Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Seeking Hides

The smelly, dark pelt that I’ve slept on is slightly moist to my cheek. The sun peeks in through the hole in the dungeon wall when I wake up for the first time in the broken, ancient prison cell that I’ve decided is to become my sleeping quarters. I stretch out some of the tension in my neck, and gently massage my wrist. The ache is dull, but flares up when I pull my hand into a fist, then straight again. I shake it out and look around the tannery as I dress.

I’ve never been that attached to my sense of smell in the first place, and losing it right about now would actually be quite practical, at least if Harritt’s quick run-through of the process of tanning in a pre-industrial setting is to be trusted. It’s certainly a process that speaks of the ingenuity of people, but also a revolting mixture of putrefying hides, lye water, tannin, animal brain matter, feces and ammonia. He also told me the bodily fluids are usually collected from chamber pots, stables, or the poor animal in question. “Secluded” was putting it mildly; the odour is intense enough that tanning usually takes place outside city walls. But, hopefully this place will do quite well, I decide as I get up. My head is spinning with names of process steps as I walk the steps back up to the Keep. 

The air in lady Josephine’s office smells faintly of her rosewater perfume, a scent I’m sure means sophistication here but reminds me of stationary, as I step into the dark room. While there isn’t a lot of furniture in the room yet, I can already picture the desk that will be strewn with parchment and missives for the Inquisition. For now, however, those scraps and notes litter the floor, and lady Josephine herself sits in the middle of the storm of paper. A fire crackles heartily in the fireplace in the corner of the room.

She barely shifts at the knock I make on the doorframe.

“Lady Montilyet,” I ask, but get a horrible feeling I’m imposing when another nervous woman stumbles into the room and drops off another roll of parchment on top of the already teetering pile. I’m fairly certain her name is Lovise, and that she’s Seggritt’s assistant. She scurries off without meeting my eyes.

“Back so soon, crafter Melina?”

“I’m... I will come by, another time. You are clearly busy.”

She waves the apology away.

“It is no bother. Go ahead.”

“Alright. I... well. The dungeons.”

She looks confused.

“What about the dungeons?”

“I was wondering if I could have them for the tannery?”

She pauses.

“The dungeons?”

“Yes.”

“For the tannery?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen the current state of the dungeons?” she asks, with polite caution in her voice.

“A little, airy perhaps.”

“Truly.”

“But that makes them ideal.”

“Well, since the Inquisition has but few prisoners awaiting judgment, I don’t see why not. However, I advise caution. We are bringing a buildmaster from Orzammar here, in...” she grabs at a grey missive covered in neat black writing, “... two days, to make the judgment whether it can be rebuilt or not.”

“So the Inquisition expects to keep many prisoners?”

She blinks.

“I surely hope not! However should the need surface, we must be prepared for all eventualities. The Inquisition has been reformed, after all, to achieve peace, and defend Thedas against the threat of Corypheus.”

My eyebrows rise on their own.

“Reformed? What was its original purpose?”

“Formed anew, would perhaps be a more… accurate term. The Inquisition of old was formed, in the Ancient Age, to protect against the tyranny of magic. It ended in the early years Divine when the Nevarran Accord was signed, and from what I’ve heard, the last Inquisitor, Ameridan, went missing.”

That’s a bunch of new information. I blink.

“How long ago was this?”

Lady Josephine stills her hands. 

“Let me count. It is still 41 Dragon, so... Around 820 years. That is how long the Nevarran Accord stood, until the Lord Seeker broke it, of course,” she adds, a little quieter, but my mind is exhilarated at the mention of a year. 41, Dragon. 

“Are there people still around from that time?” I ask, thoughtlessly. 

The dark-haired woman covers her mouth to hide a snicker. She regains her composure with admirable speed.

“I’m afraid not. The scholars at the University of Orlais have established some of the history, but the Chantry and Circles of Magi pride themselves on their diligent keeping of records as well. There are also treatises on these events of Chantry history. It is a… bit of a dry read, but brother Genitivi’s writings may prove informative to you if you wish to pursue more than general knowledge on the subject,” she apologises and lifts her gaze. But, instead of meeting my eyes, hers fall on the door behind me. 

“Good afternoon, Ser Solas. I received your request for books on magic and the Fade,” she greets the man, “I’m afraid it may take some time before it can be filled.”

I feel the color fade from my cheeks.

“Thank you for your time lady Josephine but I really must be going now,” I press out in one breath with a shaky smile and escape the room.

The next few days I spend in the Dungeons. My expectation is that it’s going to take a while to set up the Inquisition’s underground tannery, but I’m proven wrong. On the whole, these people are way more efficient than I, the twenty-second century scholar of Earth for whom the process of acquiring a new induction kettle for the faculty kitchen took weeks, ever could have wished for. 

Looking back, overall, the sheer amount of things the Inquisition was able to accomplish in general, during my time in Thedas, was baffling. The historian in me finds it weird to tribute it all to its leader, Ellana Lavellan, so I'll just say this: organisations that run unhindered by sprawling email chains run, simply, better.

I know the ceremony to make Ellana Lavellan Inquisitor is going to happen, and make sure to stay away as well as I can. It takes place on an afternoon when I am on water duty, carrying buckets between the well and the kitchens. The newly arrived dwarves led by master Gatsi are rebuilding the aqueducts, but starting at the baths and privies at the other end of the fortress, so for now, there’s rote work shifts.

The previous day, Gatsi — a rather more traditional dwarf than master Tethras I’m told, with a magnificent beard — makes his round. He’s accompanied by Lady Montilyet, Ser Morris the requisitions master, and Warden Blackwall of all people. The verdict is that the structural damage to the dungeons is irreversible, but grudgingly the workers agree to my plan of building a system of ropes and pulleys, and a platform below the main level, to make it possible to wash pelts in the coursing water of the river. 

It turns out the reason Warden Blackwall has come along is that he’s fairly good at carpentry. He stays behind the others, quiet and awkward in the doorway until I show him the sketches Harritt and I made for the equipment I need. There’s the vats and barrels — for washing, lye water and tanning baths, the beam — a log to scrape off hairs and follicles against — and then various edged tools to prepare the skins; most importantly, the fleshing knives. 

The gruff man scratches under his chin when I explain how the handles should be attached to the fleshing knife until I realise I’ve drawn them at a completely impractical angle and apologise.

“I’m so sorry, Warden Blackwall. I’ll make a new sketch immediately.”

“T’s alright, I get the gist of it. I’ll be at the stables if you need me,” he says with a slightest bit of a smile.

In the evening I’m given a few empty barrels that smell of ale from the Inquisition’s tavern. Finally, I will need the wood ash to get the dehairing process started. Donatien is cutting up root vegetables and squash as I step into the hot and dark kitchen. 

“Could you keep the ashes from tomorrow’s baking onward?”

He looks up at me.

“I’ve had stranger requests. Where should I send them?”

“The tannery. I mean, the Dungeons,”  I add at his empty expression, “Take the door across the gardens, down the stairs.”

“I’ll see if I can spare someone,” he grunts.

“Thank you.”

The cut-up carrots and squash rain down into a colander as he sweeps his large hand across the cutting board.

“You’re going to be working in the tannery then, eh? Shame to see a natural polenta cook gone.”

“I’ll teach my tricks to whoever replaces me. It’s only temporary,” I sure hope, “I’m also a potter, but it’ll be a while until there’s a kiln.”

“Oh good. The darndest thing, you know. No one thought to pack tableware. And with the harvests coming in, we don't have enough jars to make preserves.”

“Ah. Once I have the kiln setup, and clay to work with, I’ll come ask for specifications,” and can’t help but add, “to get you out of that pickle.”

“Looking forward to it,” he replies, ignoring the pun.

The morning following her ascension, the Inquisitor’s party leaves for some place or other. I watch them as I’m carrying the bucket of cooling ash and coals from the kitchens. Laughing, joking about the new quiver of arrows for her bow, bright as the sun light itself, is Lavellan. I watch and feel the faded memory of a sting in my stomach as she casually straightens the collar of Solas’ tunic. The warrior Iron Bull is riding with them, enormous on his horse, as well as Sera, tiny in comparison, madam Vivienne, elegant with impeccable posture, and Seeker Pentaghast, watchful and regal.

I expect the castle will be emptier without the Inquisitor’s companions, but the only difference is that the tension in my neck and arm lifts for the two weeks they are gone. Besides, during those two weeks, there is work to do. One of Gatsi’s men, a mason named Gannon, comes by and puts up a simple pulley under Harritt’s supervision. I hoist up bucket upon bucket of water, to rinse the dried guck and salt off the hides before mixing the wood ash with water into a thick dehairing solution and putting the skins in. Finally I seal off the barrels and pull off the thick leather gloves I’ve been given. My eyes are watering at the smell that feels ingrained into the inside of my nostrils at this point. It haunts me through the nights as I sleep in my cell, curled under the old pelt.

A few days later when I walk into the comparatively fresh air of the stables, the gruff and serious facade of Warden Blackwall cracks the slightest bit. He is carving a wooden toy. I watch him work in silence for a while. There’s still an awkwardness between us, like those first times I met him in the Singing Maiden, but it’s clear he’s at ease here, woodworking in the stables, and when I greet him, he smiles behind the bushy beard.

We pick out an oak log for the beam together, and he helps me crush its bark — for the tannin — in the sunlight of the yard before we haul it down to the dungeons with the assistance of two smithy assistants. Not more than a handful of words are exchanged.

Blackwall puts a bushel of bark down on the floor.

“That’s the last of them. Thank you, truly, Blackwall.”

I check on the hides in the lye water, and my eyes water at the smell. The skins are a sickly, pale color. Some of the hairs have come off and float around in the dark water. 

“Are you queasy, milady?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a tanner if I couldn’t handle the smell, would I now,” I reply, but feel more than a little green. I firmly close the lid on the skins.

He clears his throat.

“Would you want to come to the Tavern for a hand of Diamondback?”

“What’s a Diamondback?”

The bearded man laughs.

“A game of cards. There’s another game tonight.”

“Sure, why not. You’ll have to teach me how to play, though,” I reply and pour out water to wash my hands in a wooden basin.

“I’m sure you’ll be a natural.”

If there’s one thing to be said about the Thedosian people, it’s this: they appreciate their drinks. Despite the state of the Skyhold fortress, despite the looming threat of attack from Corypheus, war, famine and disease, the Herald’s Rest is fully operational within the week from us discovering Skyhold. It’s much larger than I had expected, with a half-timber frame to support a second floor. The wooden dormers and the beautiful oriel window are new additions. The tavern’s leadlight windows give off an inviting yellow glow. And it is loud, with music and voices, as Blackwall and I cross the darkening yard.

The newly carved sign above the door gives me pause. On it the figure of a woman with gold-leaf hair and blades bursting from her head carries a shrouded figure in her arms. Despite the ominous iconography, I stomp the dust off my foot wraps, mostly out of old habit, and give my shawl a whiff before following Blackwall into the wooden building. Miss Halewell takes a bow by the fireplace as we enter. In the corner, I can see the Chargers’ healer arm wrestle one of Leliana’s scouts across a barrel. Another dwarf, with fascinating facial tattoos, tends the bar.

“The usual, Blackwall?” he greets.

The Warden inclines his head. “And sweet wine, for the lady,” he replies.

A cheer breaks out behind us. Leliana’s scout flexes, a victorious grin across her face. The Chargers’ archer rolls her shoulders and takes the healer’s place.

“Thank you. What’s the usual like?” I ask as I accept my glass of golden wine.

“Willful,” the dwarf replies and draws a tankard for Blackwall, who accepts the drink and slides a coin across the table.

“So,” I take a swig of wine, “this is the Herald’s Rest.” I follow Blackwall and we take our seats at a table by a window, close to the door.

“That it is,” he replies and pulls his tankard close.

“It’s lovely.”

Another cheer breaks out at the other side of the tavern. Apparently the scout has won again, but the red-haired dwarf’s smile fades quickly as the two Chargers cross their arms.

Blackwall doesn’t offer up any conversation, so I take another mouthful of the wine. It’s sweeter than anything I would normally have, and the taste is unfamiliar but a little reminiscent of overripe apples. 

“So,” I begin anew after a while, “you mentioned this is another game? Did you play a lot of cards in Haven?”

“Every Friday,” he says with a nod, “Not all games are Diamondback, mind you, but it’s the easiest. Lady Josephine started teaching the kids Wicked Grace, Varric won’t pass a round of Dead Man’s Tricks, and I hear the Templars all play chess. There’s the old saying; you can learn all you need of a man from how he holds his drink, and when he folds his cards.”

“So is inviting me here a roundabout way of saying you want to know more about me?”

Blackwall looks down into his tankard and gives a grunt.

“Uh… We were short one player.”

“Right. So who’s the third?” 

“You called for me, Tardy?”

My lips pull into a smile at Varric’s familiar low voice. The man pulls out a chair and sits down across from me, next to Blackwall, and sets down his bottle and goblet. He draws a hand across his blonde hair.

“Nice to see you too, Varric.”

He answers my smile, dark eyebrows drawing together, as he pulls a deck of cards from within his coat and drags off his gloves. The cards are large, like a deck for tarot readings, and look block printed. His fingers start shuffling on their own with commendable dexterity. His voice is airy when he speaks.

“Say, you haven’t happened to come across a wolf pelt? Last seen around the fireplace in the Throne Hall?”

“Wolf, you say? Can’t say I have,” I reply with an innocent smile.

Varric laughs.

“You’ll have to bluff better than that. So, this is Diamondback…”

I’m asked to draw a card from the deck to determine who gets to be dealer first, and draw a card with what I’m told is a Legionnaire. Blackwall draws the Paragon, the highest card in the deck.

“Now, the points are a little tricky to remember, especially if you don’t have firsthand experience of Orzammar politics, which trust me, you don’t want,” Varric explains and lays down one of each type of card in the deck on the sticky table, “but the most important one, that’s the…”

“... paragon?”

“Good, good. You’re learning. Now, next we have the Shaperate,” the man explains and taps a card with a woman holding a book of stone, “writers of history, we could call them. Then,” he pushes two cards forward, “Queens and Kings. The Queen is higher with the Paragon than the King, but the King is higher than the Queen with a Shaper, but we’ll get to the hands in a bit. Lastly we have the Legionnaires.”

The card depicts a heavily armed figure, and a symbol of a war hammer.

“For the Legion of the Dead,” Blackwall interjects.

“Right, Legionnaires, dead,” I reply and take a sip of ale. At some point of the explanation my wine glass ran out a second time, and was replaced by this far better pint of beer.

“You find one of them on your hand, it’s not going to be over forty. But, since only nine cards are taken out of the deck at once, it might not all have gone to shit just yet. Particularly now that Blackwall’s pulled the Paragon out,” Varric continues, “And that brings us to the hands.”

There turn out to be fourteen of them to remember, which is around eleven too many. Varric explains calmly in his low voice, going off on anecdotes about kings and queens and shapers of the past. I give up on trying to follow along, but that voice I could listen to all night.

“... and there you have it. Diamondback.”

“So, let me get this straight, if I have the Paramour on hand—”

“Paragon,” Varric corrects me.

“... then it’s good. And if I have a pair of anything else than Shapes—”

“Shapers,” Blackwall mutters.

“Then it’s not... great. And then there’s Kings and Queens but they’re… kind of eh.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Varric says with a bark of a laugh, and Blackwall deals the cards. 

I take another sip of beer and peek at my hand. Legionnaire and King. Twenty? Thirty? Forty? Or was this one ten? I brave a glance at my opponents. Blackwall’s looking at his cards with raised eyebrows, as if weighing his options. Varric’s rolling a silver coin across his knuckles, eyes on Blackwall.

“This is the point where the dealer raises the stakes.”

Stakes ? Oh, he means... money. 

“I didn’t realise—”

“Now, our Chantry friends don't look kindly on gambling, but it’s not really gambling when it's only a copper or two,” Varric says with a wink.

A shadow passes in front of the light, and a familiar scent, like sandalwood, washes over me before I can turn around.

“Are you trying to morally corrupt our poor potter, Varric?”

Dorian Pavus flutters into view and sits down on the table next to our game, wine bottle in hand. 

I suppress a giggle. 

“But moral corruption is so much fun?”

“Look at that! Alright, I’ll admit it was my idea to invite you here. We couldn’t leave you to rot in the Dungeons, could we?”

“I appreciate the concern,” I reply and clink my tankard to his bottle.

“Ante’s at two coppers,” Blackwall announces, “accept or fold,” he clarifies and pushes two small coins to the middle of the table. My fingers itch to lift them up and take a look. We don’t use currencies in my time. 

“I don’t have any money,” I excuse myself.

Varric cocks an eyebrow and stills the silver coin between his thumb and index finger.

“Hmm. You could fold… Or stake something of equal value.”

I lean forward.

“Such as?”

“There’s options,” Varric nods his head at Ser Pavus, “Sparkler here usually bets his shirt.”

“Never lost it once,” the man in question replies, “of course, it helps not to wear one in the first place.”

“Blackwall once bet a boot,” Varric continues.

“Sera never told me where she put it. Traitor,” the Warden laments.

“You get the idea. Friend of mine in Kirkwall used to stake kisses. Solas once staked a secret. Took the table, though. Shame.”

“Never play against that elf. Lost my other boot to him,” Blackwall adds.

I chew my lip. Losing my clothing isn’t really an option when I don’t have another set. Kisses, well- My eyes flit over my opponents and drift to Varric’s smug smile for just long enough that something flitters in my belly. Damn the sweet wine. I clear my throat and take another swig of my beer, feeling hot around the cheeks.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Secret, two coppers’ worth.”

The dwarf nods and pushes his two coins to the middle of the table. The game is on.

I’m not entirely sure what happens next since I genuinely forgot the value of my hand. At the first card reveal I turn up the King. Varric turns a Queen, Blackwall another King. Then Blackwall folds, and gets up to another drink. Varric eyes me with suspicion, then raises by two coppers.

“So if I fold now, I lose my stake,” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies slowly. His blonde hair glitters in the firelight, almost as brightly as the thick gold chain around his neck.

“Alas... I fold.”

Varric’s smug smile widens as he picks up the coins.

“You’ll do better next time, dear,” Dorian says and lifts my empty tankard, “but now let’s drown our sorrows in drink. Wine, Melina?”

“Why not. As long as it’s not sweet?”

“ Finally someone with taste,” he replies with a content sigh and hoists himself off the table.

I stare after the strange mage and shake my head. The buzz is stronger, but it’s strangely liberating.

“So.”

I turn my head back to Varric with a polite smile.

“I’d like to collect that secret.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s that?”

Oh, yes, that’s a fairly Earthen expression. A giggle escapes me. 

“I mean, ask away. Open book,” I add, lower. 

Varric leans in over the table and drags a thumb across the scruff of his wide chin. Up close his light eyes feel strangely piercing.

“Is Melina your real name?”

I chuckle. Of course the writer would be the most observant of the lot. How do I put this one? I look out the window.

“That’s hardly a two coin secret, is it?” I tap my fingers on the table, then continue at the vindictive glint in his eyes, “Since I give my name for free to those who ask.”

“Fair enough,” he doesn’t sound convinced, “Then... Where are you from?”

“Stockholm,” I reply before I can stop myself. Heat rises to my cheeks and ears as my stomach drops and my calendarium burns like it’s on fire.

“Stockholm? Isn’t that in the Anderfels?”

I don’t correct him, concentrating on not screaming in pain. Anderfels ? I’ll take it. The pain subsides and I let out a hissing breath that I try my best to turn into a laugh.

Varric is about to say something when Dorian swoops down with another bottle of wine and a goblet for me. His dark eyes flit between me and Varric as he pours two generous glasses of the dark red liquid.

“So, what did I miss?”

“Tardy here’s ander, apparently.”

“S hit on my tongue! I thought you were Rivaini, a fellow soul of passion, culture, scant clothing. And drinking.”

“Hey?! You can’t go around telling just anyone what you’re told in confidence!” I object.

“And now I’m just anyone to you,” Dorian complains and hands me one of the glasses.

Varric crosses his arms and laughs. Blackwall sits down at the table again.

“Alright, alright, fair’s fair. Here, two bronze. Your next game’s on me,” the dwarf concedes and drops two coins on the table in front of me.

We’re joined by others, in the following hours. Lace Harding, the reigning arm wrestling champion, sits down at the table and discusses some kind of sport — later I find out it’s jousting — with Blackwall. Harritt the smith comes by and scoffs at my excited smile, and the Inquisition’s newly arrived surgeon tells horrifying, distracting tales of amputating gangrenous toes during the Blight as she fleeces the table. Closer to midnight Commander Rutherford skulks through the tavern and exchanges some words with Blackwall about the ramparts.

Past midnight, the tavern grows louder, and several hands of Diamondback later I find myself somehow seven bronze richer. I pick up the coins and inspect them in the light of the table’s dwindling candle. There’s a profile of a man with a long nose on one side. I clear my throat and address the remaining company at the table.

“This has been a delight. Blackwall, Dorian, thank you for inviting me here, and for the company. And,” I blink to let a wave of vertigo pass, “the most excellent beverages.”

“Melina, always a pleasure,” Blackwall greets me.

“No. Leaving so soon?” Dorian sets down our third bottle of wine. 

“Some of us have work in the mornings. Skins won’t dehair themselves.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he decides, and I nod. 

The cold night air is sobering, but my head feels comfortably cushioned by drink and my cheeks are hot to the touch. I already know that I will feel excruciatingly terrible once I wake up in the morning. Where do I sleep again? No recollection. I lean back against the tavern wall and laugh. My head is spinning.

“Unless I’m completely mistaken, you seemed to enjoy yourself in there.”

Dorian’s eyes are slightly glazed over, but other than that he holds his liquor surprisingly well.

“You know what? I really did. I’m glad you orchestrated this.”

“Despite what I said, I had little hand in this. I may have put forth the idea,” he concedes.

“So was it Blackwall? Why?”

Dorian gives me a sidelong glance and raises one of those perfectly kempt eyebrows.

“Nevermind, Dorian.  I’m glad whoever did, did it.”

“You know, I couldn’t help notice you’ve made eyes at a certain other eligible bachelor.”

My face flushes red, I can feel it. So he noticed me checking out Varric? A nervous giggle escapes me.

“Oh, that was definitely just the wine. I wasn’t seriously considering Varric...”

“No, not that . Although I don’t blame you, our dwarven friend carries a certain charismatic charm. Solas ,” he says, gentler.

I can’t stop the flash of stormy eyes, the hint of a smile, a flick of a wrist, from passing through my mind, fading with a strange twist in my stomach.

“I do not make eyes at him,” I protest meekly, “And even if I did look into his deep blue eyes, he’s arrogant and insufferable. He called me a child. That's a… a terrible slight where I come from! And he’s tall! And regardless, Lavellan has his eyes set on him.”

Dorian gives me another sidelong glance.

“And that’s— That’s all I will say on this subject.”

“Alright, Melina.”

We stand in silence for a while. I can smell Dorian’s sandalwood perfume, and glance at his well-combed hair.

“How about you? Anyone you haven’t made eyes at?”

He laughs, a sad sound, shaking his head.

“No,” he answers quietly, turning his gaze to the other patrons stumbling loudly out of the Herald’s Rest. “I— I prefer the company of men.”

“And I like men, women and others. So really, no men of the Inquisition tickle your fancy?” 

I blink at another wave of vertigo, leaning my hands against the wall. The cold stones are soothing, grounding. His expression changes, becomes less bleak. A thought hits me. 

“Wait. Are same-sex relations frowned upon here?”

I know homophobia is common in some eras on Earth, but I hadn’t considered it could be the case here. Dorian laughs again.

“Here, as in on the border between Ferelden and Orlais? No, and yes. I think the Orlesians see it as a mere ‘quirk of character’. But in Tevinter, my father has a delightful ripe noble girl plucked out and set aside for me.”

“Haven’t you told him?” I ask, oblivious to the, in retrospect obvious, acid in his tone.

He doesn’t reply, but instead he gives me another sidelong glance before staring out at the Skyhold courtyard.

“Have you had any more time events since Haven?”

I suppress a burp. Time events , I guess that’s a good enough description for the calendarium’s capricious whims.

“Not since Haven, I think.” I give the tech a suspicious glare, hoping it won’t lash out at me again. It’s still sore from mentioning Stockholm. “And now the Inquisitor’s out of town, that’s another huge headache less.”

It’s a wonderful, cleansing sound, the laugh that Dorian lets out.

Somehow I take a wrong turn on the short walk across the yard to my dungeon door. By the time I realize I’m lost, my feet feel comfortably round and my mind is elated, and there’s that wonderful sense of quiet safety, that peace, that Skyhold cradles me in. In a large round room I lay myself down for a few hours on a beautiful divan, a few coins in my pocket and a smile on my lips, as night turns into dawn.