East of Oakland, and overlooking Mount Diablo, a hobbit-hole has been dug into the side of Pleasant Hill. It’s a modest structure, gilded with a patina of rust and rot, swallowed by years of English ivy. But inside this humble cottage, a great White Wizard has crafted his alchemical hideaway. On most evenings, the Wizard could be found there hunched over bubblers and boilers, listening to string quartets, condensing spirits from aromatic wisps and vapors, occasionally releasing a plume of steam and stench. Around him was a cathedral of colored jars, bottles, flasks and vials, each one holding a potion or powder of unimaginable power, labeled with glyphs that only another alchemist could decipher. A bottle of sweet-smelling oil might be a deadly poison or a powerful aphrodisiac; a jar…
