I’m going to buy an island and a lot of crossbows, and a squad of alley possums to be bodyguards, and enough rations that I can live out my days there and make sure that Araşt never finds me. I will write poetry and read it to the possums.” “That sounds lonely.” “It’s not ideal,” Avra said feverishly. “Ideal would be a villa where I could lie around drinking wine with people who want to fuck me, and also snuggle with me afterward, and all of them will like my poetry. Too dangerous. Conspicuous. Easy to find me that way. Then I will be so dead. The real kind of dead. Not the sexy kind of dead
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