She'd heard right. Maeve had lost three cases of imported red, good stuff she'd been saving for the winter solstice celebration. The crate had arrived with claw marks gouged through the wood and every bottle inside shattered.
But that was her business. Not theirs.
"Accidents happen," Maeve said.
"Pretty frequent accidents." Breck drained his beer. "You think that's why the Council brought someone in? To investigate?"
"I think you should worry about your own problems." Maeve took his empty glass. "Want another?"
"Always." He grinned. "But come on, Maeve. Aren't you curious? New enforcer shows up unannounced, Council's being all secretive about it. That's got to mean something."
It meant Varric was playing games. It meant politics she didn't want to touch. It meant her life was about to get complicated in ways she couldn't control.
Maeve poured Breck's refill and really tried not to think about amber eyes and that insufferable smirk. There was no way he could be who they got. Why would he be? And bigger question yet. Why did she care?
Because he’s a play boy who can’t take anything seriously, she reminded herself.
The door let the whiteness of light wash in as it was pushed open. Cold air rushed in with Twyla Honeytree, who looked entirely too pleased with herself. The fae moved through the tavern like she owned it, wheat-colored hair perfect despite the snow, light brown eyes sparkling with secrets.
"Maeve!" She slid onto the stool next to Breck. "Tell me you've heard."
"Heard what?" Maeve set a cup of tea in front of her without being asked. Twyla always wanted tea.
"About our new Council enforcer." Twyla's smile turned wicked. "Oh, you haven't heard. This is delicious."
Maeve's lioness stirred. "I don't care about Council business."
"You will." Twyla wrapped her hands around the teacup, steam rising between them. "Especially when you find out who Varric brought in."
"Someone competent, hopefully." Maeve moved to the end of the bar, away from Twyla's knowing look. "Someone who'll do their job and leave."
"Oh, he's competent." Twyla took a delicate sip. "Very competent. Tall. Handsome. Golden hair and a smile that could charm the scales off a dragon."
Maeve's hand slipped. The glass she'd been holding hit the bar hard enough that she had to catch it before it shattered.
No.
"Dante Deleuve," Twyla announced, voice carrying through the suddenly quiet tavern. "Your old flame. Back in Hollow Oak on official Council business. Isn't that interesting?"
The glass cracked in Maeve's grip. Thin lines spider-webbing through crystal, cutting into her palm before she forced herself to set it down.
"He's not my old flame," she said.
"No?" Twyla's eyebrows rose. "Then what was all that heat last night? Because half the town's talking about how you two nearly set the Silver Fang on fire just by looking at each other."
"We did not—" Maeve stopped. Breathed. Reminded herself that killing Twyla would be bad for business. "He showed up uninvited. I threw him out. End of story."
"Beginning of story," Twyla corrected. "He's staying at the Hearth and Hollow. Diana says he paid for two weeks upfront."
Two weeks.
Maeve's lioness paced, torn between fury and something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.
The door chimed again. This time Freya Bloom entered, copper-auburn hair dusted with snow and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. The nature witch moved with her usual fluid grace, green eyes bright as they found Maeve behind the bar.
"Please tell me the gossip's true," Freya said, setting her bag down. "Because Kieran's been insufferable all morning."
"What gossip?" Maeve asked, though she already knew.
