Before he knew what he was doing, he’d flung his clothes into a bag and gathered a few treasured possessions into a box. The rest could stay behind. He’d sell the tea shop, he’d go to a big city, maybe Brassing-on-Abona, and he’d start a new life, and—and he wouldn’t cry to be leaving it all behind, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t—and there would be someone else, eventually.
