The late afternoon sun spilt golden light across the cobbles of the Grande Market. The air carried the scent of baked bread and citrus, and somewhere behind Evie, someone was roasting almonds with honey and some kind of spice.
She sat in her usual place by the old fountain, back straight, fingers dancing over the strings of her lute with ease born of long practice. Her voice rose above the din of the market, not loud, not forceful, but clear and bright. The crowd had begun to gather the moment she struck the first chord; she was fast becoming a regular fixture here.
Coins clinked into the little tin bowl at her feet. She didn't look down. Some people she recognised now—a grey-bearded fruit seller who always brought her a fig, a pair of boys who clapped too early, and a severe woman who never smiled but never missed a performance. New faces today, too, scattered among them.
And one face that made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
He stood near the back of the crowd. Dark hair slicked neatly back, tied into a bun, mouth relaxed into a pleasant smirk, and dressed just a little too finely for a man pretending to browse the market. She knew that style—Antivan leather boots, subtle embroidery at the cuffs, the dark blues and purples. Not unusual to see a Crow in Treviso, obviously. The city was crawling with them, and they sort of walked around like they owned it. But it was rare for one to stop and pay attention to her.
He was watching her. Intently. Not like a man listening to music.
Evie didn't falter, but the next note she played had an edge to it. She finished her set with a tune that sounded brighter than she felt, bowed her head as the crowd applauded, and knelt to start packing her lute.
She felt him before she saw him. The sudden stillness at her elbow.
"You play beautifully," said a smooth, heavily accented voice.
She looked up. His smile was handsome in the way that always felt calculated. Eyes a little too bright. Voice a little too gentle.
"Thank you," she said politely, wrapping the lute in its soft cloth.
"Illario," he said, offering a gloved hand. "I've seen you here before. I've been meaning to introduce myself. You have a remarkable presence."
Evie didn't take his hand, keeping herself busy with gathering her things.
"Evie," she said shortly. No surname. No title. Nothing to trace.
"A pleasure," he said easily, hand dropping without offence. "Your last song—was it Fereldan? Your accent too."
She shrugged. "A lullaby. From somewhere west, I think. And yes, Fereldan-born."
"Beautiful," he said again. "You must have many admirers."
Evie smiled, thin and noncommittal. "Enough to pay for dinner."
He laughed. "Modest, too. You must let me buy you a drink sometime. I'd love to hear where you trained. Your skill is too precise for someone self-taught."
She slung the lute over her back and picked up her coin bowl, the coins themselves safely tucked away. "I'm flattered, but I've got a long walk home."
"Treviso's not safe for girls walking alone," Illario said, still smiling. "Let me see you to your door."
"No need," she said, stepping past him with a practised grace.
And though she didn't look back, she felt his eyes follow her until the market swallowed her up. She turned the next corner fast, slipping into a tight alley and pressing her back to the wall, heart thudding.
The Crows hadn't approached her directly before. Not like this. Not with charm and compliments and hands without daggers—yet.
Uncle Zevran always said they smiled before they struck. And this one had smiled far too much.
Surely they hadn't seen her and Tai shadowing their kind, gathering information, following to hideouts, learning the identities of clients, and even keeping a record of their targets if they could manage it.
By the time Evie made it home, her stomach was a knot of unease. She climbed the crooked stairs two at a time and slipped into the little loft, bolting the door behind her.
The scent of garlic and herbs told her Tai was cooking again; thank the Maker.
"Back early," Tai called without turning from the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, the other casually stirring something in a pot. "Did the nobles finally realise they're tone-deaf and go home?"
"There was a Crow in the audience."
That got his attention. That got all their attention.
Tai turned slowly, eyes narrowing, ladle forgotten. "What?"
Evie set her lute by the door and came to lean against the wall, arms crossed. "Crow. Watching the whole time. He came up afterward—charming, polite. Called himself Illario."
Tai let out a low whistle. "Grandson of the First Talon. Damn. That's not a foot soldier. That's... policy with perfect hair."
"He was smooth," Evie muttered. "Suave. The kind of smile that wants to sell you something. Or study you. He was... intense, the way he stared."
"Did he say anything about—about us?" Tai asked. "You, especially?"
"Not directly. He said he liked the music. Said I was... talented." She winced a little, replaying his voice. The way he'd said it. Like he already knew something.
"You think he's onto us," Tai said. Not a question.
"I think he suspects I'm not just some bard with decent pitch and a pretty lute."
Tai dragged a hand through his hair and started pacing back and forth across the tiny room. "Damn it. We've been careful. We don't use names. We don't draw lines. We've hardly even written anything down. If the Crows have sniffed us out—"
"Or," Hirik interrupted, raising a hand lazily from his spot on the mattresses, "he just thinks Evie's pretty."
Three sets of eyes turned on him.
"What?" Hirik looked at each of them in turn. "She's got that dreamy, tragic-poet look. Big doe eyes. A voice that makes grown men weep. Maybe he just liked the show and wanted to flirt."
There was a long pause.
Evie blinked. "That… can't be it."
Tai made a face. "Right? I mean—it could be. But he's a Crow. He might have been looking at her like she was a mark, not a girl."
"Can't it be both?" Hirik said, completely unfazed. "You're telling me deadly assassins can't have crushes? Tai, your father was a deadly assassin."
"He and my mother are soulmates; that's different."
From the hearth, the pot began to hiss angrily, threatening to boil over. Evie was nearest, as Tai had been busy pacing.
"No!"
The word exploded from three throats at once, all in perfect, urgent harmony.
Tai nearly dropped the ladle. "Maker's breath, don't touch it!"
Evie froze, eyebrows raised. "It's just a pot. I was just going to stir it."
Tai crossed the tiny space in three quick strides and physically inserted himself between her and the food. "Evie. Dearest. Light of our lives. You nearly set the kettle on fire a few days ago trying to make tea."
"That wasn't entirely my fault—"
"You forgot to add water."
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. The pot behind Tai hissed and bubbled, dangerously close to boiling over. He spun, adjusted the flame like a surgeon closing a wound, and exhaled.
Evie crossed her arms, affronted. "You're all being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic," Tai said. "You are banned from the kitchen. You know this."
Kieran, recovering his composure, added, "You're an artist in every sense but culinary."
Hirik saluted her, dropping his back onto the rug again. "Still love you. Just... not your food."
Evie huffed and flopped back onto the bench, muttering, "One day, I'll make soup so divine you'll all cry."
"If that happens," Tai said, returning to his pot, "I'll assume you've been replaced by a demon and call a templar."
"Rude," she said, but the corners of her mouth twitched.