The Pastel-Amber suit landed on his bed with the satisfying weight of discarded costume. Lutz let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, the flamboyant posture of James Morgan melting from his shoulders. In its place, he pulled on a pair of trousers, a linen shirt, and a black waistcoat.
"Right," he muttered to the empty room, rolling up his sleeves. "Time for the heavy lifting."
The first delivery arrived just as he finished changing—a cart loaded with the oak tables and reinforced shelving he'd commissioned from a carpenter. The driver, a burly man with a face like a friendly bulldog, hopped down. "Delivery for a Mr. Morgan? Got some furniture here."
"That's me," Lutz said, his voice adopting a more neutral, working-class cadence. "Just the man I wanted to see. Bring it right through, if you would. The cellar door is just down the hall."
He led the way, directing the two deliverymen as they grunted and shuffled, maneuvering the heavy pieces down the narrow basement steps. The air in the stone-lined space was cool and damp, smelling of earth and old stone.
"Careful with that corner," Lutz instructed, pointing to a low-hanging beam. "Just set the shelves against that wall, and the larger table in the center."
As they worked, he kept a casual but watchful eye. His own movements were deliberate, always positioning himself between the men and the two unassuming lead boxes tucked into a dark corner, and the heavy, coarse-woven leather bag slumped beside them. The crates held Boris's Characteristic and the Dream-eating rat's hearth, the bag contained the terrifying, seductive weight of his fortune—over five hundred Gold Hammers. The sight of any one of those things would raise questions he couldn't afford to answer.
One slip, he thought, hefting one end of a shelf with a convincing grunt, and the whole carefully constructed house of cards that is James Morgan comes tumbling down. "What's in those boxes, sir? Books you can't read?" No, thank you.
The furniture was finally in place, and Lutz pressed a few extra silver coins into the head driver's hand. "For your trouble. The steps are a devil."
The man's face broke into a gap-toothed grin. "Much obliged, Mr. Morgan! You're a gentleman."
If only you knew, Lutz thought, returning the smile.
No sooner had their cart rattled away than the next one arrived, this one bearing the alchemy equipment from 'The Alembic's Heart.' The quartz alembic and beakers, carefully packed in straw, were handled with equal care. Lutz directed the placement of the boxes on the new oak table, creating the skeleton of his laboratory.
"Your alchemist must be a lucky man, Mr. Morgan," the second delivery boy, a pimply youth, remarked, staring around the spacious, if currently chaotic, basement.
"He will be, if he makes me rich," Lutz replied with a wry chuckle that was only half-feigned. "And I assure you, the luck is all mine for finding such a talent."
The most challenging delivery was the last: A safe he had ordered. It was a monstrous thing of cast iron and polished steel, taller than he was and so heavy the floorboards groaned in protest as three sweating, swearing men from the ironmonger's inched it down the stairs on a series of rollers.
"By the God of combat, what's in this, the family crown jewels?" one of them puffed, his face beet-red.
"Business ledgers," Lutz said smoothly, patting the cold, unyielding metal. "Dull, but terribly important. A man can't be too careful. Just there, against the far wall, if you can."
It took them a good twenty minutes of heaving, levering, and strategic cursing to get it into position. When it was finally settled, it seemed to dominate the room, a silent, imposing vault of secrets. Lutz paid them handsomely, the clink of silver a sweet sound that erased their fatigue and any lingering curiosity.
Finally, alone. The silence of the basement was a physical relief. He slid the heavy iron bolt on the cellar door, the solid thunk a sound more beautiful to him than any symphony.
"Right," he said to the quiet. "Now the fun begins."
He started with the safe. Kneeling, he spun the dial, the soft clicks a ritual of security. He swung the thick door open on well-oiled hinges. The interior was a dark, empty maw. First, he lifted the bag of gold. The coins shifted with a heavy, musical rustle. He placed it inside, the sound of wealth being sealed away. Next he grabbed the two lead boxes, transferring them into the safe's depths. Lastly, he added the few ingredients he'd already acquired: the vial of "Another's Tears," the lump of Lapis Lazuli, and the jar of Chestnut Balm. He closed the door, spun the dial, and felt a knot of tension loosen in his chest.
My treasure is secure. Now, to arm my fortress.
For the next two hours, he was a whirlwind of organized activity. The grunt work was over; this was the precision. He uncrated the alchemy equipment, wiping down each piece of glassware before arranging it on one end of the large table: the beakers in a neat row, the alembic assembled, the copper scales placed on a level spot. It looked… professional. Promising. But it was also incomplete.
He ran a finger along the neck of the quartz alembic. It's a good start. But for the real work I'll need the specialized tools. The spirit-channeling condenser to capture the volatile essence, the aetheric separator to purify mixtures beyond physical means. This is just the shell. Hopefully the Winter Garden will provide the heart.
Next, he turned to the workshop side. He unpacked Gorov's tools, the smell of leather and oil a welcome, tangible scent. The head knife, with its wicked crescent blade, was given a place of honor on a wall rack he mounted himself. The awls, punches, and groovers were sorted into a partitioned box. The heavy maul and anvil were positioned on the floor near the grinding wheel. He set up the hand-cranked grinder, tightening the bolts until it was rock-solid.
On impulse, he pulled his parrying dagger from its sheath. The edge was good, but not perfect. He sat on the stool before the grinding wheel, took a firm grip on the crank, and began to turn. The wheel spun with a low, gritty whir. He touched the blade to the stone at the correct angle, and a shower of brilliant orange sparks erupted into the dim basement, hissing and dying in the air. The sound was rhythmic, industrial, and deeply satisfying. He worked the blade, back and forth, his focus absolute. This was a simple, honest problem: a dull edge needed sharpening.
After a time, he stopped, wiped the blade, and held it up. The newly honed edge caught the lamplight in a thin, flawless silver line. A genuine, uncomplicated smile touched his lips. There. Now you're ready.
Finally, he tackled the cleanup, sweeping sawdust and bits of straw and packing material into a pile. He wiped down every surface until the oak of the tables and shelves gleamed, and the stone floor was clear of debris. He stood back, leaning on the broom, and surveyed his domain.
The basement was transformed. No longer a dark storage hole, it was a command center. On one side, the clean, precise world of the alchemist, a place for subtle transformations and intellectual pursuit. On the other, the robust, physical world of the craftsman and rogue, a place for preciseness, durability, and honed edges. And in the corner, the silent, imposing safe, guardian of all his secrets and his power.
A deep sense of accomplishment, rare and warm, settled in his gut. It was a feeling utterly divorced from the false triumphs of James Morgan. This was his creation, built by his hands, for his purposes.
The high, barred window showed a sliver of sky that had deepened to a soft, twilight purple. The sun was gone. He'd been down here for hours.
He unbolted the cellar door and climbed the stairs, his muscles complaining pleasantly. The main house was warm and quiet, a stark contrast to the industrious basement. The scent of a simple stew—Eliza's work—lingered in the air.
He found her in the kitchen, neatly putting away the cleaned dinner dishes.
"Eliza," he said, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse.
She jumped, turning around. "Mr. Morgan! Sir, I didn't hear you come up. Your dinner is in the warmer, I—" She stopped, taking in his appearance: the dusty trousers, the sweat-dampened shirt, the smudge of grime on his cheek. "Goodness, sir, you look as though you've been wrestling a bear in the cellar!"
Lutz let out a short, genuine laugh. "It felt like it. Just overseeing the organization for my… alchemist. Wanted to make sure everything was just so." He gestured vaguely downstairs. "I'm going to draw a bath. I'm afraid my clothes are a fright. Could you see to them in the morning?"
"Of course, sir," she said, her young face a picture of earnest duty. "I'll have them fresh and clean for you."
"Thank you, Eliza."
He left her and trudged up to the bathroom. The large tub was a luxury he still hadn't gotten used to. He pumped water and lit the small gas heater beneath it, the mundane task a soothing end to the day. As the water heated, he stripped off the dirty clothes, leaving them in a pile on the tiles.
He sank into the eventually steaming water with a long, shuddering sigh of pure bliss. The heat seeped into his tired muscles, easing the ache from lifting and carrying. He leaned his head back against the rim, closing his eyes. The quiet gurgle of the water was the only sound.
His mind, for once, was pleasantly empty of grand schemes and complex deceptions. There were no philosophical musings on his vow, no anxious calculations about his pursuers. There was only the memory of the orange sparks flying from his dagger, the solid thunk of the safe door closing, and the clean, organized lines of his new workshop.
The laboratory was almost there. The workshop was ready. For now, in the warm, quiet dark behind his eyelids, Lutz Fischer, the man buried beneath James Morgan and "Yan," was simply a tired man who had built something with his own two hands, and was content.