[ Whether or not Byerly had written of it, whoever had read those words had decided Alexandrie would not do the same. She knows some letters had been lost— or “lost”— now, had gone back and started looking through the record of her correspondence after the night she’d discovered what was truly ailing her father, but not which or how many.

Bastien’s arm is taken with exaggerated delicacy and demure delight—her half of the pantomime—and her fingers answer the question posed by his eyebrow on the way: Unknown. Being careful. At the question he’d posed aloud her countenance turns grave and a little sorrowful, a little resigned. ]

Living, and I thank Andraste for it, but unchanged. He took the winter very poorly, rallied enough in late spring to give us hope, but a few weeks before the early harvests… [ A wan smile, a shrug of her shoulder, ] again to bed. And still, we do not know what ails him.

[ If the movement of her fingers’ earlier answer had not been all that definitive, this one—

Blood magic. ]