Sansa didn't leave the house for a week.
Most of the day, she slept. She remembered psychology classes in school, that this was most likely a sure sign of depression, but she really could not bring herself to care. (Was that a sign of depression as well?) After her gastronomous feasting of the first night, Sansa eased into more of a balance with her diet: not the stressed starvation of her time with the Lannisters, but more quiet nibbles here and there, enough to nourish, not to overwhelm. Petyr was gone in the afternoons most days, but Sansa didn't mind this. She reveled in the quiet. She read his books and felt her mind slowly relaxing. She cleaned nooks and corners, though he insisted a woman would be in each Wednesday to do that. Sansa didn't care, her abused mind demanded occupation, anything to keep from replaying the horror film that was her life in her skull over and over and over again. She filled an entire legal pad with drawings – some just doodles, others elaborate designs and portraits; and she woke one morning to find Petyr had left her a set of charcoal, sets of watercolors, and a large binder of high quality paper. Sansa put these away in her nightstand. She wasn't ready for nice things to express herself with just yet. Her soul was messy; it preferred ball-point pens whose ink would go dry and lined, yellow paper.
Things were different at night. Evenings, when Petyr returned from wherever it was he ventured (his law offices, Sansa guessed, but she sometimes suspected maybe not), just the slightest sign of weariness pinching the corners of his eyes, the two would begin to chat, quite affably. It got to the point where Sansa was glad to see him, would run down the stairs to greet him with smiles she was slowly remembering. Sometimes she felt like she did when she would greet her father at the door, and other times she felt like his little wife, and that thought was the stranger of the two – which surprised her a bit. She certainly did not want any man replacing her father.
Petyr smiled when she did, hung up his jacket and put his briefcase in its proper place, and talked with her. With her, and not at her, which was a nice change from her incarceration in prisons with and without bars. They talked about the books she was reading, and the ideas they were giving her, and he always asked questions. Mr. Baelish was fascinated by the turns her mind took; he prompted and argued her points, as a lawyer must, until Sansa was sure she had been entirely wrong in the first place – until she would catch the smile that would crook the corner of his mouth, and realize he was quite proud of her conclusions. She felt her shoulders beginning to broaden, no longer slumping forward and down, endeavoring to become invisible. She felt like a flower opening up now that the clouds had passed by. No man had ever really been interested in the thoughts inside her head before. She found it far more complimentary than any recalled comments on her face or body or grace or manners.
Petyr told her scary stories as well: frightening truths about what the Lannisters were doing, the things the papers and news pundits were saying about her, the case the District Attorney was slowly mounting. On the first day, it had given Sansa the childish urge to hide under the huge, dark wood bed, but then she understood it. Mr. Baelish promised Sansa would not be blind. People who would see sometimes must see unpleasant things. He knows I'm strong enough to handle it. Sansa wished she knew that as well.
The first time she ventured out of doors, it was into his backyard, a half-wild expanse that sloped down to a softly trickling creek. The yard by the house was neatly trimmed, with all the proper flowers: roses and daphne and hydrangeas. But past a line of thin trees, wild blackberries grew; there was invasive ivy and stinging nettles, and the creek bed, with its smoothly worn soap stones and the music of its trickling voice. Sansa spent the greatest amount of time by the creek, and she slowly repaired.
Nine days into her stay, Sansa worked the dye into her hair.
Petyr did not smile when she came down the stairs, her fire tamped out with dirt, but his eyes were silver and examined her very, very careful. It seemed not a detail would escape his attention. "I'm going to the courthouse on Friday," he said, voice low and just a bit gravelly. "It's in the middle of downtown, have you ever been?" Sansa shook her head no. "Well, it's become quite the trendy epicenter. It might do you some good to get out and see the world. Should you like to join me?" Sansa agreed that yes, she would.
No one looked at her, and it was amazing how good that felt. Anonymity had never been something Sansa sought out, but she had never appreciated it, either. When she was Sansa Stark the Innocent, she might or might not notice eyes lingering on her, but never bothered over it one way or another – unless it was from an attractive boy her age. When she was Sansa Stark the Dead, every gaze hurt. Every hating look from Lannister eyes, every pitying glance from the Tyrells was like a new bruise to her sallow skin. Now she was no one and nothing, and could slip through a crowd without anyone even noticing her at all, as though she really was dead. She hoped never to be noticed again.
Sansa's now brown hair had been tied loosely at the nape of her neck in a ponytail, and Petyr had brushed it back over her shoulder as he fixed a sunhat over her head. The sunglasses he would give her hung from the collar of his shirt. "Remember," he told her, his voice a whisper in the parking garage. "If someone asks, what's your name?"
"Alayne." She smiled at him. Alayne was going to be her suit of armor to carry her into battle. Alayne fit strangely, but Alayne was strong and unhurt – because Alayne was not Sansa.
"If something happens, just come back to the courthouse, tell the officers you're waiting for me. You have my card?"
Sansa nodded. "And your cell phone number, and everything."
"Good girl." The smirk that was lingering on his lips softened slightly. His lips parted as his fingers finally finished brushing back her hair. Sansa didn't stiffen, but she remained still, noticing her own breathing. "Still so soft..." He let the ends of her hair slip through his fingers like grains of sand, enraptured by the moment. She didn't need to clear her throat to wake him, his eyes snapped to her face all on their own – and the look there was hardened steel, the lawyer that was about to save her. "Remember, two o'clock."
"Two o'clock, Petyr," she nodded, and they had stepped out of the car.
The boutique Sansa had wandered to was small and trendy, and she let herself enjoy the numbing bliss of aimless shopping. It didn't bring the pleasure it used to, arm in arm with her mother, or with friend Jeyne, but it still had its own kind of niceness. She looked at silver hair clips, handmade earrings, luxury soaps and colognes. She found a leather-bound journal with the imprint of a wolf and thought how Arya would have enjoyed that, which left a bitter taste in her mouth. Sansa was feeling particularly bold: any time something reminded her of her old life, she was going to leave the shop. There were plenty of boutiques on the street, she could go to all of them if she had to. She made a purchase at this one anyway, and walked out with no more incident than that. She wondered if other people felt this weightless all the time, adrift in the universe, untethered to love or family – and strangely alright with the sensation. Anything that wasn't fear, terror, pain; oh, anything else at all was lovely. The entire day might have been enough of a success for Sansa to believe she had merely stepped out of a nightmare into a new life, that everything might be alright for the rest of time-
Except she walked into a clothing store, and very nearly vomited out of reflexive fear, like a puppy might in a cage.
Cersei Baratheon, all scowling and with anger brewing behind her eyes green like poison. And with her, loyal brother Jaime. They stood there as normally as any other shoppers in the store, and no one paid them any mind – which was insane! There were demons looking at a rack of ladies' wear, surely someone would notice that! Sansa practically ran to a rack of dresses and nearly attempted to burrow into them, as Arya used to do with the circular racks in department stores. He had been leering at her, whispering in her ear all the new toys he had gotten recently. Shackles and bars, some sacrilegious thing called a St. Andrew's cross, a cat o' nine – all for her, his favorite pet, and wasn't she just so lucky? He could whisper all these terrible things and still drink and eat at the garden party like he was merely discussing the croquet game being set up by his siblings across the sprawling yard. It was a small shop, she could hear their voices clear as breaking glass even as she checked tags obsessively, as though her life depended upon it.
"Father will be done in the courthouse soon enough."
"I can't believe they actually let that little bitch out on bai-"
"Cersei, people can hear you..."
"And he expects me to wait around like a good girl while he meets with the judge! It's as though I'm fifteen all over again." The widow ripped a green neglige off a rack of women's sleepwear and held it up against her body for her brother to judge. "What do you think?"
The younger Mr. Lannister traced the bodice with the tip of one finger. "Something lacier, I think." When she returned it to the rack, he continued, "You need to let this go-"
Sansa knew better than to run. Running netted only punishments. Margaery was right over there with her grandmother, she'd distract him soon enough, Margaery always saved Sansa.
"Don't you ever say that to me," she hissed, a little like a cobra, and this surprised Sansa not at all. "My son is dead. I will never let that go. And I am going to see that nasty little slut hang for it if it's the very last thing I ever-"
Sansa ran anyway.
A shop girl popped up at Sansa's elbow, and she nearly ripped off a sale's tag in surprise. "Something you wanted to try on, miss?"
"This!" Sansa hands were shaking, she shoved whatever garment she had hold of into the sales associate's grasp with far too much enthusiasm.
The girl seemed a bit surprised, but wordlessly led her customer to the changing stalls, hung with a heavy red curtain and a bit of cord. "Just let us know if you need anything."
Joffrey chased after her.
Sansa nodded, wordless, and disappeared into the stall. The terrified creature backed herself against the corner and shook, able to hear the Lannister twins more clearly by the moment; dear God, they were walking this way!
"I should be the one talking to the judge, not Father. How could a man look at a distraught, weeping mother and then refuse to rescind bail?"
Sansa could hear a dark chuckle from Jaime's throat. "You are a lot more attractive than Father, that's true."
"He never listens to me. Why doesn't he ever listen to me? Do you like this blouse?"
"I don't know – and no, I don't."
He caught her by the row of shrubs that made the corner of the garden. So far away, she could barely hear the music of the party being piped through the speakers. Sansa was living in a technicolor nightmare, surrounded by flowers: pink and purple and blue, shaped like cups, like bowls, like gloves...He grabbed her by the throat and she lost her balance, crashing into the flowers, crushing some to the ground-
"Neither do I, this place is hideous. Let's go." Sansa didn't breath so that she could count their footsteps walking away. One, two, four, five...
There was a sharp rap on the side of the changing stall and the girl nearly jumped straight out of her skin. "Do you need a different size?" Just the shop girl; Sansa had to hold her throat, as it felt as though her heart meant to beat straight through her esophagus.
She glanced at the dress she grabbed; it was bright orange. She would have looked like a pumpkin. "N-no, thank you, I don't think it's quite my style."
"I'd love to take a look at it."
With hands that were still shaking, Sansa undid the latch of the cord and threw aside the curtain. The sales girl was actually taken aback by her pale appearance, like a heroin addict was shooting up in her dressing room. "I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment, but thank you anyway." Without another word, she rushed out of the boutique.
Sansa almost didn't go back to the courthouse, terrified that the Lannisters would be waiting there. But she didn't know what else to do. If anything happens, come back to the courthouse, that's what Petyr had told her to do, and she wasn't about to be disobedient. The girl tore through the crowded streets, looking for the world like she had to reach her car before she got a parking ticket, but with a much greater fear driving her onward.
Joffrey had had his hands about her throat – and while it wasn't for the first time, this was worse. This was going to be the moment she died, like her father, like her mother, like her brothers and sister- "Stupid bitch," he called her. "Ungrateful slut. Ugly who-" She suspected he was going to finish the word as "whore," but he never got that far. His limbs shook violently, and at first Sansa only knew it from the feeling of his fingers fluttering against the column of her neck – but then she saw the rest. Foam flying to his lips, yellow and thick. Joffrey's eyes were wide and red and he seemed to be choking, choking, dying-
She was out of breath when she reached the courthouse doors, working hard to keep from becoming hysterical with the stoic, unmoving officer on duty.
"P-please, sir, I need to see my lawyer – no, he's right upstairs – Petyr Baelish. I said, Petyr Baelish. No, he is my attorney, I have his card, see, I- No, I don't have my ID on me. You don't understand, this is an emergenc-"
"Alayne?"
Sansa turned and looked up at the mezzanine that stretched above her in the marble foyer of the courthouse: Petyr was looking down at her with his hands holding tight to the worn, oak rails, brows drawn together in concern. The girl almost ran up the stairs to get to him, and he hurried down to grab her. "The officer wouldn't let me up, I did what you told me, but-"
"Alayne, it's alright." When the guard seemed about to protest, he was waved off. "This is my niece, Alayne."
"She said she was your client."
"She is – it's a family matter."
"Without ID, she still can't come-"
"It's fine, we were leaving anyway." Sansa had been doing her best to hide her trembling with his arm around her shoulder, but he shifted and slipped her hand around the crook of his elbow, so that he was walking her back toward the underground parking garage. It wasn't until they were sitting in the car and he had started the engine that he spoke again. "What happened."
"Cersei Lannister." She was too afraid to even stutter. "Her, and Jaime, I saw them."
She saw Mr. Baelish's fingers flex against the steering wheel, but he really didn't betray much else. "Did they see you?"
Sansa shook her head. "I don't think so. I hid in the dressing room."
Petyr actually laughed at that. Sansa felt the brutal urge to reach over and hit him, right in his smug, smirking mouth- "You are a clever girl, aren't you?" She still wanted to hit him; it felt patronizing, like an insult. She might have, but they were pulling out of the garage, and she knew better than to distract him while he drove. "Even if they had seen you...nothing would have happened. In public? And they wouldn't dare send their dogs all the way to my property."
"You don't know that, Petyr, you don't know how they-"
"You're right, I don't know that. But I'm not going to waste time worrying about it. You're certain they didn't see you?"
Sansa wasn't going to lie, she never had lied, not about anything. "I'm not certain. But it seems unlikely."
Petyr was silent for a moment, he nodded. "That's good enough." His eyes flicked over to her, to her lap and her feet, a flash of green in the dark of the car; a paper shopping bag. "What's that?"
"What's what?"
"The bag at your feet."
"Oh." Sansa had forgotten she'd even been carrying it. She fumbled with the contents of the sack, palms slick with nervous sweat. "I bought something."
"Obviously, that's why I gave you money. But what did you get?"
She bit her lip. "...It's a surprise."
"I want to see it right now." His voice was hard, steely. Sansa knew if she looked at him now, his eyes would have been more grey than green. She didn't argue, lifting it out of the sack and unwrapping the tissue paper that covered it. At a red light, the attorney took it from her hands – and stared, slack jawed. Sansa felt absurdly proud; she'd never shocked him before then.
It was a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of mockingbirds, tied with a pink, satin ribbon. Petyr said nothing the rest of the drive home.
She was losing track of time.
Occasionally, Sansa would turn on the television in the basement, where the rec room was. This would work to at least give her a schedule to plan around, but she quickly found it boring. Comedies were insipid to her now, dramas were hopelessly childish rather than fraught. To give herself a project, Sansa took out all of Petyr's shirts from his closet and began resewing the buttons. They were more secure than Fort Knox when she was finished with them. She'd leave the television on as she worked, and it switched between overly-sentimental documentaries, and shopping networks that had plump, southern women as hosts.
"I didn't know you were so into dinosaurs," Petyr remarked to her one day, looking down at the work in her lap.
"I'm not," was Sansa's reply.
"Do you want that fire opal ring, is that why you keep this channel going?" was the question on another.
"No."
"Tell me you don't believe JFK was abducted by aliens."
Sansa managed a small smile. "I wasn't even listening. Is that what's on?"
At night, when she couldn't sleep (and she often couldn't sleep), she slipped the paper and watercolors out of her nightstand drawer. Some of the time she stared at them, trying to figure out what image the paper wanted released from inside of it; other times she worked, patiently, feverishly.
And on another sleepless night, she was desperately trying to lull herself from her nightmares with warm milk when Petyr found her. Neither one asked why the other was up. It was a needless question.
Instead, he took her hands while the milk simmered in a pot on the stove. "Sansa. We're going back to the courthouse soon."
"We?"
He nodded. "We may never need to go to trial, we may have the charges dropped-" Sansa stiffened with hope, "-but the DA wants something out of it, too."
"W-what does he want?" She registered, vaguely and in the back of her mind, that the milk was going to burn.
But Petyr's thumb was running gently over her knuckles. She didn't know if he meant it to be a soothing gesture or not, and she wasn't sure if it succeeded in that. Perhaps he just wanted to touch her. Sansa could appreciate that. "You were with the Baratheons a long time. Joffrey even took you to the investment firm, isn't that right?" She nodded. "Then you know what Cersei was doing there."
She tried to pull away, begged off on the excuse that, "Petyr, it really will burn-"
"Let it burn."
"You'll ruin your saucepan!"
"I don't even know what a saucepan is for."
She huffed. "Generally, sauces."
"I told you, I'd never have you afraid with me."
"Well, I am afraid – of them, of her. If you want me to testify against her, if that's what all this is about-" The flash in his eyes confirmed that for her; that he was proud she understood! It was a sickening stone in her stomach, not a delight. "I-I didn't see that much!"
"You saw enough – to tip the jury into finding her guilty of inside trading, of-"
"Please, don't make me do this."
"Would you rather face the murder charges?" In the dark of the kitchen, his voice was hard, as cold as the tiles beneath her feet. Sansa stared at him, with blue eyes like sodalite. She felt like she was being blackmailed, and also, like he was trying to save her. She hated him, she hated him, how could he do this to her – he saved her, he kept her here in this beautiful house, let no one touch her – oh, she hated his guts! – and he was her savior, her cruel, villainous, perfect savior.
"...I'll do it," she said in a voice that was cool and clear, and just what he wanted to hear. "If you let me take the milk off the stove."
There was a silence – and Petyr released her hands. "Good girl." She almost snorted. "Good" was the last thing Sansa felt.
"Why don't sharks eat lawyers?"
Sansa laughed half out of surprise. "What?"
Petyr smiled at her, his chin on his palm, his elbow on the armrest of the bench. "Why don't sharks eat lawyers?" he repeated.
Sansa had no sense of time any longer, and so she did not know if days, weeks, or decades passed before they returned to the courthouse. She did know that most of the dye had washed out of her hair, but Petyr had said that was alright. It was alright, because they would soon have the District Attorney on their side, and to that effort, they were sitting on a bench, waiting outside his office door. "Stannis Baratheon," the nameplate said, in gold lettering.
Sansa smiled and sipped at her water bottle. He's trying to make me more comfortable. "No idea," she answered.
"Professional courtesy." Sansa laughed, and Petyr smiled at her, calmly, warmly – like he took true pleasure in the way she laughed. She was laughing when the door opened and a gruff, older gentlemen bid them come in.
"Davos," Petyr nodded at him with an affable smile, one that made Sansa's stomach turn – because it was not the kind of smile he gave to her, it was the kind given to the rest of the world. He was her lawyer now, not her friend, and that was what she needed – but strange to find she missed him (the him she supposed, thought, prayed was real) when he was that other man. "How's the hand?"
"The same as the last time you asked," he muttered, but had considerably gentler manners with the girl. "Miss Stark. I was very sorry to hear about your father. Good man, he was."
Sansa looked down at her black shoes. The feeling was real, but she knew Petyr would have been proud of the gesture nonetheless. "Thank you," she whispered, demure and non-threatening as possible.
She only knew that that was not the District Attorney by the fact that Petyr had addressed him by the wrong name. She was left to guess that the man himself was the one sitting behind the desk, the one who did not rise to meet them – but did deign to shake her attorney's hand across the desk. Stannis Baratheon was younger than his Assistant DA, which Sansa thought was a little strange, but she noted no tension between the two gentlemen. On the contrary, Davos – Mr. Seaworth, he was later addressed – seemed enthusiastic to help his superior. Sansa might have been nervous that this was Joffrey's uncle, that he would want to see justice pressed more than anybody, but if he bore the hatred for her the Lannisters did, it never showed on his countenance. Mr. Baratheon had the hardest face Sansa had ever seen, like it was shaped of iron. His mouth was constantly firm and scowling, and his blue eyes seemed able to pierce straight through whatever they looked at. Petyr never withered under that gaze, but Sansa felt distinctly uncomfortable.
"Well!" Petyr was still smiling, his ankle crossed over his knee so that he looked very relaxed and easy. "You called us, Stannis. What did you want to discuss?" (Sansa couldn't believe his frippery. If it were up to her, she would have been on her knees pleading for mercy; Petyr led one of the most powerful men in the state around by the nose.)
Baratheon had been sitting back in his chair, like a king on his throne, dissatisfied with the court around him. Now he sat up, rubbed at the black and grey stubble that lined his chin. "I seem to recall you mentioning a deal, Mr. Baelish. A plea deal, perhaps?"
"I'm certain I never said anything about pleas, Stannis."
"What other kind of deal did you think I was going to take? This is a murder investigation, not a law school course."
The grin on Petyr's face never faltered. His client felt sick. "Sansa," he addressed, barely looking at her, mostly meeting the stare of the District Attorney. "Come sit by me, my dear." She obediently sat in the chair next to him, hands in her lap, eyes down. "There's a good girl. Now, Stannis – are you going to tell me that is the girl who murdered your nephew? All of five nine and with barely an ounce of muscle?"
"This has nothing to do with him being my nephew and everything to do with the law. You don't need muscle to shove foxglove into someone's mouth."
Sansa wanted to open her mouth and say she did no such thing – but Petyr was paid to speak, and speak he did. "Oh, I would argue that you most certainly do! Besides..." He licked his thumb to help him flip through the documents he piled onto his lap. "I seem to recall the coroner's report ruling out the flowers found at the scene as the source for the digitalis ingestion..."
Stannis' eyes twitched. "My detectives seem to think otherwise."
"And that's fine! But when I call the coroner to the stand and ask him about it, who do you think the jury is going to believe? Or when I call the next medical witness? Or the next one? Or the next o-"
"We're not in court now, I get the point."
"Here's the crux of the matter. You," he pointed, "have been drooling to get your sister-in-law indicted for insider trading and tax evasion for over a year." Stannis' fingers drummed against his desk, the only agreement Baelish would receive. "I have the most delightful witness that can make that happen for you," and he indicated Sansa.
"...You want me to grant immunity in a murder case in exchange for information on fraud?"
"Oh, I don't want you to do anything, Mr. Baratheon. But if you go through with this theatrical farce, I'm going to make it the most painful case you've ever tried." He rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming and in his element. "I'm going to paint such a picture for you: a beautiful, sobbing girl suddenly devoid of family and friends – watching the only boy she ever loved die right in front of her."
Stannis snorted and actually addressed Sansa. "If Joffrey was your only love, then I feel even sorrier for you."
The girl's jaw fell open, she stammered. "I-I don't-"
"Listen, Baelish. However sad a murderer is, she's still a murderer."
"You don't believe she's a murderer anymore than you believe Joffrey is your nephew." Sansa almost choked on her water.
"It doesn't matter what I believe, what matters is the evidence my detectives give me."
"Then your detectives should be paying the taxpayers back their salaries. Look," Petyr uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, eyes glittering. "You've got an election to plan for sooner than you'd like." Stannis ground his jaw. "Go for the murder case, and you'll look like the vindictive uncle who took this poor, abused girl – beautiful, barely a woman – and tried to blame her without proper cause. You'll make her even more of a victim, and voters will remember that, and they'll remember you failed to get a conviction." He pressed on before Stannis could interrupt. "Because you won't get it, I can promise you that! And I haven't, in general, lied to you about that in the past, have I?"
There was a long silence, except for the grinding of Stannis' teeth. Mr. Seaworth glanced suspiciously and nervously between the two parties. "And the alternative is...?" the DA at last prompted.
"You become Stannis the Stalwart! Stannis the Just!"
"Your titles are less interesting to me than your ideas."
Petyr was grinning. Sansa stayed silent. "You become the man who was unafraid to tackle the biggest investment firm in the state, and is so ethical he'd confront his own sister-in-law on charges of corruption and fraud. And it would be a battle you could win. Voters like to see people who get advantages they don't taken down a peg; they'll remember that, Stannis."
"Whatever it is you seem to think about me," the man was sitting tall, and he looked imperial and untouchable. "I'm not doing this job to be popular or to worry about reelection. I'm here to serve justice for the citizens."
"And you do an excellent job of that, Stannis – but really. Would indicting Sansa Stark be serving justice?" Petyr looked at her, and Sansa blinked for a moment; it was enough to make her eyes dark and shining, her countenance soft, a mix of fright and hope. Mr. Baratheon sighed through the nose. "Whatever happened at that garden party – didn't he deserve it? Isn't that justice?"
Stannis pursed his mouth at his adversary. "It's not for us to decide which victims deserved to live and die, Mr. Baelish. That's what the justice system is for."
Petyr laughed slightly, standing and offering his hand once again. "You never change, Stannis."
"Nor do you, Petyr."
"Do we have a deal? You quietly let it be known you're dropping the charges against Miss Stark while you pursue better leads – and we play ball with you against dear, sweet Cersei."
Stannis considered, still rubbing his chin and looking at Sansa, rather than Petyr's outstretched hand. She tried hard not to squirm under that hard, blue gaze. "...I want an agreement I won't be seeing lawsuits about wrongful imprisonment and mental anguish."
"Then you had better really try to make me happy."
"Ugh." Stannis took her lawyer's hand and nodded. "I really hate seeing you."
"I'm flattered. You can have Mr. Seaworth here email me when you're ready for Sansa's testimony. Come, my dear." Sansa stood, proud of how smooth her bearing was, her entire lack of shivering or trembling in the slightest. "Let's get you out of here, hm?" Sweeter words were never spoken.
