Deborah Obida

“What is this?” he went on now, spearing an unfortunate object on a fork and raising it to eye level. “This . . . this . . . thing?”
“A parsnip?” Jem suggested.
“A parsnip planted in Satan’s own garden,” said Will. He glanced about. “I don’t suppose there’s a dog I could feed it to.”
“There don’t seem to be any pets about,” Jem—who loved all animals, even the inglorious and ill-tempered Church—observed.
“Probably all poisoned by parsnips,” said Will.
“Oh, dear,” Tessa said sadly, laying her fork down. “And I was so hungry too.”
“There’s always the dinner rolls,” said Will, pointing to a covered basket. “Though I warn you, they’re as hard as stones. You could use them to kill black beetles, if any beetles bother you in the middle of the night.”
― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince