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Summary
Just before we step into the bar, Willow catches me by the arm. “Hey, listen,” she says, “Don’t, uh… Don’t come back.”
I scowl. “What?”
“Not saying you won’t be missed around here, but listen: word is, this guy’s plannin’ to take you back to Boston with him, and Ahzrukhal’s gonna let him. This is your shot. Whatever happens to Fancy-Hat, whether it’s on the road, or a hundred more years down the line, don’t come back. You tear that damn contract to pieces and strike out on your own. You got that? Don’t you dare come crawling back here to Ahzrukhal.”
My lips thin with frustration and I jerk my arm away. “That is not how it works.” You would think that, after 200 years, she would know that.