Turning an empty hourglass on its end and then back again, the son percolated with questions like "Dad, where did all this stuff come from?" That's what he said with his mouth at any rate, but what he meant, and this was fairly clear from the tone, was "Who in the hell did you rob?"

He was coming to terms with his sorcerous trust, and his father, like so many fathers before and after him, was trying to boil something. Clanging had been heard from the "bedroom," a squeak, wood striking wood. Shortly thereafter his father emerged with an expression that was equal parts "what" and "don't ask." He hadn't emerged empty handed, though: he had with him a jar, an antique box grinder, and a kind of metal cup attached to a rod.

She had been luminous, but she had graduated to incandescent, with post-doctorate work in searing a motherfucker. It had the opposite of a face. "I am Elzabet Hark, and more," projected the entity in all directions, not as words but as the idea of words, elemental and raw, the ore of thought. "Our purpose is A HUMAN PURPOSE,"

Quietly, almost imperceptibly, Gabriel speaks. "I thought that was, like, a dolphin."

"NO, THAT'S A PORPOISE."

"Yeah, because I was like, a human dolphin?" He shakes his head. "Whoa."

"ANYWAY," she pounds it in, like a railroad spike. The not-face directs its blistering awareness at Tycho. "WE RECOGNIZE THE DISTRIBUTED DIVINITY OF HUMANKIND. THIS IS OUR REVELATION. AND BRINGING IT TO FRUITION REQUIRES A UNIVERSE."

The Old Academy is literally a university within a university, both as a physical proposition as well as an academic one. It is entirely possible to construct an education for oneself wherein one majors in Accounting, and Minors in Alchemy; the system allows for it, but as a practical matter Accountants tend not to do that, even though it would probably help a lot.