"Perhaps I am all the more Fereldan for my lack of comprehension," she replies, rather dryly. Love had not treated her kindly, in the past. That had not been love, she later realised, at least not from both sides. And if it had been, then it was a noxious warping of it. Marjolaine may have loved her, once, but she had always been a possession.

She makes a sound of exaggerated surprise, a gasp. "You got me," she informs Luciano, as if entirely scandalised, making a terribly poor effort to free herself from his terrible grasp. Alas, her ability to escape has suddenly wilted to nothing, it would seem.

It is easier to play with the child than to look at Zevran, but she manages it. "Definitely not, but..." Leliana stops herself short. To say that romantic love could be more destructive than friendship and other loves was to lie, outright. They had all of them felt the sting of deceits, of Wynne's death, of Jonas' decisions. Happy to cease upon a change of subject: "Why suspect?"