There is a faint sizzle as the alchemist pours a thin stream of oil into a mortar, using a pestle to mix the herbs and salts into a cerate. He puts down the oil flask and turns to set a kettle over a brazier. He then takes up a small silver spatula and an egg, which he plasters with the dark paste. Finished, he carefully returns the gleaming black orb to the tripod and scans a large tome.
Egg of a basilisk, beurre noir, the oysters and the crimson blood of a Dutchman. With this admixture, cover the image, and if of a woman, set under the full moon. On the third dawn following, the imprisoned one shall --
The kettle whistles. The alchemist pours some of the boiling water into a wide-mouthed flask, and perches the egg on the mouth. He sets the flask on a bed of ice.
While the egg readies, I'll find a Dutchman and obtain his oysters and blood.
A deep chuckle resonates throughout the room.
He wheels around to glare at a bronze bust. Is there something you have to say? His eyes flicker with anger.
I could tell you more, if you so wish.
I haven't forgotten the fate of your previous owner. You tricked him into trading his soul for a formula of eternal youth.
He was a fool. You, however, might make use of my counsel. The mute smiles, look at her, she knows. However, she cannot tell you. I can.
The alchemist glances directly at me. Pour vous, mon cher Lisa.
From the cloak rack he takes his coat, his hat, his walking stick with the knife in the handle and the single shot pistol hidden ingeniously in the shaft.
The small bronze bust begins to squirm. This is a stop-action clay animation sequence. It begins to melt into the counter. It begins to reform in an uneven antique mirror, near the doorway.
Mirror, mirror, in the hall, where shall I find the seamen's ball? The game's afoot, is it? You will find that French is a fine choice to use for propositioning a sailor.
The alchemist snorts. He steps out the door and slams it shut. The mirror rattles against the wall. The bronze head turns and leers at me. It begins to sink into the surface of the mirror, that claymation again.
My forehead begins to hurt. There is some great pressure building behind it. I want to scream but my face is frozen. It feels like I am growing a horn. I am relieved, then shocked by the bronze head, now perched on my forehead, its lips turned in a rude smirk.
Do not be worried on his behalf, my dear Lisa. Not even his great talent could invest enough energies magickal into Christopher Marlowe's favorite recipe for oysters and eggs with kat-siap. There is hermetic knowledge in that Faustus, but it is also a cookbook. You have several centuries of silent imprisonment yet.