He claimed his brown leather chair and I the sofa, preparing his tea how he likes it (which is not very much without whisky) and forcing him to take some gingerbread. “It smells like Christmas,” I smiled. “Cheery and solid.” He grunted and took a sip of his tea. Then, taking a flask out of the pocket of his coat that he’d abandoned over the arm of the chair, he made it more to his liking, and his second sip produced a sound of relief.
Pierce is an alcoholic.
