He nods, smile turning a little more subdued, though not quite rueful. No one’s asked about his family in any detail in a long time, except maybe Byerly and Yseult, who both keep secrets well and let him be reticent if he wants to be. But he doesn’t want to brush Colin off and reignite the nervousness. And he doesn’t want to lie, because Colin and Athessa talk, so any lie he tells Colin he might also have to tell Athessa. So—

“We had a room near the alienage, too. But my father was sick all the time, and it was... I mostly fed myself, after I was seven or so.” Perhaps Denerim had his species of child, too. Not parentless, but very poorly supervised, going wherever they liked until someone thought to come track them down and make sure they hadn’t died. “And I came and went—mostly went—until there was nothing to come back to anymore. I was—I don’t know. Thirteen or fourteen.”

There. All true. And while talking, he’s been cutting the tarte tatin—he has a knife at least, always—and putting a slice of it into the box’s lid to pass over to Colin. Surely he wants to eat his own handiwork. Sorry that he has to do it with his hands.

“Maybe I should have gone to sea. Did you like it?”