The Alchemist

"It looks like water."

"And so it is!" Luchyenko took the simmering beaker off the tiny flame with the tongs and poured it gently into a bowl made of silvery metal. He swirled it, keeping the steaming surface well away from his face.

"Is the medicine ready yet?" Tribby rubbed a foot against his calf.

"No, not yet. Drinking it now would kill you in an amazingly horrible way." Luchyenko wafted some steam toward his nose, nodded, and upended the bowl into a dark wooden cup. "There! Now it's medicine."

"It still looks like water. What's different?"

Luchyenko smiled. "Context."