There is a pillow on the chair nearest to her. Wysteria sets her cup and saucer aside to fetch it, rising as high as her knees in order to pass it over the tea tray between them and set it nearer Val's head than his (bare) feet.

"Here, Monsieur. You may collapse on this. As for the collective," she says, settling back with a compulsive rearrangement of her skirts and a repossession of her teacup. "There is myself and Mr. Stark, who is a Rifter and something of an engineer who presently leads the work on Project Felandaris of the organization to which we all belong. And there is Mr. Fitz, who is also a Rifter, and is most interested in the study of Rifts and the Veil and the nature of the Fade. Then there is Mr. Ellis, who as you must know is indeed an artisan in a particular meaning of the word in the sense that he is a skilled tradesman of dangerous situations, which the study of Rifts often necessitates. And lastly there is Mr. Herschel, who is perhaps not fully aware of his part in this but nonetheless does all my smithing. He works in the Gallows as we clearly have no forge here, so you need not supply any cakes for him."

She takes a prim sip of tea.

"Although I'm sure he wouldn't refuse one or two being delivered to him."

"You like Fitz!"

It has the shape of a question but not the sound of one, and is exclaimed with little regard for anything which follows Val's truly outrageous claim.

"What on the gods' green earth has Mr. Fitz done to make you like him?"

"Of course I like Mr. Fitz!" She declares, setting aside her cup and saucer with such ferocity that the former threatens to overturn and the latter quails with the effort to restrain it.

"He is an excellent research partner, and quite bright, and he is in fact the only individual in all of Thedas who has every expressed curiosity - true curiosity - about the place I come from. Mr. Fitz is indeed the very spirit of— of— He is very resourceful. And I see no reason at all why someone would not care for him. What I fail to grasp entirely, Monsieur, is where your standard for good company lies."

He has awful taste in fruit jams! His handwriting is atrocious! His choice of filing systems in the library is baffling!

Where to begin? With the grossly misinformed theory that she wishes to keep them very separate? With flattery? With, I have just said that Mr. Fitz is perfectly agreeable, so what do you mean that I 'should try the same?'

"Oh. Worthwhile," has such faux sincerity, all murderous lightness and air. "Yes of course. I should have known as much. For what else might inspire respect in a person? You must tell me, de Foncé, what in particular about the man's person strikes you so, so that when next I am in his company I might make particular note of it."

"You are inviting him to dinner?" spikes shrill. —And then moderates in a monumental show of force, pitching higher and more pleasant still. "How fine. I'm sure the four of you will have a marvelous time. It is rather nice, isn't it? To have such reliable and interesting companions with which to spend the an evening. Now tell me, Monsieur. When shall I expect your list?"

"In the next week or so should be perfectly agreeable," she says, pitched with such delicate effervescence that it hardly exists at all.

Claiming her own cup with a vice grip, Wysteria takes a fortifying drink before saying, "I ask only as Mr. Ellis and myself are soon to be away from Kirkwall for some time together on a trip whose particulars I am not presently at liberty to discuss, and I would vastly prefer to see this set in motion before then. You know how these things are; sometimes when one is away, it becomes difficult to pick up a thing right as you left it."

"Oh no, not in the slightest with respect to either account. I cannot speak of it, as it is to be the very definition of clandestine. In fact," she says, taking a moment to gently correct the fall of her skirts. "I might ask that you do your best to put it out of your mind entirely. I wouldn't have even mentioned it if it weren't for the need to organize our work together around it. Let us instead return to the subject of your imminent dinner with your good friend Mr. Fitz, or dispense entirely with the diversion of small talk and return to the subject of—"

Of whatever else needs doing. It occurs to her all at once that she has entirely run out of prepared material for his digestion and that it is a singularly troubling prospect, something akin to running out into a busy thoroughfare without looking and realizing too late that she might be imminently struck by a carriage.

"Of the project. Generally."

She can feel herself hesitating - a more reasonable part of herself demanding she steer the conversation elsewhere. As a means of distraction, Wysteria moves to pour him a second cup of tea over the remaining sludge of the first.

"No," she says at last (good sense being something of a sometimes impulse and not a habit). "It is something of a personal favor he is doing me. Although I will say that his duties as a Warden have lent Mr. Ellis some measure of expertise with the subject in question and so I believe he will make a most excellent travelling companion."

"It's true. We are indeed rather an accomplished group," she agrees, setting the pot aside.

"And if my interests lay in a direction I thought they might be best suited to travel in, I might consult them. Why, I might even be tempted to ask yourself for a referral as I believe you have mentioned some interest in globe trotting. But as it happens, I have assessed the candidates already and Mister Ellis is without question the best man for the job given his familiarity with the route in question and our destination."

Somewhere in there she has fetched up her teacup and begun sipping at it, thinking at twice the speed she is speaking so she might find some subject to steer toward. What she lands on is:

"But you mustn't be concerned, de Foncé. I will ask Mr. Ellis if he might might set aside a moment to attend to that offensive tree branch outside your window before we leave. He has been pitting the garden in order and I doubt he would mind. That way should you feel any desire to reference the material we will keep in this room while I'm away, you may do so comfortably."

"Well—"

Here, a pause that verges at the very edge of prudent before crumpling.

"No. He hasn't spoken much of his family. Though he is Ferelden, so perhaps if it were convenient to do so to or from our intended destination. But really, Monsieur," she insists across the surface of her tea. She is still restlessly smoothing, rearranging and smoothing again her skirts with her other hand. "I truly cannot say more than that. Not without swearing you to some manner of oath of secrecy or something like it. It is not wholly my secret which I might tell in full."

For a moment, Wysteria considers the potential of accidentally upending the tea try onto de Foncé's lap. But she rather likes that cushion and there is every likelihood that it might suffer unfairly as a result. So instead, after a long beat of hesitation, she takes the offered hand.

(Her fingertips are faintly ink stained; there is a small speckling of scars between her thumb and forefinger - a child's black powder burn there now forever.)

"Then you must swear that you will speak no part of this outside this room, and with no other individual regardless of where they might be standing. You may not even discuss the subject with Mr. Ellis. And should you break this solemn oath— Well, I will never forgive you. And you will have to write an essay in support of that scholar, Finlayson, from Markham University who you have said must have researched with his eyes closed to come to his conclusions. Agreed?"

The acidity in his response satisfies her entirely. So much so that she forgets they have yet to stop (avidly) shaking hands. Rather than make any attempt to pry herself free, she simply proceeds to confess.

"Very well. Then, under pain of certain death should you speak any word of this to anyone whatsoever, I shall tell you. We are travelling to Orzammar with the intention of securing a contact who trades in, and will be willing to trade to us specifically, a very particular form of refined crystal lyrium. Mr. Ellis is familiar with the city, having been through some years ago on Warden business in the Deep Roads. And while I cannot imagine we will stray quite so far as that, one never knows what may occur when one is abroad. This is particularly true, I think, when one wishes to engage in business while there."

The tug warrants a small noise of dismay for the tea jostling of the tea tray, but otherwise passes without remark for—

"Mr. Ellis has guaranteed nothing of the sort, Monsieur."

—she has a Warden's honor to defend.

"And indeed I have very little interest in dealing with anyone placed so especially prominently as to be accessible via an ambassador's recommendation. No, this must be an arrangement made quietly so that anyone might question it will see only a private interest and no tie to the organization which we are all a part of. I suspect it is imperative that this deal be one made under the table, so to speak, far from the eyes of the Chantry. In which case, I have rather more use for a sturdy arm than a scholar, no matter how well connected. Which is, for the record, all Mr. Ellis has ever claimed to be. A capable fighter, I mean."

Here, finally, she makes to wring her hand free.