usual, pressing a shiny, blue tin into Sasha’s hands. “Heaven knows what they’ll have to eat in that place,” Miss Adeline muttered, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “Cookies? Bah, you’ll need whiskey to get through this,” Mrs. Landshome said, handing Sasha a small bottle of spirits. The old woman tugged on Sasha’s sweater, forcing Sasha to crouch down until they were at eye level. “He may be a sorcerer,” she whispered, “but if he gives you any trouble, knee him in the gonads—it’s hard to summon magic when you’re crying on the floor like a baby.”
