He’s used to the way this happens: Gwenaëlle’s meandering tangents, her half-finished thoughts, teetering from one idea to the next. The name Grey Warden Alistair does ping recognition, because Stephen’s done his historical research, and the presumably-a-king's-bastard son who fought alongside the Hero of Ferelden is a figure for the literal history books. And then there’s the parts he didn’t know: Grand Enchanter Fiona. Starkhaven. The pieces of the tapestry starting to come into view; tug on one thread and the rest moves as one.

I’ll write Sabine, Gwenaëlle had said over the crystals, and it’s easy enough to guess why she can’t simply have have Guilfoyle handle this particular correspondence.

“I’m shit at giving bad news, too,” Stephen says after a beat. “Always one of the worst parts of the job.”

Give him a knife and blood-stained hands and he knew what to do; he could roll up his sleeves and get to work, focus on the problem and its solution. Give him a grieving family in plastic hospital chairs, looking at him and waiting to hear, and he perpetually found himself at loose ends and over-analysing his own facial expressions and if he was reacting enough, or too much, or too little, and was his voice too warm, too cold, too brisk, such that in the end—

“Honestly, I wasn’t even good at the good news either. But do you want to talk through it?”