[Gale meets Astarion's gaze with alarm of his own; he tries to subdue it, but it weaves into his brow, manifests by pulling his mouth into a thin line.]

I don't know, Astarion.

[But perhaps they can find out something, if they can keep paranoia from eating them alive. He steels himself with a breath, examining the flower more closely. The magic that imbues the petals is faint, barely strong enough to give them a gentle glow; unfortunately, not enough remains to trace who might have cast the enchantment, and when.]

I'd ask if anyone would have visited your grave to place it, but without knowing how long this flower has been here, that limits our suspects.