Tav blows out a breath. It seems everyone is allergic to him these days. Or perhaps he’s once again said something he shouldn’t. (Sewing his lips shut or becoming a hermit are both sounding like better and better ideas by the day.)

“I do indeed have boots and legs to fill them,” Tav attempts diplomatically. “I’ll find an escort to the Alienage.”

Or, more likely, he’ll go alone, with only his shirt and shoes.