Ah, quelle tragédie, [ Bastien says, head lolling against By with badly-acted despair, though his arm stays still and rigid for that silent music. (At other, less talkative times, he's made a game of trying to hum the appropriate chords, but not now.) ] Years of sullying your reputation, really getting mud into every crevice—ruined.

[ He smiles up at the underside of By's chin. His stomach is better; his headache has retreated so far into a dull and distant ache that ignoring it takes no work at all. ]

Do you know what I would do, if I were the Queen of Ferelden?