The bell above the door of 'The Alembic's Heart' jingled with a cheap, tinny sound that set James Morgan's teeth on edge. It was a sound utterly unbefitting of an establishment that purported to sell the tools of natural philosophy. He swept inside, his impeccably polished shoes clicking on the worn floorboards. The air was thick with the scents of lye, glass dust, and a faint, metallic tang.
Another day, another den of mundane commerce, Lutz thought, his eyes already cataloging the shelves. This city is a tapestry of the ordinary, and I'm a needle trying to find the single thread of the extraordinary.
"Good morning!" James Morgan's voice rang out, cheerful and slightly too loud for the cramped space. He flashed a brilliant, vacuous smile at the stoop-shouldered attendant who emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on a grimy apron. The man's eyes, sharp and assessing behind smudged spectacles, widened a fraction at the sight of his customer.
"Sir," the attendant grunted, his tone neutral.
"New to the city, full of ambition, you know how it is. One must invest in the future! And the future, I am told, is in alchemy." He leaned in conspiratorially, the scent of his expensive citrus cologne cutting through the shop's odors. "I'm funding a fellow, a brilliant but tragically impoverished alchemist. Needs the proper tools to unlock his genius! I am here on his behalf."
The 'tragically impoverished alchemist' being me, Lutz mused, his internal voice a dry counterpoint to James's exuberance.
"Indeed, sir," the attendant said, his skepticism a palpable force. "What precisely does your... alchemist require?"
"A man of practicality! I like that." James clapped his hands together softly. "Let us peruse your wares."
For the next hour, James Morgan was a whirlwind of frivolous curiosity and seemingly naive questions. He pointed at a retort. "And this glass balloon, it's for... distilling the essences, yes? Marvelous!" He picked up a mortar and pestle, hefting it with a feigned struggle. "Goodness, so heavy! One must have strong wrists for philosophy, it seems."
Coarse-grade porcelain, Lutz analyzed, his fingers brushing the unglazed surface as James fumbled with it. Too porous. It would absorb residual energies from one reagent and contaminate the next. Useless for anything beyond grinding coffee.
All the while, beneath the performance, Lutz's mind was a checklist, cross-referencing the diagrams in The Verdant Crucible with the physical items before him. He had already acquired the basics from other, less specialized shops throughout the day: a set of copper scales so precise they could weigh a sigh, a rack of vials made of dark, light-sensitive glass, and a small forge of iron for high-temperature reactions. But the truly critical apparatus, the ones that interacted directly with the spiritual and mystical properties of materials, were absent here.
He selected a serviceable set of beakers and a triple-necked alembic made of reasonably pure quartz. "This one has a lovely shape, don't you think?" James opined, holding it up to the light. "It has... character."
The joint seals are imperfect, Lutz critiqued. A potential point of failure for volatile vapors. But it will suffice for initial, low-risk experiments. The real equipment—the spirit-channeling condenser and the aetheric separator, mentioned in the book—won't be found in a place like this. The Winter Garden' is my only hope.
He had decided to occupy himself for the day by finding and acquiring the elements necessary for his workshop and alchemy lab, in order to suppress his excitement for visiting the Winter Garden at night.
"An excellent choice, sir," the attendant said, his initial skepticism giving way to the gleam of a large sale. "Your alchemist will be well-pleased."
"One can only hope!" James sighed dramatically. "The temperament of a genius is so fragile. Now, I shall also take this stirring rod set, and that rack there. Have it all delivered to 17 Vesper Lane. And do be careful with the glassware; I should hate for my investment to arrive as a pile of shards."
"Vesper Lane?" the attendant's eyebrows rose. "A respectable address. May I ask, sir, what business a nobleman has with an alchemist's tools at his home?"
James waved a dismissive, be-ringed hand. "A temporary measure! My man is between lodgings. My cellar is dry and secure, the perfect place for him to set up his... his bubbling and brewing until his own laboratory is prepared. I find it fascinating to observe, you see! The transformation of base matter! It's like watching money become... well, hopefully, more money!" He let out a hearty, empty laugh.
perfect cover, Lutz thought with cold satisfaction. A noble's idle curiosity. No one will question strange sounds or smells from the basement of a frivolous southerner dabbling in investments. They'll just shake their heads and laugh at the eccentricity of James Morgan.
The transaction complete, James swept out of the shop with a final, flamboyant farewell, the tinny bell chiming his exit. The moment he turned the corner, the broad, vacuous smile melted from his face, replaced by an expression of focused intensity. The shift was as dramatic as a curtain falling on a comedy.
One task down, Lutz thought, his pace brisk and purposeful now. The foundation of the laboratory is laid. Now for the workshop. The body must be as sharp as the mind.
His destination was a different part of the city, a street where the air smelled of tannin, oil, and hot metal. The sounds were not the gentle clinking of glass, but the rasp of files, the rhythmic hammering from a smithy, and the whir of grinding wheels.
The sign above the door read "Gorov's Leather & Armory: Maintenance and Craft." Lutz entered, the performance of James Morgan packed away. His posture was straighter, his gaze direct and analytical.
A large man with forearms like knotted rope and a leather apron stained dark with decades of work looked up from a bench where he was meticulously stitching a bridle. "Help you?"
"I need equipment," Lutz said, his voice even. "For a private workshop. Leatherworking, textile maintenance, and blade care."
The man, Gorov, grunted, setting down his awl. "What kind of work? A hobbyist? Or something more serious?"
"Serious, I'm investing in a project, I've hired some of the finest craftsmen for it." Lutz replied, his eyes scanning the shop. He saw presses, cutting dies, cobblers' anvils, and racks of tools whose purposes he could only guess at. "I require the absolute best quality."
'Equipment,' he thought, his mind flashing to the harness of throwing knives back at home, the well-oiled mechanism of Henrik's revolver, the parrying dagger with its nicked blade. And future acquisitions. My new alchemy book had a little section that mentioned creatures with scales that can turn away a blade and hides that are immune to flame. Normal tools will shatter on them. I need a foundation that can be upgraded.
Gorov led him through the cluttered space. "For basic leather, you'll need a cutting board. A good knife—not a common one, a head knife, for curves." He pulled a crescent-shaped blade from a rack. "Awls, needles, groovers, slickers. For hardening and shaping, you'll need a maul and a stake."
Lutz listened, absorbing the information. This was a different kind of knowledge from alchemy, but no less precise. It was the craft of durability, of protection, of honing an edge to a lethal fineness, he could already be considered experienced in this field thanks to Henrik's journals.
"I'll take that one," Lutz said, pointing to a head knife with a handle of worn, dark wood. "And a full set of the other tools you mentioned. I also need a grinding wheel for sharpening. A hand-cranked one will suffice for now."
"Planning on doing a lot of sharpening?" Gorov asked, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
"One should always be prepared," Lutz said, a non-answer that was both polite and final. A dull blade is a dead man's luxury.
He selected a sturdy, oak-framed grinding wheel, a set of whetstones of varying grits, and a small anvil for hammering out dents in his gear. As he ran his fingers over the cold, pitted surface of the anvil, he imagined the future.
This isn't just for maintenance, he thought, a slow, ambitious plan unfurling in his mind. This is for creation.
"Will there be anything else?" Gorov's voice broke his reverie.
"Rivets," Lutz said, his thoughts snapping back to the present. "Brass and steel. And a set of punches. And the best waxed thread you have."
The clink of gold coins was a stark difference to the clank of metal being struck, here, in the world of tangible, physical things, there was no need for pretense. The transaction was clean, simple.
As he finalized the delivery details, giving the Vesper Lane address again, Gorov gave him a long, appraising look. "You handle yourself like a man who knows the weight of a tool. You're no nobleman's son playing at crafts."
Lutz met his gaze evenly. "We all have our secrets, Mr. Gorov. Just ensure the delivery is discreet."
The man gave a slow, understanding nod. "It will be done."
Stepping out of Gorov's and back into the bustling street, Lutz felt the two halves of his life click into place. The alchemy lab in the basement—a place for subtlety, for transformation, for the manipulation of unseen forces. The workshop adjacent to it—a place for strength, for durability, for the honing of physical power. One for the mind and spirit, the other for the body and blade. Together, they would form the engine of his ascent.
He began the walk back to Vesper Lane, his mind already in the basement, visualizing the space. The alchemy bench along the north wall, under the gas lamp for light. The forge and grinding wheel in the far corner next to the stout ventilation chimney. The sturdy worktable for leather and armor in the center.
James Morgan will be seen buying quality coal and firewood, he planned. A reasonable expense for a man heating a large house. The alchemical deliveries will be dismissed as his eccentric investment. It's all about layering the lies, building a cover so mundane and predictable that the extraordinary happening in its heart becomes invisible.
He turned onto Vesper Lane, and the performance began to reassemble itself. His shoulders loosened, his stride developed a slight, arrogant swagger, and a bland, congenial expression settled on his face. He saw Edmund Reeves tending to the small rose bushes in front of Number 15.
"Mr. Reeves!" James called out, his voice once again full of false bonhomie. "A fine afternoon for it!"
Reeves looked up, his face breaking into an obsequious smile. "James! I see you are exploring our fair city's commerce."
"Indeed! Investing, always investing!" James said with a laugh, waving a hand airily. "Just purchased some materials for a craftsman I'm sponsoring. A leatherworker of astonishing skill! Perhaps he can make you a new pair of gloves once he's established."
As he unlocked the door to Number 17, he was greeted by the scent of beeswax and fresh bread. Eliza, his housemaid, was dusting the hall table.
"Sir! You're back. There were several deliveries for you today," she said, her young face earnest.
"Excellent, Eliza! Don't worry about them, I'll handle it, why don't you go take a break to your room?" He gave her a charming, conspiratorial wink.
"Of course, sir," she said, bobbing a curtsy before hurrying off.
He stood in the quiet foyer, the silence of the house a palpable thing. Downstairs, in the dark, stone-lined basement, the components of his new life were accumulating. Glassware for brewing potions. Tools for forging armor. Books of forbidden knowledge.
He walked to the mirror in the hall and looked at his reflection—Lutz Fischer's face, animated by James Morgan's expression. The cynical, analytical eyes of the former looked out from the charming, vacuous mask of the latter.
The face in the mirror smiled, a perfect, frivolous, and utterly deceptive smile. But the eyes remained cold, clear, and relentlessly focused on the path ahead.