Wicked Graces

Chapter Eleven

It was very late when Sebastian staggered up the stairs and into bed. The kind of late that evolved the sky beyond the palace windows from pitch to smoky amethyst and promised sunrise was only a few blinks away. He'd gotten roped into philosophical and spiritual debate with an old friend once destined for Chantry service just as he was, but who managed to convince Lord and Lady Kenric his talents would be better utilized at the University of Orlais.

Sebastian had been too hot-headed for such negotiations at fifteen, an attribute his father assured him was not behavior suitable to a young man who wanted nothing more from life than the position his eldest brother was born to serve. He only got to introduce Bram to Hawke when she meandered over, looking exhausted beyond recall, to let him know she was heading up to bed and would see him in the morning.

When the party died down, save for a few stragglers engaged in conversation of their own, Sebastian and Bram snuck down the stairs to his study for a harder drink, only to discover the decanter on his desk contained little more than a single swallow.

"My beloved wife," he let loose an exasperated sigh, shaking the small amount of liquid in the bottom of the bottle for effect, "and her dwarven companion, no doubt. One of them alone is trouble, together they are an absolute menace."

"Forgive my saying so, Sebastian, and do feel free to call me a meddlesome old fool," Bram settled into the chair opposite the desk and leaned back to cross a leg over his knee before going on, "but should a woman in her condition really be drinking? By no means am I a medical scholar, but many of my colleagues have devoted their careers to the scientific humors and the art of healing without magical aid. Studies out of Orlais support the occasional glass of wine throughout, but hard liquor is hardly conducive to the child's health, especially at this early stage."

"I beg your pardon?" He'd been bending down to dislodge a secret compartment in his desk drawer to produce another bottle, his hands stopping mid-press of the button as he lifted his head.

"Your wife," Bram stammered. "I meant no offense, of course, I just..."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh," the professor brought a hand up to cover his mouth sheepishly, "you didn't... Perhaps even she doesn't... Andraste, forgive me. It's just like me to open my mouth when I've no right to do so. I'm sorry, my friend, I just assumed you were aware..."

"My wife..." He drew the bottle out and lowered it onto the desktop with a heavy clunk. His head was already a little fuzzy from so many congratulatory glasses of champagne, so the revelation took several long moments before it sunk in completely. "Maker's mercy, that explains a lot. I never even considered..."

"Again, I'm so very sorry."

"No, don't apologize. If anyone owes me an apology, it's Hawke," he chuckled, "though in her condition it would hardly be fair to wake her and demand one at this hour."

The unlikely emotional outbursts, the fatigue and occasional bouts of nausea, her insatiable sexual appetite, even complaints of her gown being too tight just days after her final fittings... She'd been refusing wine at dinner, which in itself was strange, but he never thought anything of it. Her body had become almost as familiar to him as his own since their wedding night, and he'd missed it. And worse was that she knew. As he reflected back over the last few weeks, scaling back into the months of their separation, even her letters—lovely as they were to read—were filled with hints and allusions and secrecy.

"It would seem," he poured them both a finger of whisky, "my powers of observation are embarrassingly lax."

"Well, you did just take back your kingdom," Bram excused him, "and I imagine restoring order has kept you very busy."