( gwenaëlle recalls, a little, the things ness has said before about her father, the shade of her skin —

recalls, too, the way she had felt in the dream that had been loxley's world, feeling the points of her ears. the peculiar euphoria that had accompanied it, how she'd worn her hair pulled away from them, remembered so dimly the pinch of fingers pressing the soft roundness of the ears of a child into nearly-points and it is easy, actually, to reverse it. even only: standing in the courtyard of skyhold, vigorously adjusting her bodice, making a joke of it so that asher would tell her she was beautiful.

(how gentle he had been with her, bracketing that little display with his body.) )

I've taught myself to do it by feel, ( she says, after a pause, looking up this time, ) when I'm in the field. Once you've done it that way a few times, it's almost easier without the mirror— and anything more complicated will need a second pair of hands, anyway.

( there is an offer hanging implicit in that, but she hesitates to press it. )