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“What is this?” she asked, her eyes scanning the page. “It’s not…” She ran her fingertips over the words as if expecting them to vanish. “My contract,” she whispered. “I don’t want you beholden to Per Haskell. Or me.” Another half-truth. His mind had concocted a hundred schemes to bind her to him, to keep her in this city. But she’d spent enough of her life caged by debts and obligations, and it would be better for them both when she was gone. “How?” she said. “The money—” “It’s done.” He’d liquidated every asset he had, used the last of the savings he’d accrued, every ill-gotten cent. She pressed the envelope to her chest, above her heart. “I have no words to thank you for this.” “Surely the Suli have a thousand proverbs for such an occasion?” “Words have not been invented for such an occasion.” “If I end up on the gallows, you can say something nice over the corpse,” he said.” — Leigh Bardugo