A/N: Thank you super Oleander's One for your wonderful beta, your wonderful friendship and just being ... well ... wonderful.
Thank you all who are still reading along.

This chapter was not the one I intended, it seemed to have a mind of its own.

Finally, the song in here is sung to the tune of The Cowman and the Farmer Should Be Friends, from the musical Oklahoma, with apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein.

A Haunting We Will Go

The question bounced inside her head, swirling and dancing and twisting amongst her thoughts, refusing to land and be answered. As Grace wandered down the street, she rejected the pressing sigh in her throat. There would be no girlish sighs or lovelorn whimpers.

She had considered, albeit briefly, sitting down with her mother to discuss the question that so occupied her brain, but knew she hadn't the patience to deal with her mother's animadversion on the subject.

No more so did she wish to discuss the question with the man who posed it as they were just as likely to come to fisticuffs or, heaven forefend, wind up in a sweet tangle of sheets.

Serendipity came to mind and she sent round a message for a massage but the siren of the Blooming Rose was booked through 'til morning. The only person in all of Kirkwall who could sit and listen and tease without mortifying her was too busy to speak with her.

The longer the time went without a response, the more tense and ill-humored the seneschal became and she could not fault him for that. Or rather she could, but unfairly so. However much she found his presence annoying, she found it even more to be stimulating and exhilarative. Enough to marry the man and move in with him? A shiver danced down her spine, raising the fine brown hairs on the back of her neck.

And she would become a mother the moment she married the man. A twin shiver followed the course of the first and she stumbled momentarily, her step halted mid-stride.

A mother? She was no more fit to be a parent than Isabela was to be a Revered Mother. The answer would have to be a resounding NO! Poor Keir. He was much too sweet and sassy to need a completely inappropriate and inept stepmother. What was Bran thinking to even consider such a thing?

She would simply go to Bran in the morning and explain he had been thinking with the wrong part of his anatomy when he'd asked the question and upon further consideration he would come to realize just how ridiculous the notion was.

With the sigh still tickling the back of her throat, she began once again to walk in the direction of the Rusty Cock, releasing the pesky rush of air as she did. She hadn't gone more than a block before her step faltered again.

Was she using Keir as an excuse to deny herself a chance at happiness? Hadn't she been scolded and lectured for her willingness to martyr herself? Or had that been Bran attempting to provoke a response in the affirmative? Maker's merciful mustache, she was tired of contemplating such a weighty question.

Perhaps she was guilty of over-thinking? Ruminating over-long about a question whose answer should slip lightly from her lips? Excogitating endlessly? Well, of course she was! Whenever her happiness lay at the heart of a question, she forestalled, deferred and otherwise impeded herself with obstacles imaginary and apocryphal.

Keir was a perfectly well-adjusted and happy young man who seemed to like her and he no more expected her to be his new mama than she expected to become the next Viscount!

With a shudder of horror at such a thought, she stopped to get her bearings and felt the unusual heat of a blush flood her cheeks like water from a broken dam. How had she wound up in front of Bran's estate, which happened to be blocks away from her destination?

"Damn you, Bran!" she howled at the night and stomped back the way she had come, turning down the appropriate dark alleyway as she made her way to the Rusty Cock … this time in the correct direction.

~~~oOo~~~

Bran glanced up from the missive he was working on, cocking his head to one side and listening intently. For a brief moment he was sure he'd heard his ladylove cursing him. That, in and of itself, was hardly a novelty, but when no further denunciations were forthcoming, he returned to his letter.

"Dear Keir,

"It is with some trepidation that I write this to you. I know that you have long wanted to live here with me and I have been resistant for many reasons, though none to do with not wanting you here. And now, I am hopeful that you can, at last, come home to stay.

"Before, with so much bitterness in my heart, and so many responsibilities to the Viscount, I felt I could not give you the attention you needed as a young boy. As you grew, the situation in Kirkwall became so fraught with danger that I wouldn't have asked an enemy to live within its walls, never mind my own flesh and blood.

"My bitterness was never directed at you, Keir. I have always held you in the highest esteem and I am proud to call you son, but still that bitterness kept me from being able to express such a thing until now.

"You may well wonder how such an alteration occurred and I can only say that my heart has finally found peace and with that peace, love. I will not pretend to be a changed man in all regards as I think we both know the implausibility of such a notion, but I am happier and there are only two things that I know will enhance my happiness. One is having you home for good, and the other is for a certain woman to reply to a certain question in the affirmative.

"I have asked Grace Hawke to be my wife and, while she has not replied in the confirmative, neither has she replied in the negative and that gives me hope.

"Regardless of her response, Son, I want you home. It is time, and past, for such. Do you agree?

"I have written to your grandparents as well, and hope that they see their way to bringing you here forthwith.

"Eagerly awaiting your arrival …"

Bran paused, unsure of how to sign the letter. In the past he had always signed it with an impersonal "Father" but now his quill hovered and he signed "Papa" as that is what Keir had called him as a young boy. Although anyone less like a 'papa' he could not imagine. Still, a small smile tickled his lips.

~~~oOo~~~

A low, dull roar of voices, not unlike waves pounding the shore in a hurricane, greeted Grace as she entered the Rusty Cock. Her hair, neatly plaited and pinned, shivered as the wall of sound hit her and she staggered back. It was time, she decided, to find a new haunt. The Rusty Cock was becoming entirely too popular a place.

She peered through the thick haze created by too many candles, too many unwashed bodies and too many … she sniffed the air … was that ordinary pipe tobacco she smelled or something more potent? Hopefully Aveline and her over-eager city guard wouldn't decide to raid the place. Wouldn't her arrest in a seamy tavern thrill Bran's sense of social rectitude?

Her roving eyes, now beginning to water and sting, found her group, huddled in a far corner. She smiled, despite the noise and odiferous cloud that hung in the air. This had been their favorite pub for ages and it would be difficult to find another. Still, as part owner, she had a right to install a few rules and guiding precepts here at the Rusty Cock. Perhaps instituting an hour when drinks could be purchased for substantially reduced costs had not been quite as clever an idea as she had first thought.

With a shake of her head, sending her plaited and pinned hair sliding ever so slightly to the left, she pushed through the morass of malodorous men, her eyes focused on her friends.

Poor Sebastian's gleaming white armor had a rather sickly yellowish brown haze to it and he held a once snowy white handkerchief to his electric blue eyes.

Fenris's expressive mouth was twisted into a sneer of disgust. Fine judgment from an elf whose own mansion reeked of dead bodies left overlong in a warm room, as well as spilled wine of dubious origins. Still, she could not fault him for finding fault with the atmosphere here.

Isabela, however, was chasing her Antivan whiskey with a mug of brown ale, singing and laughing, completely oblivious and thoroughly bosky.

Anders and Justice appeared to be having an argument over the tankard in Anders's left hand. Anders looked to be winning if his wide, slightly off-centered grin was anything to go by.

Scribbling furiously, Varric glanced up as she approached and the laugh lines around his eyes deepened as he grinned at her.

"I have the perfect idea," he greeted her.

"Excellent. I knew you would hatch some outlandish scheme, you brilliant dwarf!" Grace replied with a matching grin. "In regards to what, exactly?"

He swept his notes to the side and motioned for her to sit down beside him. "Call in the Crows to take out Meredith. With the head of the snake removed, the templars will fall into line quickly enough."

"What? Hire assassins when we are just as capable as they are? More so, if Isabela's stories are anything to go by. That one who ran with the Hero, what was his name? Zevern? Saffron? Hmmm, what was his name?" Grace tapped the table, trying to think above the raucous and rollicking noise.

"Zevran?" Isabela asked, scooting closer. "The man is a demon between the sheets but the worst lock-pick in all of Thedas," she said laughingly. "Shall I contact him?"

"No!" Grace responded loudly.

"Yes!" Varric replied at the same moment.

Isabela laughed and hefted her mug. "When you two figure it out, let me know."

Before they could continue the discussion, Sebastian leaned across the table. Lowering the handkerchief from his eyes, he called out, "Her Grace, the Grand Cleric, wishes you to speak with her this evening after Compline."

"Comp what?"

"Evening prayers."

Grimacing, Grace asked, "What can she possibly have to say to me tonight?"

"She dinna say, lass. She needs ya, do ye ken?"

Grace picked up his mug and sniffed. His flushed face and dimples gave away his inebriation. "Apparently she doesn't want you to join us?"

"Oh, aye, Lass. And Varric, too. Do ye ken?"

"Yes, yes, I ken, dear Sebbie."

She turned her mind back to the problem of the templars and the mages and the tension they were creating among the folks of Kirkwall. Even in the midst of the merry group of revelers in the Rusty Cock she felt the underlying friction. Sooner or later the city would erupt in violence if they couldn't bring the parties together, somehow. Or replace Meredith and Orsino at the very least. Then Elthina's inattentiveness wouldn't be so dangerous.

"Anders, what have you heard from your mage friends? Is it as bad as we think?"

Anders held up a hand, raised his mug in the other and drank deeply. With a slight shiver and a happy grin, he lowered the mug and nodded sagaciously. "Meredith is finding the least little reason to perform the Rite of Tranquility and Orsino continues to prod her and encourage the mages to open rebellion. It's a mess. Why can't they just get along?"

He sighed and reached for another mug. Grace put a hand out to stay him and he glared for a moment before Justice spoke. "Thank you, Mistress Grace. He will be stubborn about strong drink and I do not wish him to be in his cups. Such a state is deadly for a mage."

"Anders, we need you sober enough to discuss this reasonably," Grace reminded gently.

"Get him singing, Grace. That always sobers him up!" Isabela suggested, pulling him out of his chair and onto the table top. Grace grabbed several endangered mugs of ale and moved further down the long table.

As soon as the rowdy crowd saw their favorite songsters on the table, they hushed to a low rumble. Isabela cleared her throat and hummed a note. Anders blinked and his grin widened. Without further prompting, he began to sing.

"Oh the Templars and the Mages should be friends!
"Yes, the Templars and the Mages should be friends!
"One man likes to cast a spell,
"The other likes to smite and yell,
"But that's no reason why they can't be friends!"

Isabela joined in.

"Gallows folks should stick together,
"Gallows folks should all be pals,
"Templars dance with the harrowed mages,
"Mages dance with the Templar's gals!"

"Oh the Templars and the Mages should be friends!
"Yes, the templars and the Mages should be friends!"
"One man likes to walk the Fade,
"The other likes a sharpened blade,
"But that's no reason why they can't be friends!"

"Gallows folks should stick together,
"Gallows folks should all be pals,
"Templars dance with the harrowed mages,
"Mages dance with the Templar's gals!"

Both singers paused as the patrons began to dance around the room in merry abandonment. Watching a near miss of an overzealous patron and the large rusty cockerel mascot, Grace winced and looked quickly away.

"Everyone, let's get Grace up here to finish the song!" Isabella yelled and a cheer shivered the rafters of the place. Without hesitation, Grace climbed up to stand beside them. Taking a deep breath of smoke and interestingly pungent air, she began to sing the final verse.

"Oh, the Templars and the Mages should be friends!
"Yes, the Templars and the Mages should be friends!
"One man likes to hold his staff,
"The other doesn't like to laugh,
"But that's no reason why they can't be friends!"

Tensions had melted by the end of the third verse and most of the intoxicated masses joined for the final chorus.

"Gallows folks should stick together,
"Gallows folks should all be pals,
"Templars dance with the harrowed mages,
"Mages dance with the Templar's gals!"

The singing had helped Anders to focus, though Grace doubted he was as sober as most of the other patrons, but he was, she noted with a grin, more sober than Sebbie. Wearing a sophomoric grin and merrily humming, Sebbie winked at her, his cheeks awash in a blush at his temerity. She winked back and grinned as his blush deepened.

"So, some have suggested we assassinate Meredith. I hate to think we have to resort to violence again, as I don't think it will alleviate the underlying tension. And if we assassinate her, we ought to take out Orsino as well. He is every bit as big a problem as Meredith. I am open to ideas."

Anders blinked and seemed intent on some internal dialogue and Grace watched, fascinated at the changing expressions that flitted across his face. Finally, he leaned forward, chin propped dangerously on his wobbly palm. "Time to call in some favors. What's that Fade walker's name?"

"Do ye mean the Soma … Sonim … Sommelier?" Sebastian hiccupped with a merry grin. "A fine lad, ye ken."

Grace stared at him, frowning. "We know a wine steward?"

"Do we? Excellent! Are you adding decent wine to the menu here?" Fenris asked, finally taking an interest in the conversation.

With an impatient shake of her head, Grace growled, "No and no! You meant Somniari, I'm guessing. Feynriel. Hasn't he left for the Tevinter Imperium?"

With a great shudder that dislodged his chin, Anders straightened up and turned to Grace with a serious expression. "Justice? What have you to add to the conversation?"

"Such a distance is nothing if one can maneuver in the Fade, Mistress Grace. I believe I understand what Anders intends. We propose having this Somniari visit Knight-Commander Meredith in the Fade and haunt her. Drive her to 'retire' for her mental health. It will necessitate acquiring her secrets. Her demons, as it were."

Grace blinked in surprise. "Did you just make a joke, Justice?"

Junders blinked in reply. "I – I believe Anders has insinuated his humor within me, Mistress Grace."

She patted him consolingly. "It is hardly surprising. Anders has a very strong personality. But I am sure you will never be subsumed by him, Justice. You are equally strong in your personality."

A frown marred Anders's face. "Can a spirit have a personality?"

"Interesting thought, in a totally terrifying way," Varric commented, sliding his chair further away from Junders.

"Back to the point. How do you know what to haunt Meredith with? She isn't exactly an open book."

Silence fell among the group as they pondered the dilemma. Varric slapped the table with his palm. "There's only one way to find out about her. Gossip. I'll put my people on it and I would suggest a visit to your favorite masseuse, Grace."

With a plan of action in place, Grace pulled a merry Sebastian up by his pauldrons and motioned for Varric to follow her. "Contact Feynriel however it is you do that, Junders, and let him know we need his help. We'll meet back up tomorrow evening at Varric's."

~~~oOo~~~

"Your Grace, you wished to see me?" Grace asked, sketching an impossibly tiny curtsy.

The Grand Cleric, her grey eyes befogged, smiled. "Did I? Yes, well, I must have if you are here at this hour, mustn't I have?" Her smile was bright, if befuddled, and Grace turned her head away so the old woman wouldn't see her eyes roll skyward.

"Aye, yer Grace, you dinna remember?"

"Sebastian, why are you here? Should you not be in bed at this hour?"

A blush marched militantly into Sebastian's cheeks. "Ach, ye ken, yer Grace," Sebastian prodded. Grace was confident that she heard him mutter, "Ye great daft woman," but so softly as to be nearly silent. A snigger caught in her throat.

"Oh, now I do recall that Sister Nightingale wished a word with you three. I do believe she did, at any rate. Do you know she traveled all the way from Orlais? Such a lovely young woman, too. I knew her years ago. Or did I? Now, what were we … Oh yes, she wanted to speak about … well," the Grand Cleric paused her maundering speech and tapped her chin, her smile faltering.

"Yes?" Grace prompted, her patience nearly destroyed by the dotty old woman's non-existent memory.

"Yes? Oh, I remember. We were discussing … oh dear, I seem to have forgotten."

A scream of frustration, trapped in her throat, nearly choked Grace but she courteously reminded Elthina about Sister Nightingale.

"Oh, now I do recall that Sister Nightingale wished a word with you three. I do believe she did, at any rate … "

"Yes, I do," a lightly accented voice interrupted and Grace turned to see an attractive red-headed woman, dressed in studded leather, stride into the room.

"Leliana?" Grace asked, her voice an embarrassing octave higher than normal.

The woman grinned. "Indeed. Did you think you'd ever see me again?"

Grace shook her head. "I never knew what to expect from you, Leli. Between you and Ser Bryant, things were continually hopping in Lothering."

"Jamie sends his regards. He is Knight-Commander at the Ferelden Circle now."

The idea came to her in that moment, the perfect replacement for Meredith. Her earlier idea of Cullen stepping in was mentally cast aside. With renewed good cheer, she put her arm around Leliana and began to tell her about the problems in Kirkwall, and the Gallows in particular. Leliana listened with surprise, her blue eyes flicking often to Elthina, who was busy puttering around the altar, humming a hymn that sounded strangely familiar.

"Oh, Grace, how have you managed not to kill any of them?"

"I've been too busy running around putting out fires to do so but we have a plan to help Meredith decide to retire and we need one for Orsino as well. Until they are both gone, the unrest will only worsen."

"I cannot wait to hear your plan for Meredith, you devious woman!" Leliana exclaimed playfully, her smile as bright as a summer day.

"It involves a certain amount of magic, which I should not relate to you in the fear that your Divine will disapprove."

"She is not my Divine although she was at one time. No, no, that is in the past," Leliana giggled and giggled more to see Sebastian gawk and blush like a choirboy.

After explaining the plan to Leliana, Grace paused and added, "So if you have any special information tucked into a file in some out of the way place, now would be a good time to retrieve it. The faster we put this into motion, the better."

"I just happen to have a bit of information tucked into this file," the woman said, tapping her head, sending her red curls dancing.

"Perfect," Varric purred, leaning forward with the eagerness of a consummate and devious strategist.

An hour later, Leliana sat back and sighed. "I believe that is all. That should be enough to haunt her without bringing up her poor sister and that debacle. Better to use her fetishes and those young men, yes?"

"Absolutely. After I explain what she does with them to Sebastian, who looks a bit confused," Grace added, prompting laughter from all but the aforementioned, who blinked owlishly at them and gave a soft hiccup.

"Now what can we do with Orsino?"

"Leave him to me. I remember several mages who now serve the Divine. I believe they will be of great help when I have him summoned to Val Royeaux. Which I will see to before I depart."

"And you approve my choices for replacing Meredith and Orsino?" Grace asked, finding herself surprised by Leliana's ready acceptance of her plans.

"Oh yes, but I am here to tell you that no matter what happens here, the world is trembling on the edge of a precipice. Someone will certainly slip or jump or even stumble over it, and all the world will come undone."

"Wow, that is a particularly gloomy prophesy, Bright Eyes," Varric grumbled. "Especially for someone like Grace, who is contemplating marriage," he added with a snicker.

"Oh! Grace Hawke, you sneaky woman! Marriage? Half the templars of Lothering will go into mourning at such a thing. You must come to Val Royeaux to shop for your trousseau. Oh, I cannot wait to take you to the shops along Rue de …"

"Varric! I haven't accepted anything, I am not …" Grace stumbled, words hastily deserting her.

Leliana laughed her dainty laugh and rubbed her hands together. "And bring your wonderful mother with you, as her taste is exquisite."

Feeling haunted by the turn in the conversation, Grace spent agonizing moments trying to redirect the conversation. Finally, Leliana stood and brushed her hair back, her eyes bright and warm.

"Do what you must to calm things here. The longer we postpone the slip into the abyss, the better. And know that you are not alone, my friend. The Divine appreciates all you have done for Kirkwall."

With that, the bard slipped into the shadows and was gone.

Grace turned on her dwarven friend and said, "If you know how to disappear, now would be a good time."

With a good-natured laugh, Varric slung Bianca on his back and headed into the night, whistling jauntily.

As she wandered home along the darkened streets, a sliver of silver moon her only light, she found herself drawn again to the seneschal's estate. Seeing a light burning in the window, she tried to come up with an excuse to knock on his door. None came readily to mind and she was just about to turn on her heel when she heard his voice, soft as silk in the darkness.

"Serah Hawke, what an unexpected pleasure. Dare I hope you have an answer to my question?"

"I do," she was surprised to hear herself reply.

"What, may I ask, is your answer, Serah Hawke?" he prompted, and Grace heard the urgent rush in his voice.

Her heart skipped around her chest like a giddy child. She opened her mouth, clutching her fingers like a lifeline as she gathered up her words, which had deserted her the moment she'd said she had an answer. Speak, she urged herself, her panic increasing.

"You are not particularly easy on one's ego, Grace," he said softly, stepping closer.

She leaned in, her heart continuing to skip beats, her mouth as dry as Bodahn's toast. She floundered and blushed and opened her mouth again but nothing escaped, despite her wild prodding.

"I see. Your mockery does you no credit. Your silence is an answer unto itself, is it not?"

With that Bran turned on his heel and walked stiffly into his home, shoulders square and head high. Where was he going? Why didn't he want to know the answer? Why couldn't she breathe? And Maker's Arse, why couldn't she find her voice?

"No!" she cried out as the door shut with quiet authority.

A/N: Special thanks to Alpenwolf for the suggestion of using the Crows to eliminate Meredith. I truly considered the possibility and appreciate the suggestion!