’re up there. Somewhere. Lurking — alongside with the lists, the letters announcing that home's comforts rapidly draw closer. ]

I am afraid that I could not arrange the poisoned madwoman upon such short notice, but the night is young yet.