Bastien smiles, and he doesn’t say of course as if it were a given, because it wasn’t. Obviously it wasn’t.

“I like them,” he says, helping himself to a seat alongside Benedict without waiting for an invitation. Recently-imprisoned Tevinter nobles aren’t real nobles. “I could not help looking. Some of them were a little damp on the edges, so I hung them up—and I put that one there in my press for a little bit to try to dry it flat, but look, it didn’t quite work.”