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“Charon,” she says, overly-sweet, her voice dripping like the corn syrup they had in the vault, “would you mind doing me a favor and marrying me to appease these lovely, overly religious folks?”
The look on his face is that of a long-suffering man, the same one he always gives her when she has a really stupid plan that he is legally and contractually obligated to follow through with. It’s a look she’s intimately familiar with.
She’s waiting.
“If you wish,” he says with a sigh.