He rolls his eyes -- probably more at Harrow than the bartender; probably -- and says, "Fine. Whatever."

He still needs to practice, though, and it's a lot easier in here with the Window churning out a nonstop torrent of thanergy anyway. Wuxian flicks one of the bone chips he'd been toying with onto the surface of the bar. In a matter of seconds, it unfurls into a tiny, perfectly-formed skeleton no more than six inches high; he pats it on the head like a fond parent before it goes loping down the bar.

And then he grabs one of the shot glasses the instant it hits the bartop and downs the vodka.