The Leszy mirrors her head tilt teasingly. “What is it?” There is something filling her, overflowing past the brim, a mead-warm feeling too melancholy to be called gratitude. She reaches out and puts her hand over his, long and pale where it rests on his knees. He twitches, his breath stuttering, as if her touch is lightning, as if he expects to burst aflame. When she looks up, his eyes are wide and bright and bewildered. “You’ve endured so much for us,” Liska whispers. “It’s my duty,” he says. “Thank you.” She holds his hand until his shoulders loosen, until he knows she means it. “Thank
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