Yes, she thinks, her back straightening under that scrutiny; if only his hair a little longer, she might never have left the war camp. It is perhaps this pricking of old instincts that betrays her, some of the cultivated deference with which she's carefully navigated Kirkwall dissipating and a hint of irritation marring her own prettily arranged features.

"I had not seen its like," she says, more evenly than that flare of spirit behind her steady gaze might have suggested she would. "You must forgive my wariness, when one finds such strangeness about every corner in Thedas."

Like him, lurking about this corner, being strange.

(And the most like home of anything; her dress is plain but the jet locket at her throat is not, nor the diamond on her hand, and she holds herself as a lady who doesn't appreciate being questioned rather than a chastened maid.)