Morrigan would allow that it was a fine party, as befitted de Fer’s status. Tonight, however, she had little appetite for the cyanide taste of Orlesian frivolity.
The evening had left her with little hope for the so-called Herald of Andraste. Whatever had transpired in the cold heart of the Frostbacks on that fateful day, she was quite certain that long-dead Andraste had no hand in it, and the notion that the nascent Inquisition should so easily stumble upon a divine avatar in its moment of need was too convenient by far to be credited. Thus, from the outset, only two possibilities had seemed plausible: either their Herald was a gullible fool innocent to his own puppet-strings, or a knowing accomplice to the deceit.
Moreover, ere the incipience of the Conclave, the late Divine’s conspiracy had already been well underway. That much was beyond speculation: the Left and Right Hands had been hard at work for more than a year gathering the pieces necessary to found Justinia’s new Inquisition, albeit without great success, so far as Morrigan could discern. Their less than creative efforts to select an Inquisitor had proven fruitless, with the Hero of Ferelden and Champion of Kirkwall both eluding their grasp, and any alliances they had struck were so insignificant as to go entirely unnoticed, if they had struck any at all. Still, Morrigan could not fault them for lack of industry; the alacrity with which they had regained their footing after the death of their Divine was still further proof of it.
Regrettably, she had yet to see any evidence that the man they purported to be Andraste’s chosen, one Ilya Snow, had the capacity to orchestrate such a conspiracy. Leliana must have thought him capable enough to send him into the lion’s den alone without being devoured alive, and indeed, Snow’s handling of the Marquis’ abortive duel and his negotiation with de Fer had been passably diplomatic.
Yet the intervening hours had demonstrated naught but his talent for idle chatter and polite flirtations. As soon as de Fer had quit his company, a gaggle of nobles had swarmed him like flies, pathetically eager to claim a scandalous firsthand account of the heretic. (Morrigan supposed she could not judge them too harshly: although it was not a hunger for clout or superstitious titillation that had drawn her to the man, she could not deny her own curiosity about him.) The demure tolerance with which he had endured these attentions made it difficult to imagine any great cunning behind that bashful smile. Her own patience had certainly begun to wear thin.
Morrigan had hoped that fate would allow her an opening to approach him, but if it did not mean to cooperate, then she would contrive her own. She alighted from her perch on the wall above Snow to flutter across the room in search of an appropriate victim.
The moth was among the most useful shapes in her repertoire, so small and subtle as to be entirely unnoticed by even the sharpest observer, yet agile enough to allow her to traverse a room with in the space of a few breaths. An opportunity quickly presented himself: the young scion of the wealthy Géroux family, whose nervous temperament and trembling hands she recalled from a past visit to the court. That was, of course, before his family had claimed the deed to a new country estate and begun to intimate sympathies towards Celene’s intolerable cousin. If Morrigan was to claim a victim for sake of her own convenience, she might as well make it a politically profitable one.
With expert precision, her delicate wings brought her to rest on the eye-hole of Géroux’s mask, before she crawled inside to make a nuisance of herself scurrying and fluttering against his eye. Beneath her body’s feet, she sensed him shudder and then cry out in disgust and panic. A glass shattered loudly against the marble floor a moment before his mask was torn free. Morrigan darted away as quickly as she had come, leaving him to bat frantically at his face as gasps and laughter spread across the crowd.
In the midst of the sudden clamor, she was pleased to see Snow seize the opportunity to slip out of the ballroom and onto one of the grand balconies. Perhaps the blood-sports of the Great Game held little interest for him, or perhaps he had grown weary of the crass fawning and fascination of the nobles, after all. In either case, it was just the opening Morrigan had intended.
Only the moonlight and the lingering scent of tobacco joined them on the balcony — although she, of course, remained yet unseen. Her quarry strolled lazily towards the balcony’s edge, then let his elbows rest on the stone railing, with a half-full glass of champagne held loosely over the drop below and the breeze rustling in his hair. The vista was fittingly breathtaking: manicured gardens stretched out beneath the Ghislain manor, the moonlight reflected serenely in pools decorated with rare and terribly expensive fish. In the distance, one could almost make out the famous blessed orchards where they blurred into the hills on the horizon.
Morrigan allowed the moment to stretch on as long as she dared, before she allowed the insect’s fragile body to unfurl into a more familiar shape. She came to rest a few feet behind him — a minor risk, if any eyes had not turned towards the petty disaster unfolding inside, but one she judged worthwhile for the chance to unsettle him.
“What a surprise,” she announced lightly, “to find a declared heretic in attendance at such a rarefied affair — even one with a title so august as the ‘Herald of Andraste.’”
Morrigan expected him to startle at the sound of her voice, or at least to stiffen in surprise. His head did turn sharply, at first, but his posture was quite nonchalant as his body followed suit. Although his eyes were narrowed as they met hers, a curious smile followed a moment after.
It was her first opportunity to examine his face from a conventional angle, rather than as a fly (or rather, a moth) on the wall. Snow was more handsome than she had expected, with soft eyes and pale eyelashes at odds with his pronounced nose and brows. He was clean-shaven, but a silvery cast across his jaw showed where his stubble had already begun to regrow. Worn on a large mouth, even that slight smile illuminated the whole of his face, and stood in a pleasant tension with the grim scars carved across his nose and forehead. If Morrigan were to choose a folk hero to capture the hearts and imagination of a credulous public, he might look quite like this. If the man had half as much wit as he seemed to have charm, then they had chosen their ‘herald’ well.
Snow’s glance over her was quick as he offered a polite bow. Regardless of her own lack of invitation, Morrigan was dressed — one might say adequately for the occasion, with a wide-necked gown of black samite whose simplicity left it just a shade away from an insult to their host. Her hair was tied up, and a heavy ruby pendant rested below her collarbone as the sole interruption to the bare skin of her neck and décolletage. Like the man before her, she wore no mask. His eyes did not linger beyond her face; the chances of his company being even sufferable would have been quite dismal, had he failed such a low hurdle as that.
“The Inquisition was honored to receive Madame Vivienne's invitation,” Snow replied, then went on wryly: "These days, most I myself receive are far less cordial, and come with reassurances that I shall receive a fair trial and a swift end."
So, he would not so easily take her bait, and succumbed to neither protest nor posturing at her goading. There was another glimmer of promise, however dull. “’Tis a wonder that you should brave such dangers to make an appearance nonetheless — and linger even after one attempt on your life,” here, Morrigan allowed a note of amusement to broach her voice, “however half-hearted. You must think very highly of Madame Vivienne.”
Snow laughed lightly, with an earnestness quite apart from the coy and carefully-measured doses of mirth that ruled most conversation at an affair such as this. It made a refreshing contrast. “I might have instead returned to Haven to wait for the sky to fall, I suppose, but I thought this inquiry might be a more productive use of my time. And, mercifully, the danger has proven survivable thus far.”
Despite his apparent confidence, he had an easy and open mien that managed to effect an air of genial humility rather than contempt or arrogance. Wherever had Leliana found the man? Were it not for his impeccable manners, Morrigan might have suspected he had been retrieved from some farmyard deep in the Marches, with a plough or a newborn lamb in hand. And yet Snow had seemed remarkably at ease throughout his evening in the vipers’ pit, even when his life had been threatened outright, if only nominally.
Morrigan arched an eyebrow. “One wonders how productive an evening spent indulging in fine wine and the attentions of drunken nobles could be.” That was perfectly unfair of her, of course. In the several hours she had watched him since de Fer left his side, Snow had not yet emptied his glass, and had acknowledged the velvet-gloved touches against his wrists and sleeves not even once. If his motive were debauchery, his attempt at indulging it was going disastrously. But the falsity of the provocation was the very point. “Or was it Andraste’s holy wish that you enjoy as much of Orlais’ hospitality as you can, ere your infamy and fortunes wane?”
Snow had lifted the rim of the glass to his mouth, but lowered it without taking a sip as his smile slowly spread. He leaned back, resting his hips and one gloved hand against the railing behind him.
“Yes,” he replied, “Andraste came to me as I slept and commanded I throw myself upon the pity of the first biddable noble I could find.” His voice was quiet enough that it wouldn’t be heard from the ballroom, else he might hesitate to voice such jests aloud. Morrigan supposed she could not fault him for discounting the possibility that one of the insects fluttering at the windowpanes might be listening.
“What is it that you’d like to hear?” asked Snow. His tone betrayed no whisper of offense or outrage, just amusement, as if his good-natured teasing was only reciprocating her own. Beneath that smile, the placidity she had observed in his face began to resemble something more subtle. “A confession that the heresy was my own cynical invention — a naked conspiracy to slake my thirst for power? Or would you prefer that I claim earnest belief?”
There was, occasionally, a certain kind of pleasure in being proved wrong — a thrill in realizing a complexity once overlooked. As Morrigan watched his eyes studying her expression, it was suddenly apparent that Snow was not the fool she had feared him to be, as if a mirage had been broken by the turn of her head. She felt her own mouth curve in response. “Must there only be two possibilities?”
“No,” he replied, still smiling. “Would you believe me if I said the truth was neither?”
If Snow was not a fool, then he was in all likelihood a liar; if nothing else, the company of a scoundrel would be more tolerable than that of a buffoon. With that assumption in mind, the circumstances of his supposedly miraculous survival and the notion that mere chance had carried him to the eye of the storm seemed even more implausible — but then again, she had observed the peculiar vagaries of fate herself, and witnessed the strange patterns chance could weave. That a clever man should be granted sway over the course of history was convenient, certainly, but not impossible.
Regardless of the truth of the matter, Morrigan would not discern it with a simple question tonight. As curious as she was, she had by now mostly mastered the skill of patience. Her best course would be to observe the Inquisition and its Herald from a closer vantage point — and that was, after all, her purpose in meeting him tonight.
“That reply will suffice for now,” she decided, keeping her tone light.
Snow raised his eyebrows. “For now?”
In lieu of reply, Morrigan lifted the hem of her skirt and strolled slowly across the balcony to the railing, stopping an arm’s length away from him. Inside the parlor, the fuss she had caused had begun to quiet, but if the gala had noticed her abduction of its newest curiosity, there was no sign of it. As she had hoped, Snow’s eyes followed her steadily, bright as they reflected the warm light of the chandeliers inside. His attention was hers entirely, at least for the moment.
Morrigan measured out a pause, before proceeding to ignore his question. “Madame de Fer is one of the most capable talents the Circle has produced,” she observed; her thoughts about the woman’s unfortunate mixture of arrogance and naïveté aside, she would admit that much, although the compliment was carefully tailored in its scope. “— and, as ‘leader of the last loyal mages,’ she does have some few resources at her disposal.” Let him wonder how she had come to that particular quotation.
“But the knowledge the Circle offers you is… conventional,” she went on. “Leashed and fettered for ages on end, true curiosity forbidden on pain of death, their boldest minds having eloped with the Rebellion — how much of worth yet remains?”
Morrigan lowered her voice now, and allowed the hint of a smile on her lips to slip away as she fixed her eyes on his. “You have witnessed first-hand the terrible power of the threat we face — magic the likes of which has been scarcely imagined since the days of old Tevinter, except in whispered myth and fable. Against forces unknown and unthinkable, what aid can even the finest of the Circle truly offer, I wonder.”
She had expected — hoped, perhaps — that this would trouble Snow, whether by giving him cause to question the worth of the bargain he had struck or to fear what it implied about her own capabilities. Instead, the frown that crossed his brow was only a flicker. For an apparent stranger to the battlefield of aristocratic repartee, his control over his expression was impressive. With every moment that passed, the man curiously seemed more of an enigma, not less.
“As you say, the Breach is a grave threat,” Snow replied, after a moment’s pause. That small smile had yet to quit his mouth entirely. “Given the circumstances, we would be unwise to turn away unheard any offer of support, however strange its provenance.”
A practical philosophy, if it was not mere bravado. He would not have been the first to claim to fear magic neither strange nor mundane, only to cower when faced with even a shadow of real power. Morrigan supposed this would be the appropriate moment to produce her credentials — the letter signed by her Radiance herself, the Empress of Orlais, ‘offering’ the assistance of her Arcane Advisor with the calamity unfolding above the Frostbacks — but she would concede that the thought of winning an invitation to the Inquisition on her own merits was tempting. Nor could she deny that she was curious just how strange a bedfellow he would welcome.
“There are powers in this world far older than anything so prosaic as the demons pouring from the Breach, knowledge more precious that has been… all but forgotten.” Morrigan now allowed some of her genuine emotion into her voice. Few topics were more dear to her than this, and some degree of sincerity might be more persuasive than any amount of pretty words. “And yet ‘all but forgotten’ is not yet lost. Some do remember such secrets of the Fade, of the nature of magic itself — or know where to look. Would such knowledge not be of value to the Inquisition as it reckons with magic that threatens to swallow the world?”
The thoughtful silence stretched on a few moments. "One seldom encounters such expertise at a dinner party," Snow at last replied mildly. "Our efforts to close the Breach might well benefit from such knowledge —" He allowed a moment's pause, his cordiality unwavering. "— provided it were genuine."
Very well; a demonstration, then. Morrigan offered a small curtsy, then in the span of a breath, allowed her body to dissolve into a cloud of pale, fluttering wings — a hundred-odd moths, clinging vaguely to the space occupied by her previous body as they hovered in the air. The insects constituting her swarm were not quite identical, each varying slightly in size and the precise pattern of the dark eye-spots blotting their wings; she had chosen a species large enough that he could observe the differences simply to illustrate her ability, although it was unlikely that he would appreciate the skill those variations evidenced.
Her swarm lingered there for a moment, allowing time enough for Snow to comprehend what he was witnessing, before she rippled forward to twirl around him — just close enough that he would feel the whispery beat of an occasional wing against his skin as she led him in the dance. She allowed none of her bodies to come close enough to brush against him, save for the largest, a female specimen nearly a foot in wingspan, which Morrigan settled on the rim of his champagne glass. She rested there for only the space of a few heartbeats, mere inches from his face as she delicately opened and closed her wings, before she alighted to rejoin her swarm. For the sake of her own amusement, she permitted a few more pirouettes around him, before gathering herselves by his side and collapsing them once more into her customary form, her hair and dress still perfectly arranged.
Snow’s response was… not what she had anticipated. He gave no gasp of shock, nor recoiled with horror at her sudden transfiguration; there was a flicker of tension in his face, his eyes narrowing as her form first shivered and fell away, but it vanished swiftly, subsumed by the brilliance of the grin that overtook his expression. As she fluttered around him, he watched in bright-eyed fascination, seemingly captivated by the sight.
She had expected his coy facade to break – indeed, she had hoped it would – but the last thing she had expected to find beneath it was such perfect and apparently earnest enchantment at the sight of strange magic. It was a reaction she had come to expect from Kieran, but it was a game she had played for his amusement since the cradle; to see Snow’s careful composure overcome by innocent delight was something quite different, and despite herself, Morrigan could not help but favor him with a smile far more genuine than any she had allowed thus far. How irritating, that she should find herself not quite immune to his charms, either.
Morrigan had no illusions this would prove her expertise in the kinds of ancient magic she had claimed, of course. But it should entice further curiosity into her abilities. “Your doubt is, of course, eminently reasonable,” she told him, a wry smile crossing her face. “You would be a fool to believe the word of any ‘apostate’ who approached you with proof of neither her abilities nor her intentions, and you do not strike me as a fool, Ilya Snow.”
Her smile fell away, leaving her face composed and serious. “As for my intentions, I can assure you of a sincere desire to examine the Breach for myself, and to glean what knowledge I may of its making — though not to recreate it. Knowledge should not be lost, but it need not be enacted, and this Breach is a threat to all the world. It must be sealed, lest it bring doom upon us all.”
That blinding grin of Snow’s had subsided to something more reserved with the shift in tone, but despite the pleasure he seemed to take in the exchange, the precise color of his thoughts remained difficult to discern. Morrigan was quite certain he liked her — a bizarre outcome that she had not even thought to contemplate as she had planned this encounter — but she likewise held no illusions that she had won his trust, nor even his confidence. As she spoke, he raised the champagne glass to his lips just where she had come to rest in moth-shape and took a lingering sip, his expression deceptively mild as he considered her. Unexpectedly, she had to resist another smile of her own.
Then his eyes stole away in a glance towards the balcony’s open door, and for a heartbeat she feared she had lost him — before they flashed back to her face a few moments later. "Are you a maleficar?" Snow asked. His voice was soft and neutral, but his smile held a playful edge. "Do not mistake me, I have no doubt of your other talents. If, however, you are to join the Inquisition, I would prefer to avoid any attempted witch-burnings.”
Was that meant to be a trap? Morrigan could not say, but it mattered little. “I have studied its mechanics, just as I have studied countless other schools of magic, and thus am I better acquainted than most with its limitations and hindrances. I have no use for the more… base techniques particular to that school, and need not rely on the counsel of demons preying upon the desperate. ” She observed his expression closely as she spoke, but he was careful not to let slip his thoughts this time. A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as dry amusement salted her tone. “My purported expertise would be hollow indeed, were I dependent on such crass and rudimentary methods. Nevertheless, I myself fear neither seeker nor templar, and if an Exalted March should be called upon Haven, ‘twill not be on my account.”
This reply must have been satisfactory, for Snow paused for only a beat before replying. “Wonderful. If you do have any trouble, please do let me know. You won't be the only mage from outside the Circles present, but the atmosphere in Haven remains… tense." His smile turned momentarily self-effacing. "I'm not actually in charge of anything, but I should be able to smooth things over, if it comes to that."
Of that humble claim, Morrigan would not be convinced so easily. Power need not be formal to have weight; that he stood here before her was proof of that. Few living, and even fewer still after the Conclave’s demise, could purport divine authority. Snow knew as well as she did that he stood upon the fulcrum of history — and was that not precisely his intention?
“Your concern is most appreciated,” she replied, inclining her head towards him with an ironic smile and restraining the note of gratification she felt at her little victory. She hesitated a moment, holding his gaze as she apprehended another opportunity. She had not expected him to be quite so… obliging. “If I might make a request…” Morrigan began, keeping her tone light.
“You might,” he replied, with another sip of his champagne.
“May I see your mark?” Both his hands were gloved, making it impossible to ascertain what manner of magic she was contending with, if it was indeed magic at all. She could wait until arriving to Haven, but if Snow were willing, she might begin her inquiries prior to her departure, while all the resources of Celene’s court remained at her immediate disposal. And, if he were not willing, then that too would be revelatory.
As before, it was difficult to tell whether he was surprised by the question. He met her gaze for a few moments, looking thoughtful, and then smiled again. “What about a trade? You tell me your name, and I’ll show you my mark.”
A token exchange, one inevitability for another; yes, that was fair. “Very well,” she replied, with a hint of amusement. “You may call me Morrigan.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Morrigan.” With that mild tone of his, it was difficult to say whether his use of the title was sarcasm. He set his glass down on the railing beside him, then reached over to tug off his left glove. Almost despite herself, Morrigan took a step closer as he offered her his palm.
She had been unsure what to expect: a scar, perhaps, whether magical or physical in origin, or even a rune imbued with lyrium. Demonic possession often left marks on the body, regardless of whether that possession advanced to the stage colloquially referred to as an abomination. Likewise, especially powerful magic could permanently distort the flow of mana through the body, like lightning turning sand to glass; the site of the wound might become permanently fevered or chilled to the touch, cause a mild static shock upon contact, or even distort the arrow of a compass. If Snow had not offered it so readily, she might have even expected to find his palm unblemished.
This was something else entirely. With a firm but not ungentle touch, she reached out to take him by the wrist, drawing his hand towards her and holding it steady without meeting any resistance. It was not entirely unlike a scar, but where a scar marked a change wrought in the flesh, this mark was an open wound, like a scab that could not crystallize fully around a piece of shrapnel. Its edges were ragged and bled magic out into the fine lines of his palm; it seemed to coexist uneasily with the hand it clung to, although she could not say whether it was his body or the mark that was reluctant to accept the graft. It bore a passing resemblance to the rifts it was said to manipulate, one of which she had taken the liberty of examining in person already, but without further study she could not say whether one caused the other, or if the conformity reflected a similarity in the magic that created them both.
What was unmistakable, even at a glance, was the tremendous power lurking within the mark — a lightning bolt half-leashed. It must be relatively stable, given that he had not found himself a dark stain on the ground somewhere, but the thought that he was simply wandering around with such a thing was troubling. If a truly potent spell was required to permanently imbue living flesh with even faint magical effects, then what magic could have caused this? The same sort that tore the sky asunder, Morrigan concluded, and her heart beat quicker at the thought.
“From what I understand,” Snow commented dryly, “it’s not supposed to look like that.”
She pressed her thumb gently against the base of his own, stretching out the skin and observing as the mark moved with it. She had some sense that his eyes had turned to her face, but she did not meet them. “Is it painful?”
“Sometimes, when it’s stirring. The sensation is… difficult to describe.”
“Stirring?” she asked, and did glance up now, if only for a moment. “Of its own accord?”
“Like this,” he said, quite calmly, as light suddenly flashed from the mark with a strange hissing sound — a tempest in miniature in the palm of his hand. Morrigan was again forced to wonder that he had not rendered himself a fine powder yet — but perhaps that fact suggested an intuitive grasp of the magic. Was it meant to be used, rather than merely being an accidental conduit? “It usually reacts near the rifts.”
After a moment, Morrigan reluctantly released his wrist, then took a breath to compose herself. “Thank you,” she said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze once more. “No doubt I am not the first to say it, but you should count yourself fortunate to have survived whatever phenomenon that could leave such a mark.”
“Indeed,” he replied as he began to put his glove back on. She suspected it was only for the sake of appearances; magic that potent would be thwarted no more by a thin layer of leather than a flame would be deterred by fragile skin. “If you have further questions, I shall be at your disposal in Haven. I’d be grateful for any insights you might have.”
Well, that would certainly make things easier, and he did not seem overly shy of magical methods of inquiry. “I certainly shall.”
Snow paused a moment, his eyes once more flicking over the delicate lace and lustrous black samite of her gown, the glinting gold and ruby adorning her neck. "I should warn you," he went on, "the accommodations are modest, and the merchants' wares are limited. If there is aught you cannot do without while you remain with the Inquisition, I suggest bringing it with you."
“I daresay I shall manage, although I appreciate the warning. I was not born to the finery of the court, and furthermore was not accustomed to such luxuries during the year I journeyed with the Heroes of Ferelden during the last Blight. Indeed, I imagine the current accommodations in Haven are not so austere as during my prior visit.” Snow’s eyebrows shot up with a satisfying alacrity. Now that she had claimed the advantage, Morrigan did not hesitate to press it, and swept onward with a light tone without allowing him opportunity for recovery or reply. The smile that spread across her mouth was cordial, but she had to admit she was rather reveling in the success of her gambit. “Ah — but it occurs to me that I have neglected a proper introduction. As I said, I am Morrigan — Arcane Advisor to Her Imperial Majesty Celene Valmont I, Empress of Orlais. My qualifications are here,” she produced Celene’s letter from her pocket with a flourish, “and I shall of course present them personally to your Ambassador upon arrival in Haven.” Here Morrigan gave a formal curtsy in the style of the Imperial Court. She held out the letter for Snow to examine, though she had no intention of relinquishing it fully.
“Once you have ascertained their authenticity to your satisfaction, Messere Snow, I shall take my leave if it pleases you, and prepare for the journey to Haven. I must collect certain arcane texts, of course, and requisition a horse from the Imperial Stables; these things will take time.” She did look forward to the expression on his face when she arrived far earlier than he could anticipate; her knowledge of the Eluvians was terribly useful, though she would swear (never in Celene’s presence) that someone had been assembling a larger network she had no access to.
Snow’s change in expression was not so complete or immediate as his reaction to her earlier transformation: as she spoke, his eyes narrowed perceptibly, once again knife-sharp beneath the veil of his eyelashes, but the mischievous turn to the corners of his mouth persisted. After a beat, his coy smile began to spread until it was a beaming grin. The expression was no less keen or playful, yet distinctly lacking the wholesome innocence that had overtaken him as he watched her swarm of fluttering moths twirl around him. It was a smile that settled all too naturally on his face, and left an impression disconcertingly reminiscent of a cat that had sighted a bird.
The sound of his laugh was easy, musical, and thoroughly delighted.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Morrigan," Snow replied, granting a bow in response to her curtsy, although the laughter lingering in his voice in turn lent the gesture a teasing aspect. His eyes skimmed briefly across the proffered letter, but a cursory glance was apparently enough to satisfy him for now. His eyes shifted quickly back to her face, perhaps as eager to study her expression as Morrigan was to observe his.
"By all means, I shall not keep you any longer. I am most grateful for your time, and look forward to continuing our conversation in Haven." Snow took a step back, still looking unduly pleased to have fallen victim to her little trick. Despite his words, there was, perhaps, a touch of reluctance that sent another small thrill of triumph through her. "No doubt we shall have a great deal more to discuss."
“No doubt,” Morrigan concurred. “Until then, Messere.”
She had originally intended to make her departure through the main doors, out of what she would readily admit was simple pettiness, given her lack of invitation, but the sight of his smile inspired a new idea. She offered a final curtsy, then exchanged the lace of her skirts for black feathers and, in one seamless motion, spread her wings and flew away.
Morrigan regretted that the drama of her departure did not allow her to see Snow’s expression, but the bright sound of his laughter carried her into the night sky.