“Collins,” he says, a little strangled. “I feel bad about how we ended things last night.”
“I stand by why I said.”
“I don’t. It was … unfair of me to assume those things about you.”
“It’s fine,” says Collins.
“It’s fine?” Farrier doesn’t believe him for one moment. He can feel them reverting back to whatever they were before last night, both with tall, towering castles built, with walls so high they disappear into the clouds. What lies beyond them, what could be born beyond the clouds, where the walls fade away and the world can no longer see?
“Sit, why don’t you?”
“I don’t like you very much, Collins,” Farrier says lamely.
“I don’t care for you, either, but you en’t gonna sit with them, and there en’t another chair open, save this one. So I guess you can keep standing in the doorway like a right bampot, or sit.”
Farrier glares at him outright, for there’s no way he can argue with that. The rivalry between themselves and the Irish outlasts the rivalry between himself and Collins by a handful of centuries. That must account for something, so he sits.