I was prepping the afternoon dough when the door opened, and a familiar figure stepped inside. Tall, thin, dressed in dark robes stained with something that might have been ink or might have been chemicals. Grey hair pulled back in a loose tail. Eyes that moved too fast, scanning everything — the tables, the oven, the chalkboard menu, me.
Fendrel, the alchemist. I'd bought curing salt from him a few weeks back — special-ordered sodium nitrite for my bacon experiments. He'd asked too many questions the first time and probably written down every answer I'd given him.
"Paul," he said, inclining his head.
"Fendrel."
He walked to the counter, his robes swishing against the floor. He didn't sit down. Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the pizzas I'd laid out for proofing.
"Busy afternoon?"
"The usual."
"I've heard good things about your establishment."
"From who?"
"Various sources." He smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. It was the smile of someone who enjoyed knowing things he wasn't supposed to know. "They say your food has... restorative properties."
I kept my hands busy with the dough. "It's pizza. Dough, sauce, cheese. Nothing restorative about it."
"And yet people leave feeling better than when they arrived."
"People feel better after eating. It's called not being hungry."
He chuckled. A dry, papery sound. "May I have a pizza?"
"Sure. What kind?"
"Surprise me."
He sat at the corner table, the one with the best view of the kitchen. I made him a Margherita with the House Blend I'd developed yesterday — mozzarella and provolone, two to one. I put a little extra basil on top. If he was going to analyze my food, I wanted to make sure it was at least good. The pizza went in. Two minutes. Out. I cut it and brought it to his table.
He thanked me, picked up a slice, and examined it like a scientist examining a specimen. Held it up to the light. Smelled it. Touched the cheese with his fingertip.
"The crust is very white," he said.
"Dawn Wheat."
"Where do you source it?"
"A supplier."
"A local supplier?"
"Fendrel." I sat down across from him. "What do you want?"
He took a bite. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. His eyes unfocused for a moment, like he was cataloging the flavors the way I cataloged system notifications.
"Interesting," he said.
"The pizza?"
"Everything." He took another bite. "The cheese has a sharpness I don't recognize. The wheat has an almost luminescent quality under certain light. The tomatoes have a sugar content that's inconsistent with any varietal I've tested in this region."
"You've tested the tomatoes?"
"I tested a seed that fell off one of your delivery crates." He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Germinated it in my lab. The growth rate was extraordinary. Nearly three times faster than standard tomato vines."
I stared at him.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm curious. That's what alchemists do. We're paid to be curious."
He finished the slice and wiped his fingers on a napkin. Then he reached into his robe and pulled out a small cloth pouch.
"A sample of your flour," he said. "I took it from the dust on your doorstep."
"You stole my flour."
"I borrowed it for scientific purposes." He tucked the pouch back into his robe. "I'd like to analyze it. Compare it to standard wheats. See what makes it different."
"And if I say no?"
He shrugged. "Then I analyze it anyway, but with the vague guilt of knowing I'm doing it without your permission. I'd prefer to do it with your consent."
I leaned back in my chair. "Why does this matter to you?"
"Because nothing in this world is new," he said. "I've been an alchemist for thirty years. I've seen every grain, every herb, every mineral that grows in the known kingdoms. And I've never seen anything like the ingredients coming out of your kitchen." He paused. "That interests me."
I didn't respond. What was I supposed to say? Sorry, Fendrel, the ingredients come from a video game menu that only I can see, and they're literally grown in a dimension that doesn't exist on any map you've ever drawn. That would go over great. He'd either think I was insane or he'd believe me, and I wasn't sure which was worse.
He stood up, dropping a few silver coins on the table. "I'll let you know what I find. Assuming I find anything."
"Great."
He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the frame, and looked back at me. "The pizza was excellent, by the way. Whatever you're doing — keep doing it."
Then he was gone.
I sat at the table for a long time, staring at the empty plate. The cheese had left a grease stain on the ceramic. The provolone had blistered nicely. It had been a good pizza. And I'd just served it to a man who was going to take it apart molecule by molecule in his lab.
Somewhere out there, Fendrel was already scraping my flour onto a glass slide, already muttering to himself about protein content and crystal structures. He'd find something. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. He was too smart not to.
I didn't feel good. He had my flour. He had questions. And he was smart — smarter than me, definitely smarter than the average Dalton resident. If there was something to find, he'd find it.
I stood, picked up the plate, and carried it to the washbasin. The system interface pulsed gently. I ignored it. Outside, through the window, I watched Fendrel's grey-robed figure disappear into the afternoon crowd.
A knot settled in my stomach. Cold and hard and heavy.
I washed the plate and got back to work.