Even this more recent attack, with its list of dead in the Inquisition even if the names had been lost on him. Casimir, Alistair, Cullen, Pentaghast. And, of course, Granitefell.

“Still worth trying. And if all else fails, get yourself a partner who can rewind time and fix it for you,” Stephen says, his voice lighter, not touching on the full weight of it. It had been a group effort, of course, but he still lets himself joke, like testing to see if the ice will hold underfoot.

How many months has it been since Granitefell? He hadn’t even been fully aware of his feelings at the time yet, except that raw wound and the awareness of a door being slammed shut on the possibility; and it had seemed a tremendous shame for the entire world to suddenly have a blank spot in the exact shape of Gwenaëlle Baudin’s wit and humour and stubborn bloodyminded persistence to do her best. Thedas deserved to keep that. He had been determined to let Thedas have that back.

So the houseboat is indeed a safer topic, like skipping a rock over still lake waters: “You what? You did not mention. If you wanted to relocate to Kirkwall waters, maybe Gwenaëlle knows a guy who knows a guy who’d sell you one. Considering…”

He gestures to the office, now doing half-duty as Cosima’s occasional sleeping space.