When he spins the feather between his fingers, the bent part blurs into a lopsided circle; tiny fluttering noises whisper where its edge cuts the air. It's kind of meditative. Easy just to watch the feather blur, come back into focus, blur again with each spin, without wondering who owned it.

...Of course, now he is thinking about who might have owned it before it came into Cullen's, and now Alistair's, possession. Damn it.

Alistair sets the feather aside, sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair. "You know what I'm about to suggest," he says to Cullen, quiet and a little self-deprecating.