“We’re here for Academy things,” Abigail explains to the large shopkeeper.

“You will find no better equipment for your schooling needs than in my shop, young ladies, for there is no greater expert in the manufacturing of fine equipment than Henri Ford,” the man says before sweeping into a bow that has all sorts of little flourishes of his hands. He’s surprisingly graceful for such a huge mortal. “I have a package meant just for people looking to enter the academy. It’s not my greatest equipment, I’m afraid, but it is everything you’ll need in your first grade.”

“I think that would do,” Abigail says with a smile. “Though I do have some of what I need already. I work at Madam Morrigan’s and she has some old gear she doesn’t mind me using.”

“Madam Morrigan! How is that terrifying old prude doing?” he asks, his over-the-top gestures fading a little as he eases back into a calmer stance. He moves over to the back of the shop and you notice that there’s no counters or anything, just a whole lot of pedestals that he dances around without actually looking at them.

It’s a weird way to display all the teeny tiny tools and scales and devices that look so fragile, you decide.

Maybe he wants people to break them? What a tricksy man. While he’s busy opening up a package and showing its contents to Abigail, the occasional knife and scalpel being pulled out and set aside as she tells him what she doesn’t need, you start looking around.

Most of the things for doing alchemy are made of tin, though lots of them have coppery bits hammered over the surfaces that would be in contact with the... stuff.

You realize that you don’t actually know all that much about alchemy. It’s supposed to be about turning one thing into another thing, which you suppose is kind of neat. Even you would have a moderately difficult time doing that.

Copying things, on the other hand, you can do easily enough. You yoink some of the prettier equipment away with translucent tentacles, stuffing them into the many, many skirts piled on your real body. You’ll find them later. Probably.

“Hey, mister Ford,” you say to the big shopkeeper who looks up. It seems that Abigail had most of the things she needs already, so he’s not going to be selling her all the much stuff. “Do you have a thing for people to learn how to do alchemy?”

His eyes light up. “I do indeed! A set for true beginners, including some books that would teach you the basics. Perfect for your first experiments in the domain of transformative magics and perfectly safe as well.” He stands up and practically dances over to a display where a leather satchel is waiting. “Something like this. Only seventeen marks or seventy-two fiats.”

“I don’t think we need anything like that,” Abigail says. She pats your shoulder. “I can show you a few things later, if you want. But we’re a little tight on money right now.”

“Oh, okay,” you say. No point in arguing over something so silly. Henri puts the bag back in place, and you slip it into your realm when he turns around. Abigail’s eyes widen and she gives you a look. She must be proud that you figured out a way to get around this whole money business.

“I-I think that’s all we need,” Abigail says in a hurry. She tosses the remaining stuff laying around her in a box and fishes inside her purse for a moment before returning with a pile of paper bills. “I hope city fiat is good?” she asks.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Henri says, seemingly caught flat-footed by the sudden urgency in Abigail’s demeanor. You’re kind of confused too.

Abigail thanks the shopkeeper profusely, then grabs your hand and practically drags you out of the shop and back into the pouring rain. You’re glad that you never took off your tentacoats because if anything the rain is even stronger now.

“You can’t do that,” Abigail says, eyes desperate as she pulls you into an alleyway and grabs you by both shoulders. Her hair is plastered against her head and her glasses, usually so good at making her eyes look bigger, are all drippy. “You can’t just... steal things, Dreamer.”

“But,” you begin.

“No. No you can’t do that. Please. I... the things at Madam Morrigan’s, the stuff just now. It’s too much. It’s not right.”

You don’t get it. They’re just things. Yummy, shiny things, but still just stuff. You’re sure people can make more if they want. But Abigail doesn’t seem to think that way at all. “Okay?” you say.

“Do you understand why you can’t do that?” she asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t, but if you don’t want me to I can stop.” She makes a noise that hurts you in the heart. “I’m sorry?” you try. You have to blink a lot because the rain is splashing on your face.

Abigail wraps you in a hug. It’s wet, and not warm at all because of the coats between you, and it’s the best thing. “Oh, Dreamer.”

You pat her back and hope that she feels better. If it helps, you could give the stuff back to the shopkeeper. And maybe you could barf up some of the stuff you nibbled from the shop later. But those things don’t matter that much. You hurt Abigail’s feelings, and you don’t know how to fix those.

You’ll need to find a way to make her feel better, a mortal fixer of sorts. And you think you know just where to look.

At the far end of the alley is a sign hanging from a rusty post. It’s made of tubes that glow from within with green light. Doctor Dietrich Grenzler, Fleshcrafter.

That looks perfect.