Different was putting it mildly, she knew. Jo was never privy to the magical rituals of the few tribes she encountered, but she knew them to be nothing like the relatively simple nature of wand-assisted spell casting. The few preparations she did witness usually involved herding animals in for, what she imagined was, blood sacrifices. That magic couldn't possibly be what Alfred intended, as he hadn't any altars nearby. At least none that she could see at present. It had been some time since they saw one another, though, and he could have reinvolved himself in those rituals, she supposed. Merlin, what a hilarious end to this (mostly) rotten year that would be: blood sacrificed in London by a friend.

Jo hid what likely would've been a slightly manic (she was more volatile than ever, after all) chuckle behind a sip of whiskey and sat opposite him on the sofa, her feet tucked under her bottom. "Wandless healing magic is likely the most useful of all, if I had to guess," she commented instead of sharing any of the thoughts passing through her head.

Her brows furrowed briefly at his quick correction. By all accounts, it was just him and Mr. Medina who survived the disasters that befell their shipmates. Or, that was what the pair of men wanted the world to believe. Either way, Jo wasn't going to — and would never — comment upon it. She had plenty of her own secrets to keep without adding an even larger scandal to her plate. No, whatever Alfred meant by that momentary slip would live and die with him.

"Wands are such fickle beasts," Jo shrugged. She still carried hers, though whether it was a representation of sentimentality or unaddressed rage she didn't know. "I'm willing to learn whatever you can teach me. It's a start, which is more of a direction than I've had in months."