"Doesn't stop me from wanting it. Or you from wanting it."

Darras tips a look up at the sky, purpling like a bruise under the cover of the evening. The sound around them, the smell, the air, even--it's all Kirkwall. Nothing of their cottage. He's thinking of it all the same, as clearly as if the steps were, impossibly, leading up the side of the cliff, taking them home.

"If the Marches weren't lacking in their networks, and if your desk weren't full of correspondence, and if the war weren't nipping at everyone's heels. We'd be there."