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“And yet no lesson has ever taught you kindness. No tutor has ever taught you mercy. You have a heart hungry for war and I do not know why.”
“Yes, but if the wedding doesn’t happen, Nikolai won’t have to worry about the Fjerdans or the Shu or the Fold.” “I won’t?” “No, because Genya will have murdered you.
“At least I only have one arm to lose,” Adrik said glumly. For all his Grisha talent, he had to be the most depressing person Nikolai had ever encountered. He had sandy hair and a boyish freckled face, and he was the human equivalent of a head cold.
“My love, there’s ink all over your face.” “Does it matter?” “The correct response is, ‘Beautiful wife, won’t you kiss it away?’” “Spontaneity.” David nodded thoughtfully and drew out a journal to make note of this latest instruction. “I’ll be ready next time.”
She glimpsed a few words in David’s scrawl: Ideas for compliments—hair (color, texture), smile (causes and effects), talents (tailoring, tonics, sense of style—inquire on “style”), teeth? size of feet? “His journal,” Zoya said. Where David had written down all his little reminders for how to make Genya happy.
“Don’t pretend to shrug this off. You’ve barely looked at me since I returned.” Because I am greedy for the sight of you.
Zoya couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep his abilities secret, to live his life full of love and misadventure without forever looking over his shoulder. Maybe someday being Grisha wouldn’t mean being a target.
“Surely the greatest thief in Ketterdam can outthink such a problem,” said Nikolai. “I’m not susceptible to flattery, only stacks of cash.

