For a vanishing moment he considers why his disciple asks this uncharacteristic thing, but lets it pass.
"Remember, when the blazes begin, the proprietress and her wards are to be protected. They are sacred...".
An ampoule of some dark stuff appears in his pale open palm.
"Your blessing."
With a stiff, deep bow the cloth-bundle plucks up the ampoule with willow fingers, before turning and wandering without another word, back out into the torpid brightness of the lane.