Chapter Text
Once upon a time in the Hightown district of Kirkwall, some 30 miles from Starkhaven, there lived a small girl on a large estate.
The Amell estate was very large indeed, and had many servants. There were elves to take care of the gardens, and a vhenadahl surgeon on retainer. There was an elf to take care of the banners: to hang them in the spring, and scrape the snow off them in the winter. There were elves to take care of the grounds: the outdoor tennis court and the indoor tennis court; the outdoor swimming pool and the indoor swimming pool—and a young dwarf of no particular title who took care of a small pool in the garden for a goldfish named Enchantment.
Also on the estate there was a car-Keeper by the name of Marethari, who had been imported from the Sundermount some years ago, together with a new Chrysler Aravel. Marethari was a fine chauffeur of considerable polish, like the eight Dalish-make cars in her care. And she had a daughter by the name of Sabrae-da Merrill Fairchild—a grand name indeed, but everyone called her Merrill for short.
It was the eve of the annual Feastdays, and as had been the tradition for many years, the Amells were giving a party. It never rained on the night of an Amell party. The Amells wouldn’t have stood for it.
The tables had been set and the patio swept; the champagne chilled and the linens pressed. Along the trellises the elves had hung long garlands, adding festive pops of red, purple and blue. And now that it was the appointed hour, guests and servants both had dressed in their finest tuxedos and gowns, the whole lot of them crisp and spotless as a painting.
The only two missing from the garden that night were Marethari and Merrill. Earlier that afternoon, Marethari had noticed how her daughter’s fingertips had lingered longingly on the garlands, and she’d decided that each of the cars in turn needed a good scrubbing, post-haste. That was just the way Marethari was. At all times she insisted the vehicles in her care be kept at a prim sheen, so as to remind everyone of the necessity of her station, and their own.
Merrill performed her filial duty, because that was the way she was too. But every few moments she found herself looking in the direction of the garden, where came the sound of violins almost mournful under the starlight. Eventually the pull of it became too much to resist. She laid the rag in her hand gently on the car hood. Leaving it and her shoes and her still-scrubbing mother behind, Merrill gave in and followed the music.
On the other side of the green she could see them dancing: the men in their strapping tuxes, the ladies in chiffon gowns, even the elves pirouetting among them with their trays and heavy bottles. Together they whirled like children’s toys across the starlit patio.
To get a better view, Merrill hoisted herself into a nearby tree, her bare feet scraping against the bark as she settled.
From this height she could see beyond the dancers and right into the manor hours, where several people had gathered in the sitting room. She knew who they were. They were the Amells, and there were four in all: Uncle, Mother, and two sons – though the last three were in fact Hawkes, not Amells. It was a technicality with which nobody in Kirkwall bothered, as they possessed a suitable enough fortune to retain the title and besides, they had come back home in the end.
Leandra and Malcolm Hawke had been married in 9:06 Dragon. Among their many wedding presents was a town house in Ferelden, and this estate for weekends. Malcolm had died several years back, and the town house had since been converted into a recruitment center for the Grey Wardens. After his death Leandra had moved herself and her sons into this estate, with her brother Gamlen soon to follow.
Uncle Gamlen, a former wallop player of some renown, had taken well to the business of being the man of the house. He particularly excelled in the procurement and consumption of various fine liquors.
There was also Carver Hawke, the younger son, graduated from the local Gallows University, where his classmates voted him the Templar most likely to leave his alma mater millions.
Then there was his brother, Garrett. He did the least work and was therefore considered the most eligible of the three Amell bachelors. He went through several of the best Marcher colleges for short periods of time, and through several marriages for even shorter periods of time. He was now, like his Uncle before him, a successful six-goal wallop player, and was listed on Carver’s tax return as a six sovereign deduction.
Truly, life was pleasant for the Amells—this was as close to heaven as one could get.
Now the Amells had gathered to take a picture in front of the great fireplace, above which hung an older portrait of a similar setting and style, but which featured a family much younger and larger. In that picture there was a pigtailed girl who’d died in childhood for reasons Merrill was never quite sure of, and a grand man with an even grander beard that even Garrett’s couldn’t quite match.
In the current arrangement, Uncle and Mother Amell stood in the center, their spines as rigid as their smiles. Carver, on the Antivan settee, kept his back partly turned to the photographer. He always took his pictures this way. In profile he looked very regal indeed, very commanding and business-like. But the position always left half his face—the more comely half, in Merrill’s opinion—hidden in shadow.
Then there was Garrett, a vision of roguish charm in his spotless white tuxedo and purple bowtie. He’d turned a chair around to straddle it as he might a horse. Unlike the others, he looked perfectly at ease as they waited for the photographer to fumble with his curtain and spotlight. But that was just the way Garrett was too. His smile was always cock-eyed and ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice, and in fact that was one of the many things Merrill adored about him.
On some objection from the photographer, Carver perked up and looked down at the copy of The Merchants Guild Daily still in his front pocket. But rather than toss it aside, he merely transferred it from one pocket to another and resumed his noble profile.
Finally the photographer snapped his picture. The smile fell from Garrett’s lips and rose to Mother’s as a rush of guests swarmed the Amells. Carver, ever the dutiful son, stood by her side while Uncle scurried away, likely off to find a spare bottle of champagne and slake his insatiable thirst.
Garrett too retreated from the swarm, apparently content to leave society matters in the hands of his family. Merrill watched as he walked over to a nearby floral arrangement, and from it plucked two white roses. With a smile on his lips, he slipped one into his lapel.
Then he meandered over to one of the servants, a slim and dour fellow Merrill knew only as Anders. It wasn’t his true name, of course. But when he’d come to the estate some months ago seeking work, he’d offered little else by way of self-explanation besides a strong Anderfellian accent, and the name had stuck.
Anders was a serious sort and quite concerned for a servant about current affairs; there were whispers among the servants that he might even be a Marxist. But those rumors had come to nothing, for almost as soon as he’d arrived he’d made fast friends with the elder Amell son. Garrett trusted Anders’s opinion on all matters, and it was a rare day indeed to find the two men separated. Anders even accompanied Garrett to his away wallop matches, no matter how far-flung the destination might be.
Garrett leaned in and said something to his friend. But whatever it was, Anders did not seem amused by it—indeed, tonight he seemed even more dour than usual. Garrett then slid the remaining flower into Anders’s lapel and clapped his friend on the shoulder. He walked away, leaving Anders to peer down at his new boutonniere with a mixture of wistfulness and distrust.
Merrill knew that look well. Garrett had a way of leaving a person like that, like you weren’t sure if he’d mocked or made love to you, or perhaps both at once.
As Garrett made his way toward the garden, a fetching young woman swathed in yellow silk and chiffon dashed toward him. Garrett grabbed her hand and she broke into a wide smile. Together they floated toward the patio like a pair of clouds.
Then Garrett caught the eye of someone across the room, maybe Anders, maybe Mother Amell. In response, he pulled the girl close and swayed with her, entirely out of step to the music, guiding her to the patio and away from the disapproving eye he’d met. When he smiled down at her, his face was as charming and radiant as the surface of the moon.
Merrill tightened her grip on the branch.
“I’d reach for you like I’d reach for a star,” sung the band leader, as Garrett and the girl whirled together in close embrace, “worshipping you from afar…”
It was a very lovely song, thought Merrill, until it was punctuated by the girl’s high-pitched giggles. She leaned heavily on Garrett, running her perfectly-manicured nails through his hair. For his part, Garrett smiled agreeably enough, though his posture suggested that he was expending considerable effort just to keep her upright.
Across the patio, Anders scrunched his face in disgust, a sentiment which Merrill approved of greatly. She closed her eyes against the display before her.
But she did not come down from her tree. And nor could she look away for long, just as a moth couldn’t turn his face from the flame.
So Merrill looked back, just in time to see Garrett press a sweet kiss to the lady’s temple. The girl responded with even more giggles. She just would not stop giggling. She couldn’t possibly be talking with Garrett, getting to know him better and making a connection; no, it was just giggle, giggle, giggle.
Merrill was so incensed that she didn’t even hear the crunch of twigs behind her.
“Come on down from there, da’len. Come on,” said Marethari, startling Merrill into nearly falling from her tree. Marethari had a funny way of speaking that was kind and gentle but also unbearably prim. No matter how long she’d been away from the Sundermount, she maintained her accent, polishing it as she did the cars, keeping it safe like a precious family heirloom. And unlike the other servants, she used the old tongue freely and without shame. The Amells didn’t seem to mind her quirk much, but their silence hadn’t encouraged other servants into the same practice. “You’d better go to your room and finish your packing.”
Merrill sighed. She looked down at her hands clasped along the bough, and suddenly felt small and ridiculous and ashamed. Yet it was only with great reluctance that she climbed out of her tree. Once out, however, her hand remained on the branch, as she was not quite ready yet to let go of the tree or the sight of Garrett in his white tux. “Who’s that girl, Mother?”
“Which girl?” said Marethari in a tired voice.
“The one dancing with Garrett.”
Marethari flicked her eye over the party and its guests. As if on cue, the cruel sound of giggles wafted through the garden. “Her name’s du Launcet. Fifi du Launcet,” she replied. “Kirkwall National Bank.”
The sound of Fifi’s name and her family’s connections was like a knife through Merrill’s heart. Gaze falling, she was painfully aware of how very small she was, how very small and ordinary.
“I hate girls that giggle all the time,” she said.
“You hate every girl that Garrett looks at.” Marethari offered her a prunish face. “Merrill, you can’t go on like this about Garrett all your life. You understand that. You’ve got to get over it.”
It. Marethari had said it, as if Garrett were an unruly bush, one that Merrill could simply pull from her heart by the root with one good yank. Her hands trembled on the branch. “Yes, Mother.”
“It’s good you’re going away,” continued Marethari loftily. “I only hope it’s far enough.”
Merrill’s hand slipped along the branch, chipping off the tip of her nail. She did not raise her eyes. “Yes, Mother.”
“Come along, Merrill.” Then Marethari held out Merrill’s shoes. They were dingy, small things without any jewels or feathers, and they’d been re-soled several times by Marethari’s own hand. An act of love, Merrill knew, but she hated it now. Hated the shoes, hated Marethari, hated everything, especially giggles.
She took the shoes anyway. “In a minute, Mother. You go ahead. I’ll be up soon.”
Marethari said nothing, but her eyes, fierce and pitying, remained on Merrill as she walked back toward the apartment they shared.
For a long moment, Merrill stared at the shoes and leaned against the tree, letting the music wash over her in one unbroken tide. She cast a final plaintive look toward the party.
Garrett had wheeled Fifi over to a discreet corner, far from the other guests. He’d pushed her against the wall, hands flat against the brick on either side of her shoulders. Her eyes remained fixed on him as if he were made of solid gold.
He whispered something in her ear. With a scandalous grin on her perfectly-painted lips, Fifi shook her head. Then he whispered further. She looked at him, flustered and amused and interested all at once, and nodded her acceptance at whatever proposal he’d offered. Then she dipped herself out from between his arms and ran down the garden lawn, passing Merrill without so much as a nod. She ran toward the tennis courts, giggling all the while.
Merrill clenched her jaw. Just because she was a chauffeur's daughter didn’t mean she lacked a woman’s pride.
Head held high, she watched as Garrett swanned over to the bar, picking out a bottle and stuffing two glasses in his back pockets. The bartender, a chatty man named Corff, asked a question of Garrett, who shrugged in response. When he took the bottle from Corff, Garrett offered a sparing, distracted smile that did not quite meet his eyes.
He made his way through the guests and out the garden, toward Merrill’s tree. Heart pounding, she pressed herself against the trunk, instinctively willing herself to disappear.
But it was now or never. She’d never get a chance like this, not now, not ever again. So as soon as he’d passed, she leapt out from the tree’s shadows.
Garrett stumbled back a few feet in surprise.
“Oh, it’s you, Merrill.” His voice was relaxed, easy, and he gave her a wide, genuine smile.
At her side her hands balled into fists, and she kept her posture very, very rigid.
“Hello, Garrett,” she managed.
“I thought I heard somebody,” he said, then he was gone, gone, trotting down the path toward Fifi’s giggles like a mabari to a master’s whistle.
Merrill watched him go.
“You were wrong,” she said quietly, her voice drowned out by the violins. “It’s only nobody.”
He disappeared out of sight and before she knew it she too was following them down to the tennis courts, like a small elven shadow. She knew of this routine of his, at least in an academic sense, but never before had she dared follow him mid-conquest. But it was her last night in Kirkwall, perhaps forever, and she was determined to see it. For though she might never be Fifi, she could still learn what it meant to be her, if only from a distance.
She caught up to them at the tennis courts. On his shoulder Garrett held the bottle of champagne like a sword, as if he were a Nevarran dragonslayer storming off to battle. Strutting across the outdoor court, he yanked open the door to the indoor court and sauntered in. He kicked up his heel, a small burst of triumph. He enjoyed this, she knew. The rush of competition. The feel of conquest. The game was his element.
Her mother was right. She shouldn’t watch this. She should return to her packing, or at least to the car washing. Yet still she skittered across the tennis court, something huge and empty inside her beckoning her forward. Behind a tall decorative pine she concealed herself and peeked through the window to the court within.
“Hello?” Garrett called out. Though the lights were down, the net had been left strung, as if awaiting players. “Yoo hoo! Anyone fancy a match?”
The girl stood on the other side of the court, her back coyly turned to Garrett. The horrible sound of her giggling was audible even through the thick glass pane. How odd, Merrill thought, for Fifi to play the coquettish virgin now, when she’d already acquiesced to meeting him here in the shadowy tennis court—but then again, some rich ladies liked to play the fool just as much as they liked men to play the fool on their behalf.
“What do we call this?” said Garrett, eyeing her turned back cheekily. “Mixed singles?”
He began to hop the net, but she turned and stopped him with a firm shake of her head. “No, no, no! Don’t you know the rules? You must stay on your side of the net.”
“Rules? Why, I was never much for those,” he said, adding “Fifi” after a slight hesitation, as if he were trying to remember her name.
“But Garrett,” she said in mock scandal. “You must play by the rules. Else it won’t be a fair game for everyone.” As lovely as she was, thought Merrill, her dress was as yellow as a tennis ball, and her voice shrill enough to shatter glass. But at least she’d quit her infernal giggling.
Garrett shrugged and removed his leg from the netting. “Fine then. I suppose I’ll serve.”
He placed the flutes on the ground and unwrapped the champagne. When he popped the cork, it slammed into the window right at Merrill’s head. She ducked in panic..
But neither of the players had noticed her or the errant cork. Garrett handed a full glass to Fifi, who took it and glided back out of reach. He let his hand drop slowly in a thoroughly charming and calculated manner. Fifi stared him down, gulped her glass in one go and did not blink.
When she turned her back again, the smile on Garrett’s face faltered. His clever fingers began to dance on the netting between them as he slowly made his way to the side court.
When he reached the end, he slapped the crank, and the netting that separated them fell to the ground. Fifi whirled around. There was no giggle on her lips now.
Merrill’s mouth dropped open. She had the inexplicable feeling she’d just seen something terribly dirty, and she wished that she understood why.
Garrett stalked toward Fifi like a hound to the fox, while she shuffled backwards. Her eyes narrowed. She smiled, large and wolfish and with too many teeth. Back and back she stepped into the shadows of the court, and still Garrett advanced. Who exactly was the prey, wondered Merrill, and who was the predator?
Then Garrett placed his hand on Fifi’s hip, and the moment was shattered. Merrill could look no more.
She stood up and allowed one huge sob to rack her tiny frame. Then she remembered herself, lifting her chin as a proud chauffeur's daughter did. And like that she walked, chin held tight and high and proud, away from the tennis court and the man who didn’t love her and the life that could never, ever be hers.